ngine, a church pulpit and the internal fittings of a
public-house bar. And other instances could be quoted. But surely no
legatee ever found himself in possession of a queerer legacy than that
which my poor friend Challoner had bequeathed to me when he made over to
me the mortal remains of some two dozen deceased criminals.

The bequest would have been an odd one under any circumstances, but what
made it much more so was the strange intimacy that became established
between me and the deceased. To the ordinary observer a skeleton in a
museum case or in an art school conveys no vivid sense of humanity. That
this bony shape was once an actual person, a Me, that walked abroad and
wore clothes, that loved and hated, sorrowed and rejoiced, that had
friends and lovers, parents and perhaps children; that was, in short, a
living man or woman, occurs to him but vaguely. The thing is an
osteological specimen; a mere anatomical abstraction.

Now these skeletons of Challoner's were quite different. Walking down
the long room and looking into the great wall-case, I was confronted
with actual individuals. Number One was Jimmy Archer, who had tried to
steal the "blimy teapot." Number Three was the burglar Fred; I could
tell him by the notch on his fifth rib that his comrade's bullet had
made. Number Two was the man who had fired that shot, and Number Four
was Joe, who was "done in in the dark." I knew them all. The weird
"Museum Archives" had told me all about them; and as to the rest of that
grisly company, strangers to me as yet, the neatly written,
Russia-bound volume that Challoner had left would give me their
histories too.

It was some days before I was able to resume my reading of the uncanny
little book, but an unoccupied evening at length gave me the
opportunity. As ten o'clock struck, I put on my slippers, adjusted the
light, drew an armchair up to my study fire and opened the volume at the
place marked by the envelope that I had inserted at the end of the last
reading. The page was headed "Circumstances attending the acquirement of
Numbers Five and Six," and the account ran as follows:

"The most carefully conceived plans, when put into practice, are apt to
discover unforeseen defects. My elaborate plan for the capture of
burglars was no exception to the rule. The idea of employing palpably
dishonest servants to act as decoy ducks to lure the burglars on to the
premises was an excellent one and had fully answered my expe