"I see," said Lord Roker; "or, rather, I hear." "That'll be in the fall. If ever you come over to the States mind you look us up. Teddy will give you some big game shooting. I guess you like it, whatever you told dad. You've done things. Mrs. Stilton told me at breakfast this morning that you had got a decoration for distinguishing yourself in action." "Oh, that was years ago." "Not more than a hundred," she said gravely. "And I reckon you don't let the flies settle much. Gracious! but it's six o'clock, and I've letters to mail. I must run. But don't you be in a hurry about retiring from that club." "That's the second," said Lord Roker enigmatically, as he watched her vanish, "the second--and the last." Lord Roker made no attempt to purloin the Bunyan MS. that night. He thought it possible that the indefatigable Mr. Tullitt might prolong his labours on Charlotte Brontë into the early hours of the morning, and, being of a thoughtful temperament, he was unwilling to interrupt them. He had still two nights at his disposal. The next day he spent chiefly on the links. He did not allow his thoughts to linger regretfully on his hopeless love. He gave his whole attention to the game, and retrieved his reputation by beating the professional's record. In the evening he played his part in progressive bridge with marked success: and then at 1.30 a.m., when the whole establishment was presumably fast asleep, he descended from his bedroom window by a stout rope, and made his way to the wing occupied by Mr. Pilgrim. He found the window of Mr. Tullitt's room, and was busily engaged for the next half-hour in opening it. He then dropped into the room, and turned on his light. Three grandfather's clocks were solemnly ticking in three separate corners. The fire was still flickering in the grate. A pile of letters, addressed and stamped, was ready for the post. A batch of correspondence was docketed and endorsed. The waste-paper basket was full to overflowing. Lord Roker gave one glance round, and then tried the door. It was, as he expected, locked on the outside. He placed some chairs and other obstacles in front of it to impede progress should an alarm be raised, and lit the gas in order to add to Mr. Tullitt's reputation for over-work. Then he turned to the drawer in which the Bunyan MS. was kept. It was locked. He produced a bundle of keys, and finally opened it. There was a document inside, but instead of being time-stained, foxed, and torn, it was modern and neat. Moreover, it was type-written, and endorsed, "Notes on the late C. Brontë, Haworth, Eng., 1904." Lord Roker turned this out in disgust, hoping to find the Bunyan MS. below; but he was disappointed. The manuscript was not there. He replaced the Notes in the drawer and turned his attention elsewhere. He opened every drawer and portfolio, looked on every shelf and in every corner, but in vain. There was no sign of the Bunyan MS.