The rest is already public property. All the morning papers were full of the strange recovery of the Burlingame stomacher the following Tuesday morning, and the name of Raffles Holmes was in every mouth. That night, the very essence of promptitude, Holmes appeared at my apartment and handed me a check for my share in the transaction.
"Why—what does this mean?" I cried, as I took in the figures; "$12,500—I thought it was to be only $10,000."
"It was," said Raffles Holmes, "but Mrs. Burlingame was so overjoyed at getting the thing back she made the check for $25,000 instead of for $20,000."
"You're the soul of honor, Holmes!" I murmured.
"On my father's side," he said, with a sigh. "On my mother's side it comes hard."
"And Mrs. Burlingame—didn't she ask you how you ferreted the thing out?" I asked.
"Yes," said Holmes. "But I told her that that was my secret, that my secret was my profession, and that my profession was my bread and butter."
"But she must have asked you who was the guilty person?" I persisted.
"Yes," said Holmes, "she did, and I took her for a little gallop through the social register, in search of the guilty party; that got on her nerves, so that when it came down to an absolute question of identity she begged me to forget it."
"I am dull of comprehension, Raffles," said I. "Tell me exactly what you mean."