iliation by
scrupulously avoiding the least semblance of an abuse of that power
which I now had over him. Accordingly, though with much misgiving, I
did his ticklish behest in Fleet Street, where, despite my past, I was
already making a certain lowly footing for myself. Success followed as
it will when one longs to fail; and one fine evening I returned to Ham
Common with a card from the Convict Supervision Office, New Scotland
Yard, which I treasure to this day. I am surprised to see that it was
undated, and might still almost "Admit Bearer to see the Museum," to
say nothing of the bearer's friends, since my editor's name "and
party" is scrawled beneath the legend.

"But he doesn't want to come," as I explained to Raffles. "And it
means that we can both go, if we both like."

Raffles looked at me with a wry smile; he was in good enough humor
now.

"It would be rather dangerous, Bunny. If they spotted you, they might
think of me."

"But you say they'll never know you now."

"I don't believe they will. I don't believe there's the slightest
risk; but we shall soon see. I've set my heart on seeing, Bunny, but
there's no earthly reason why I should drag you into it."

"You do that when you present this card," I pointed out. "I shall hear
of it fast enough if anything happens."

"Then you may as well be there to see the fun?"

"It will make no difference if the worst comes to the worst."

"And the ticket is for a party, isn't it?"

"It is."

"It might even look peculiar if only one person made use of it?"

"It might."

"Then we're both going, Bunny! And I give you my word," cried Raffles,
"that no real harm shall come of it. But you mustn't ask to see the
Relics, and you mustn't take too much interest in them when you do see
them. Leave the questioning to me: it really will be a chance of
finding out whether they've any suspicion of one's resurrection at
Scotland Yard. Still I think I can promise you a certain amount of
fun, old fellow, as some little compensation for your pangs and
fears!"

The early afternoon was mild and hazy, and unlike winter but for the
prematurely low sun struggling through the haze, as Raffles and I
emerged from the nether regions at Westminster Bridge, and stood for
one moment to admire the infirm silhouettes of Abbey and Houses in
flat gray against a golden mist. Raffles murmured of Whistler and of
Arthur Severn, and threw away a good Sullivan because the smoke would
curl between