the thieves the exact details have never come to light.

So ended the _Daily Mail_.

I finished reading, and taking a long breath, laid down the paper. Up
till then I had heard nothing about the news contained in the last
paragraph, and it sent my memory back at once to the big well-lighted
room in Victoria Street where George and I had spent so many hours
together. I wondered what the valuable "plans and documents" might
be which the thieves were supposed to have secured. In my day we had
always been pretty careful about what we left at the office, and
any really important plans--such as those of the Lyndon-Marwood
torpedo--were invariably kept at the safe deposit across the street.

From George and the office my thoughts drifted away over the whole
of that crowded time referred to in the paper. Brief and bald as the
narrative was, it brought up before me a dozen vivid memories, which
jostled each other simultaneously in my mind. I saw again poor little
Joyce's tear-stained face, and remembered the shuddering relief with
which she had clung to me as she sobbed out her story. I could recall
the cold rage in which I had set out for Marks's flat, and that first
savage blow of mine that sent him reeling and crashing into one of his
own cabinets.

Then I was in court again, and George was giving his evidence--the
lying evidence that had been meant to send me to the gallows.
I remembered the cleverly assumed reluctance with which he had
apparently allowed his statements to be dragged from him, and my blood
rose hot in my throat as I thought of his treachery.