his is his rope-ladder, with the telescope
walking-stick he used to hook it up with; he's said to have 'ad it with
him the night he dined with the Earl of Thornaby, and robbed the house
before dinner. That's his life-preserver; but no one can make out what
this little thick velvet bag's for, with the two holes and the elawstic
round each. Perhaps you can give a guess, sir?"

Raffles had taken up the bag that he had invented for the noiseless
filing of keys. Now he handled it as though it were a tobacco-pouch,
putting in finger and thumb, and shrugging over the puzzle with a
delicious face; nevertheless, he showed me a few grains of steel filing
as the result of his investigations, and murmured in my ear, "These
sweet police! I, for my part, could not but examine the life-preserver
with which I had once smitten Raffles himself to the ground: actually,
there was his blood upon it still; and seeing my horror, the clerk
plunged into a characteristically garbled version of that incident
also. It happened to have come to light among others at the Old
Bailey, and perhaps had its share in promoting the quality of mercy
which had undoubtedly been exercised on my behalf. But the present
recital was unduly trying, and Raffles created a noble diversion by
calling attention to an early photograph of himself, which may still
hang on the wall over the historic chest, but which I had carefully
ignored. It shows him in flannels, after some great feat upon the
tented field. I am afraid there is a Sullivan between his lips, a look
of lazy insolence in the half-shut eyes. I have since possessed myself
of a copy, and it is not Raffles at his best; but the features are
clean-cut and regular; and I often wish that I had lent it to the
artistic gentlemen who have battered the statue out of all likeness to
the man.

"You wouldn't think it of him, would you?" quoth the clerk. "It makes
you understand how no one ever did think it of him at the time."

The youth was looking full at Raffles, with the watery eyes of
unsuspecting innocence. I itched to emulate the fine bravado of my
friend.

"You said he had a pal," I observed, sinking deeper into the collar of
my coat. "Haven't you got a photograph of him?"

The pale clerk gave such a sickly smile, I could have smacked some
blood into his pasty face.

"You mean Bunny?" said the familiar fellow. "No, sir, he'd be out of
place; we've only room for real criminals here. Bunny was ne