"See here, Mackintosh," he said solemnly. "I hand you over these parcels, and you're to put them in the innermost corner of your strong room. You needn't open them. Just put them away as they are, and write me a receipt for them. Write it now." Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand. "What'll I call them?" he asked. "Just the three leather parcels handed to you by Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date." Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his client. "Now," said Dickson, "you'll put that receipt in the strong box where you keep my securities, and you'll give it up to nobody but me in person, and you'll surrender the parcels only on presentation of the receipt. D'you understand?" "Perfectly. May I ask any questions?" "You'd better not if you don't want to hear lees." "What's in the packages?" Mr. Mackintosh weighed them in his hand. "That's asking," said Dickson. "But I'll tell ye this much. It's jools." "Your own?" "No, but I'm their trustee." "Valuable?" "I was hearing they were worth more than a million pounds." "God bless my soul," said the startled manager. "I don't like this kind of business, McCunn." "No more do I. But you'll do it to oblige an old friend and a good customer. If you don't know much about the packages you know all about me. Now, mind, I trust you." Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. "Did you maybe steal them?" Dickson grinned. "Just what I did. And that being so, I want you to let me out by the back door." When he found himself in the street he felt the huge relief of a boy who had emerged with credit from the dentist's chair. Remembering that there would be no midday dinner for him at home, his first step was to feed heavily at a restaurant. He had, so far as he could see, surmounted all his troubles, his one regret being that he had lost his pack, which contained among other things his _Izaak Walton_ and his safety razor. He bought another razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric tram-car _en route_ for home.