Peter looked up over his spectacles, and dropped his romance to his lap. “In trouble?” he demanded eagerly, and when Amber shook his head with a smile, a disappointed frown gathered on the old man’s face. “No, my Peter,” said Amber, hanging up his hat, “I am not in trouble--to any extent.” He took from his pocket two flat packages and laid them on the table carefully. They were wrapped in newspaper and contained articles of some heavy substance. Amber walked over to the mantelshelf, where an oil lamp burnt, and examined his coat with minute interest. “What’s up, Amber? What are you looking for?” “Blood, my Peter,” said Amber; “gore--human gore. I was obliged to strike a gentleman hard, with a knobby weapon--to wit, a fist.” “Hey?” Peter was on his feet, all eagerness, but Amber was still smiling. “Go on with your reading,” he said, “there’s nothing doin’.” That was a direct and a sharp speech for Amber, and Peter stared, and only the smile saved it from brusqueness. Amber continued his inspection, removing his coat, and scrutinizing the garment carefully. “No incriminating stains,” he retorted flippantly, and went to the table, where his packages lay. He had resumed his coat, and, diving into one of the pockets, he produced a flat round leather case. He pressed a spring, and the cover opened like the face of a watch. Peter was an interested spectator. “That is a compass,” he said. “True, my Peter; it is a compass--but it has the disadvantage that it does not cump: in other words, it is a most unblushing liar of a compass; a mis-leader of men, my Peter; it is the old one who is the devil of compasses, because it leadeth the feet to stray--in other words, it’s a dud.” He shook it a little, gave it a twist or two, and shook his head severely. He closed it and put it on the table by his side. Then he turned his attention to the other packages. Very gingerly he unwrapped them. They were revealed as two flat plates of steel, strangely engraved. He leant over them, his smile growing broader and broader, till he broke into a gleeful little laugh. He looked up to meet the troubled and puzzled eyes of Peter, and laughed out loud. “Amber, there’s a game on,” said Peter gloomily; “there’s a dodge on, and I’m not in it. Me that has been with you in every dodge you’ve worked.” This was not exactly true, but it pleased Peter to believe that he had some part in Amber’s many nefarious schemes. “It’s a Dodge _and_ a Game, my Peter,” said Amber, carefully wrapping up the plates. “It’s this much of a game, that if the police suddenly appeared and found these in my possession I should go down to the tombs for seven long bright years, and you for no less a period.” It may have been an effect of the bad lighting of the room, but it seemed that Peter, the desperate criminal, went a little pale at the prospect so crudely outlined. “That’s a bit dangerous, ain’t it?” he said uncomfortably. “Takin’ risks of that kind, Amber,--what is it?”