he smile of the great.

"We believe it to be the same man," said Lord Thornaby, speaking
apparently for the Criminologists' Club, and with much less severity of
voice.

"I only wish I could come across him," continued Raffles heartily.
"He's a criminal much more to my mind than your murderers who swear on
the drop or talk cricket in the condemned cell!"

"He might be in the house now," said Lord Thornaby, looking Raffles in
the face. But his manner was that of an actor in an unconvincing part
and a mood to play it gamely to the bitter end; and he seemed
embittered, as even a rich man may be in the moment of losing a bet.

"What a joke if he were!" cried the Wild West writer.

"Absit omen!" murmured Raffles, in better taste.

"Still, I think you'll find it's a favorite time," argued Kingsmill,
Q.C. "And it would be quite in keeping with the character of this man,
so far as it is known, to pay a little visit to the president of the
Criminologists' Club, and to choose the evening on which he happens to
be entertaining the other members."

There was more conviction in this sally than in that of our noble host;
but this I attributed to the trained and skilled dissimulation of the
bar. Lord Thornaby, however, was not to be amused by the elaboration
of his own idea, and it was with some asperity that he called upon the
butler, now solemnly superintending the removal of the cloth.

"Leggett! Just send up-stairs to see if all the doors are open and the
rooms in proper order. That's an awful idea of yours, Kingsmill, or of
mine!" added my lord, recovering the courtesy of his order by an effort
that I could follow. "We should look fools. I don't know which of us
it was, by the way, who seduced the rest from the main stream of blood
into this burglarious backwater. Are you familiar with De Quincey's
masterpiece on 'Murder as a Fine Art,' Mr. Raffles?"

"I believe I once read it," replied Raffles doubtfully.

"You must read it again," pursued the earl. "It is the last word on a
great subject; all we can hope to add is some baleful illustration or
bloodstained footnote, not unworthy of De Quincey's text. Well,
Leggett?"

The venerable butler stood wheezing at his elbow. I had not hitherto
observed that the man was an asthmatic.

"I beg your lordship's pardon, but I think your lordship must have
forgotten."

The voice came in rude gasps, but words of reproach could scarcely have
achieved a finer delicacy.