from Harrod's Stores for the occasion.

It was little after nine when we crawled together into the
gardens; by half-past my invalid had had enough, and out he
tottered on my arm; a cab, a message to our coachman, a timely
train to Baker Street, another cab, and we were at the British
Museum--brisk pedestrians now--not very many minutes after the
opening hour of 10 A.M.

It was one of those glowing days which will not be forgotten by
many who were in town at the time. The Diamond Jubilee was upon
us, and Queen's weather had already set in. Raffles, indeed,
declared it was as hot as Italy and Australia put together; and
certainly the short summer nights gave the channels of wood and
asphalt and the continents of brick and mortar but little time
to cool. At the British Museum the pigeons were crooning among
the shadows of the grimy colonnade, and the stalwart janitors
looked less stalwart than usual, as though their medals were too
heavy for them. I recognized some habitual Readers going to
their labor underneath the dome; of mere visitors we seemed
among the first.

"That's the room," said Raffles, who had bought the two-penny
guide, as we studied it openly on the nearest bench; "number 43,
upstairs and sharp round to the right. Come on, Bunny!"

And he led the way in silence, but with a long methodical stride
which I could not understand until we came to the corridor
leading to the Room of Gold, when he turned to me for a moment.