He mounted his bicycle and trundled up the hill, dismounting before Weald Lodge, and propped his bicycle against the wall. He looked for a long time toward the open French windows, and then, jumping the wall, made his way slowly across the lawn, avoiding the gravel path which would betray his presence. He got to a point opposite the window which commanded a full view of the room. Though the window was open, there was a fire in the grate. To the sergeant's satisfaction, John Minute was alone. He sat in a deep armchair in his favorite attitude, his hands pushed into his pockets, his head upon his chest. He heard the sergeant's foot upon the gravel and stood up as the rain-drenched figure appeared at the open window. "Oh, it is you, is it?" growled John Minute. "What do you want?" "Alone?" said the sergeant, and he spoke as one to his equal. "Come in!" Mr. Minute's library had been furnished by the Artistic Furniture Company, of Eastbourne, which had branches at Hastings, Bexhill, Brighton, and--it was claimed--at London. The furniture was of dark oak, busily carved. There was a large bookcase which half covered one wall. This was the "library," and it was filled with books of uniform binding which occupied the shelves. The books had been supplied by a great bookseller of London, and included--at Mr. Minute's suggestion--"The Hundred Best Books," "Books That Have Helped Me," "The Encyclopedia Brillonica," and twenty bound volumes of a certain weekly periodical of international reputation. John Minute had no literary leanings. The sergeant hesitated, wiped his heavy boots on the sodden mat outside the window, and walked into the room. "You are pretty cozy, John," he said. "What do you want?" asked Minute, without enthusiasm. "I thought I'd look you up. My constable reported your windows were open, and I felt it my duty to come along and warn you--there are thieves about, John." "I know of one," said John Minute, looking at the other steadily. "Your constable, as you call him, is, I presume, that thick-headed jackass, Wiseman!" "Got him first time," said the sergeant, removing his waterproof cape. "I don't often trouble you, but somehow I had a feeling I'd like to see you to-night. My constable revived old memories, John." "Unpleasant for you, I hope," said John Minute ungraciously. "There's a nice little gold farm four hundred miles north of Gwelo," said Sergeant Smith meditatively. "And a nice little breakwater half a mile south of Cape Town," said John Minute, "where the Cape government keeps highwaymen who hold up the Salisbury coach and rob the mails." Sergeant Smith smiled. "You will have your little joke," he said; "but I might remind you that they have plenty of accommodation on the breakwater, John. They even take care of men who have stolen land and murdered natives." "What do you want?" asked John Minute again. The other grinned.