ugh. "If you knew what I was
going to do you wouldn't kick--that is, unless you've turned crook too?"

"Not I," said I, indignantly.

"You don't expect me to keep these bonds, do you?" he asked.

"But what are you going to do with them?" I retorted.

"Put 'em back in the Kenesaw Bank, where they belong, so that they'll be
found there to-morrow morning. As sure as I don't, Billington Rand is
doomed," said he. "It's a tough job, but I've been paid a thousand dollars
by his family, to find out what he's up to, and by thunder, after following
his trail for three weeks, I've got such a liking for the boy that I'm going
to save him if it can be done, and if there's any Raffles left in me, such a
simple proposition as cracking a bank and puting the stuff back where it
belongs, in a safe of which I have the combination, isn't going to stand in
my way. Don't fret, old man, it's as good as done. Good-night."

And Raffles Holmes was off. I passed a feverish night, but at five o'clock
the following morning a telephone message set all my misgivings at rest.

"Hello, Jenkins!" came Raffles's voice over the wire.

"Hello," I replied.

"Just rang you up to let you know that it's all right. The stuff's replaced.
Easiest job ever--like opening oysters. Pleasant dreams to you," he said,
and, click, the connection was broken.

Two weeks later Billington Rand resigned from the Kenesaw Bank and went
West, where he is now leading the simple life on a sheep-ranch. His
resignation was accepted with regret, and the board of directors, as a
special mark of their liking, voted him a gift of $2500 for faithful
services.

"And the best part of it was," said Holmes, when he told me of the young
man's good fortune, "that his accounts were as straight as a string."

"Holmes, you are a bully chap!" I cried, in a sudden excess of enthusiasm.
"You do things for nothing sometimes--"

"Nothing!" echoed Holmes--"nothing! Why, that job was worth a million
dollars to me, Jenkins--but not in coin. Just in good solid satisfaction in
saving a fine young chap like Billington Rand from the clutches of a sharper
and sneaking skinflint like old Bucket-shop Gallagher."

VIII
"THE NOSTALGIA OF NERVY JIM THE SNATCHER"

Raffles Holmes was unusually thoughtful the other night when he entered my
apartment, and for a long time I could get nothing out of him save an
occasional grunt of assent or dissent from propositions advanced by myself.
It was quite e