The Wrong House
only once before described a downright burglary in which I assisted, and that without knowing it at the time. The most solemn student of these annals cannot affirm that he has cut through many doors in our company, since (what was to me) the maiden effort to which I allude. I, however, have cracked only too many a crib in conjunction with A. J. Raffles, and at the crucial moment he would whisper "Victory or Wormwood Scrubbs, Bunny!" or instead of Wormwood Scrubbs it might be Portland Bill. This time it was neither one nor the other, for with that very word "victory" upon his lips, they whitened and parted with the first taste of defeat.
"My hand's held!" gasped Raffles, and the white of his eyes showed all round the iris, a rarer thing than you may think.
At the same moment I heard the shuffling feet and the low, excited young voices on the other side of the door, and a faint light shone round Raffles's wrist.
"Well done, Beefy!"
"Hang on to him!"
"Good old Beefy!"
"Beefy's got him!"
"So have I—so have I!"
And Raffles caught my arm with his one free
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