t house. Pinton had never been in the pantry by daylight, so he was
rudely shocked by the glance of a light--a cursory, moving light. It
showed him a window in the other house and a pair of stairs. It
flickered about an old baluster and a rusty carpet, it came from below,
it mounted upward and was lost to view.

The burglar of pies, the ravisher of cakes, was almost shocked by this
unexpected light. He watched it dancing fantastically on the discoloured
wall of the house; he wondered--ill at ease--if it would flash in his
face. His surmise was realized, for a streak of illumination reached the
narrow chamber in which he cowered, and then he was certain some one was
looking at him. He never budged, for he was too frightened. Suddenly the
light vanished and a head was dimly silhouetted in the window opposite.
It nodded to Pinton. Pinton stared stupidly, and the head disappeared.
The hungry man, his appetite now gone, was numb and terrified.

What did it mean, who was the man? A detective, or a friend of Mrs.
Hallam's in a coign from which the plunderers of her pantry could be
noted? Beady repentance stood out on Pinton's forehead.

And the light came back. This time it was intelligible, for it was a
lantern in the hand of a young man of about thirty. His face was open
and smiling. He wore his hair rather long for an American, and it was
blond and curling.

He surveyed Pinton for a moment, then he said, in a most agreeable
voice:--

"What luck, old pal?"

Pinton dropped his pies, slammed the window, and got to his bedroom as
fast as his nervous legs could carry him. He undressed in a nightmare,
and did not sleep until the early summer sun shot hot shafts of heat
into his chamber.

With a shamed Sabbath face he arose, dressed, and descended to his
morning meal. Mrs. Hallam was sitting in orotund silence, but seemed in
good humour. She asked him casually if he had enjoyed his Saturday
evening, and quite as casually damned the wandering cats that had played
havoc in her pantry. She remarked that leaving windows open was a poor
practice, even if hospitable in appearance, and nervous Mr. Pinton drank
his coffee in silent assent and then hurried off to the church where he
trod the organ pedals for a small salary's sake.

The following Friday was rehearsal night, and the organist left his
choir in a bad humour. His contralto had not attended, and as she was
the only artiste and the only good-looking girl of the lot, Pint