"That's the number, Raffles," I whispered, excitedly.
"I know it," he said, quietly. "Give him another chance—"
"Telegram for number four hundred and seven," called the buttons.
"Here, boy," said Holmes, nerving himself up. "Give me that."
"Four hundred and seven, sir?" asked the boy.
"Certainly," said Holmes, coolly. "Hand it over—any charge?"
"No, sir," said the boy, giving Raffles the yellow covered message.
"Thank you," said Holmes, tearing the flap open carelessly as the boy departed.
And just then the fictitious baronet entered the room, and, as Holmes read his telegram, passed by us, still apparently in search of the unattainable, little dreaming how close at hand was the explanation of his troubles. I was on the edge of nervous prostration, but Holmes never turned a hair, and, save for a slight tremor of his hand, no one would have even guessed that there was anything in the wind. Sir Henry Darlington took a seat in the far corner of the room.
"That accounts for his uneasiness," said Holmes, tossing the telegram across the table.