on the door to the inner room.

"Tam-ma-nee, Tam-ma-nee;
Swampum, swampum,
Get their wampum,
Tam-ma-nee,"

was the sole answer, and in such fortissimo tones that I was not surprised
that he did not hear me.

"Oh, I say, Raffles," I hallooed, rapping on the door again, this time with
the head of my cane. "It's Jenkins, old man. Came to look you up. Was afraid
something had happened to you."

"'Way down upon the Suwanee River,
Far, far away,
Dere's whar my heart am turnin' ever,
Dere's whar de ole folks stay,"

was the reply.

Again I laughed.

"He's suffering from a bad attack of coonitis this evening," I observed to
myself. "Looks to me as if I'd have to let it run its course."

Whereupon I retired to a very comfortable couch near the window and sat down
to await the termination of the musical.

Five minutes later the singing having shown no signs of abatement I became
impatient, and a third assault on the door followed, this time with cane,
hands, and toes in unison.

"I'll have him out this time or die!" I ejaculated, filled with resolve, and
then began such a pounding upon the door as should have sufficed to awake a
dead Raffles, not to mention a living one.

"Hi, there, Jenkins!" cried a voice behind me, in the midst of this
operation, identically the same voice, too, as that still going on in the
room in front of me. "What the dickens are you trying to do--batter the
house down?"

I whirled about like a flash, and was deeply startled to see Raffles himself
standing by the divan I had just vacated, divesting himself of his gloves
and light overcoat.

"You--Raffles?" I roared in astonishment.

"Yep," said he. "Who else?"

"But the--the other chap--in the room there?"

"Oh," laughed Raffles. "That's my alibi-prover--hold on a minute and I'll
show you."

Whereupon he unlocked the door into the bedroom, whence had come the tuneful
lyrics, threw it wide open, and revealed to my astonished gaze no less an
object than a large talking-machine still engaged in the strenuous
fulfilment of its noisy mission.

"What the dickens!" I said.

"It's attacked to my front-door," said Raffles, silencing the machine. "The
minute the door is opened it begins to sing like the four-and-twenty
blackbirds baked in a pie."

"But what good is it?" said I.

"Oh, well--it keeps the servants from spending too much time in my
apartment, snooping among my papers, perhaps; and