“Sure thing,” I answered. “But now, for heaven’s sake, let me go to sleep.” “Of course,” said Tom, in an aggrieved tone. “But I thought you’d want to hear about that as soon as I struck it.” “Sure thing,” I repeated again. “Only, now I know about it, go to bed, and let me do the same.” My head touched the pillow as I heard the sound of the closing door, and then I slept the clock around. The next morning I started straight for Bloomsbury, to my destination of the morning before, the lodging house. My stout friend the landlady was out, so the maid informed me, but I could see the room again if I wished. Once on the top story, I flung open the window and gazed about me. The wilderness of brick was broken only by the waving boughs that keep this part of London from being quite the dreary waste that most modern cities are fast becoming, or have long since become. As I stood there striving to pierce the mystery, the maid stood at a shambling attention in the doorway. Finally, I turned. “I was very much interested in the story your mistress told me of the falling shutter,” I said, slipping a half crown into her ready fingers. “I should very much like to know if any part of the old shutter is by any chance in existence.” The maid’s eyes glistened, as she glanced surreptitiously at the coin in her hand. “Wreck’s down in t’ wash’oose,” she said. “You’re from the Coal-pits or the Mines,” I said, smiling as I heard her dialect. A dim flush showed in her sallow cheek. “I’m fra about there, sir. Hast ever been there? There’s none like it.” “I’ve been there,” I answered, smiling again. “There’s some fine men there.” Her eyes lighted once more. “Happen thou might like to see wreck? Canst, if thou wish.” “Just what I would like,” I answered, and the maid turned and clattered down the stairs. Down in the basement, leaning against the wall beside some tubs, was the wrecked shutter. I brought it out to light. The hinges were gone. Not a bit of iron showed upon it. I turned to the silent maid. “Queer thing where the hinges went?” I said questioningly. “Noa,” she replied. “See t’wood-box there?” “Yes,” I answered. “Thot had t’hinges; Michael took them t’day t’shutter fell.” Eagerly I bent over the rude wood-box and examined the hinges carefully, measuring them with my handkerchief, and comparing the size with the lighter spots on the shutter, which showed where the hinges had been. There could be little doubt that what the girl said was true. One doubt remained. “Why did not your mistress know what became of the hinges?” I asked. “T’ mistress is rarely fogged, and doan’t know many a thing goes on,” the maid explained. “But to a man thot knows t’ Coal-pits--” She did not finish, but I understood, and a second half crown lighter in purse, I walked away.