he light. I heard my
heart pounding. Neither of us breathed. We were on our way down to the
first landing, and for a moment we stood like mice; then Raffles
heaved a deep sigh, and in the depths I heard the gate swing home.

"Only the postman, Bunny! He will come now and again, though they have
obviously left instructions at the post-office. I hope the old colonel
will let them have it when he gets back. I confess it gave me a
turn."

"Turn!" I gasped. "I must have a drink, if I die for it."

"My dear Bunny, that's no part of my Rest Cure."

"Then good-by! I can't stand it; feel my forehead; listen to my heart!
Crusoe found a footprint, but he never heard a double-knock at the
street door!"

"'Better live in the midst of alarms,'" quoted Raffles, "'than dwell
in this horrible place.' I must confess we get it both ways, Bunny.
Yet I've nothing but tea in the house."

"And where do you make that? Aren't you afraid of smoke?"

"There's a gas-stove in the dining-room."

"But surely to goodness," I cried, "there's a cellar lower down!"

"My dear, good Bunny," said Raffles, "I've told you already that I
didn't come in here on business. I came in for the Cure. Not a penny
will these people be the worse, except for their washing and their
electric light, and I mean to leave enough to cover both items."

"Then," said I, "since Brutus is such a very honorable man, we will
borrow a bottle from the cellar, and replace it before we go."

Raffles slapped me softly on the back, and I knew that I had gained
my point. It was often the case when I had the presence of heart and
mind to stand up to him. But never was little victory of mine quite so
grateful as this. Certainly it was a very small cellar, indeed a mere
cupboard under the kitchen stairs, with a most ridiculous lock. Nor
was this cupboard overstocked with wine. But I made out a jar of
whiskey, a shelf of Zeltinger, another of claret, and a short one at
the top which presented a little battery of golden-leafed necks and
corks. Raffles set his hand no lower. He examined the labels while I
held folded hat and naked light.

"Mumm, '84!" he whispered. "G. H. Mumm, and A.D. 1884! I am no
wine-bibber, Bunny, as you know, but I hope you appreciate the
specifications as I do. It looks to me like the only bottle, the last
of its case, and it does seem a bit of a shame; but more shame for the
miser who hoards in his cellar what was meant for mankind! Come,
Bunny, lead the