Raffles
hand. "They've got me tight," he whispered. "I'm done."
"Blaze through the door," I urged, and might have done it had I been armed. But I never was. It was Raffles who monopolized that risk.
"I can't—it's the boys—the wrong house!" he whispered. "Curse the fog—it's done me. But you get out, Bunny, while you can; never mind me; it's my turn, old chap."
His one hand tightened in affectionate farewell. I put the electric torch in it before I went, trembling in every inch, but without a word.
Get out! His turn! Yes, I would get out, but only to come in again, for it was my turn—mine—not his. Would Raffles leave me held by a hand through a hole in a door? What he would have done in my place was the thing for me to do now. I began by diving head-first through the pantry window and coming to earth upon all fours. But even as I stood up, and brushed the gravel from the palms of my hands and the knees of my knickerbockers, I had no notion what to do next. And yet I was half-way to the front door before I remembered the vile crape mask upon my face, and tore it off as the door flew open and my feet were on the steps.
"He's into the next garden," I cried to a bevy
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