Maitland politely interposed his fingers between his yawn and the
detective's intent regard. "You have ten minutes more, I'm sorry to say,"
he said; glancing at the clock.

"And there is another point, more significant yet."

"Ah?"

"Yes." Snaith bent forward, elbows on knees, hat and cane swinging, eyes
implacable, hard, relentless. "Anisty," he said slowly, "left a tolerably
complete burglar's kit in your library."

"Well--he's a burglar, isn't he?"

"Not that kind." Snaith shook his head.

"But his departure was somewhat hurried. I can conceive that he might
abandon his kit--"

"But it was not his."

"Not Anisty's?"

"Anisty does not depend on such antiquated methods, Mr. Maitland; save that
in extreme instances, with a particularly stubborn safe, he employs a high
explosive that, so far as we can find out, is practically noiseless. Its
nature is a mystery.... But such old-fashioned strong-boxes as yours at
Greenfields he opens by ear, so to speak,--listens to the combination.
He was once an expert, reputably employed by a prominent firm of safe