Raffles blew pensive rings as he lay back on my sofa, his black hair
tumbled on the cushion, his pale profile as clear and sharp against
the light as though slashed out with the scissors.

"I know it wasn't, Bunny," he said regretfully. "But things like
that, as the poet will tell you, are really inseparable from
victories like mine. It had taken me a couple of hours to break
out of that strong-room; I was devoting a third to the harmless
task of simulating the appearance of having broken in; and it was
then I heard the fellow's stealthy step. Some might have stood
their ground and killed him; more would have bolted into a worse
corner than they were in already. I left my candle where it was,
crept to meet the poor devil, flattened myself against the wall,
and let him have it as he passed. I acknowledge the foul blow,
but here's evidence that it was mercifully struck. The victim has
already
told his tale."

As he drained his glass, but shook his head when I wished to
replenish it, Raffles showed me the flask which he had carried in
his pocket: it was still nearly full; and I found that he had
otherwise provisioned himself over the holidays. On either Easter
Day or Bank Holiday, had I failed him, it had been his intention to
make the best escape he could. But the risk must have been enormous,
and it filled my glowing skin to think that he had not relied on me
in vain.

As for his gleanings from such jewel-cases as were spending the
Easter recess in the strong-room of my bank, without going into
rhapsodies or even particulars on the point,) I may mention that