Paxton pulled himself out of the hole, and stretched a hand back to us. “Give it to me,” he whispered, “unwrapped.” We pulled off the handkerchiefs, and he took the crown. The moonlight just fell on it as he snatched it. We had not ourselves touched that bit of metal, and I have thought since that it was just as well. In another moment Paxton was out of the hole again and busy shovelling back the soil with hands that were already bleeding. He would have none of our help, though. It was much the longest part of the job to get the place to look undisturbed: yet--I don’t know how--he made a wonderful success of it. At last he was satisfied, and we turned back. We were a couple of hundred yards from the hill when Long suddenly said to him: “I say, you’ve left your coat there. That won’t do. See?” And I certainly did see it--the long dark overcoat lying where the tunnel had been. Paxton had not stopped, however: he only shook his head, and held up the coat on his arm. And when we joined him, he said, without any excitement, but as if nothing mattered any more: “That wasn’t my coat.” And, indeed, when we looked back again, that dark thing was not to be seen. Well, we got out on to the road, and came rapidly back that way. It was well before twelve when we got in, trying to put a good face on it, and saying--Long and I--what a lovely night it was for a walk. The boots was on the lookout for us, and we made remarks like that for his edification as we entered the hotel. He gave another look up and down the sea-front before he locked the front door, and said: “You didn’t meet many people about, I s’pose, sir?” “No, indeed, not a soul,” I said; at which I remember Paxton looked oddly at me. “Only I thought I see someone turn up the station road after you gentlemen,” said the boots. “Still, you was three together, and I don’t suppose he meant mischief.” I didn’t know what to say; Long merely said “Good-night,” and we went off upstairs, promising to turn out all lights, and to go to bed in a few minutes.