brilliants.

"You must try to forgive me, Bunny," continued Raffles before I could
speak. "I don't say a word against what you did, or undid; in fact,
now it's all over, I am rather glad to think that you did try to undo
it. But, my dear fellow, we had both risked life, limb, and liberty;
and I had not your sentimental scruples. Why should I go empty away?
If you want to know the inner history of my second visit to that good
fellow's dressing-room, drive home for a fresh kit and meet me at the
Turkish bath in twenty minutes. I feel more than a little grubby, and
we can have our breakfast in the cooling gallery. Besides, after a
whole night in your old haunts, Bunny, it's only in order to wind up
in Northumberland Avenue."

The Raffles Relics

It was in one of the magazines for December, 1899, that an article
appeared which afforded our minds a brief respite from the then
consuming excitement of the war in South Africa. These were the days
when Raffles really had white hair, and when he and I were nearing the
end of our surreptitious second innings, as professional cracksmen of
the deadliest dye. Piccadilly and the Albany knew us no more. But we
still operated, as the spirit tempted us, from our latest and most
idyllic base, on the borders of Ham Common. Recreation was our
greatest want; and though we had both descended to the humble bicycle,
a lot of reading was forced upon us in the winter evenings. Thus the
war came as a boon to us both. It not only provided us with an honest
interest in life, but gave point and zest to innumerable spins across
Richmond Park, to the nearest paper shop; and it was from such an
expedition that I returned with inflammatory matter unconnected with
the war. The magazine was one of those that are read (and sold) by
the million; the article was rudely illustrated on every other page.
Its subject was the so-called Black Museum at Scotland Yard; and from
the catchpenny text we first learned that the gruesome show was now
enriched by a special and elaborate exhibit known as the Raffles
Relics.

"Bunny," said Raffles, "this is fame at last! It is no longer
notoriety; it lifts one out of the ruck of robbers into the society of
the big brass gods, whose little delinquencies are written in water by
the finger of time. The Napoleon Relics we know, the Nelson Relics
we've heard about, and here are mine!"

"Which I wish to goodness we could see," I added, longingly. Next
moment I was s