The Amateur Cracksman E. W. Hornung (desktop ebook reader txt) 📖

the country to procure. It’s the copy I faked back and front, so that, on your own showing, it imposed upon Craggs, and might have made him happy for life. And you go and rob him of that!”

I could not speak.

“How did you manage it?” inquired Sir Bernard Debenham.

“Have you killed him?” asked Raffles sardonically.

I did not look at him; I turned to Sir Bernard Debenham, and to him I told my story, hoarsely, excitedly, for it was all that I could do to keep from breaking down. But as I spoke I became calmer, and I finished in mere bitterness, with the remark that another time Raffles might tell me what he meant to do.

“Another time!” he cried instantly. “My dear Bunny, you speak as though we were going to turn burglars for a living!”

“I trust you won’t,” said Sir Bernard, smiling, “for you are certainly two very daring young men. Let us hope our friend from Queensland will do as he said, and not open his map-case till he gets back there. He will find my check awaiting him, and I shall be very much surprised if he troubles any of us again.”

Raffles and I did not speak till I was in the room which had been prepared for me. Nor was I anxious to do so then. But he followed me and took my hand.

“Bunny,” said he, “don’t you be hard on a fellow! I was in the deuce of a hurry, and didn’t know that I should ever get what I wanted in time, and that’s a fact. But it serves me right that you should have gone and undone one of the best things I ever did. As for your handiwork, old chap, you won’t mind my saying that I didn’t think you had it in you. In future⁠—”

“Don’t talk to me about the future!” I cried. “I hate the whole thing! I’m going to chuck it up!”

“So am I,” said Raffles, “when I’ve made my pile.”

The Return Match

I had turned into Piccadilly, one thick evening in the following November, when my guilty heart stood still at the sudden grip of a hand upon my arm. I thought⁠—I was always thinking⁠—that my inevitable hour was come at last. It was only Raffles, however, who stood smiling at me through the fog.

“Well met!” said he. “I’ve been looking for you at the club.”

“I was just on my way there,” I returned, with an attempt to hide my tremors. It was an ineffectual attempt, as I saw from his broader smile, and by the indulgent shake of his head.

“Come up to my place instead,” said he. “I’ve something amusing to tell you.”

I made excuses, for his tone foretold the kind of amusement, and it was a kind against which I had successfully set my face for months. I have stated before, however, and I can but reiterate, that to me, at all events, there was never anybody in the world so irresistible as Raffles when his mind was made up. That we had both been independent of crime since our little service to Sir Bernard Debenham⁠—that there had been no occasion for that masterful mind to be made up in any such direction for many a day⁠—was the undeniable basis of a longer spell of honesty than I had hitherto enjoyed during the term of our mutual intimacy. Be sure I would deny it if I could; the very thing I am to tell you would discredit such a boast. I made my excuses, as I have said.

But his arm slid through mine, with his little laugh of lighthearted mastery. And even while I argued we were on his staircase in the Albany.

His fire had fallen low. He poked and replenished it after lighting the gas. As for me, I stood by sullenly in my overcoat until he dragged it off my back.

“What a chap you are!” said Raffles, playfully. “One would really think I had proposed to crack another crib this blessed night! Well, it isn’t that, Bunny; so get into that chair, and take one of these Sullivans and sit tight.”

He held the match to my cigarette; he brought me a whiskey and soda. Then he went out into the lobby, and, just as I was beginning to feel happy, I heard a bolt shot home. It cost me an effort to remain in that chair; next moment he was straddling another and gloating over my discomfiture across his folded arms.

“You remember Milchester, Bunny, old boy?”

His tone was as bland as mine was grim when I answered that I did.

“We had a little match there that wasn’t down on the card. Gentlemen and Players, if you recollect?”

“I don’t forget it.”

“Seeing that you never got an innings, so to speak, I thought you might. Well, the Gentlemen scored pretty freely, but the Players were all caught.”

“Poor devils!”

“Don’t be too sure. You remember the fellow we saw in the inn? The florid, overdressed chap who I told you was one of the cleverest thieves in town?”

“I remember him. Crawshay his name turned out to be.”

“Well, it was certainly the name he was convicted under, so Crawshay let it be. You needn’t waste any pity on him, old chap; he escaped from Dartmoor yesterday afternoon.”

“Well done!”

Raffles smiled, but his eyebrows had gone up, and his shoulders followed suit.

“You are perfectly right; it was very well done indeed. I wonder you didn’t see it in the paper. In a dense fog on the moor yesterday good old Crawshay made a bolt for it, and got away without a scratch under heavy fire. All honor to him, I agree; a fellow with that much grit deserves his liberty. But Crawshay has a good deal more. They hunted him all night long; couldn’t find him for nuts; and that was all you missed in the morning papers.”

He unfolded a Pall Mall, which he had brought in with him.

“But listen to this; here’s an account