the moment of losing a bet.

"What a joke, if he were!" cried the Wild West writer.

"_Absit omen!_" murmured Raffles, in better taste.

"Still, I think you'll find it's a favorite time," argued Kingsmill,
Q.C. "And it would be quite in keeping with the character of this man,
so far as it is known, to pay a little visit to the president of the
Criminologists' Club, and to choose the evening on which he happens to
be entertaining the other members."

There was more conviction in this sally than in that of our noble
host; but this I attributed to the trained and skilled dissimulation
of the bar. Lord Thornaby, however, was not to be amused by the
elaboration of his own idea, and it was with some asperity that he
called upon the butler, now solemnly superintending the removal of the
cloth.

"Leggett! Just send upstairs to see if all the doors are open and the
rooms in proper order. That's an awful idea of yours, Kingsmill, or of
mine!" added my lord, recovering the courtesy of his order by an
effort that I could follow. "We should look fools. I don't know which
of us it was, by the way, who seduced the rest from the main stream
of blood into this burglarious backwater. Are you familiar with De
Quincey's masterpiece on 'Murder as a Fine Art,' Mr. Raffles?"

"I believe I once read it," replied Raffles doubtfully.

"You must read it again," pursued the earl. "It is the last word on a
great subject; all we can hope to add is some baleful illustration or
blood-stained footnote, not unworthy of De Quincey's text. Well,
Leggett?"

The venerable butler stood wheezing at his elbow. I had not hitherto
observed that the man was an asthmatic.

"I beg your lordship's pardon, but I think your lordship must have
forgotten."

The voice came in rude gasps, but words of reproach could scarcely
have achieved a finer delicacy.

"Forgotten, Leggett! Forgotten what, may I ask?"

"Locking your lordship's dressing-room door behind your lordship, my
lord," stuttered the unfortunate Leggett, in the short spurts of a
winded man, a few stertorous syllables at a time. "Been up myself, my
lord. Bedroom door--dressing-room door--both locked inside!"

But by this time the noble master was in worse case than the man. His
fine forehead was a tangle of livid cords; his baggy jowl filled out
like a balloon. In another second he had abandoned his place as our
host and fled the room; and in yet another we had forgotten ours as
his guests and