The Amateur Cracksman by E. W. Hornung (best novels for students .txt) 📕

man, and devil take the worst shot. You don’t suppose I prefer foul play to fair, do you? But die he must, by one or the other, or it’s a long stretch for you and me.”

“Better that than this!”

“Then stay where you are, my good fellow. I told you I didn’t want you; and this is the house. So good night.”

I could see no house at all, only the angle of a high wall rising solitary in the night, with the starlight glittering on battlements of broken glass; and in the wall a tall green gate, bristling with spikes, and showing a front for battering-rams in the feeble rays an outlying lamppost cast across the new-made road. It seemed to me a road of building-sites, with but this one house built, all by itself, at one end; but the night was too dark for more than a mere impression.

Raffles, however, had seen the place by daylight, and had come prepared for the special obstacles; already he was reaching up and putting champagne corks on the spikes, and in another moment he had his folded covert-coat across the corks. I stepped back as he raised himself, and saw a little pyramid of slates snip the sky above the gate; as he squirmed over I ran forward, and had my own weight on the spikes and corks and covert-coat when he gave the latter a tug.

“Coming after all?”

“Rather!”

“Take care, then; the place is all bell-wires and springs. It’s no soft thing, this! There⁠—stand still while I take off the corks.”

The garden was very small and new, with a grass-plot still in separate sods, but a quantity of full-grown laurels stuck into the raw clay beds. “Bells in themselves,” as Raffles whispered; “there’s nothing else rustles so⁠—cunning old beast!” And we gave them a wide berth as we crept across the grass.

“He’s gone to bed!”

“I don’t think so, Bunny. I believe he’s seen us.”

“Why?”

“I saw a light.”

“Where?”

“Downstairs, for an instant, when I⁠—”

His whisper died away; he had seen the light again; and so had I.

It lay like a golden rod under the front-door⁠—and vanished. It reappeared like a gold thread under the lintel⁠—and vanished for good. We heard the stairs creak, creak, and cease, also for good. We neither saw nor heard any more, though we stood waiting on the grass till our feet were soaked with the dew.

“I’m going in,” said Raffles at last. “I don’t believe he saw us at all. I wish he had. This way.”

We trod gingerly on the path, but the gravel stuck to our wet soles, and grated horribly in a little tiled veranda with a glass door leading within. It was through this glass that Raffles had first seen the light; and he now proceeded to take out a pane, with the diamond, the pot of treacle, and the sheet of brown paper which were seldom omitted from his impedimenta. Nor did he dispense with my own assistance, though he may have accepted it as instinctively as it was proffered. In any case it was these fingers that helped to spread the treacle on the brown paper, and pressed the latter to the glass until the diamond had completed its circuit and the pane fell gently back into our hands.

Raffles now inserted his hand, turned the key in the lock, and, by making a long arm, succeeded in drawing the bolt at the bottom of the door; it proved to be the only one, and the door opened, though not very wide.

“What’s that?” said Raffles, as something crunched beneath his feet on the very threshold.

“A pair of spectacles,” I whispered, picking them up. I was still fingering the broken lenses and the bent rims when Raffles tripped and almost fell, with a gasping cry that he made no effort to restrain.

“Hush, man, hush!” I entreated under my breath. “He’ll hear you!”

For answer his teeth chattered⁠—even his⁠—and I heard him fumbling with his matches. “No, Bunny; he won’t hear us,” whispered Raffles, presently; and he rose from his knees and lit a gas as the match burnt down.

Angus Baird was lying on his own floor, dead, with his gray hairs glued together by his blood; near him a poker with the black end glistening; in a corner his desk, ransacked, littered. A clock ticked noisily on the chimneypiece; for perhaps a hundred seconds there was no other sound.

Raffles stood very still, staring down at the dead, as a man might stare into an abyss after striding blindly to its brink. His breath came audibly through wide nostrils; he made no other sign, and his lips seemed sealed.

“That light!” said I, hoarsely; “the light we saw under the door!”

With a start he turned to me.

“It’s true! I had forgotten it. It was in here I saw it first!”

“He must be upstairs still!”

“If he is we’ll soon rout him out. Come on!”

Instead I laid a hand upon his arm, imploring him to reflect⁠—that his enemy was dead now⁠—that we should certainly be involved⁠—that now or never was our own time to escape. He shook me off in a sudden fury of impatience, a reckless contempt in his eyes, and, bidding me save my own skin if I liked, he once more turned his back upon me, and this time left me half resolved to take him at his word. Had he forgotten on what errand he himself was here? Was he determined that this night should end in black disaster? As I asked myself these questions his match flared in the hall; in another moment the stairs were creaking under his feet, even as they had creaked under those of the murderer; and the humane instinct that inspired him in defiance of his risk was borne in also upon my slower sensibilities. Could we let the murderer go? My answer was to bound up the creaking stairs and to overhaul Raffles on the landing.

But three doors presented themselves; the first opened into a bedroom with the bed turned down