That evening I cooked myself a welsh-rabbit and at eight
o'clock, arrayed in my pajamas, I returned to the library with a book, a
bottle of champagne and a box of Vencedoras, prepared for a quiet
evening of absolute luxury. I read in the waning light of the dying
midsummer day for a little while, and then, as darkness came on, I
turned to the switch-board to light the electric lamp.

_The lamp would not light._

I pressed and pressed every button in the room, but with no better
results; and then, going through the house I tried every other button I
could find, but everywhere conditions were the same. Apparently there
was something the matter with the electrical service, a fact which I
cursed, but not deeply, for it was a beautiful moonlight night and while
of course I was disappointed in my reading, I realized that after all
nothing could be pleasanter than to sit in the moonlight and smoke and
quaff bumpers of champagne until the crack of doom. This I immediately
proceeded to do, and kept at it pretty steadily until I should say about
eleven o'clock, when I heard unmistakable signs of a large automobile
coming up the drive. It chugged as far as the front-door and then stood
panting like an impatient steam-engine, while the chauffeur, a person of
medium height, well muffled in his automobile coat, his features
concealed behind his goggles, and his mouth covered by his collar,
rapped loudly on the front-door, once, then a second time.

"Who the devil can this be at this hour of the night, I wonder," I
muttered, as I responded to the summons.

If I sought the name I was not to be gratified, for the moment I opened
the door I found two pistols levelled upon me, and two very determined
eyes peering at me from behind the goggles.

"Not a word, or I shoot," said the intruder in a gruff voice, evidently
assumed, before I could get a word from my already somewhat
champagne-twisted tongue. "Lead me to the dining-room."

Well, there I was. Defenceless, taken by surprise, unarmed, not too wide
awake, comfortably filled with champagne and in no particularly fighting
mood. What could I do but yield? To call for help would have brought at
least two bullets crashing into my brain, even if any one could have
heard my cries. To assault a scoundrel so well-armed would have been the
height of folly, and to tell the truth so imbued was I with the politer
spirit of the gentle art of house-breaking that this sudden
confrontation with