“Really,” cried Dr. Massenger, in affected rapture, “really I was _not_ prepared for this, Mr. Cubleigh. I had really no idea you had made such a remarkably chaste collection of er, er, er--_likenesses_. Quite classical, to be sure! I am _quite_ surprised. Wilmot, my good friend, you are a judge of art; tell me what you think of Mr. Cubleigh’s er, er, er, _gallery_.” “A pack of rubbish, that ought to be put behind the fire!” answered the old gentleman, testily. The Honourable Augustus seemed somewhat disconcerted by this unfavourable criticism upon his art treasures, but he, nevertheless, showed every disposition to assist in the search which was forthwith prosecuted amongst his numerous and gorgeous effects. With his own hands he opened a gold-mounted dressing-case, threw the contents out of a desk, took the lid off a pot of cold cream, and turned the pockets of six pairs of trousers inside out. All, however, was in vain; none of the stolen property was found, and Mr. Wilmot left the room snorting with disappointment and dissatisfaction. The whole party then adjourned to the room of Wilfred, which indeed presented a great contrast to that last examined. Over the chimney-piece was a large and fine photograph of the S. Cecilia of Rafael, and beneath it was slung a cross-handled sword, which had probably been used in the Wars of the Roses. Here hung a fishing-rod, there were suspended a couple of cricket bats. In one corner stood a new rifle, and on the walls were disposed at intervals several water-coloured drawings of wild North-country scenery, and two or three engravings of dogs after Landseer. Wilfred’s conduct was certainly widely different upon this occasion from that of Cubleigh, for he displayed no anxiety whatsoever to assist in the examination of his goods and chattels. Rather he seemed to submit to it as an unwelcome necessity, and as an overpowering wrong. After long search, however, nothing was discovered, and the party were about to leave the room, when Cubleigh, who had pulled down a waistcoat from the top shelf of a wardrobe, suddenly cried out, “Hullo, Manwaring, there’s the very waistcoat you wore the day we went to Holborough; there’s nothing in it, is there? Dear me, how odd! There’s something hard in the breast pocket, but of course that’s nothing! What drawer shall I replace it in?” “Let me look,” interposed Mr. Wilmot, nervously. With great apparent reluctance Cubleigh placed the garment in the old man’s hands, and the latter thrust his trembling fingers into the inner pocket, and thence drew forth a small, carefully wrapped-up paper packet, which, on being opened, displayed a broad gold noble of King Edward the Third. “My noble, my precious noble with the unique mint-mark,” quavered Mr. Wilmot; “they’ve not got one like it in the British Museum, and I could swear to it amongst a thousand. Well, I’m surprised, and I’m sorry, and I’m shocked; but where are the rest? there are at least fifty coins missing, and----”