spectacles to hide the glare from the jet, they stood together before
the great safe at the back of Matheson and Wilson's, the well-known
jewellers, and while Ansell put up his hand and cleared shelf after
shelf of magnificent ornaments, Adolphe expertly packed them away into
the small black canvas bag he held open.

Those were breathless, exciting moments. The jet had done its work. It
had gone through the hardened steel plates like a knife through butter,
and the door, believed to be burglar-proof, stood open, displaying
wonderful diamond tiaras in cases, ropes of pearls and paper packets
containing uncut gems worth a huge amount.

The haul was a magnificent one, and though they had not yet succeeded in
getting clear, both men were gloating over their booty--a triumphant
satisfaction that no burglar can repress.

The scene was a weird one. The glaring light thrown by the jet had been
extinguished, but the steel still glowed with heat, and Ansell blistered
his fingers when they had accidentally touched the edge. The only light
now was a small electric torch which threw direct rays in a small zone.
But of a sudden, both men heard a noise--the distinct footsteps of a man
crossing the shop!

They straightened their backs, and, for a second, looked at each other
in alarm.

Next instant a big, burly night-watchman dashed in upon them, crying:

"What do you fellows want 'ere--eh?"

"Nothing. Take that!" replied Ansell, as he raised his hand and dashed
something into the man's face.

But too late. The man raised his revolver and fired.

Though the bullet went wide, the report was deafening in that small
inner room, and both intruders knew that the alarm was raised. Not a
second was to be lost. The police-constable on duty outside would hear
it!

Without hesitation, Ralph Ansell raised his arm and instantly fired,
point blank, at the man defending the property of his master.

A second report rang out, and the unfortunate night-watchman fell back
into the darkness. There was a sound of muffled footsteps.

Then all was silence.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DOWNWARD PATH.

A year had gone by.

Since that memorable night when Ansell and Carlier had so narrowly
escaped capture in Bond Street, and had been compelled to fly and leave
their booty behind, things had gone badly with both of them.

With Bonnemain executed, and their other companions in penal servitude
at Cayenne, a cloud of misfortune seemed to have