Determined not to be baffled--for his credit as a burglar was at stake--Lord Roker resumed his search, and again went over the ground. Three times at least was he disturbed--when the grandfather's clocks went off at the hour and the half-hour with alarming wheezes and groans. When they had finished with 3.30 he had to admit himself beaten. The manuscript had no doubt been removed to another room. It was desperately annoying, but he had still twenty-four hours to find out where it was, and to get it. He gave up the search reluctantly, made his way through the window, and up the rope to his bedroom. Soon after breakfast that morning word went round the Hydro that the Bunyan MS. had been stolen from Mr. Pilgrim's rooms--the manuscript for which he had just paid £2,000. A hole cut in one of the window-panes pointed to the method by which entry had been made, but no clue to the thief had been left behind. The police had been informed, and a detective was coming. Only the Bunyan MS. was missing--that alone of the many portable and valuable treasures in Mr. Pilgrim's possession. It showed a literary instinct in the thief which was as surprising as it was unusual, for it would be impossible for him to make any profitable use of his booty without certain discovery. The more one reflected about it the more perplexing it was. To Lord Roker it was humiliating in the extreme. To fail in his mission was exasperating; but the annoyance was increased tenfold with the knowledge that he had been forestalled. Someone else--a professional, no doubt--had been on the same errand. He had not dallied over the enterprise, and he had won the stakes for which he played, and now he, Lord Roker, would have to appear empty-handed at the Burglars'--he, a founder of the Club, would be the first man who had to resign through incapacity to carry out the terms of his membership; it was galling indeed. Even the neat hole he had made in the window had been placed to the credit of the other burglar. At 6 p.m. he went upstairs to dress. The evenings were chilly, and he occasionally had a fire. He sat down before it now to finish his cigarette, and moodily watched the flames while his thoughts turned on the unsatisfactory nature of all earthly affairs. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of extreme surprise, jumped out of his chair, and caught hold of a bit of half-burnt paper projecting from the grate. It was perhaps three inches long, and two across. Half of it was ash that fell away as he touched it. On the scant margin left was written, in stiff, archaic English, "Ye Slough of Desp----" "Amazing!" he cried. For the fragment he held in his hand was part of the missing MS.! In another instant he had seized his water-jug and emptied the contents on the fire, putting it out, and deluging the hearth. Then he rang the bell, and sent an urgent message for Mr. Pilgrim. Five minutes later the American entered. Roker handed him the fragment, and pointed out where he had found it.