"I prefer to call it my Rest Cure," returned Raffles, "and it's
really nothing else. I've got a furnished house at a time when no
one else would have dreamed of taking one in town; and my very
neighbors don't know I'm there, though I'm bound to say there are
hardly any of them at home. I don't keep a servant, and do
everything for myself. It's the next best fun to a desert island.
Not that I make much work, for I'm really resting, but I haven't
done so much solid reading for years. Rather a joke, Bunny: the
man whose house I've taken is one of her Majesty's inspectors of
prisons, and his study's a storehouse of criminology. It has been
quite amusing to lie on one's back and have a good look at one's
self as others fondly imagine they see one."

"But surely you get some exercise?" I asked; for he was leading me
at a good rate through the leafy byways of Camp den Hill; and his
step was as springy and as light as ever.

"The best exercise I ever had in my life," said Raffles; "and you
would never live to guess what it is. It's one of the reasons why
I went in for this seedy kit. I follow cabs. Yes, Bunny, I turn
out about dusk and meet the expresses at Euston or King's Cross;
that is, of course, I loaf outside and pick my cab, and often run
my three or four miles for a bob or less. And it not only keeps
you in the very pink: if you're good they let you carry the trunks
up-stairs; and I've taken notes from the inside of more than one
commodious residence which will come in useful in the autumn. In
fact, Bunny, what with these new Rowton houses, my beard, and my
otherwise well-spent holiday, I hope to have quite a good autumn
season before the erratic Raffles turns up in town."