Pocket was seated at the table, the red bulb of the pneumatic shutter between his finger and thumb; he pressed the bulb, and there was a loud metallic snap inside the camera; he released the pressure, and the shutter snapped like a shutter and nothing else. Phillida came forward with a cry. Pocket had taken the top off the camera; it was like a box without the lid, and on the one side there was nothing between the lens and the grooved carrier for the slide, but on the other there was an automatic pistol, fixed down with wires, as a wild beast might be lashed, and its muzzle pointing through the orifice intended for the second lens of the stereoscopic camera. Pocket pressed again, and again the mild clash of the shutter was preceded by the vicious one that would have been an explosion if there had been another cartridge in the pistol. “And we never guessed it!” said he. “That’s why he went in for this sort of double camera, and rigged it up to take both kinds of shot in quick succession. It’s the cleverest thing I ever heard of in my life.” He spoke as if it were only clever! Phillida stared at it and him without a word. “The cleverest part is the way you aim. I do believe he relied altogether on that spot about the middle of the focussing screen. I’ve been trying it against the window, and where that spot comes the pistol’s pointing every time. It’s a fixed focus, about ten to fifteen feet, I fancy, and the spot isn’t quite in the middle of the screen, but just enough to the left to allow. I don’t quite see how the one bulb works everything, but these springs and things are a bit confusing. We shan’t understand everything till we take it to pieces.” “You mean the police won’t!” said Phillida, bitterly. “The police! I never thought of them.” “What do you mean to do with this—this infernal machine?” the girl asked, her voice breaking over the perfectly applicable term. “What do _you_ mean to do with—the writing?” demanded Pocket in his turn. “Burn it! I’ve asked for a fire in my room; it’s locked away meanwhile.” “Well, this is yours, too,” said Pocket, deliberately, “to do what you like with as well.” “They wouldn’t think so!” “They’ll never know.” Phillida shook her head, and not without some scorn. “You couldn’t keep it to yourself,” she said. “You would _have_ to tell.” “Well, but not everybody,” said poor Pocket. “Only my father, if you like!” he added, valiantly. “Mr. Upton would feel bound to tell.” “I don’t see that. Didn’t you hear what he said about a man’s secrets dying with him?” “He’s so kind! He says that; he said it again to me; but this is the mystery of the day. It’ll be the talk for months, if not years. And as yet only you and I, in all the world, have found it out!”