umped after it.

All at once, a last ray of hope presented itself to his mind: the
seedling bulbs might be in the dry-room; it was therefore only requisite
to make his entry there as he had done into the garden.

There he would find them, and, moreover, it was not at all difficult, as
the sashes of the dry-room might be raised like those of a greenhouse.
Cornelius had opened them on that morning, and no one had thought of
closing them again.

Everything, therefore, depended upon whether he could procure a ladder
of sufficient length,--one of twenty-five feet instead of ten.

Boxtel had noticed in the street where he lived a house which was being
repaired, and against which a very tall ladder was placed.

This ladder would do admirably, unless the workmen had taken it away.

He ran to the house: the ladder was there. Boxtel took it, carried it
with great exertion to his garden, and with even greater difficulty
raised it against the wall of Van Baerle's house, where it just reached
to the window.

Boxtel put a lighted dark lantern into his pocket, mounted the ladder,
and slipped into the dry-room.

On reaching this sanctuary of the florist he stopped, supporting himself
against the table; his legs failed him, his heart beat as if it would
choke him. Here it was even worse than in the garden; there Boxtel was
only a trespasser, here he was a thief.

However, he took courage again: he had not gone so far to turn back with
empty hands.

But in vain did he search the whole room, open and shut all the drawers,
even that privileged one where the parcel which had been so fatal to
Cornelius had been deposited; he found ticketed, as in a botanical
garden, the "Jane," the "John de Witt," the hazel-nut, and the
roasted-coffee coloured tulip; but of the black tulip, or rather the
seedling bulbs within which it was still sleeping, not a trace was
found.

And yet, on looking over the register of seeds and bulbs, which Van
Baerle kept in duplicate, if possible even with greater exactitude and
care than the first commercial houses of Amsterdam their ledgers, Boxtel
read these lines:--

"To-day, 20th of August, 1672, I have taken up the mother bulb of the
grand black tulip, which I have divided into three perfect suckers."

"Oh these bulbs, these bulbs!" howled Boxtel, turning over everything in
the dry-room, "where could he have concealed them?"

Then, suddenly striking his forehead in his frenzy, he called out, "Oh
wre