A Costume Piece

This story was first published in the UK in Cassell’s Magazine in the July 1898 issue, and in the September 24, 1898 issue of Collier’s Weekly in the US.

It takes place in April, 1891.


London was just then talking of one whose name is already a name and nothing more. Reuben Rosenthall1 had made his millions on the diamond fields of South Africa, and had come home to enjoy them according to his lights; how he went to work will scarcely be forgotten by any reader of the halfpenny evening papers, which revelled in endless anecdotes of his original indigence and present prodigality, varied with interesting particulars of the extraordinary establishment which the millionaire set up in St. John’s Wood. Here he kept a retinue of Kaffirs2, who were literally his slaves; and hence he would sally, with enormous diamonds in his shirt and on his finger, in the convoy of a prize-fighter of heinous repute, who was not, however, by any means the worst element in the Rosenthall mélange. So said common gossip; but the fact was sufficiently established by the interference of the police on at least one occasion, followed by certain magisterial proceedings which were reported with justifiable gusto and huge headlines in the newspapers aforesaid. And this was all one knew of Reuben Rosenthall up to the time when the Old Bohemian Club3, having fallen on evil days, found it worth its while to organize a great dinner in honor of so wealthy an exponent of the club’s principles. I was not at the banquet myself, but a member took Raffles, who told me all about it that very night.

“Most extraordinary show I ever went to in my life,” said he. “As for the man himself—well, I was prepared for something grotesque, but the fellow fairly took my breath away. To begin with, he’s the most astounding brute to look at, well over six feet, with a chest like a barrel, and a great hook-nose, and the reddest hair and whiskers you ever saw4. Drank like a fire-engine, but only got drunk enough to make us a speech that I wouldn’t have missed for ten pounds. I’m only sorry you weren’t there, too, Bunny, old chap.”

I began to be sorry myself, for Raffles was anything but an excitable person, and never had I seen him so excited before. Had he been following Rosenthall’s example? His coming to my rooms at midnight, merely to tell me about his dinner, was in itself enough to excuse a suspicion which was certainly at variance with my knowledge of A. J. Raffles.

“What did he say?” I inquired mechanically, divining some subtler explanation of this visit, and wondering what on earth it could be.

He wanted to know where the other man was who went about with £25000 on his shirt front and another £25000 on his little finger Illustration by S. Armstrong

He wanted to know where the other man was who went about with £25000 on his shirt front and another £25000 on his little finger
Illustration by S. Armstrong

“Say?” cried Raffles. “What did he not say! He boasted of his rise, he bragged of his riches, and he blackguarded society for taking him up for his money and dropping him out of sheer pique and jealousy because he had so much. He mentioned names, too, with the most charming freedom, and swore he was as good a man as the Old Country had to show—pace5 the Old Bohemians. To prove it he pointed to a great diamond in the middle of his shirt-front with a little finger loaded with another just like it: which of our bloated princes could show a pair like that? As a matter of fact, they seemed quite wonderful stones, with a curious purple6 gleam to them that must mean a pot of money. But old Rosenthall swore he wouldn’t take fifty thousand pounds for the two, and wanted to know where the other man was who went about with twenty-five thousand in his shirt-front and another twenty-five on his little finger. He didn’t exist. If he did, he wouldn’t have the pluck to wear them. But he had—he’d tell us why. And before you could say Jack Robinson he had whipped out a whacking great revolver!”

“Not at the table?”

He actually wanted us to let him write his name in bullets on the opposite wall." Illustration by John H. Bacon

He actually wanted us to let him write his name in bullets on the opposite wall.”
Illustration by John H. Bacon

“At the table! In the middle of his speech! But it was nothing to what he wanted to do. He actually wanted us to let him write his name in bullets on the opposite wall, to show us why he wasn’t afraid to go about in all his diamonds! That brute Purvis, the prize-fighter, who is his paid bully, had to bully his master before he could be persuaded out of it. There was quite a panic for the moment; one fellow was saying his prayers under the table, and the waiters bolted to a man.”

He actually wanted us to let him write his name in bullets on the opposite wall. Illustration by Hy Leonard

He actually wanted us to let him write his name in bullets on the opposite wall.
Illustration by Hy Leonard

“What a grotesque scene!”

“Grotesque enough, but I rather wish they had let him go the whole hog and blaze away. He was as keen as knives to show us how he could take care of his purple diamonds; and, do you know, Bunny, I was as keen as knives to see.”

And Raffles leaned towards me with a sly, slow smile that made the hidden meaning of his visit only too plain to me at last.

“So you think of having a try for his diamonds yourself?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“It is horribly obvious, I admit. But—yes, I have set my heart upon them! To be quite frank, I have had them on my conscience for some time; one couldn’t hear so much of the man, and his prize-fighter, and his diamonds, without feeling it a kind of duty to have a go for them; but when it comes to brandishing a revolver and practically challenging the world, the thing becomes inevitable. It is simply thrust upon one. I was fated to hear that challenge, Bunny, and I, for one, must take it up. I was only sorry I couldn’t get on my hind legs and say so then and there.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t see the necessity as things are with us; but, of course, I’m your man.”

My tone may have been half-hearted. I did my best to make it otherwise. But it was barely a month since our Bond Street exploit, and we certainly could have afforded to behave ourselves for some time to come. We had been getting along so nicely: by his advice I had scribbled a thing or two; inspired by Raffles, I had even done an article on our own jewel robbery; and for the moment I was quite satisfied with this sort of adventure. I thought we ought to know when we were well off, and could see no point in our running fresh risks before we were obliged. On the other hand, I was anxious not to show the least disposition to break the pledge that I had given a month ago. But it was not on my manifest disinclination that Raffles fastened.

“Necessity, my dear Bunny? Does the writer only write when the wolf is at the door? Does the painter paint for bread alone? Must you and I be driven to crime like Tom of Bow and Dick of Whitechapel7? You pain me, my dear chap; you needn’t laugh, because you do. Art for art’s sake is a vile catchword, but I confess it appeals to me. In this case my motives are absolutely pure, for I doubt if we shall ever be able to dispose of such peculiar stones. But if I don’t have a try for them—after to-night—I shall never be able to hold up my head again.”

His eye twinkled, but it glittered, too.

“We shall have our work cut out,” was all I said.

“And do you suppose I should be keen on it if we hadn’t?” cried Raffles. “My dear fellow, I would rob St. Paul’s Cathedral if I could, but I could no more scoop a till when the shopwalker wasn’t looking than I could bag the apples out of an old woman’s basket. Even that little business last month was a sordid affair, but it was necessary, and I think its strategy redeemed it to some extent. Now there’s some credit, and more sport, in going where they boast they’re on their guard against you. The Bank of England, for example, is the ideal crib; but that would need half a dozen of us with years to give to the job; and meanwhile Reuben Rosenthall is high enough game for you and me. We know he’s armed. We know how Billy Purvis can fight. It’ll be no soft thing, I grant you. But what of that, my good Bunny—what of that? A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, dear boy, or what the dickens is a heaven for?8

“I would rather we didn’t exceed ours just yet,” I answered laughing, for his spirit was irresistible, and the plan was growing upon me, despite my qualms.

“Trust me for that,” was his reply; “I’ll see you through. After all I expect to find that the difficulties are nearly all on the surface. These fellows both drink like the devil, and that should simplify matters considerably. But we shall see, and we must take our time. There will probably turn out to be a dozen different ways in which the thing might be done, and we shall have to choose between them. It will mean watching the house for at least a week in any case; it may mean lots of other things that will take much longer; but give me a week and I will tell you more. That’s to say, if you’re really on?”

“Of course I am,” I replied indignantly. “But why should I give you a week? Why shouldn’t we watch the house together?”

“Because two eyes are as good as four and take up less room. Never hunt in couples unless you’re obliged. But don’t you look offended, Bunny; there’ll be plenty for you to do when the time comes, that I promise you. You shall have your share of the fun, never fear, and a purple diamond all to yourself—if we’re lucky.”

On the whole, however, this conversation left me less than lukewarm, and I still remember the depression which came upon me when Raffles was gone. I saw the folly of the enterprise to which I had committed myself—the sheer, gratuitous, unnecessary folly of it. And the paradoxes in which Raffles revelled, and the frivolous casuistry9 which was nevertheless half sincere, and which his mere personality rendered wholly plausible at the moment of utterance, appealed very little to me when recalled in cold blood. I admired the spirit of pure mischief in which he seemed prepared to risk his liberty and his life, but I did not find it an infectious spirit on calm reflection. Yet the thought of withdrawal was not to be entertained for a moment. On the contrary, I was impatient of the delay ordained by Raffles; and, perhaps, no small part of my secret disaffection came of his galling determination to do without me until the last moment.

It made it no better that this was characteristic of the man and of his attitude towards me. For a month we had been, I suppose, the thickest thieves in all London, and yet our intimacy was curiously incomplete. With all his charming frankness, there was in Raffles a vein of capricious reserve which was perceptible enough to be very irritating. He had the instinctive secretiveness of the inveterate criminal. He would make mysteries of matters of common concern; for example, I never knew how or where he disposed of the Bond Street jewels, on the proceeds of which we were both still leading the outward lives of hundreds of other young fellows about town. He was consistently mysterious about that and other details, of which it seemed to me that I had already earned the right to know everything. I could not but remember how he had led me into my first felony, by means of a trick, while yet uncertain whether he could trust me or not.

That I could no longer afford to resent, but I did resent his want of confidence in me now. I said nothing about it, but it rankled every day, and never more than in the week that succeeded the Rosenthall dinner. When I met Raffles at the club he would tell me nothing; when I went to his rooms he was out, or pretended to be.

One day he told me he was getting on well, but slowly; it was a more ticklish game than he had thought; but when I began to ask questions he would say no more. Then and there, in my annoyance, I took my own decision. Since he would tell me nothing of the result of his vigils, I determined to keep one on my own account, and that very evening found my way to the millionaire’s front gates.

I faced the dark scowl and the dirty, clinched fists of a dilapidated tramp." Illustration by E. V. Nadherny

I faced the dark scowl and the dirty, clinched fists of a dilapidated tramp.”
Illustration by E. V. Nadherny

The house he was occupying is, I believe, quite the largest in the St. John’s Wood district. It stands in the angle formed by two broad thoroughfares, neither of which, as it happens, is a ‘bus10 route, and I doubt if many quieter spots exist within the four-mile radius11. Quiet also was the great square house, in its garden of grass-plots and shrubs; the lights were low, the millionaire and his friends obviously spending their evening elsewhere. The garden walls were only a few feet high. In one there was a side door opening into a glass passage; in the other two five-barred, grained-and-varnished gates, one at either end of the little semi-circular drive, and both wide open. So still was the place that I had a great mind to walk boldly in and learn something of the premises; in fact, I was on the point of doing so, when I heard a quick, shuffling step on the pavement behind me. I turned round and faced the dark scowl and the dirty clenched fists of a dilapidated tramp.

I turned round and faced the dark scowl . . . of a dilapidated tramp Illustration by John H. Bacon

I turned round and faced the dark scowl . . . of a dilapidated tramp
Illustration by John H. Bacon

“You fool!” said he. “You utter idiot!”


“That’s it,” he whispered savagely; “tell all the neighborhood—give me away at the top of your voice!”

With that he turned his back upon me, and shambled down the road, shrugging his shoulders and muttering to himself as though I had refused him alms. A few moments I stood astounded, indignant, at a loss; then I followed him. His feet trailed, his knees gave, his back was bowed, his head kept nodding; it was the gait of a man eighty years of age. Presently he waited for me midway between two lamp-posts. As I came up he was lighting rank tobacco, in a cutty pipe12, with an evil-smelling match, and the flame showed me the suspicion of a smile.

“You must forgive my heat, Bunny, but it really was very foolish of you. Here am I trying every dodge—begging at the door one night—hiding in the shrubs the next—doing every mortal thing but stand and stare at the house as you went and did. It’s a costume piece, and in you rush in your ordinary clothes. I tell you they’re on the lookout for us night and day. It’s the toughest nut I ever tackled!”

“Well,” said I, “if you had told me so before I shouldn’t have come. You told me nothing.”

He looked hard at me from under the broken brim of a battered billycock13.

“You’re right,” he said at length. “I’ve been too close. It’s become second nature with me when I’ve anything on. But here’s an end of it, Bunny, so far as you’re concerned. I’m going home now, and I want you to follow me; but for heaven’s sake keep your distance, and don’t speak to me again till I speak to you. There—give me a start.” And he was off again, a decrepit vagabond, with his hands in his pockets, his elbows squared, and frayed coat-tails swinging raggedly from side to side.

I followed him to the Finchley Road. There he took an Atlas omnibus14, and I sat some rows behind him on the top, but not far enough to escape the pest of his vile tobacco. That he could carry his character-sketch to such a pitch—he who would only smoke one brand of cigarette! It was the last, least touch of the insatiable artist, and it charmed away what mortification there still remained in me. Once more I felt the fascination of a comrade who was forever dazzling one with a fresh and unsuspected facet of his character.

As we neared Piccadilly I wondered what he would do. Surely he was not going into the Albany like that? No, he took another omnibus to Sloane Street, I sitting behind him as before. At Sloane Street we changed again, and were presently in the long lean artery of the King’s Road15. I was now all agog to know our destination, nor was I kept many more minutes in doubt. Raffles got down. I followed. He crossed the road and disappeared up a dark turning. I pressed after him, and was in time to see his coat-tails as he plunged into a still darker flagged alley to the right. He was holding himself up and stepping out like a young man once more; also, in some subtle way, he already looked less disreputable. But I alone was there to see him, the alley was absolutely deserted, and desperately dark. At the further end he opened a door with a latch-key, and it was darker yet within.

Instinctively I drew back and heard him chuckle. We could no longer see each other.

“All right, Bunny! There’s no hanky-panky this time. These are studios, my friend, and I’m one of the lawful tenants.”

Indeed, in another minute we were in a lofty room with skylight, easels, dressing-cupboard, platform, and every other adjunct save the signs of actual labor. The first thing I saw, as Raffles lit the gas, was its reflection in his silk hat on the pegs beside the rest of his normal garments.

“Looking for the works of art?” continued Raffles, lighting a cigarette and beginning to divest himself of his rags. “I’m afraid you won’t find any, but there’s the canvas I’m always going to make a start upon. I tell them I’m looking high and low for my ideal model. I have the stove lit on principle twice a week, and look in and leave a newspaper and a smell of Sullivans—how good they are after shag16! Meanwhile I pay my rent and am a good tenant in every way; and it’s a very useful little pied-à-terre17—there’s no saying how useful it might be at a pinch. As it is, the billy-cock comes in and the topper goes out, and nobody takes the slightest notice of either; at this time of night the chances are that there’s not a soul in the building except ourselves.”

“You never told me you went in for disguises,” said I, watching him as he cleansed the grime from his face and hands.

“No, Bunny, I’ve treated you very shabbily all round. There was really no reason why I shouldn’t have shown you this place a month ago, and yet there was no point in my doing so, and circumstances are just conceivable in which it would have suited us both for you to be in genuine ignorance of my whereabouts. I have something to sleep on, as you perceive, in case of need, and, of course, my name is not Raffles in the King’s Road. So you will see that one might bolt further and fare worse.”

“Meanwhile you use the place as a dressing-room?”

“It is my private pavilion18,” said Raffles. “Disguises? In some cases they’re half the battle, and it’s always pleasant to feel that, if the worst comes to the worst, you needn’t necessarily be convicted under your own name19. Then they’re indispensable in dealing with the fences. I drive all my bargains in the tongue and raiment of Shoreditch20. If I didn’t there’d be the very devil to pay in blackmail. Now, this cupboard’s full of all sorts of toggery. I tell the woman who cleans the room that it’s for my models when I find ’em. By the way, I only hope I’ve got something that’ll fit you, for you’ll want a rig for to-morrow night.”

“To-morrow night!” I exclaimed. “Why, what do you mean to do?”

“The trick,” said Raffles. “I intended writing to you as soon as I got back to my rooms, to ask you to look me up to-morrow afternoon; then I was going to unfold my plan of campaign, and take you straight into action then and there. There’s nothing like putting the nervous players in first; it’s the sitting with their pads on21 that upsets their applecart; that was another of my reasons for being so confoundedly close. You must try to forgive me. I couldn’t help remembering how well you played up last trip, without any time to weaken on it beforehand. All I want is for you to be as cool and smart to-morrow night as you were then; though, by Jove, there’s no comparison between the two cases!”

“I thought you would find it so.”

“You were right. I have. Mind you, I don’t say this will be the tougher job all round; we shall probably get in without any difficulty at all; it’s the getting out again that may flummox us. That’s the worst of an irregular household!” cried Raffles, with quite a burst of virtuous indignation. “I assure you, Bunny, I spent the whole of Monday night in the shrubbery of the garden next door, looking over the wall, and, if you’ll believe me, somebody was about all night long! I don’t mean the Kaffirs. I don’t believe they ever get to bed at all—poor devils! No, I mean Rosenthall himself, and that pasty-faced beast Purvis. They were up and drinking from midnight, when they came in, to broad daylight, when I cleared out. Even then I left them sober enough to slang22 each other. By the way, they very nearly came to blows in the garden, within a few yards of me, and I heard something that might come in useful and make Rosenthall shoot crooked at a critical moment. You know what an I. D. B. is?”

“Illicit Diamond Buyer23?”

“Exactly. Well, it seems that Rosenthall was one. He must have let it out to Purvis in his cups24. Anyhow, I heard Purvis taunting him with it, and threatening him with the breakwater at Capetown25; and I begin to think our friends are friend and foe. But about to-morrow night: there’s nothing subtle in my plan. It’s simply to get in while these fellows are out on the loose, and to lie low till they come back, and longer. If possible, we must doctor the whiskey. That would simplify the whole thing, though it’s not a very sporting game to play; still, we must remember Rosenthall’s revolver; we don’t want him to sign his name on us. With all those Kaffirs about, however, it’s ten to one on the whiskey, and a hundred to one against us if we go looking for it. A brush with the heathen would spoil everything, if it did no more. Besides, there are the ladies—”

“The deuce there are!”

“Ladies with an i, and the very voices for raising Cain. I fear, I fear the clamor! It would be fatal to us. Au contraire26, if we can manage to stow ourselves away unbeknownst, half the battle will be won. If Rosenthall turns in drunk, it’s a purple diamond apiece. If he sits up sober, it may be a bullet instead. We will hope not, Bunny; and all the firing wouldn’t be on one side; but it’s on the knees of the gods27.”

And so we left it when we shook hands in Picadilly—not by any means as much later as I could have wished. Raffles would not ask me to his rooms that night. He said he made it a rule to have a long night before playing cricket and—other games. His final word to me was framed on the same principle.

“Mind, only one drink to-night, Bunny. Two at the outside—as you value your life—and mine!”

I remember my abject obedience; and the endless, sleepless night it gave me; and the roofs of the houses opposite standing out at last against the blue-gray London dawn. I wondered whether I should ever see another, and was very hard on myself for that little expedition which I had made on my own wilful account.

We could watch our house under cover of a wall, while a margin of shrubs on either side added additional protection Illustration by S. Armstrong

We could watch our house under cover of a wall, while a margin of shrubs on either side added additional protection
Illustration by S. Armstrong

It was between eight and nine o’clock in the evening when we took up our position in the garden adjoining that of Reuben Rosenthall; the house itself was shut up, thanks to the outrageous libertine next door, who, by driving away the neighbors, had gone far towards delivering himself into our hands. Practically secure from surprise on that side, we could watch our house under cover of a wall just high enough to see over, while a fair margin of shrubs in either garden afforded us additional protection. Thus entrenched, we had stood an hour, watching a pair of lighted bow-windows with vague shadows flitting continually across the blinds, and listening to the drawing of corks, the clink of glasses, and a gradual crescendo of coarse voices within. Our luck seemed to have deserted us: the owner of the purple diamonds was dining at home and dining at undue length. I thought it was a dinner-party. Raffles differed; in the end he proved right. Wheels grated in the drive, a carriage and pair stood at the steps; there was a stampede from the dining-room, and the loud voices died away, to burst forth presently from the porch.

Let me make our position perfectly clear. We were over the wall, at the side of the house, but a few feet from the dining-room windows. On our right, one angle of the building cut the back lawn in two diagonally; on our left, another angle just permitted us to see the jutting steps and the waiting carriage. We saw Rosenthall come out—saw the glimmer of his diamonds before anything. Then came the pugilist; then a lady with a head of hair like a bath sponge; then another, and the party was complete.

Raffles ducked and pulled me down in great excitement.

“The ladies are going with them,” he whispered. “This is great!”

“That’s better still.”

“The Gardenia!” the millionaire had bawled.

“And that’s best of all,” said Raffles, standing upright as hoofs and wheels crunched through the gates and rattled off at a fine speed.

“Now what?” I whispered, trembling with excitement.

“They’ll be clearing away. Yes, here come their shadows. The drawing-room windows open on the lawn. Bunny, it’s the psychological moment. Where’s that mask?”

I produced it with a hand whose trembling I tried in vain to still, and could have died for Raffles when he made no comment on what he could not fail to notice. His own hands were firm and cool as he adjusted my mask for me, and then his own.

“By Jove, old boy,” he whispered cheerily, “you look about the greatest ruffian I ever saw! These masks alone will down a nigger, if we meet one. But I’m glad I remembered to tell you not to shave. You’ll pass for Whitechapel28 if the worst comes to the worst and you don’t forget to talk the lingo. Better sulk like a mule if you’re not sure of it, and leave the dialogue to me; but, please our stars, there will be no need. Now, are you ready?”


“Got your gag?”




“Then follow me.”

In an instant we were over the wall, in another on the lawn behind the house. There was no moon. The very stars in their courses had veiled themselves for our benefit. I crept at my leader’s heels to some French windows opening upon a shallow veranda. He pushed. They yielded.

“Luck again,” he whispered; “nothing but luck! Now for a light.”

And the light came!

A good score of electric burners glowed red for the fraction of a second, then rained merciless white beams into our blinded eyes. When we found our sight four revolvers covered us, and between two of them the colossal frame of Reuben Rosenthall shook with a wheezy laughter from head to foot.

“Good-evening, boys,” he hiccoughed. “Glad to see ye at last. Shift foot or finger, you on the left, though, and you’re a dead boy. I mean you, you greaser!” he roared out at Raffles. “I know you. I’ve been waitin’ for you. I’ve been watchin’ you all this week! Plucky smart you thought yerself, didn’t you? One day beggin’, next time shammin’ tight, and next one o’ them old pals from Kimberley what never come when I’m in. But you left the same tracks every day, you buggins, an’ the same tracks every night, all round the blessed premises.”

“All right, guv’nor,” drawled Raffles; “don’t excite. It’s a fair cop. We don’t sweat to know ‘ow you brung it orf. On’y don’t you go for to shoot, ‘cos we ‘int awmed, s’help me Gord!”

“Ah, you’re a knowin’ one,” said Rosenthall, fingering his triggers. “But you’ve struck a knowin’er.”

“Ho, yuss, we know all abaht thet! Set a thief to ketch a thief—ho, yuss.”

My eyes had torn themselves from the round black muzzles, from the accursed diamonds that had been our snare, the pasty pig-face of the over-fed pugilist, and the flaming cheeks and hook nose of Rosenthall himself. I was looking beyond them at the doorway filled with quivering silk and plush, black faces, white eyeballs, woolly pates. But a sudden silence recalled my attention to the millionaire. And only his nose retained its color.

"Whort price thet brikewater?" drawled Raffles coolly. Illustration by John H. Bacon

“Whort price thet brikewater?” drawled Raffles coolly.
Illustration by John H. Bacon

“What d’ye mean?” he whispered with a hoarse oath. “Spit it out, or, by Christmas, I’ll drill you!”

“Whort price thet brikewater?” drawled Raffles coolly.


Rosenthall’s revolvers were describing widening orbits.

“Whort price thet brikewater—old I.D.B.?”

“Where in hell did you get hold o’ that?” asked Rosenthall, with a rattle in his thick neck, meant for mirth.

“You may well arst,” says Raffles. “It’s all over the plice w’ere I come from.”

“Who can have spread such rot?”

“I dunno,” says Raffles; “arst the gen’leman on yer left; p’r’aps ‘e knows.”

The gentleman on his left had turned livid with emotion. Guilty conscience never declared itself in plainer terms. For a moment his small eyes bulged like currants in the suet of his face; the next, he had pocketed his pistols on a professional instinct, and was upon us with his fists.

“Out o’ the light—out o’ the light!” yelled Rosenthall in a frenzy.

He was too late. No sooner had the burly pugilist obstructed his fire than Raffles was through the window at a bound; while I, for standing still and saying nothing, was scientifically felled29 to the floor.


I cannot have been many moments without my senses. When I recovered them there was a great to-do in the garden, but I had the drawing-room to myself. I sat up. Rosenthall and Purvis were rushing about outside, cursing the Kaffirs and nagging at each other.

“Over that wall, I tell yer!”

“I tell you it was this one. Can’t you whistle for the police?”

“Police be damned! I’ve had enough of the blessed police.”

“Then we’d better get back and make sure of the other rotter.”

“Oh, make sure o’ yer skin. That’s what you’d better do. Jala, you black hog, if I catch you skulkin’. . . .”

I never heard the threat. I was creeping from the drawing-room on my hands and knees, my own revolver swinging by its steel ring from my teeth.

I took the stairs three at a time. Illustration by Hy Leonard

I took the stairs three at a time.
Illustration by Hy Leonard

For an instant I thought that the hall also was deserted. I was wrong, and I crept upon a Kaffir on all fours. Poor devil, I could not bring myself to deal him a base blow, but I threatened him most hideously with my revolver, and left the white teeth chattering in his black head as I took the stairs three at a time. Why I went upstairs in that decisive fashion, as though it were my only course, I cannot explain. But garden and ground floor seemed alive with men, and I might have done worse.

I turned into the first room I came to. It was a bedroom—empty, though lit up; and never shall I forget how I started as I entered, on encountering the awful villain that was myself at full length in a pier-glass30! Masked, armed, and ragged, I was indeed fit carrion for a bullet or the hangman, and to one or the other I made up my mind. Nevertheless, I hid myself in the wardrobe behind the mirror; and there I stood shivering and cursing my fate, my folly, and Raffles most of all—Raffles first and last—for I daresay half an hour. Then the wardrobe door was flung suddenly open; they had stolen into the room without a sound; and I was hauled downstairs, an ignominious captive.

Sent a bullet crashing through the wood within an inch of my ear. Illustration by Hy Leonard

Sent a bullet crashing through the wood within an inch of my ear.
Illustration by Hy Leonard

Gross scenes followed in the hall; the ladies were now upon the stage, and at sight of the desperate criminal they screamed with one accord. In truth I must have given them fair cause, though my mask was now torn away and hid nothing but my left ear. Rosenthall answered their shrieks with a roar for silence; the woman with the bath-sponge hair swore at him shrilly in return; the place became a Babel impossible to describe. I remember wondering how long it would be before the police appeared. Purvis and the ladies were for calling them in and giving me in charge without delay. Rosenthall would not hear of it. He swore that he would shoot man or woman who left his sight. He had had enough of the police. He was not going to have them coming there to spoil sport; he was going to deal with me in his own way. With that he dragged me from all other hands, flung me against a door, and sent a bullet crashing through the wood within an inch of my ear.

He flung me against a door and sent a bullet within an inch of my ear Illustration by E. V. Nadherny

He flung me against a door and sent a bullet within an inch of my ear
Illustration by E. V. Nadherny

“You drunken fool! It’ll be murder!” shouted Purvis, getting in the way a second time.

“Wha’ do I care? He’s armed, isn’t he? I shot him in self-defence. It’ll be a warning to others. Will you stand aside, or d’ye want it yourself?”

“You’re drunk,” said Purvis, still between us. “I saw you take a neat tumblerful since you come in, and it’s made you drunk as a fool. Pull yourself together, old man. You ain’t a-going to do what you’ll be sorry for.”

“Then I won’t shoot at him, I’ll only shoot roun’ an’ roun’ the beggar. You’re quite right, ole feller. Wouldn’t hurt him. Great mishtake. Roun’ an’ roun’. There—like that!”

His freckled paw shot up over Purvis’s shoulder, mauve lightning came from his ring, a red flash from his revolver, and shrieks from the women as the reverberations died away. Some splinters lodged in my hair.

Next instant the prize-fighter disarmed him." Illustration by John H. Bacon

Next instant the prize-fighter disarmed him.”
Illustration by John H. Bacon

Next instant the prize-fighter disarmed him; and I was safe from the devil, but finally doomed to the deep sea. A policeman was in our midst. He had entered through the drawing-room window; he was an officer of few words and creditable promptitude. In a twinkling he had the handcuffs on my wrists, while the pugilist explained the situation, and his patron reviled the force and its representative with impotent malignity. A fine watch they kept; a lot of good they did; coming in when all was over and the whole household might have been murdered in their sleep. The officer only deigned to notice him as he marched me off.

In a twinkling he had the handcuffs on my wrists, while the pugilist explained the situation and his patron reviled the force and its representative. Illustration by Frank Parker

In a twinkling he had the handcuffs on my wrists, while the pugilist explained the situation and his patron reviled the force and its representative.
Illustration by Frank Parker

“We know all about you, sir,” said he contemptuously, and he refused the sovereign Purvis proffered31. “You will be seeing me again, sir, at Marylebone.32

“Shall I come now?”

“As you please, sir. I rather think the other gentleman requires you more, and I don’t fancy this young man means to give much trouble.”

“Oh, I’m coming quietly,” I said.

And I went.

In silence we traversed perhaps a hundred yards. It must have been midnight. We did not meet a soul. At last I whispered:

“How on earth did you manage it?”

“Purely by luck,” said Raffles. “I had the luck to get clear away through knowing every brick of those back-garden walls, and the double luck to have these togs with the rest over at Chelsea. The helmet is one of a collection I made up at Oxford33; here it goes over this wall, and we’d better carry the coat and belt before we meet a real officer. I got them once for a fancy ball—ostensibly—and thereby hangs a yarn. I always thought they might come in useful a second time. My chief crux to-night was getting rid of the hansom34 that brought me back. I sent him off to Scotland Yard with ten bob35 and a special message to good old Mackenzie36. The whole detective department will be at Rosenthall’s in about half an hour. Of course, I speculated on our gentleman’s hatred of the police—another huge slice of luck. If you’d got away, well and good; if not, I felt he was the man to play with his mouse as long as possible. Yes, Bunny, it’s been more of a costume piece than I intended, and we’ve come out of it with a good deal less credit. But, by Jove, we’re jolly lucky to have come out of it at all!”

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