ht it here. To-
night I take it to the Burlingame house on Fifth Avenue, secure entrance
through a basement door, to which, in my capacity of detective, I have
obtained the key, and, while the caretakers sleep, Mrs. Burlingame's diamond
stomacher will be placed in the safe on the first floor back.

"To-morrow morning I shall send Mrs. Burlingame this message: _'Have you
looked in your New York safe?_ [Signed] Raffles Holmes,'" he continued. "She
will come to town by the first train to find out what I mean; we will go to
her residence; she will open the safe, and--$20,000 for us."

"By Jove! Holmes, you are a wonder," said I. "This stomacher is worth
$250,000 at the least," I added, as I took the creation in my hand. "Pot of
money that!"

"Yes," said he, with a sigh, taking the stomacher from me and fondling it.
"The Raffles in me tells me that, but the Sherlock Holmes in my veins--well,
I can't keep it, Jenkins, if that is what you mean."

I blushed at the intimation conveyed by his words, and was silent; and
Holmes, gathering up his tools and stuffing the stomacher in the capacious
bosom of his coat, bade me au revoir, and went out into the night.

The rest is already public property. All the morning papers were full of the
strange recovery of the Burlingame stomacher the following Tuesday morning,
and the name of Raffles Holmes was in every mouth. That night, the very
essence of promptitude, Holmes appeared at my apartment and handed me a
check for my share in the transaction.

"Why--what does this mean?" I cried, as I took in the figures; "$12,500--I
thought it was to be only $10,000."

"It was," said Raffles Holmes, "but Mrs. Burlingame was so overjoyed at
getting the thing back she made the check for $25,000 instead of for
$20,000."

"You're the soul of honor, Holmes!" I murmured.

"On my father's side," he said, with a sigh. "On my mother's side it comes
hard."

"And Mrs. Burlingame--didn't she ask you how you ferreted the thing out?" I
asked.

"Yes," said Holmes. "But I told her that that was my secret, that my secret
was my profession, and that my profession was my bread and butter."

"But she must have asked you who was the guilty person?" I persisted.

"Yes," said Holmes, "she did, and I took her for a little gallop through the
social register, in search of the guilty party; that got on her nerves, so
that when it came down to an absolute question of identity she begged me to
forget it."