"I think you are wise to put your money into stones, colonel," he said; "they always go up and never go down in value. You can lose other things. They're easy and they're always convertible. I always tell my partner that if I ever become a millionaire I shall invest every penny in stones." The colonel paid for the gems from a thick wad of notes he took from his hip-pocket. They were, in point of fact, the identical notes which Maisie White had handed to him the night previous. He waited whilst the jewels were made up into a little oblong package, heavily sealed and inscribed with the colonel's name and address, and then, shaking hands with Mygleberg and fixing a further appointment, he came out into Hatton Garden, whistling a little song and apparently the picture of contentment. He was getting ready for flight too. This, the first of many packages which he intended depositing in the private safe of his bank, would go with the ever-increasing pile of American gold bonds of high denomination which filled that steel repository. For months the colonel had been converting his property into paper dollars. They were more easily negotiated and less traceable than English banknotes, and they were more get-at-able. A big balance in the books of the bank might be creditable and, given time, convertible into cash. Then nobody knew but himself the amount standing to his credit. He was not at the mercy of prying bank clerks or a manager who might be got at by the police. At a minute's notice, and without anybody being the wiser, he could demand the contents of his safe and walk from the bank premises without a soul being aware that he was carrying the bulk of his fortune away. He took a cab and drove now to the bank premises. Ferguson, the manager, received him. "Good morning, colonel," he said. "I was just writing you a note. You know your account is getting very low." "Is that so?" said the colonel in surprise. "I thought you wouldn't realise the fact," said Ferguson, "but you've been drawing very heavily of late." "I'll put it right," said the colonel. "It is not overdrawn?" he asked jocularly, and Ferguson smiled. "You've eighty thousand pounds in Account B," he said. "I suppose you don't want to touch that?" Account B was the euphonious name for the fund which was the common property of all the leaders of the Boundary Gang. "Unless you're anxious that I should get penal servitude for fraudulently converting the company's funds?" said the colonel in the same strain. "No, I'll fix my account some time to-day. In the meantime"--he produced a package from his hip-pocket--"I want this to go into my safe." "Certainly," said Ferguson, and struck a bell. A clerk answered the call. "Take Colonel Boundary to the vaults. He wants to deposit something in his safe," he said, "or would you like me to do it, colonel?" "I'll do it myself," said the colonel.