surname; but it is the difficulty of the police romance, that the reader

is always a man of such vastly greater ingenuity than the writer. In the

eyes of his creator, however, Robert Skill was a word to conjure with;

the thought braced and spurred him; what that brilliant creature would

have done Gideon would do also. This frame of mind is not uncommon; the

distressed general, the baited divine, the hesitating author, decide

severally to do what Napoleon, what St Paul, what Shakespeare would

have done; and there remains only the minor question, What is that? In

Gideon's case one thing was clear: Skill was a man of singular decision,

he would have taken some step (whatever it was) at once; and the only

step that Gideon could think of was to return to his chambers.

This being achieved, all further inspiration failed him, and he stood

pitifully staring at the instrument of his confusion. To touch the keys

again was more than he durst venture on; whether they had maintained

their former silence, or responded with the tones of the last trump,

it would have equally dethroned his resolution. 'It may be a practical

jest,' he reflected, 'though it seems elaborate and costly. And yet what

else can it be? It MUST be a practical jest.' And just then his eye fell

upon a feature which seemed corroborative of that view: the pagoda of

cigars which Michael had erected ere he left the chambers. 'Why that?'

reflected Gideon. 'It seems entirely irresponsible.' And drawing near,

he gingerly demolished it. 'A key,' he thought. 'Why that? And why

so conspicuously placed?' He made the circuit of the instrument, and

perceived the keyhole at the back. 'Aha! this is what the key is for,'

said he. 'They wanted me to look inside. Stranger and stranger.' And

172

The Wrong Box