by a frape off a semi-public quay door, approached
from the Fore Street by a narrow alley known as Cherry's (or
Charity's) Court.

The Major stumped down to the waterside in the fast gathering dusk
and hauled in the boat. Luckily the tide was high, and reached
within four feet of the sill of the doorway; luckily, I say, because
few contrivances in this world are less compatible than a ladder and
a wooden leg. The tide being high, however, he managed to scramble
down and on board without much difficulty; unmoored, shipped a paddle
in the sculling-notch over the boat's stern, and very quietly worked
her up and alongshore, in the shadow of the waterside houses.

Arrived at the quay-ladder leading up to Dr. Hansombody's garden--
once, alas! his own--and to the terrace consecrated by memories of
the green-sealed Madeira, he checked the boat's way and looked up for
a moment, listening. Hearing no sound, he slipped the painter around
a rung, made fast with a hitch, and cautiously, very cautiously,
pulled himself up the ladder, bringing his eyes level with the sill
of the open door.

Heaven be praised! the little garden was empty. A moment later he
had heaved himself on to the sill and was crawling along the terrace.

At the end of the terrace, in a dark corner by the wall, grew a
stunted fig-tree, its roots set among the flagstones, its boughs
overhanging the tide; and by the roots, between the bole of the trees
and the wall, one of the flagstones had a notch in its edge, a notch
in old days cunningly concealed, the trick of it known only to the
Major.

He drew out a small marlingspike which he carried in a sheath at his
hip, and, bending over the flagstone, felt for the notch; found it,
inserted the point, and began to prise, glancing, as he worked, over
his shoulder at the windows of the house. A lamp shone in one.
. . . So much the better. If the room had an inmate, the lamp would
make it harder for him or her to see what went on in the dim garden.
Ten years. . . . Could his hoard have lain all that time undisturbed?
He had hidden it in the old days of the invasion-scare, as many a
citizen had made secret deposit against emergencies. Banks were
novelties in those days. Who knew what might happen to a bank, if
Boney landed?

But ten years . . . a long time . . . and yet to all appearances the
stone had not been tampered with. He levered it up and thrust it
aside.

No! There the bags lay amid the earth! T