And still, with all the magic mischief of his smile, there was
that touch of sadness which I was yet to read aright.




The Chest of Silver


Like all the tribe of which I held him head, Raffles professed the
liveliest disdain for unwieldy plunder of any description; it might
be old Sheffield, or it might be solid silver or gold, but if the
thing was not to be concealed about the person, he would none
whatever of it. Unlike the rest of us, however, in this as in all
else, Raffles would not infrequently allow the acquisitive spirit
of the mere collector to silence the dictates of professional
prudence. The old oak chests, and even the mahogany wine-cooler,
for which he had doubtless paid like an honest citizen, were thus
immovable with pieces of crested plate, which he had neither the
temerity to use nor the hardihood to melt or sell. He could but
gloat over them behind locked doors, as I used to tell him, and at
last one afternoon I caught him at it. It was in the year after
that of my novitiate, a halcyon period at the Albany, when Raffles
left no crib uncracked, and I played second-murderer every time.
I had called in response to a telegram in which he stated that he
was going out of town, and must say good-by to me before he went.
And I could only think that he was inspired by the same impulse
toward the bronzed salvers and the tarnished teapots with which
I found him surrounded, until my eyes lit upon the enormous
silver-chest into which he was fitting them one by one.