her off
guard, the man started toward her, but pulled up as quickly, dashed
and sullen. For she did not flinch an inch.

"That's your lookout!" she retorted incisively. "If you're afraid of
it--stand back and keep your hands up!"

With a flicker of a sheepish grin the rogue obeyed, falling back until
his shoulders touched the wall and keeping his hands level with his
ears.

Still holding the pistol ready, the girl shifted her glance to Blue
Serge.

He had already picked himself up, and now stood surveying his ally
with a regard which wavered between amaze and admiration, suspicion
and surprise. Meanwhile he felt gingerly of his throat, as if it were
still sore, and nervously endeavoured to readjust a collar which had
broken from its moorings. Catching her inquiring eye, he bowed
jerkily.

"Thanks!" he panted. "I--ah--good of you, I'm sure--"

She checked him coolly. "Take your time--plenty of it, you know--get
your breath and pull yourself together."

He laughed uncertainly. "Ah--thanks again. Just a minute.
I'm--ah--as dumfounded as grateful, you know."

She nodded with a curtness due to disillusionment; the man was
palpably frightened; and, whatever his excuse, a timid Raffles was a
sorry object in her esteem at that instant. She had anticipated of
him--she hardly knew what--something brilliant, bold, and dashing,
something as romantic as one has every right to expect of a hero of
romantic fiction. But this one stood panting, trembling, "sparring for
wind," for all the world like any commonplace person fresh from rough
handling!

It was most disappointing, so much so that she conceded grudgingly the
testimony of her senses to the rapidity with which he regained his
normal poise and command of resource; for one evidence of which last
she noted that he backed up to the centre-table with a casual air, as
if needing its support, and with a deft, certain, swift gesture
slipped the jewel-case into his coatpocket. And she noted, too, a
flash of anxiety in his eyes, as if he were wondering whether she had
noticed.

At this she lost patience. "Well?" she said briskly. "If you've had
time to think--"

"To be sure," Blue Serge returned easily. "You mean, about this
gentleman? If you ask me, I think he'd be far less potentially
mischievous facing the wall."

"All right," Sally agreed, and added with a fine flourish of the
pistol: "Face about, you!"

With flattering docility the fat rascal faced about. "And now