station." The member of Parliament twisted his pearl stud nervously,
and bit at the edge of his mustache. "If it only were the first pages
of 'The Rand Robbery' that he were reading," he murmured bitterly,
"instead of the last! With such another book as that, I swear I could
hold him here until morning. There would be no need of chloroform to
keep him from the House."

The eyes of all were fastened upon Sir Andrew, and each saw, with
fascination, that, with his forefinger, he was now separating the
last two pages of the book. The member of Parliament struck the
table, softly, with his open palm.

"I would give a hundred pounds," he whispered, "if I could place in
his hands at this moment a new story of Sherlock Holmes--a thousand
pounds," he added, wildly--"five thousand pounds!"

The American observed the speaker sharply, as though the words bore
to him some special application, and then, at an idea which
apparently had but just come to him, smiled, in great embarrassment.

Sir Andrew ceased reading, but, as though still under the influence
of the book, sat looking, blankly, into the open fire. For a brief
space, no one moved until the baronet withdrew his eyes and, with a
sudden start of recollection, felt, anxiously, for his watch. He
scanned its face eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.

The voice of the American instantly broke the silence in a high,
nervous accent.

"And yet Sherlock Holmes himself," he cried, "could not decipher the