“Not so old as it looks,” said Raffles, choosing the cigars and handing me mine. “Cognac or Benedictine, Bunny?”
“Brandy,” I said, coarsely.
“Besides,” he went on, “the rooms were not screwed up; at Dorchester House, at any rate, the door was only locked, and the key missing, so that it might have been done on either side.”
“But that was where he left his rope-ladder behind him!” I exclaimed in triumph; but Raffles only shook his head.
“I don’t believe in that rope-ladder, Bunny, except as a blind.”
“Then what on earth do you believe?”
“That every one of these so-called burglaries has been done from the inside, by one of the guests; and what’s more I’m very much mistaken if I haven’t spotted the right sportsman.”
I began to believe that he really had, there was such a wicked gravity in the eyes that twinkled faintly into mine. I raised my glass in convivial congratulation, and still remember the somewhat anxious eye with which Raffles saw it emptied.
“I can only find one likely name,” he continued, “that figures in all these lists, and it is anything but a likely one at first sight. Lord Ernest Belville was at all those functions. Know anything about him, Bunny?”
“Not the Rational Drink fanatic?”