“My hand’s held!” gasped Raffles, and the white of his eyes showed all round the iris, a rarer thing than you may think.
At the same moment I heard the shuffling feet and the low, excited young voices on the other side of the door, and a faint light shone round Raffles’s wrist.
“Well done, Beefy!”
“Hang on to him!”
“Good old Beefy!”
“Beefy’s got him!”
“So have I—so have I!”
And Raffles caught my arm with his one free hand. “They’ve got me tight,” he whispered. “I’m done.”
“Blaze through the door,” I urged, and might have done it had I been armed. But I never was. It was Raffles who monopolized that risk.
“I can’t—it’s the boys—the wrong house!” he whispered. “Curse the fog—it’s done me. But you get out, Bunny, while you can; never mind me; it’s my turn, old chap.”