"Oh, come now, Holmes," I said. "What new game is this you are rigging on me? I met him only five nights ago—and you know it."
"Oh—that one," said Raffles Holmes, with a laugh. "I was that
Robinstein."
"You?" I cried.
"Yes, me," said Holmes. "You don't suppose I'd let a third party into our secret, do you?"
And then he gave me one of those sweet, wistful smiles that made the wonder of the man all the greater.
"I wish to the dickens I knew whether these were real or paste!" he muttered, taking the extra pendants from his wallet as he spoke. "I don't dare ask anybody, and I haven't got any means of telling myself."
"Give them to me," said I, sternly, noting a glitter in his eye that suggested the domination for the moment of the Raffles in him.
"Tush, Jenkins," he began, uneasily.
"Give them to me, or I'll brain you, Holmes," said I, standing over him with a soda-water bottle gripped in my right hand, "for your own good. Come, give up."
He meekly obeyed.