better, but, like another madman, had let him ramble on
unchecked. And here was a stolid constable confronting us, in
the short tunic that they wear in summer, his whistle on its
chain, but no truncheon at his side. Heavens! how I see him
now: a man of medium size, with a broad, good-humored,
perspiring face, and a limp moustache. He looked sternly at
Raffles, and Raffles looked merrily at him.

"Going to run me in, officer?" said he. "That WOULD be a
joke--my hat!"

"I didn't say as I was, sir," replied the policeman. "But
that's queer talk for a gentleman like you, sir, in the British
Museum!" And he wagged his helmet at my invalid, who had taken
his airing in frock-coat and top-hat, the more readily to
assume his present part.

"What!" cried Raffles, "simply saying to my friend that I'd like
to lift the gold cup? Why, so I should, officer, so I should!
I don't mind who hears me say so. It's one of the most beautiful
things I ever saw in all my life."

The constable's face had already relaxed, and now a grin peeped
under the limp moustache. "I daresay there's many as feels like
that, sir," said he.

"Exactly; and I say what I feel, that's all," said Raffles
airily. "But seriously, officer, is a valuable thing like this
quite safe in a case like that?"