the University Laboratories, and a dark lantern.  When we climbed over the low wall not far from the stone gallery, I saw, to my horror, a light emerging from the Groschen Hall.  Monteagle, who is fearfully superstitious, began chattering his teeth.  When we reached the small door I saw it was open.  A thief had evidently forestalled us.  Monteagle suggested going back, and leaving the thief to make off with the MS.; but I would not hear of such a proposal.

The door opening to the Groschen Hall at the end of the gallery was open, and beyond, a man, whom I at once recognised as the little Lutheran, was busily engaged in picking the lock of the case where were deposited the Book of Jasher and Aulus Gellius.  Telling Monteagle to guard the door, I approached very softly, keeping behind the plaster casts.  I was within a yard of him before he heard my boots creak.  Then he turned round, and I found myself face to face with Dr. Groschen.  I have never seen such a look of terror on any one’s face.

‘You scoundrel!’ I cried, collecting myself, ‘drop those things at once!’ and I made for him with my fist.  He dodged me.  I ran after him; but he threaded his way like a rat through the statues and cases of antiquities, and bolted down the passage out of the door, where he upset Monteagle and the lantern, and disappeared in the darkness and rain.  I then returned to the scene of his labours.  Monteagle was too frightened, owing to the rather ghostly appearance of the museum by the light of a feeble oil-lamp.  In a small cupboard there was some dry sacking I had deposited there for the purpose some days before.  This I ignited, along with certain native curiosities of straw and skin, wicker-work, and other ethnographical treasures.

Some new unpacked cases left by the attendants the previous afternoon materially assisted the conflagration.

It was an impressive scene, to witness the flames playing round the pedestals of the torsos, statues, and cases.  I only waited for a few moments to make sure that my work was complete.  I shut the iron door between the gallery and the hall to avoid the possibility of the fire spreading to the rest of the building.  Then I seized Monteagle by the arm and hurried him through the rhododendrons, over the wall, into the meadows.  I turned back once, and just caught a glimpse of red flame bursting through the windows.  Having seen Monteagle half-way back to the college, I returned to see if any alarm was given.  Already a small crowd was collecting.  A fire-engine arrived, and a local pump was almost set going.  I returned to college, where I found the porter standing in the gateway.

‘The FitzTaylor is burning,’ he said.  ’I have been looking out for you, sir.’

* * * * *

There is nothing more to tell.  To this day no one suspects that the fire was the work of an incendiary.  The Professor has returned from the East, but lives in great retirement.  His friends say he has never quite recovered the shock occasioned by the loss of his collection.  The rest of the museum was uninjured.