Category Archives: The Black Mask

This story was first published as a part of  Raffles/The Black Mask in 1901. It takes place from December, 1899 – June, 1900. “The worst of this war,” said Raffles, “is the way it puts a fellow off his work.” … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the September 1901 issue. It takes place in March, 1898. My brother Ralph, who now lived with me on the edge of Ham Common, had come home from Australia with a … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the June 1901 issue. I The square shall be nameless, but if you drive due west from Piccadilly the cab-man will eventually find it on his left, and he ought to … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the May 1901 issue. I Society persons are not likely to have forgotten the series of audacious robberies by which so many of themselves suffered in turn during the brief course … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the April 1901 issue. It takes place in September, 1897. As I have had occasion to remark elsewhere, the pick of our exploits, from a frankly criminal point of view, are … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the March 1901 issue. It takes place in August, 1897. “Mar—ga—rì, e perzo e Salvatore! Mar—ga—rì, Ma l’ommo è cacciatore! Mar—ga—rì, Nun ce aje corpa tu! Chello ch’ è fatto, è … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the February 1901 issue. It takes place in June, 1897. The Room of Gold, in the British Museum, is probably well enough known to the inquiring alien and the travelled American. A … Continue reading →

This story was first published in Scribner’s Magazine in the January 1901 issue. It takes place in May, 1897. I I am still uncertain which surprised me more, the telegram calling my attention to the advertisement, or the advertisement itself. … Continue reading →

The life of man, according to the Scriptures, is three score years and ten; but who shall measure that of the modern mediocre novel?  With luck it may attain as many days.  And who remembers even A. J. Raffles, Cricketer … Continue reading →