The next day—Sunday—was one of feverish excitement, but we got through it without mishap, and on Monday morning it was with a sigh of relief that I saw Mrs. Wilbraham Ward-Smythe pull out of the Philadelphia station en route for Chicago, while Raffles Holmes and I returned to New York.
"Well, Raffles," said I, as we sped on our homeward way, "we've had our trouble for our pains."
He laughed crisply. "Have we?" said he. "I guess not—not unless you have lost the trunk check the porter gave you."
"What, this brass thing?" I demanded, taking the check from my pocket and flicking it in the air like a penny.
"That very brass thing," said Holmes.
"You haven't lifted that damned rope and put it in my trunk!" I roared.
"Hush, Jenkins! For Heaven's sake don't make a scene. I haven't done anything of the sort," he whispered, looking about him anxiously to make sure that we had not been overheard. "Those pearls are as innocent of my touch as the top of the Himalaya Mountains is of yours."
"Then what have you done?" I demanded, sulkily.
"Just changed a couple of trunk checks, that's all," said Raffles Holmes. "That bit of brass you have in your hand, which was handed to you in the station by the porter of the Garrymore, when presented at Jersey City will put you in possession of Mrs. Wilbraham Ward-Smythe's trunk, containing the bulk of her jewels. She's a trifle careless about her possessions, as any one could see who watched the nonchalant way in which she paraded the board walk with a small fortune on her neck and fingers. Most women would carry such things in a small hand-satchel, or at least have the trunk sent by registered express, but not Mrs. Wilbraham Ward-Smythe; and, thanks to her loud voice, listening outside of her door last night, I heard her directing her maid where she wished the gems packed."
"And where the dickens is my trunk?" I asked.