“A light box. I think he said it was to be kept dry, as there were artificial flowers and ribbons in it. Ah, here is the entry—it is not paid you see—he said we’d take greater care of it if it wasn’t prepaid—‘Sent by James Paterson, to Robert Marshall, Linlithgow. To lie at station till called for.’” “Was the box big enough to have held a fiddle?” “About that size, sir. I don’t think it would have held the fiddlestick too. The fiddlestick is longer, and would take more room.” “Was the box called for at the other end, do you know?” I asked, beginning to be more hopeful. “I don’t know about that—it was sent away, and that’s all we have to do with it. These parcels are generally expected, and don’t lie long unclaimed.” “You’ve got a telegraph handy—would you just send a message through, particularly asking if that box has been called for?” and I calmly sat down and motioned the clerk to his place at the instrument; and in a short time had the welcome news that the “box was there still, and had not been asked for.” I looked at my watch and then consulted a time-table, and found that if I drove smartly into Edinburgh I could easily get a fast train to Linlithgow, without waiting for the slow connection with this out-of-the-way branch line. Afraid of looking foolish if I found myself mistaken, I dropped my companion at Edinburgh and took train for Linlithgow alone. The moment I got out, and the bustle of the train’s arrival and departure was over, I got the booking-clerk to turn out his parcel press, and easily found the box I was in search of. It was but roughly put together, and appeared to have been made out of the undressed spars of an old orange box; but by shaking it sharply I soon ascertained that it contained something harder than either flowers or ribbons. After a consultation, I was allowed to use a chisel to the lid, and easily prised it up sufficiently to pull out the paper and straw with which it was padded, and found snugly reposing underneath, a fiddle which in every respect answered the description of that stolen from Mr Cleffton. I had little doubt that I had fairly recovered the stolen property, but I was just as anxious to get hold of the thief. It appeared to me that the sending of the fiddle by rail to this quiet station was merely the adoption of a safe hiding-place till the hue and cry of the robbery were over, and that as soon as the actual instigator felt safe he would appear to claim the box. I could not afford to wait so long; so I got permission to fasten up the box and leave it, while I returned to Edinburgh bearing the fiddle. My first visit was to the gentleman who had introduced me to Mr Turner, and he identified the fiddle at a glance as Cleffton’s; but he did more. Getting out a fiddle bow, he ran his fingers over the strings in a testing way, and at last said decidedly— “I could stake my life on it that that’s M——’s £50 Cremona that was stolen as I told you. Suppose we go along to his house and see?”