rushed headlong at his heels.

Raffles was as excited as any of us now: he outstripped us all. The
cherubic little lawyer and I had a fine race for the last place but
one, which I secured, while the panting butler and his satellites
brought up a respectful rear. It was our unconventional author,
however, who was the first to volunteer his assistance and advice.

"No use pushing, Thornaby!" cried he. "If it's been done with a wedge
and gimlet, you may smash the door, but you'll never force it. Is
there a ladder in the place?"

"There's a rope-ladder somewhere, in case of fire, I believe," said my
lord vaguely, as he rolled a critical eye over our faces. "Where is it
kept, Leggett?"

"William will fetch it, my lord."

And a pair of noble calves went flashing to the upper regions.

"What's the good of bringing it down," cried Parrington, who had
thrown back to the wilds in his excitement. "Let him hang it out of
the window above your own, and let me climb down and do the rest! I'll
undertake to have one or other of these doors open in two twos!"

The fastened doors were at right angles on the landing which we filled
between us. Lord Thornaby smiled grimly on the rest of us, when he had
nodded and dismissed the author like a hound from the leash.

"It's a good thing we know something about our friend Parrington,"
said my lord. "He takes more kindly to all this than I do, I can tell
you."

"It's grist to his mill," said Raffles charitably.

"Exactly! We shall have the whole thing in his next book."

"I hope to have it at the Old Bailey first," remarked Kingsmill, Q.C.

"Refreshing to find a man of letters such a man of action too!"

[Illustration: Raffles was as excited as any of us now; he outstripped
us all.]

It was Raffles who said this, and the remark seemed rather trite for
him, but in the tone there was a something that just caught my private
ear. And for once I understood: the officious attitude of Parrington,
without being seriously suspicious in itself, was admirably calculated
to put a previously suspected person in a grateful shade. This
literary adventurer had elbowed Raffles out of the lime-light, and
gratitude for the service was what I had detected in Raffles's voice.
No need to say how grateful I felt myself. But my gratitude was shot
with flashes of unwonted insight. Parrington was one of those who
suspected Raffles, or, at all events, one who was in the secret of
those suspicions. What if