must always take. Nice boxes, aren't they? I only
wished they contained a better cigarette; but a notorious brand was
essential; a box of Sullivans would have brought me to life to-morrow."

"But they oughtn't to open it to-morrow."

"Nor will they, as a matter of fact. Meanwhile, Bunny, I may call upon
you to dispose of the boodle."

"I'm on for any mortal thing!"

My voice rang true, I swear, but it was the way of Raffles to take the
evidence of as many senses as possible. I felt the cold steel of his
eyes through mine and through my brain. But what he saw seemed to
satisfy him no less than what he heard, for his hand found my hand, and
pressed it with a fervor foreign to the man.

"I know you are, and I knew you would be. Only remember, Bunny, it's
my turn next to pay the shot!"

You shall hear how he paid it when the time came.

A JUBILEE PRESENT

The Room of Gold, in the British Museum, is probably well enough known
to the inquiring alien and the travelled American. A true Londoner,
however, I myself had never heard of it until Raffles casually proposed
a raid.

"The older I grow, Bunny, the less I think of your so-called precious
stones. When did they ever bring in half their market value in L.s.d.
There was the first little crib we ever cracked together--you with
your innocent eyes shut. A thousand pounds that stuff was worth; but
how many hundreds did it actually fetch. The Ardagh emeralds weren't
much better; old Lady Melrose's necklace was far worse; but that little
lot the other night has about finished me. A cool hundred for goods
priced well over four; and L35 to come off for bait, since we only got
a tenner for the ring I bought and paid for like an ass. I'll be shot
if I ever touch a diamond again! Not if it was the Koh-I-noor; those
few whacking stones are too well known, and to cut them up is to
decrease their value by arithmetical retrogression. Besides, that
brings you up against the Fence once more, and I'm done with the
beggars for good and all. You talk about your editors and publishers,
you literary swine. Barabbas was neither a robber nor a publisher, but
a six-barred, barbed-wired, spike-topped Fence. What we really want is
an Incorporated Society of Thieves, with some public-spirited old
forger to run it for us on business lines."

Raffles uttered these blasphemies under his breath, not, I am afraid,
out of any respect for my one redeeming profession,