"And where do you make that? Aren't you afraid of smoke?"

"There's a gas-stove in the dining-room."

"But surely to goodness," I cried, "there's a cellar lower down!"

"My dear, good Bunny," said Raffles, "I've told you already that I
didn't come in here on business. I came in for the Cure. Not a
penny will these people be the worse, except for their washing and
their electric light, and I mean to leave enough to cover both
items."

"Then," said I, "since Brutus is such a very honorable man, we will
borrow a bottle from the cellar, and replace it before we go."

Raffles slapped me softly on the back, and I knew that I had gained
my point. It was often the case when I had the presence of heart
and mind to stand up to him. But never was little victory of mine
quite so grateful as this. Certainly it was a very small cellar,
indeed a mere cupboard under the kitchen stairs, with a most
ridiculous lock. Nor was this cupboard overstocked with wine. But
I made out a jar of whiskey, a shelf of Zeltinger, another of claret,
and a short one at the top which presented a little battery of
golden-leafed necks and corks. Raffles set his hand no lower. He
examined the labels while I held folded hat and naked light.

"Mumm, '84!" he whispered. "G. H. Mumm, and A.D. 1884! I am no
wine-bibber, Bunny, as you know, but I hope you appreciate the
specifications as I do. It looks to me like the only bottle, the
last of its case, and it does seem a bit of a shame; but more shame