Mr. Adolph Meyer, the friend of nations, the associate of kings, and the hope of the impecunious, had built himself a house on St. George's Island, off the coast of Hampshire.

As Mr. Meyer's origin was German, and the country of his adoption was England, it was perhaps natural that he should have gone to Tuscany for the architecture of his marine residence. Its boldly projecting cornices, its rusticated base and quoins, the consoles of its upper windows, all betrayed its Florentine birth; but the lower windows, reaching to the ground, were such as we associate with the name of France, and were doubtless intended as a compliment to the great and gay nation living directly across the water.

To the south, a terrace, bounded by a low wall set with dogs, apparently petrified by their own ugliness, separated the villa from the beach.

To the west were the orchid houses. To the north, before the front of the house, lay the bowling green; beyond it a wood, through which ran the path leading to the landing-stage and the neighbouring island of Great Britain.

A spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as opportunity offered, Mr. Meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the satellites of Jupiter, the canals on Mars, and other eccentricities of the heavens.

There was, of course, a fountain—between the bowling green and the cypress trees. There was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of Socrates, Pallas, Homer, and other appropriate notabilities.

Inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a millionaire.

Meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone enough to see him through till the following Saturday, and maturing Titanic schemes for the Federation of the World and the confounding of rival financiers.

Once only had he brought a guest with him—an African Pro-Consul—who had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his outward-bound ship from Meyer's electric launch.

Each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired. Occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back. Other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of the lord of the island.

One day last April a stranger with a camera rowed across from England. At the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business with Mr. Meyer. This was telephoned to the house.

"What business?" came the reply.

"Particular business," said the newcomer.

"What particular business?"

"Pictures," was the answer.

This was transmitted, and the reply taken.

"You can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "Straight up the path, and through the woods. Turn to the left at the busk of 'Omer."

Ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in which Mr. Meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic folio.

He was a short, podgy man, with black curly hair, a rounded nose, and bright eyes. His moustache and imperial did not conceal the extraordinary firmness of his mouth and jaw.

He rose as his visitor entered. He was, as usual, attired in a frock-coat and grey trousers. Once he had been in flannels when an emergency had arisen demanding City attire, which was not immediately forthcoming. Mr. Meyer had lost an opportunity in life through carelessness. Therefore on land he ever afterwards wore a frock-coat, except when in evening dress or pyjamas. The occasion should never again find him wanting.

"You wished to see me on business?" he asked. "What is it?"

His visitor, who was cast in a finer, less decided mould—a good-looking, clean-shaven man of something over thirty—replied:

"I came to ask for permission to photograph the inside of your place."

"You are not from Mr. Holzmann, den?" said Meyer, curtly.

"No."

"You said your business was imbortant."

"So it is—to myself."

Meyer looked sharply at him. "Why do you want to photokraph my place?"

"For insertion in a magazine."

"Which makkazine?"

"Any that will take the article—I am not proud. It is important that I should make some money. I have seen many interesting reproductions of interiors of the stately homes of England in the periodicals, but never one of your house. Hence my appearance. I hope I may have your permission."

"Why should I krant you bermission?" said Meyer. "I live here in solitude. I do not bring visitors. I do not want dem. Your intrusion is imbertinent."

His visitor flushed. "Sorry if I have annoyed you," he said; "but it did not seem such a great favour to ask. Most people are glad to have pictures of themselves and their houses in the papers."

"Most people are fools, as Dommas Carlyle said. Have you a family?"

"I am not married."

"Dere is no excuse for a sinkle man taking pictures of people's interiors. It is not de work for a man like you. I shall not encourage such tomfoolery. No, I do not give you bermission. But stay. Dere is an orkit from de mittle of Africa of which I should like to have a picture—de Cypripedium Meyeri—a new species which I have had de satisfaction to detect. Berhaps you would be kind enough to photokraph it for me, and your journey would not be altokedder lost. Come along. What is your name, please?"

His visitor handed him a card on which was printed "John Lucas, 140, Brixton Gardens, London, W."

"You have come a long way," Mr. Meyer observed.

"A very long way, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me look round your house, even if I may not photograph it. I am interested in domestic architecture and—er—curios."

Mr. Meyer looked intently at his visitor.

"Yes, Mr. Lucas," he said slowly, "I will also show you round my house, since you have come so far, and are interested in domestic architecture and curios. I have blenty of both. Den we will photokraph de orkit."

Mr. Meyer led the photographer through his villa, pointing out its architectural beauties, and indicating the various treasures which it contained.

Mr. Lucas was profuse in his expressions of appreciation. "Are you not afraid of burglars?" he asked.

"I am afraid of noding," replied Mr. Meyer. "Odderwise I should not be here to-day in dis Tuscan Villa. I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation."

They had made a tour of the rooms, had ascended the heights of the observatory and inspected the electric plant at its base.

"Is dere anyting else you would like to see?" asked Mr. Meyer politely.

"I believe that you collect miniatures. Might I look at them?"

"Come dis way."

In a corner of the marble hall there was a cabinet facing a window. Meyer stood before it. "See," he said; "I bress dis button, and it releases de trawers. So."

The shutter flew back, and the drawers were free. Meyer opened them, one by one, and indicated their contents. "Dey are all choice examples of de best masters. Dese are Gosways. Dis is an Engleheart," and so on. He went through the collection till he had shown the last drawer but one. He was about to close the cabinet when Mr. Lucas asked: "Have you any Holbeins?"

"One," replied Meyer, "and dere was I necklecting to show it to you. Dis last trawer is de most imbortant of de lot." He opened it and drew forth a small square frame. "Here is de latest addition to my collection. A krand Holbein. You notice de blue backkround, characteristic of dat kreat master, and de wonderful thin bainting. You can almost see through it. It is a bortrait of Meyer of Basle, berhaps a relation of mine, berhaps not. It does not matter. It is a fine picture. Don't you tink so?"

Lucas handed it back. "I envy you," he said.

"Dere is no need," Mr. Meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'Enfy no man till he is dead,' said de old Kreek philosopher, and I am very much alife. Now come to de orkit house, and photokraph de Cypripedium Meyeri."

An hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every point of the compass, Mr. Lucas made his way to the landing-stage, and from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to Bournemouth.

On the following Monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully beached on the south shore of St. George's Island. Under the protection of the trees its occupant—none other, indeed, than Mr. John Lucas—stealthily approached the Tuscan Villa, which stood out in bold relief in the vivid moonlight.

He gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the balustrade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the one at which Mr. Meyer was sitting on the preceding Saturday.

There is no use disguising the fact any longer. Mr. Lucas was a burglar, and he now proceeded to act after the manner of his craft. After affixing some adhesive material to the pane, he began to cut out a square of the window. The glass was thick, so the process was long, but Mr. Lucas toiled at it with a patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause. Only once did he desist—to follow the suggestion of a sudden impulse, and try all the windows of the house. But each was fastened, and Mr. Lucas resumed his original labour.

It was fully an hour before he drew out the square of glass which enabled him to undo the catch inside. Then nearly as long passed before the removal of a second square at the foot allowed him to unscrew the bottom fastening.

The window was open at last, and Lucas stepped inside.

It was the second burglary of his life, and he reflected that so far all that had happened was greatly to the credit of his professional abilities. A moment afterwards he was chilled by the later thought that nothing in particular had happened so far, and that the possibilities of the near future were very great indeed.

With his stealthy entry into Mr. Meyer's villa the personality of that gentleman had suddenly oppressed him. At Bournemouth all that day, with the sun shining, and the band playing popular airs, Mr. Meyer had occurred to him merely as an eccentric German gentleman; but now, at something after midnight, in the deathly stillness of his villa, Mr. Lucas only remembered the Teuton's sharp, decisive utterances, his piercing glances, and his large general reputation for unpleasantness as an enemy. Perhaps it was the sight of Mr. Meyer's empty chair that had brought this train of thought to his mind. The big folio he had been reading was still at its side. Lucas flashed his electric pocket light on the open page. "Love's Labour's Lost" met his eyes. This struck him as ominous.

Lucas pulled himself together. What had he to do with empty chairs, and old folios, and omens? He was a burglar, out for the night on urgent business. Let him attend to it, and keep his dreams and soliloquies for the daytime. He walked across the polished floor, his rubber soles being absolutely noiseless. He raised the heavy curtain, and passed beneath it through the archway.

There in front of him was the marble hall, bathed in coloured moonlight. The fountain played softly to the tones of gold, azure and red cast from the stained-glass window. If Mr. Lucas had been conversant with Keats he would doubtless have thought of St. Agnes' Eve; but presumably Mr. Lucas did not, for, keeping well to the wall, he stole quickly across to where stood the case containing the miniatures.

"You bress de button, and it releases de trawers. So." He smiled as Mr. Meyer's pronunciation came back to him. He followed the instructions, and the drawers were free.

Cosway and Engleheart did not detain him to-night. He opened the bottom drawer. There lay the Holbein for which Mr. Meyer had recently paid three thousand guineas. Lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, shut the drawer, and closed the case.

So far all was well—very well indeed. Only a few yards, a curtain, and a few yards more, lay between him and freedom. Then again there fell upon him a sense of Mr. Meyer's personality. What had that man not done? He had browbeaten an Emperor, hoodwinked a couple of wily Chancellors, and decimated the ranks of rival practitioners. Was he, John Lucas, a mere tyro in the burglary profession, able to outwit the smartest man of the day? Had he only to break a window, step across a floor, seize a treasure, and depart?

No—it was impossible. The very ease with which everything had been accomplished was the worst sign of all. "I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation." Meyer's words came back to him now. He himself was in town—Lucas had seen him depart that morning, to make it absolutely certain—but his myrmidons were doubtless hidden around. An electric shock would suddenly hold him fast, and Meyer's butler or stage manager, or whatever he was called, would appear and wing him—unless the servants were asleep in their master's absence. But nothing was ever left to chance in Mr. Meyer's life or his house. The very silence was eloquent of impending catastrophe.

Again Mr. Lucas reproached himself with nervous folly. "It is only my second burglary," he reflected apologetically. He stepped across the hall, and once more raised the curtain.

"Ah!"

The room, which ten minutes ago was dark and empty, was now brilliantly illuminated, and there was Mr. Adolph Meyer, seated in his chair!

Meyer rose and came forward. "Ah, Mr. Lucas," he said, "dis is indeed a pleasure. Not altokedder unexbected, I admit; but it is always satisfactory to find one's conclusions brove correct. I taught you would have to return to make some final notes on my domestic architecture and my curios. You have seen my place by day. Now you visit me by night. Dat is charming."

Lucas stood by the curtain, overwhelmed with confusion. Not by a word did Mr. Meyer betray any resentment at his presence, but there was a thinly disguised vein of banter in his speech that made the burglar's pulses quicken.

"Berhaps you have not noticed de view I have here, Mr. Lucas," said Meyer. "Come and look."

He threw open the window wide. The moon was playing on the waters of the Channel. Clouds were scurrying across the sky. A lighthouse flashed in the far distance.

"I like dis view," said Meyer. "De sea is always de same—deep and treacherous. One always knows what to exbect, but man you never know. How do you look upon de sea, Mr. Lucas?"

"Good for boating, and—er—bathing," responded Lucas desperately.

"Goot for boating and bading," repeated Meyer. "Dat is so. You are practical. Dat is where you islanders have the advantage over us treamers. But somehow the treams have a habit of outlasting de practice. I do not tink of boating and bading when I look on de sea. I tink of all dat is above it, and below it. On de top, ships carrying men and women and children to continents; below de waves, dead men and women and children, dose who have died by de way, floating by de cables which are carrying words dat make and unmake nations and men. Life and death are dere togedder. Did you never tink of de sea in dat way, Mr. Lucas, when you was not studying domestic architecture and curios?"

"I can't say that I have," said Lucas, trying vainly to rise to the situation. A man with a weapon he could have met and fought any day, at a moment's notice, but smooth words and soliloquies, how could he meet them, though there was a hidden meaning in every phrase, a subtle danger indicated in every intonation?

"I should practise it den, Mr. Lucas," said Meyer gravely. "A little more tinking and a little less action is de new brescription de doctors are giving to dis country." He turned away from the window, after closing it. He did not appear to notice the two great holes in the glass which stared him in the face.

"Den I shut my window tight, for fear of dieves, Mr. Lucas," he went on, "and go to my observatory, where we went de odder day. I go up dose steps to my delescope, and bring de stars widdin speaking distance. Have you ever spoken wid de stars, Mr. Lucas?"

"No," replied the burglar curtly.

"Ah, I taught not. Somehow you did not give me dat imbression. You should study de moon for a bekinning, Mr. Lucas. It is a poor worn-out star of a sort. What does it tell of? Of life run down, as many men's are. But after all, de moon had its day. It was not cut off in its prime, like some men's lives are, Mr. Lucas, because of a comet-like taught, or a meteor suggestion of evil. A kreat science is astronomy, Mr. Lucas. Do you not tink so?"

Mr. Lucas did not reply.

"Why do I speak of dese things, Mr. Lucas?" said Meyer with increasing earnestness. "Because you are young, very young, dough you are nearly so old as me. I speak of dem because you are wasting your life entering my house in de mittle of de night to take photokraphs, when de stars are singing outside, and de world is calling for de man who, as Dommas Carlyle says, is not dere. What would Dommas Carlyle have said if he had known dat you were here all de time, taking photokraphs in Mr. Adolph Meyer's villa—robbing Mr. Meyer, widout de excuse of necessity?"

Lucas made an attempt to speak, but Meyer stopped him. The little man's voice rose, his eyes gleamed, his very stature seemed to swell. The room was full of him.

"Be silent, sare," he said, with a gesture of an emperor. "I am speaking! Listen! I know what you will say: It is for sport dat you do dis—sport dat eats up your race, and makes men like me your master. You take your gun and kill. See," pointing through the window at a problematical object. "Dat bird—dat beautiful white gull. It is flying—seeking for food or its mate. You shoot it——"

"Never!" shouted Lucas indignantly.

"You do. I know you do. You take dat wonderful ding we call life—for sport. You rob me. Dat is a smaller ding, but it is sport also. Mein Gott! but you shall rob and kill no more."

He struck a bell. Lucas backed to the wall to be ready for emergencies. A little sharp-featured man entered.

"Here he is, Mr. Marvell," said Meyer. "I have got him red-handed and cold-souled."

"That's right, sir," said the little man briskly, producing a pair of handcuffs. "I'll take him across to Bournemouth, and we'll have him up at the police court in the morning."

Mr. Meyer did not appear to have heard him. "Strange, is it not?" he resumed, "dat you and I and Mr. Marvell, de clever detective, should be here, Mr. Lucas? No, I will call you by your broper name. Sir Rubert Inkledree, I ask you to listen."

He took up a red volume from the table.

"Dis is a useful book," he said, as he opened it. "We are all entered up here, all our public appearances, dat is—not our midnight photokraphings. Ah, here it is:

"'Sir Rubert Inkledree, seventh baronet, born 1868, only son of sixth baronet and Mary, daughter of Viscount Morecambe. Educated Eton and Christ Church, Oxford. Owns twenty tousand acres. Address: Inkledree Castle, Leicestershire; 57, Brook Street, W. Clubs: Bachelor's, Boodle's, Turf.'

"Dat is fine—for a bekinning," continued Meyer; "but what an end, Sir Rubert, in dis room wid Mr. Meyer whom you have robbed, and a detective, and de Bournemouth Police Court in de morning. Dat is not very fine. Now listen akain."

He turned over the leaves and read:—

"'Adolph Meyer, born 1864. Financier. Son of Jacob Meyer of DÜsseldorf. M.A. London University, Commander of de Victorian Order, Chevalier of de Legion of Honour. Address: 16, Lombard Street, E.C., and St. George's Island, Bournemouth.' Dat is all. Dere are no clubs and no acres. I have de orders because I did service to England and France. I am M.A. of London University because, when I was a young man behind de counter in de bank all day, I worked for my dekree by night; and now I am here, and you are where I like to put you, Sir Rubert Inkledree."

"Bournemouth Police Station," suggested Mr. Marvell, who was aching to get to business.

"Bournemouth Police Station?" repeated Mr. Meyer slowly. "No, Mr. Marvell; I tink not. I am Master of Arts of London University and reader of Blato, letting alone de odder dings. He shall go free, and Mr. Marvell, you will blease forket de incident. I telekraft for you on Saturday. You came, but dere was noding. Dat is what you will report, please, at Scotland Yard.

"But you, Sir Rubert, you will not forket. You will remember. You will neider kill nor rob akain, because it is de wish of Mr. Adolph Meyer, who makes you free instead of sending you to de Police Station.

"Also, Sir Rubert, I suchest dat you give up dat Club dat Mr. Marvell speaks of. See, you have my Holbein in your pocket. Take it, since you want it. Show it to your friends, and say dat Mr. Meyer, who is M.A. of London University, Commander, Chevalier and tcheneral treamer, says dat dey had better disbant, for de stars are singing, and Mr. Marvell is watching."

Mr. Marvell folded up his handcuffs methodically, and replaced them in his pocket. He was too well trained to show the intense disgust he felt at the turn the proceedings had taken.

Again the burglar endeavoured to speak, but once more Mr. Meyer commanded silence.

"Mr. Marvell will see you to your boat, Sir Rubert," he said. "I drust dat you will weigh my words well. It is not often dat I say so many, and dey have caused me some inconvenience to speak, as I am not accustomed to spend Monday nights in my marine villa. To be here I had dis afternoon to postpone an interview wid de Turkish Ambassador, which I have since learnt by telekram from Constantinople has been misconstrued. De Sultan will not sleep much to-night, and in de morning newspapers dere will be talk of drouble in de Balkan States. Some peoples will be fearing war, Sir Rubert, and all on account of you and your midnight photokraphings. I wonder what Dommas Carlyle would say to a mess like dat. Goot night."

Mr. Meyer turned abruptly on his heels, and left the room.

"Come along, Sir Rupert, please," said Mr. Marvell. In the brilliant moonshine they went along the terrace by the stone dogs, and down the steps to the beach. They found the boat by the trees.

"How did Mr. Meyer come to suspect my errand?" said Ingletree suddenly.

The detective smiled a wan smile.

"Well, sir," he replied, "I wasn't present when you saw him on Saturday, but I think that Mr. Meyer read you through as if you were a book—printed in pretty big letters, too. It was a rather thin tale, that about the magazine article, and when you asked to see round the house Mr. Meyer was certain that you had some special object in view. When you inquired after the miniatures he knew what you were after, as the papers had lately been full of the Holbein. To make sure on the point he didn't show it to you, and of course you asked to see it. Then he telegraphed to Scotland Yard, and they sent me."

"How did you find out who I was, and why I wanted the miniature?"

"Ah," said Mr. Marvell drily, "I'll tell you that some day later on, Sir Rupert. We shall probably meet again."

Then the baronet put out to sea, and the detective went back to the Tuscan Villa.

On the following evening, at the meeting of the Burglars' Club, the Secretary produced the Holbein miniature, and read a letter from Sir Rupert Ingletree which accompanied it. Then the President rose.

"My lords and gentlemen," he said, "we have just heard the singular adventure which has befallen one of our members. The Holbein miniature is here, but only owing to the goodwill of its owner. Sir Rupert Ingletree is at liberty owing to the forbearance of the same gentleman. Under the circumstances I think we have no option but to accept the resignation of Sir Rupert, who does not appear to have acted with the adroitness which is a necessary qualification of our members. It may well be that you or I would have done no better under similar circumstances, but I need hardly remind you that in this club we judge only by results, and the results in this instance are not satisfactory.

"There is a further matter to consider—a message from Mr. Meyer, which demands a reply. Colonel Altamont, as the doyen of our club, we look to your premature grey hairs for guidance."

Altamont rose amidst general applause.

"Your Grace, my lords and gentlemen," he began. "It is surely unnecessary to ask for my opinion on the situation. Our existence is now known to the outside world. Twice has this detective, Marvell, been within reach of us. Someone has betrayed us, and I for one do not intend to rest until I have traced that traitor. But this is not the matter before us now.

"Though Mr. Meyer objects to sport, he has behaved like a perfect sportsman. (Hear, hear.) For his courtesy we wish to express our hearty thanks and appreciation; but for his suggestion that we should disband we surely have one answer only, and that is: Never, never, never."

The words were re-echoed on all sides.

"Our club would indeed have fallen on degenerate days," continued Altamont, when quiet was restored, "if the fact of its existence being known were promptly to bring about its end. Surely the fact that we are watched should give an added zest to our proceedings, which have been all too monotonously serene. The knowledge that Scotland Yard is acting, and that we carry our personal liberty in our hands, should spur us on to the Homeric deeds for the perpetration of which we exist.

"Ingletree's postscript is pathetic, and vividly shows the present unbalanced state of his mind. He asks whether we consider that under Mr. Meyer's terms he is at liberty to fish. My own feeling is that I would have suffered a long period of incarceration rather than have surrendered my right to act as a free and independent Englishman; but Ingletree, having accepted his liberty on Mr. Meyer's stupendous terms, has surely forfeited his right to again take life in any form. If he so much as nets a minnow he has no option but to surrender himself forthwith at the Bournemouth Police Station.

"We all regret the loss of our once brilliant member, but it is obvious from Ingletree's behaviour during the last few days that he is not the man he was when he paid his entrance fee by the production of—what was it, Mr. Secretary?—the Mace of the House of Commons?"

"No, sir," replied the Secretary. "That was Mr. Henderson's fee. Sir Rupert Ingletree entered with the Portland Vase, from the British Museum."

"Ah, quite so. Thank you. And a very smart bit of work it was, I remember. It is regrettable that Sir Rupert could not be here in person this evening to advance any extenuating circumstances; but as he is probably under the surveillance of Scotland Yard we appreciate his reason for adopting the medium of the Postmaster-General for communicating with us. I therefore propose that Sir Rupert Ingletree's resignation be accepted, and that, with the Holbein picture, which we at once return to its owner in accordance with our rule, we send a letter expressing our appreciation of Mr. Meyer's magnanimity, and our regret that we are unable to disband. We can leave it to our Secretary to couch this in the neat epigrammatic style for which he is famed in the Chancelleries of Europe."