Anstruther sat down amidst vociferous applause.

"Gentlemen," said the Duke, "I think we may heartily congratulate Major Anstruther on the foresight and ingenuity displayed in renewing his subscription. I am sorry we cannot keep the radium as a memento, but, according to our rule, it has to be returned to Professor Blyth at once. This particular burglary has been so satisfactory that I think we may with advantage again turn to the daily Press for our next item. I read yesterday—— Let me see—where is it? I cut out the paragraph. Ah! here it is:—

"'Yet another priceless possession is leaving the Eastern hemisphere. Thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' all that is left of that immortal work in the handwriting of John Bunyan, has been waiting for offers at Messrs. Christie's rooms since November last. The highest bid from the United Kingdom was £45 10s., at which price the precious manuscript did not change hands. We now hear that £2,000 has been offered and accepted. The purchaser is Mr. John Pilgrim, the Logwood King, of New York. At the present rate of denudation it seems likely that fifty years hence the original of Magna Charta will be the only historical manuscript left in the country.'"

"Shame—shame!" greeted the reading of the paragraph.

"I am glad that you agree with the newspaper," said the Duke blandly. "I read that paragraph at breakfast yesterday, and since then I have learnt that Lord Roker's subscription is due. It seems to me more than a coincidence that these two matters should come together. It is a national disgrace that the manuscript of that remarkable, I believe unparalleled—er—effort of Mr. Bunyan should leave the country. For one night longer, at any rate, it must remain in the possession of Englishmen. My lord of Roker, you will kindly produce the Bunyan MS. at our next meeting, on the 23rd inst., in settlement of your subscription."

At 5 p.m. on Monday, April 18th last, a new arrival registered himself in the visitors' book at the Ilkley Hydropathic Establishment as James Roker, Jermyn Street, S.W. He was a good-looking, straight-built man of thirty or thereabouts. He was of an unobtrusive disposition, but was obviously well-informed, for in the smoke-room after dinner, when in a discussion on the internal resources of Japan, the date of Queen Anne's death came up, the new arrival gave it authoritatively as 1745, and so settled the matter.

The next morning brought letters addressed to Lord Roker. Five minutes after the arrival of the post the news spread, and at breakfast he was the cynosure of all eyes.

It was the first time that a nobleman had stayed at the Hydro, excepting the doubtful instance of Count Spiegeleisen in 1893, but to provide for possible emergencies the management had thoughtfully placed a Peerage on the bookshelves. This volume was now thoroughly investigated, and it was learnt that James, Lord Roker, was heir to the Earldom of Challoner, and that he was born on April 25th, 1870. His birthday obviously would occur the following week, and an enterprising lady suggested the propriety of arranging for a concert and a representation of Mrs. Jarley's waxworks in honour of the occasion.

The only person in the place who seemed annoyed by his arrival was Mr. John Pilgrim, a gentleman from New York.

"That's why he was so darned civil to me last night," he thought. "He knows how fond Fifth Avenue girls are of the British peerage, and he thinks he's only got to drop his handkerchief for Marion to pick it up. I call it a bit thick of him. I'm glad she's away for the day. I asked him to look round this evenin', so reckon I'll have to be civil; but I'll stand no nonsense. If he tries his sawder on me durin' the day I'll let him know."

There was no occasion—or, indeed, opportunity—to let Lord Roker know anything during the day, for he went to Rylstone the first thing after breakfast, and only re-appeared at dinner-time.

The toilettes of at least eighteen ladies were more elaborate than usual that evening, but they were lost on Lord Roker, who, after half an hour in the smoke-room, tapped on Mr. Pilgrim's door at 8.30.

"Good-evenin', my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim, with studied politeness. "Will you sit there? Cigar, sir? I can recommend these. I hope you had a pleasant day. How do you like the Hydro?"

"Thank you," said Lord Roker, as he took the Bock, and settled himself in the chair indicated. "I have been away in the country all day, so I haven't seen much of the Hydro yet. It seems all right. At any rate, you have got pretty snug quarters."

"Yes," said Mr. Pilgrim, with some complacency. "You see, I'm samplin' the British Isles, gettin' the best I can lay hands on, and am storin' my purchases here. This room is furnished with Heppendale an' Chipplewhite's masterpieces, collected by my daughter. Paintin's by Jones an' Rossetti. In the nex' cabin I've got those historical sundries I mentioned. But before we look at them I want you to give me some information."

"I shall be delighted to do so, if I have it."

"You have it, sir. I may as well explain what I want. I have come over to see Europe for the first time, but I wanter know more about it than Americans do as a gen'ral rule. I'm not content to visit Shakespeare's tomb an' see over Windsor Castle, and then think I've done the old country. I wanter know the people who inhabit her to-day, and you can't get to know them on board trains. That's why I've come to this Hydro. I get here what my secretary calls a symposium of the whole nation. So I'm studyin' people here with the idea of writin' a book on my return. What are your views on things in gen'ral, my lord?"

"My dear sir, that's a big order. But I may say I'm pretty well satisfied with things in general."

"You are an hereditary legislator, I believe," said Mr. Pilgrim.

"I may be some day," replied Lord Roker; "but at present I am not."

"Then what is your pertic'ler line in life?"

"If you mean business or profession, I have none. I'm a drone."

"A drone, sir! I'm delighted," exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim, with marked interest. Then, "Hello, Marion. Back again."

Roker turned, and there, framed in the doorway, was a living Romney picture—a radiant girl.

She came forward, the light playing on her red-brown hair.

"Lord Roker—my daughter," said Mr. Pilgrim.

The girl smiled and shook hands.

"I hope I'm not interrupting a very serious deliberation," she said, half hesitating.

"Indeed not," Lord Roker hastened to assure her, fearful lest this delectable vision should vanish.

She took the chair he offered.

"Well, what have you gotten at York?" inquired Mr. Pilgrim.

"You'd neither of you guess. Three grandfather's clocks."

"Three!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "Sheraton?" he added.

"No; just grandfather's clocks, and the dearest ones you ever saw."

"I could bet on that," said her father. "Are they genuine?"

"They are all dated, and Mr. Tullitt got pedigrees with each of them. One of them tells the moon, and one the day of the month. We shall have to hire an astrologer to regulate them and start them fair. Mr. Tullitt says he works best on board your railroad car, as noise suits him, so I shall fix the three clocks up in his den here to keep him happy. I reckon he'll know when it's lunch time, anyway. But what have you been doing, dad?"

"Makin' a few notes. At present I'm gettin' some valu'ble information. Lord Roker says he's a drone."

"Then I'm sure that Lord Roker does himself an injustice," she said, turning her smiling eyes upon him.

Roker shook his head.

"I toil not, neither do I spin."

"What do you do all the time?" she asked.

"I shoot and fish and hunt, and—er—once a year I see the Eton and Harrow cricket match."

"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "He shoots and fishes and hunts, and once a year he goes to a cricket match."

"I said the Eton and Harrow match."

"Cert'nly. They must give it some name, I reckon. An' what do you do when you can't shoot, an' fish, an' hunt?"

"I add up my lists of kills and catches."

"This is downright interestin'," said Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you shoot an' hunt?"

"Birds and foxes."

"You seem to fancy small fry, sir. Did you never hanker after elephants?"

"Never. If I had a Maxim or a Gatling gun I might turn my attention to elephants, but I'm not going to buy one for the purpose."

Mr. Pilgrim looked hard at his guest, but Lord Roker bore the scrutiny impassibly.

"May I ask how you get your dollars?" the American continued.

"I have an income from my father. I don't mind telling you the amount—three thousand a year."

"Dollars?"

"No; pounds sterling."

"That's a tidy figure; but did you never wanter make that three thousand into thirty thousand?"

"I have suggested an increase to my father, but not such a big one as that. I asked him to make it five, but he would not. Some day perhaps he may, but thirty thousand is out of the question."

"I should suppose it was. I didn't mean an increase in your allowance. Did you never think of dippin' into trade, and increasin' it that way?"

"Never."

"Doesn't fancy elephants or trade," Mr. Pilgrim soliloquised. "Well, I reckon it takes all sorts of swallows to make a summer. Your father must have been in a good way of business."

"Not a bit of it. He inherited all he has from his ancestors."

"And how did the original ancestor make his pile?"

"In war, in the time of Edward III. He had the good fortune to capture a Royal Prince, two dukes, and a marshal of France. We are still living on the ransoms he got."

"I'd like to have known the original ancestor," said Mr. Pilgrim. "Reckon he'd have tackled elephants if he'd only got a pea-shooter."

"Father," broke in Miss Pilgrim, "I'm sure Lord Roker is tired of answering questions. Don't you think it's our turn to do something now?"

"That's so," said Mr. Pilgrim, who long since had forgotten his unkind suspicions of his visitor's intentions. "I hope I haven't worried you too much, my lord. It isn't every day that I get the chance of interviewin' a future hereditary legislator. I promised last night to show you some historical curiosities. We'll just go an' rout out my secretary, Tullitt, who has the keepin' of 'em."

They adjourned to the next room, and found Mr. Tullitt busy at his desk. He opened various cabinets and drawers for them.

"This," said Mr. Pilgrim, "is the original warrant signed by Henry VIII., consignin' his sixth wife to the Tower of London for beheadin' purposes. He had it penned in Latin to frighten her more. The writ was never served, as Henry changed his mind, an' decided to keep her on the throne.

"Here, sir, is my last purchase—thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' written by John Bunyan in Bedford Jail. I paid ten thousand dollars for that, an' I'd have paid twenty before missin' it. You see, my name is John Pilgrim, an' it seemed to me that I have a sort of claim on that book—a kind of relationship. Anyway, there's my two names on the title-page.

"Moreover, I've got on so well since I started life in a Chicago stock-yard that 'Pilgrim's Progress' would best describe my record. If it wasn't irreverent, I'd have called the autobiography I'm writin' by the name of that book; but as I can't do so, I've bought the original manuscript. You'll handle it carefully; it's not in first-rate repair."

Mr. Pilgrim showed his guest other historical treasures, and would have gone on indefinitely had not his daughter compassionately intervened. The rest of the evening was spent in conversation, and in listening to coon songs witchingly sung by Miss Pilgrim to her accompaniment on a harpsichord, once the property of Mrs. Thrale of Streatham, a friend of the immortal Dr. Johnson.

"Good-night, my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim at eleven o'clock. "P'raps you'll be kind enough to look round in the mornin'. I shall make a few notes of the information you've given me, and my secretary will lick them into shape."

"Right," said Lord Roker, with his eyes beyond Mr. Pilgrim, fixed on an enchanting vision of brown and gold, seated in the basket chair before the fire.

On the following morning Lord Roker found Mr. Pilgrim's secretary before a typewriter which he seemed to be working against time. A pile of correspondence lay around him. He finished the sheet on which he was engaged, and then, with a sigh of relief, he turned to his visitor.

"Mornin', my lord; I have this ready for you."

He handed a type-written sheet to Lord Roker, who sat down and read:

"I've left space for the mortality returns, and any note you may wish to add," said the secretary courteously. "Kindly fill in the figures, and initial the sheet if you find it correct. Your name will not appear if Mr. Pilgrim makes use of the information."

Lord Roker referred to his pocket-book for statistics, and then inserted the figures required. The note he added was: "De mortuis nil nisi bonum."

"Good kills, all of 'em," he explained.

The secretary took the sheet and placed it methodically in a folio labelled "Britishers."

"Is Mr. Pilgrim anywhere about?" Lord Roker asked. "Or Miss Pilgrim?"

"I believe that Miss Pilgrim is in the grounds, but Mr. Pilgrim has gone across the moors in his motor to shed a tear at the residence of the late Charlotte BrontË. A wonderful man is the boss, my lord. It takes me all my time to file the information he gathers. It will be midnight before I have fixed Charlotte up."

"Your hours are long," said Lord Roker, sympathetically.

"They are; and they are getting longer. Your country is just waking up to the fact that John Pilgrim is here. We had a big mail to-day. Outside proper business there were twenty begging letters from tramps and prodigals, eighteen asking for subscriptions, and two which we could not decipher. Four town councils mixed us up with Andrew Carnegie and wrote demanding Free Libraries. I reply to them all."

"Then I won't trespass any longer on your time."

Mr. Tullitt pulled out his watch.

"Snakes!" he exclaimed. "I always have fifteen minutes' dumb-bell exercise now to keep me in form. Good-mornin', my lord." His visitor left him standing in position with his dumb-bells.

Now when Lord Roker turned in his chair and first saw Miss Marion Pilgrim he was confounded. When she spoke—and to her beauty there was added an infinite charm of frankness and joy of life—he fell hopelessly in love. Only once before had this happened to him, and, singularly enough, she also was an American—a dark-eyed Boston girl he met in Rome. He had been refused because his position and his prospects rendered the match an impossibility—to her father; for he was not at that time heir to an earldom. Since then he had gone unscathed through the perils of many seasons in many capitals, only to be finally routed while in pursuit of the commonplace profession of a burglar.

That he had aroused any interest in her heart he did not for a moment suppose, but perhaps there might be a remote chance of winning her. If there were, how could he imperil his hope of success by running the risks attendant on the burglary? If she could give him the slightest hope he would resign his membership of the Burglars' forthwith. It was ridiculous to have to rush matters, but he had to know his fate at once. He could not even put it off till to-morrow, for he knew she was going to Knaresborough for the day with her father.

He met her on the golf links. They played in a foursome in the morning. In the afternoon they had a round together.

She was in capital form. Her splendid health and energy were a delight to the eye. Perhaps it was owing to this distraction that he foozled some of his drives, and twice got badly bunkered. His play went steadily from bad to worse, and she won by three up and two to play.

"I don't think you were playing your best game," she said as they returned. "It strikes me that you were thinking about something else all the time."

"You are quite right. I never played worse, and I was thinking about something else."

"Something very serious, I reckon."

"Very."

"Is it anything I could help you in?"

"You are very kind, Miss Pilgrim. All day, and most of last night, I have been deliberating on an important step."

"What sort of a step?"

"Whether I ought not to resign my membership of a certain club."

"Is that all?"

"You see, I was one of the founders, and I like it. But sometimes the conditions of membership seem impossible. At any rate, I have felt them so since last evening."

"What are the conditions?"

"I can't tell you them all, but one is that you have to be a bachelor—a confirmed bachelor."

"Well, you are one, aren't you?" she asked gently.

"I don't know. At any rate, I may not always be. In fact, I——"

"Don't you be in a hurry to change," said Miss Pilgrim. "Don't imitate that king of yours. Judging from the document dad showed you, Henry the Eighth wanted to be a bachelor again, and then decided to remain a married man, all in one day. You Britishers are so variable."

"It may seem very absurd, Miss Pilgrim, but I have to make up my mind without delay. And you can help me in the matter. May I—dare I——"

"One minute, Lord Roker," she interrupted quickly. "You ought to be very careful before you think of changing your state. Teddy Robson waited twelve months before I promised to marry him."

"Teddy Robson!" exclaimed Lord Roker.

"Yes; this is his picture." She pulled a locket from her dress, and showed him the miniature of a nice, clean-looking lad. "He's the son of Josh. K. Robson, the Fustic King," she explained.

"Fustic?" repeated Lord Roker, with intense gloom.

"It's a wood that dyes yellow. Dad is the Logwood King, you know. Logwood dyes black. When I marry Teddy, the two firms will amalgamate, and we shall pretty well control the output of the West Indies."

"I see," said Lord Roker; "or, rather, I hear."

"That'll be in the fall. If ever you come over to the States mind you look us up. Teddy will give you some big game shooting. I guess you like it, whatever you told dad. You've done things. Mrs. Stilton told me at breakfast this morning that you had got a decoration for distinguishing yourself in action."

"Oh, that was years ago."

"Not more than a hundred," she said gravely. "And I reckon you don't let the flies settle much. Gracious! but it's six o'clock, and I've letters to mail. I must run. But don't you be in a hurry about retiring from that club."

"That's the second," said Lord Roker enigmatically, as he watched her vanish, "the second—and the last."

Lord Roker made no attempt to purloin the Bunyan MS. that night. He thought it possible that the indefatigable Mr. Tullitt might prolong his labours on Charlotte BrontË into the early hours of the morning, and, being of a thoughtful temperament, he was unwilling to interrupt them. He had still two nights at his disposal. The next day he spent chiefly on the links. He did not allow his thoughts to linger regretfully on his hopeless love. He gave his whole attention to the game, and retrieved his reputation by beating the professional's record. In the evening he played his part in progressive bridge with marked success: and then at 1.30 a.m., when the whole establishment was presumably fast asleep, he descended from his bedroom window by a stout rope, and made his way to the wing occupied by Mr. Pilgrim. He found the window of Mr. Tullitt's room, and was busily engaged for the next half-hour in opening it.

He then dropped into the room, and turned on his light.

Three grandfather's clocks were solemnly ticking in three separate corners. The fire was still flickering in the grate. A pile of letters, addressed and stamped, was ready for the post. A batch of correspondence was docketed and endorsed. The waste-paper basket was full to overflowing.

Lord Roker gave one glance round, and then tried the door. It was, as he expected, locked on the outside. He placed some chairs and other obstacles in front of it to impede progress should an alarm be raised, and lit the gas in order to add to Mr. Tullitt's reputation for over-work. Then he turned to the drawer in which the Bunyan MS. was kept. It was locked. He produced a bundle of keys, and finally opened it. There was a document inside, but instead of being time-stained, foxed, and torn, it was modern and neat. Moreover, it was type-written, and endorsed, "Notes on the late C. BrontË, Haworth, Eng., 1904."

Lord Roker turned this out in disgust, hoping to find the Bunyan MS. below; but he was disappointed. The manuscript was not there.

He replaced the Notes in the drawer and turned his attention elsewhere. He opened every drawer and portfolio, looked on every shelf and in every corner, but in vain. There was no sign of the Bunyan MS.

Determined not to be baffled—for his credit as a burglar was at stake—Lord Roker resumed his search, and again went over the ground. Three times at least was he disturbed—when the grandfather's clocks went off at the hour and the half-hour with alarming wheezes and groans. When they had finished with 3.30 he had to admit himself beaten. The manuscript had no doubt been removed to another room. It was desperately annoying, but he had still twenty-four hours to find out where it was, and to get it. He gave up the search reluctantly, made his way through the window, and up the rope to his bedroom.

Soon after breakfast that morning word went round the Hydro that the Bunyan MS. had been stolen from Mr. Pilgrim's rooms—the manuscript for which he had just paid £2,000.

A hole cut in one of the window-panes pointed to the method by which entry had been made, but no clue to the thief had been left behind. The police had been informed, and a detective was coming.

Only the Bunyan MS. was missing—that alone of the many portable and valuable treasures in Mr. Pilgrim's possession. It showed a literary instinct in the thief which was as surprising as it was unusual, for it would be impossible for him to make any profitable use of his booty without certain discovery. The more one reflected about it the more perplexing it was.

To Lord Roker it was humiliating in the extreme. To fail in his mission was exasperating; but the annoyance was increased tenfold with the knowledge that he had been forestalled. Someone else—a professional, no doubt—had been on the same errand. He had not dallied over the enterprise, and he had won the stakes for which he played, and now he, Lord Roker, would have to appear empty-handed at the Burglars'—he, a founder of the Club, would be the first man who had to resign through incapacity to carry out the terms of his membership; it was galling indeed. Even the neat hole he had made in the window had been placed to the credit of the other burglar.

At 6 p.m. he went upstairs to dress. The evenings were chilly, and he occasionally had a fire. He sat down before it now to finish his cigarette, and moodily watched the flames while his thoughts turned on the unsatisfactory nature of all earthly affairs.

Suddenly he gave an exclamation of extreme surprise, jumped out of his chair, and caught hold of a bit of half-burnt paper projecting from the grate. It was perhaps three inches long, and two across. Half of it was ash that fell away as he touched it. On the scant margin left was written, in stiff, archaic English, "Ye Slough of Desp——"

"Amazing!" he cried. For the fragment he held in his hand was part of the missing MS.!

In another instant he had seized his water-jug and emptied the contents on the fire, putting it out, and deluging the hearth. Then he rang the bell, and sent an urgent message for Mr. Pilgrim.

Five minutes later the American entered. Roker handed him the fragment, and pointed out where he had found it.

"Seems a pretty expensive way of li'tin' fires," said Mr. Pilgrim, grimly. "Allow me to ring for the help."

"Did you lay this fire?" he asked the maid who responded.

"No, sir. That's Jenny's work."

"Send Jenny up, then," said Mr. Pilgrim, now on his knees searching the grate for more traces of the MS., but searching in vain.

In a few minutes Jenny entered.

"Did you lay this fire?" Mr. Pilgrim asked again.

"Yes, sir."

"What sort of paper did you use for it?"

"Newspaper. Oh, I know! I laid it yesterday morning with some old rubbishy stuff I found on your floor, sir."

"Old rubbishy stuff you found on my floor!" cried Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you mean, girl?"

"I was lighting your fire yesterday morning, sir, and found I'd used up all my paper, so I got some out of your waste basket. There was a dirty lot of rubbishy paper lying on the floor beside it, so I took that as well, and used it up for my morning fires."

"How many fires did you lay with it altogether?"

"Your two, sir, this one, and the one in the hall."

"Then this is the only one of the lot that wasn't lit yesterday?"

"Yes, sir. I hope it wasn't anythink important that I used."

Mr. Pilgrim sat down.

"Important! Not a bit, my girl. It just cost me ten thousand dollars—that's all."

"It wasn't what they say you've lost, sir, was it?" said the girl. "Oh, sir, I'm that sorry. But all I can say, sir, is that it was on the floor, and it didn't look fit for wrapping sossingers in."

"Go!" shouted Mr. Pilgrim. "You're a born fool." Then, after a long pause, he added, "I'm much obliged to you, Roker. Now come along. I must see my secretary. I suspect he's another mortal fool in disguise."

Mr. Pilgrim's secretary was busy, as usual—this time taking down a letter from Miss Pilgrim's dictation.

"Excuse me a minute, Marion," said Mr. Pilgrim. Then to his secretary, "You said you were readin' that blamed Bunyan MS. the night before last. Just describe when you got it out, and what followed."

"I'd finished my transcript of your notes on Miss BrontË, sir, about 11.30, and, having half an hour to spare, I thought I'd just run over that old manuscript again. John Bunyan had his own notions about caligraphy, and he was a bit freer in his spelling than any man I'd come across, so I rather fancied him. While I was reading, you may remember calling me to your room to take down that cable to Boston and the letter of confirmation. It was 12.30 when I left you, and I'd clean forgotten about the manuscript. I turned the light out, and went to bed. A quarter of an hour afterwards I remembered I'd left Bunyan out, so I came back here. I couldn't find the matches, but just felt round for the MS., and put it back in the drawer, and locked it."

"You derned hayseed!" burst in Mr. Pilgrim. "You have your p'ints, but at this pertic'ler moment I think you're more suited for raisin' cabbages than for secretary work. If you can't tell the difference in the handle of a Bunyan MS. and your notes on Charlotte BrontË in the dark, you might know a banana from a potato in daylight. You're—you're—— Man, you put the BrontË notes in the drawer, and left Bunyan out—brushed him on the floor in the dark, an' the help lit the fire with him. Gor!"

The secretary collapsed.

"Never mind, Mr. Tullitt," said Miss Pilgrim. "It was entirely a mistake. I might have done it myself. It comes of working so late. Dad, I guess there's plenty more old manuscripts in the British Isles waiting for dollars to fetch them."

"I reckon there's only one Bunyan MS.," said Mr. Pilgrim, solemnly, "and that's gone to light Hydropathic fires because my secretary doesn't carry wax vestas in his pyjamas. Hey! But what about that hole in the window?"

Mr. and Miss Pilgrim, the secretary, and Lord Roker stared blankly at it.

And that is why Lord Roker was not able to show the Bunyan MS. at the next meeting of the Burglars' Club.