“Well, on entering the room, I knocked up the fire, put on fresh coals, and then seated myself before my writing-table, directly in front of the fire. I took out the casket of jewels and placed it on the table before me. The door, you will remember, was shut, and cannot be opened from the outside except by me, who carry the only key. I could see all the room, and both door and window, and am certain no human being but myself was in that room. I thought I should like to have another look at the trinkets, and opened the casket and laid them out, one by one, on the writing-table before me. I felt them—touched them—turned them over, and in every possible manner was convinced that they were exactly as I had received them from the maker. Now listen. After I had admired them for some little time, I replaced them in the case, which was fitted with grooves to hold them. I did not close the case, but began to reflect on the possible weal or woe which might await the young girl who was to receive them. While thus reflecting, my eyes left the table for a few minutes, and rested on the window and the distant green hills and clear sky. I was in what is called a brown study for perhaps five minutes. When I awoke from that reverie, and brought my eyes back to the table, the jewels were gone!” “Gone?” echoed M^cSweeny, incredulously. “Yes, gone—casket, and necklace, and brooch, and ear-rings had vanished bodily, leaving not a trace of their existence before me on the mahogany table.” “You’d drapped them on the flure, mebbe?” suggested M^cSweeny, whose hair was beginning to rise on end. “Not at all, though, like you, I thought at first that that was possible,” calmly continued Mr Stafford. “I looked at my feet, over the table, under the table, and into every drawer and cranny about the table. I did not find them. I tried the door; it was firmly closed. The window the same. I felt every pocket. All in vain. The jewels and the case were gone.” “Ay, but how? There must have been some greedy fingers to take them,” said M^cSweeny, who seemed to instinctively guess the suggestion that was coming. “Perhaps not,” said the old gentleman, as calmly; “a spirit hath not flesh or bones. Did you never hear of evil spirits?” M^cSweeny almost jumped to his feet, and fumbled apprehensively with his red scalp. “Faith have I,” he answered, with a shudder, thinking probably of the “Spirit Rappers” described in “Strange Clues.” “If it’s a good healthy ghost of the owld-fashioned kind your going to mintion, it’s all right, but your table-rapping ones I’ll have nothing to do with.”