Mr. Meyer led the photographer through his villa, pointing out its architectural beauties, and indicating the various treasures which it contained. Mr. Lucas was profuse in his expressions of appreciation. "Are you not afraid of burglars?" he asked. "I am afraid of noding," replied Mr. Meyer. "Odderwise I should not be here to-day in dis Tuscan Villa. I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation." They had made a tour of the rooms, had ascended the heights of the observatory and inspected the electric plant at its base. "Is dere anyting else you would like to see?" asked Mr. Meyer politely. "I believe that you collect miniatures. Might I look at them?" "Come dis way." In a corner of the marble hall there was a cabinet facing a window. Meyer stood before it. "See," he said; "I bress dis button, and it releases de trawers. So." The shutter flew back, and the drawers were free. Meyer opened them, one by one, and indicated their contents. "Dey are all choice examples of de best masters. Dese are Gosways. Dis is an Engleheart," and so on. He went through the collection till he had shown the last drawer but one. He was about to close the cabinet when Mr. Lucas asked: "Have you any Holbeins?" "One," replied Meyer, "and dere was I necklecting to show it to you. Dis last trawer is de most imbortant of de lot." He opened it and drew forth a small square frame. "Here is de latest addition to my collection. A krand Holbein. You notice de blue backkround, characteristic of dat kreat master, and de wonderful thin bainting. You can almost see through it. It is a bortrait of Meyer of Basle, berhaps a relation of mine, berhaps not. It does not matter. It is a fine picture. Don't you tink so?" Lucas handed it back. "I envy you," he said. "Dere is no need," Mr. Meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'Enfy no man till he is dead,' said de old Kreek philosopher, and I am very much alife. Now come to de orkit house, and photokraph de _Cypripedium Meyeri_." An hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every point of the compass, Mr. Lucas made his way to the landing-stage, and from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to Bournemouth. On the following Monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully beached on the south shore of St. George's Island. Under the protection of the trees its occupant--none other, indeed, than Mr. John Lucas--stealthily approached the Tuscan Villa, which stood out in bold relief in the vivid moonlight. He gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the balustrade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the one at which Mr. Meyer was sitting on the preceding Saturday.