"A what?" I demanded, incredulously. "The fact is, sir, I 'appened to hear him at the lock. When he forced the door, sir, not being able to work the lock, I was waiting for him." The dropped aspirate was an unfailing sign of mental disturbance in Benson. I closed my book and tossed it aside. It was only drama of the second dimension, as old and musty as a mummy. And here, apparently, was adventure of the first water, something of my own world and time. "This sounds rather interesting, Benson. Be so good as to show the gentleman up." I sat down, with a second look at the dragging hands of the little French clock on my mantel. But Benson still seemed a trifle ill at ease. "I--I took the liberty of tying him up a bit, sir," explained that astute old dissembler, "being compelled, as it were, to use a bit of force." "Of course. Then untie him as much as necessary, and fetch him here. And you might bring up a bottle of _Lafitte_ and a bite to eat. For two, if you please." "Yes, sir," he answered. But still he hesitated. "The revolver, sir, is in the cabinet-drawer on your left." There were times when old Benson could almost make me laugh; times when the transparencies of his obliquities converted them into something almost respectable. "We won't need the revolver, Benson. What I most need I fancy is amusement, distraction, excitement, anything--anything to get me through this endless hell of a night." I could feel my voice rise on the closing words, like the uprear of a terrified racehorse. It was not a good sign. I got up and paced the rug, like a castaway pacing some barren and empty island. But here, I told myself, was a timely footprint. I waited, as breathless as a Crusoe awaiting his Friday. I waited so long that I was beginning to dread some mishap. Then the portière parted for the second time, and Benson led the burglar into the room. I experienced, as I looked at him, a distinct sense of disappointment. He was not at all what I expected. He wore no black mask, and was neither burly nor ferocious. The thing that first impressed me was his slenderness--an almost feline sort of slenderness. The fact I next remarked was that he was very badly frightened, so frightened, in fact, that his face was the tint of a rather soiled white glove. It could never have been a ruddy face. But its present startling pallor, I assumed, must have been largely due to Benson's treatment, although I was still puzzled by the look of abject terror which gave the captive's eyes their animal-like glitter. He stood before me for all the world as though a hospital interne had been practising abstruse bandaging feats on his body, so neatly and yet so firmly had the redoubtable Benson hobbled him and swathed his arms in a half-dozen of my best Irish linen table-napkins. Over these, again, had been wound and buckled a trunk-strap. Benson had not skimped his job. His burglar was wrapped as securely as a butcher wraps a boned rib-roast.