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:
"Some day I may be an hereditary legislator. At
present I'm a drone. I fish, shoot birds, and hunt
foxes, and once a year I attend a cricket match. Birds
are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants.
If I had a Maxim I might tackle elephants. I am in
receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling
a year from my father, who refuses to increase the
amount. I am otherwise well satisfied with the
universe.
"My record last year was:
Birds............
Fishes...........
Foxes ..........."
"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.
[Illustration: "HEY! BUT WHAT ABOUT THAT HOLE IN THE WINDOW?"
(_p. 135._)]
"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.