The Chase of the Golden Plate by Jacques Futrelle

another.
    â€œGoodness!” exclaimed the Girl. “It’s heavy enough. What’s in it?”
    â€œWhat’s in it?” repeated the Burglar, and he chuckled. “A fortune, nearly. It’s worth being punctured for. Let me see.”
    In the darkness he took the bag from her hands and fumbled with it a moment. She heard the metallic sound again and then several heavy objects were poured out on the ground.
    â€œA good fourteen pounds of pure gold,” commented the Burglar. “By George, I haven’t but one match, but we’ll see what it’s like.”
    The match was struck, sputtered for a moment, then flamed up, and the Girl, standing, looked down upon the Burglar on his knees beside a heap of gold plate. She stared at the glittering mass as if fascinated, and her eyes opened wide.
    â€œWhy, Dick, what is that?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s Randolph’s plate,” responded the Burglar complacently. “I don’t know how much it’s worth, but it must be several thousands, on dead weight.”
    â€œWhat are you doing with it?”
    â€œWhat am I doing with it?” repeated the Burglar. He was about to look up when the match burned his finger and he dropped it. “That’s a silly question.”
    â€œBut how came it in your possession?” the Girl insisted.
    â€œI acquired it by the simple act of—of dropping it into a bag and bringing it along. That and you in the same evening—” He stretched out a hand toward her, but she was not there. He chuckled a little as he turned and picked up eleven plates, one by one, and replaced them in the bag.
    â€œNine—ten—eleven,” he counted. “What luck did you have?”
    â€œDick Herbert, explain to me, please, what you are doing with that gold plate?” There was an imperative command in the voice.
    The Burglar paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
    â€œOh, I’m taking it to have it fixed!” he responded lightly.
    â€œFixed? Taking it this way at this time of the night?”
    â€œSure,” and he laughed pleasantly.
    â€œYou mean you—you—you stole it?” The words came with an effort.
    â€œWell, I’d hardly call it that,” remarked the Burglar. “That’s a harsh word. Still, it’s in my possession; it wasn’t given to me, and I didn’t buy it. You may draw your own conclusions.”
    The bag lay beside him and his left hand caressed it idly, lovingly. For a long time there was silence.
    â€œWhat luck did you have?” he asked again.
    There was a startled gasp, a gurgle and accusing indignation in the Girl’s low, tense voice.
    â€œYou—you stole it!”
    â€œWell, if you prefer it that way—yes.”
    The Burglar was staring steadily into the darkness toward that point whence came the voice, but the night was so dense that not a trace of the Girl was visible. He laughed again.
    â€œIt seems to me it was lucky I decided to take it at just this time and in these circumstances,” he went on tauntingly, “lucky for you, I mean. If I hadn’t been there you would have been caught.”
    Again came the startled gasp.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” demanded the Burglar sharply, after another silence. “Why don’t you say something?”
    He was still peering unseeingly into the darkness. The bag of gold plate moved slightly under his hand. He opened his fingers to close them more tightly. It was a mistake. The bag was drawn away; his hand grasped—air.
    â€œStop that game now!” he commanded angrily. “Where are you?”
    He struggled to his feet. His answer was the crackling of a twig to his right. He started in that direction and brought up with a bump against the automobile. He turned, still groping blindly, and embraced a tree with undignified fervour. To his left he heard another slight noise and ran that way. Again he struck an obstacle.