“Don’t tell any one,” he said, “but I’m going to clear soon, and I’m getting the maps. I tell you, of course, because--oh, well, you’re in my room, and all that. But keep it dark.” He spoke like that to nearly all of his acquaintances. It is all very well to talk of breaking laws just for the fun of the thing, but one does want the rest of the world to know what a devil of a fellow one is. I remember one Sunday afternoon, at school, how I cut the cord of the weight on the chapel organ, with the result that that evening the music suddenly stopped and the choir wrecked. It was a noble piece of work, which I surveyed with a justifiable pride. But I was not really satisfied till I had told the whole house about it; naturally, of course, swearing each individual to secrecy. “Don’t tell a soul, of course, old man. I should get in a hell of a row if it was found out.” _Suave, mari magno_.... When one is perfectly safe, it is delightful to imagine all the punishments that might have been visited on one, if the Fates had been less kind; we always hunger for sensation; from the security of a warm fire the imagination gloats over the ardours of warfare and the splendours and agonies of adventure. We like to feel that danger overhangs us; we shiver with apprehensive delight beneath the sword of Damocles. We like to be told that there will be a social upheaval within our lifetime. Perhaps it will come in five years’ time. Perhaps to-morrow. At any rate, to-day we are secure. And it was in this spirit that the glamorous web was woven round that first escape. The efforts that were made to avoid suspicion were superb. The conspirators felt that anything might give away their secret. Had not Sergeant Cuff found at one end of a chain of evidence a murderer and at the other a spot of ink on a green baize tablecloth? and so they left nothing to chance. A loose board beneath the stove served as an admirable hiding-place for maps and plans. And in consequence our room was used as a sort of general dump. It was a great nuisance; they would do the mystery stunt so very thoroughly; and it was such a noisy business. To open their underground cupboard a few nails had to be abstracted, and a few wedges applied. The resultant noise would have woken not the least suspicion in even the most distrustful Teuton, and would have played a very insignificant part amid all the accumulated turmoil of the day. But no risks must be run. And so while the cupboard was being prized open, an operation that would sometimes take over ten minutes, one of us had to be detailed to go outside and break up wood so as to disguise the noise. It was a deafening business, that occurred two or three times each week; and it did not seem as if the contents of this cupboard demanded such strict secrecy. I once asked what they kept there. “Only a few papers,” was the answer, “a compass and provisions for the journey.”