He handed me the candle and bent low over the bin. Ha! ha! Quicker than a flash of lightning I tipped up his heels (he was easily overbalanced), and into the bin he fell headlong. Down came the heavy lid. But there was no padlock on it. I must hurry! Blowing out the candle, I ran, for I knew the way, straight to the cellar steps and up them--like a cat. Then with a locked door between myself and my burglar, I could breathe. I heard the man kicking about down below, for of course he got out of the bin at once. But our cellar is a labyrinth. Seizing father's old gun from its resting-place in the hall, I sat down near the door at the head of the stairs, waiting for the worst. The door was fairly strong--that I knew; but he was a powerful man. So I dragged a heavy table from the sitting-room and placed it against it. Suddenly I became conscious that he had found his way to the stairs and was rapidly approaching the door, which was all that lay between me and his revengeful fury. Bracing myself against the opposite wall, I raised the old gun, and, deliberately aiming it, waited. He began by pounding with both fists on the door, but, not receiving any answer, he tried threats. An instinct seemed to tell him I would remain on guard. His language, I must confess, while threatening, was not abusive. It was, in fact, incredibly elegant for a burglar, and strictly grammatical. All at once there came a crash, followed by the creaking of heavy timber, and the door fell. Down he came on top of it, sprawling at my feet on the floor. I raised my gun and fired. “Hit him?” I interrupted. “No,” replied Miss Gwynne; “here in the wall of the dining-room the bullet lodged, and is still there.” The next thing I was conscious of was Mrs. Griffiths bending over me, and her husband's voice exclaiming: “He'd never have escaped if we had not left that door open when we came in. You see we got home just in time to hear you fire the gun, and as we ran in he ran out. Drat him!” I raised myself on my elbow and looked eagerly about. “He had no time to carry off a thing,” said Mrs. Griffiths. * * * * * “I would like to set my eyes on him,” I remarked, when Miss Gwynne had concluded her story. “You are a distinguished woman and are--I believe--the very first one who ever received an offer of marriage from a burglar.” The lady smiled. “Do you not remember reading about the capture of a notorious bank robber, several years ago? The case created quite a sensation, owing partly to the difficulty in tracing the thief, who was clever enough to puzzle the most expert detectives and evade the police, and also to the respectability of his position. No one could believe him guilty.” “Indeed I do remember it,” I answered. “Not only that, but I _saw_ the man after he was in prison. I happened to be going through Chester Jail at the time and J------ was pointed out to me. He was quite distinguished looking. In fact, I did not believe him guilty.”