"At Easter," I remarked.

"To learn the language," he explained. "I have no tongue but my own,
you see, but I try to make up for it by cultivating every shade of
that. Some of them have come in useful even to your knowledge, Bunny:
what price my Cockney that night in St. John's Wood? I can keep up
my end in stage Irish, real Devonshire, very fair Norfolk, and three
distinct Yorkshire dialects. But my good Galloway Scots might be
better, and I mean to make it so."

"You still haven't told me where to write to you."

"I'll write to you first, Bunny."

"At least let me see you off," I urged at the door. "I promise not
to look at your ticket if you tell me the train!"

"The eleven-fifty from Euston."

"Then I'll be with you by quarter to ten."

And I left him without further parley, reading his impatience in his
face. Everything, to be sure, seemed clear enough without that
fuller discussion which I loved and Raffles hated. Yet I thought
we might at least have dined together, and in my heart I felt just
the least bit hurt, until it occurred to me as I drove to count the
notes in my cigarette case. Resentment was impossible after that.
The sum ran well into three figures, and it was plain that Raffles
meant me to have a good time in his absence. So I told his lie