I must; but I'm bound to say I don't like the idea, Raffles."

"Do you prefer the alternative?" asked my companion, with a sneer.
"No, hang it, that's unfair!" he cried apologetically in the same
breath. "I quite understand. It's a beastly ordeal. But it would
never do for you to stay outside. I tell you what, you shall have a
peg before we start--just one. There's the whiskey, here's a syphon,
and I'll be putting on an overcoat while you help yourself."

Well, I daresay I did so with some freedom, for this plan of his was
not the less distasteful to me from its apparent inevitability. I must
own, however, that it possessed fewer terrors before my glass was
empty. Meanwhile Raffles rejoined me, with a covert coat over his
blazer, and a soft felt hat set carelessly on the curly head he shook
with a smile as I passed him the decanter.

"When we come back," said he. "Work first, play afterward. Do you see
what day it is?" he added, tearing a leaflet from a Shakespearian
calendar, as I drained my glass. "March 15th. 'The Ides of March, the
Ides of March, remember.' Eh, Bunny, my boy? You won't forget them,
will you?"

And, with a laugh, he threw some coals on the fire before turning down
the gas like a careful householder. So we went out together as the
clock on the chimney-piece was striking two.

II

Piccadilly was a trench of raw white fog, rimmed with blurred
street-lamps, and lined with a thin coating of adhesive mud. We met no
other wayfarers on the deserted flagstones, and were ourselves favored
with a very hard stare from the constable of the beat, who, however,
touched his helmet on recognizing my companion.

"You see, I'm known to the police," laughed Raffles as we passed on.
"Poor devils, they've got to keep their weather eye open on a night
like this! A fog may be a bore to you and me, Bunny, but it's a
perfect godsend to the criminal classes, especially so late in their
season. Here we are, though--and I'm hanged if the beggar isn't in bed
and asleep after all!"

We had turned into Bond Street, and had halted on the curb a few yards
down on the right. Raffles was gazing up at some windows across the
road, windows barely discernible through the mist, and without the
glimmer of a light to throw them out. They were over a jeweller's shop,
as I could see by the peep-hole in the shop door, and the bright light
burning within. But the entire "upper part," with the private
street-door ne