A Thief in the Night - E. W. Hornung (phonics reader .TXT) 📗

when I endeavor to entertain my brother Criminologists. That’s no coincidence, sir, but a deliberate irony, which would have occurred to no other criminal mind in England.”

“You may be right,” Raffles had the sense to say this time, though I flattered myself it was my face that made him.

“What is still more certain,” resumed our host, “is that no other criminal in the world would have crowned so delicious a conception with so perfect an achievement. I feel sure the inspector will agree with us.”

The policeman in command had knocked and been admitted to the library as Lord Thornaby spoke.

“I didn’t hear what you said, my lord.”

“Merely that the perpetrator of this amusing outrage can be no other than the swell mobsman who relieved Lady Melrose of her necklace and poor Danby of half his stock a year or two ago.”

“I believe your lordship has hit the nail on the head.”

“The man who took the Thimblely diamonds and returned them to Lord Thimblely, you know.”

“Perhaps he’ll treat your lordship the same.”

“Not he! I don’t mean to cry over my spilt milk. I only wish the fellow joy of all he had time to take. Anything fresh upstairs by the way?”

“Yes, my lord: the robbery took place between a quarter past eight and the half-hour.”

“How on earth do you know?”

“The clock that was tied up in the towel had stopped at twenty past.”

“Have you interviewed my man?”

“I have, my lord. He was in your lordship’s room until close on the quarter, and all was as it should be when he left it.”

“Then do you suppose the burglar was in hiding in the house?”

“It’s impossible to say, my lord. He’s not in the house now, for he could only be in your lordship’s bedroom or dressing-room, and we have searched every inch of both.”

Lord Thornaby turned to us when the inspector had retreated, caressing his peaked cap.

“I told him to clear up these points first,” he explained, jerking his head toward the door. “I had reason to think my man had been neglecting his duties up there. I am glad to find myself mistaken.”

I ought to have been no less glad to see my own mistake. My suspicions of our officious author were thus proved to have been as wild as himself. I owed the man no grudge, and yet in my human heart I felt vaguely disappointed. My theory had gained color from his behavior ever since he had admitted us to the dressing-room; it had changed all at once from the familiar to the morose; and only now was I just enough to remember that Lord Thornaby, having tolerated those familiarities as long as they were connected with useful service, had administered a relentless snub the moment that service had been well and truly performed.

But if Parrington was exonerated in my mind, so also was Raffles reinstated in the regard of those who had entertained a far graver and more dangerous hypothesis. It was a miracle of good luck, a coincidence among coincidences, which had whitewashed him in their sight at the very moment when they were straining the expert eye to sift him through and through. But the miracle had been performed, and its effect was visible in every face and audible in every voice. I except Ernest, who could never have been in the secret; moreover, that gay Criminologist had been palpably shaken by his first little experience of crime. But the other three vied among themselves to do honor where they had done injustice. I heard Kingsmill, Q.C., telling Raffles the best time to catch him at chambers, and promising a seat in court for any trial he might ever like to hear. Parrington spoke of a presentation set of his books, and in doing homage to Raffles made his peace with our host. As for Lord Thornaby, I did overhear the name of the Athenaeum Club, a reference to his friends on the committee, and a whisper (as I thought) of Rule II.

The police were still in possession when we went our several ways, and it was all that I could do to drag Raffles up to my rooms, though, as I have said, they were just round the corner. He consented at last as a lesser evil than talking of the burglary in the street; and in my rooms I told him of his late danger and my own dilemma, of the few words I had overheard in the beginning, of the thin ice on which he had cut fancy figures without a crack. It was all very well for him. He had never realized his peril. But let him think of me⁠—listening, watching, yet unable to lift a finger⁠—unable to say one warning word.

Raffles suffered me to finish, but a weary sigh followed the last symmetrical whiff of a Sullivan which he flung into my fire before he spoke.

“No, I won’t have another, thank you. I’m going to talk to you, Bunny. Do you really suppose I didn’t see through these wiseacres from the first?”

I flatly refused to believe he had done so before that evening. Why had he never mentioned his idea to me? It had been quite the other way, as I indignantly reminded Raffles. Did he mean me to believe he was the man to thrust his head into the lion’s mouth for fun? And what point would there be in dragging me there to see the fun?

“I might have wanted you, Bunny. I very nearly did.”

“For my face?”

“It has been my fortune before tonight, Bunny. It has also given me more confidence than you are likely to believe at this time of day. You stimulate me more than you think.”

“Your gallery and your prompter’s box in one?”

“Capital, Bunny! But it was no joking matter with me either, my dear fellow; it was touch-and-go at the time. I might have called on you at any moment, and it was something to know I should not have called in vain.”

“But