e; but it is the guilt of folly, not of premeditated
crime. He wants a try at that bow and recognizes his weakness and laughs.

"But his longing holds, and running up the little staircase to a second
door, he unlocks this also and after another moment of hesitation pulls
it open. He has brought the bow with him, but he does not take it past
the drapery hanging straight down before his eyes. He simply drops it in
the doorway and leaves it there within easy reach from the gallery if
ever his impulse should be strong enough to lead him to make an attempt
at striking a feather from the Indian headdress on the other side of the
court. You think him mad. So do I, but dreams are filled with that kind
of madness; and when I see him shut the door upon this bow, and steal
back without relocking it or the one below, I have no other excuse than
this to give in answer to your criticisms."

"I do not criticise; I listen, Sweetwater."

"You will criticise now. As Bunyan says in his 'Pilgrim's Progress': 'I
dreamed again!' This time I saw the museum proper. It was filled with
visitors. The morning of May twenty-second was a busy one, I am told, and
a whole lot of people, singly and in groups, were continually passing up
and down the marble steps and along the two galleries. Partaking of the
feelings of the one whose odd impulses I am endeavoring to describe, I
was very uneasy and very restless until these crowds had thinned and most
of the guests vanished from the building. The hands of the clock were
stealing toward twelve--the hour of greatest quiet and fewest visitors.
As it reached the quarter mark, I saw what I was looking for, the man X
reaching for one of those arrows hanging in the southern gallery, and
slipping it inside his coat.--Did you speak, sir?"

No, Mr. Gryce had not spoken; and Sweetwater, after an interval of
uncertainty, went quietly on:

"As I saw both of his hands quite free the next minute, I judge that
something had been attached to the lining of that coat to hold the arrow
by its feathered head. But this is a deduction rather than a fact."

He stopped abruptly. An exclamation--one of Mr. Gryce's very own--had
left that gentleman's lips, and Sweetwater felt that he must pause if
only for an instant, to enjoy his small triumph. But the delay was short.

"Go on," said Mr. Gryce; and Sweetwater obeyed, but in lowered tones as
though the vision he was describing was actually before his eyes.

"Next, I see a s