shining on the floor, like the shadow or the ghost
of it. It is over there in the corner beyond the desk."

There was a movement of men turning and then a sudden stillness, as
of their stiffening, for over in the corner on the wooden floor
there was really a round spot of pale light. It was the only spot of
light in the room. The cigar had gone out.

"It points the way," came the voice of the oracle. "The spirits are
pointing the way to penitence, and urging the thief to restitution.
I can see nothing more." His voice trailed off into a silence that
lasted solidly for many minutes, like the long silence below when
the theft had been committed. Then it was broken by the ring of
metal on the floor, and the sound of something spinning and falling
like a tossed halfpenny.

"Light the lamp!" cried Fisher in a loud and even jovial voice,
leaping to his feet with far less languor than usual. "I must be
going now, but I should like to see it before I go. Why, I came on
purpose to see it."

The lamp was lit, and he did see it, for St. Paul's Penny was lying
on the floor at his feet.

"Oh, as for that," explained Fisher, when he was entertaining March
and Twyford at lunch about a month later, "I merely wanted to play
with the magician at his own game."

"I thought you meant to catch him in his own trap," said Twyford.
"I can't make head or tail of anything yet, but to my mind he was
always the suspect. I don't think he was necessarily a thief in the
vulgar sense. The police always seem to think that silver is stolen
for the sake of silver, but a thing like that might well be stolen
out of some religious mania. A runaway monk turned mystic might well
want it for some mystical purpose."

"No," replied Fisher, "the runaway monk is not a thief. At any rate
he is not the thief. And he's not altogether a liar, either. He said
one true thing at least that night."

"And what was that?" inquired March.

"He said it was all magnetism. As a matter of fact, it was done by
means of a magnet." Then, seeing they still looked puzzled, he
added, "It was that toy magnet belonging to your nephew, Mr.
Twyford."

"But I don't understand," objected March. "If it was done with the
schoolboy's magnet, I suppose it was done by the schoolboy."

"Well," replied Fisher, reflectively, "it rather depends which
schoolboy."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"The soul of a schoolboy is a curious thing," Fisher continued, in a
meditative manner.