I now had the whole case traced out to its core, and lying clear as a written history before me, but as there was only one fiddle to give away among the claimants, it will be seen that the task before us was not only difficult, but almost certain to bring upon us the dissatisfaction of some of the so-called owners. While I had been investigating, Mackintosh, thoroughly frightened, had sent a draft for £40 to Cleffton, asking him to return the fiddle at his leisure and say no more about it; but when he was set at liberty he had the doubtful satisfaction of finding that he had lost both the money and the fiddle. I waited patiently to see if the box at Linlithgow would be called for, but evidently the senders had become alarmed, for they never turned up. I then tried to ascertain from Mr Turner’s servants if a man like the sham coachman had been seen about that gentleman’s house, but they were too wary for me, and denied it point blank. I then turned to Mr Turner himself, and, hinting in no measured terms that he was the prime mover in the robbery, _commanded_ him to pay over to the Infirmary the sum of £20, which the grasping villain very reluctantly but abjectly consented to do. There now remained but the two rival owners to deal with, and I am certain the case would have gone to the Court of Session but for a thought which struck me when Cleffton was one day arguing his view of the case to me. “You gave £40 for the fiddle, and thought it well worth the money,” I said. “How much do you really think the fiddle is worth?—I mean privately, between ourselves.” “It would be cheap at £400,” he said with a sigh. “I should never have sold it for that.” “Then I’ll tell you what to do,” was my prompt rejoinder. “The widow to whom the fiddle undoubtedly belongs never speaks of it as worth more than £50, she has no use for the fiddle herself, and would doubtless be glad of the money. Go to her and offer her £50 for it, and that, according to your own confession, will be £350 below its value.” “Hang it! I never thought of that! I’ll try it,” he exclaimed, “though I’m afraid even fifty pounds will not buy it, and I don’t know how on earth I’m to raise more.” “Perhaps you’ll get it for less,” I hopefully suggested, but I was mistaken. The value of the fiddle had risen in the widow’s estimation, but in a day or two Cleffton came back with a carefully-worded receipt, penned by his own lawyer, and empowering us to hand him the Cremona, which he had bought from the widow for £65. When the fiddle was placed in his hands he fairly hugged it, and kissed it as fervently as I have seen mothers embrace their lost children. I smiled pityingly at the spectacle, but perhaps he would have done the same had he seen the mothers getting back their idols. We are good at pitying each other. THE SPIDER AND THE SPIDER-KILLER.