"My dear boy, the Abbey is six miles from here and he won't by any living chance, get back before ten o'clock to-night. We shall have a good two hours and a half to do up old Cato without any interference from him," said Holmes. "Suppose he does come—what then? I rather doubt if Sir Henry Darlington, of the Hotel Powhatan, New York, or Dorsetshire, England, would find it altogether pleasant to hear a few reminiscences of Bob Hollister of Pentonville prison, which I have on tap."
"He'll kick up the deuce of a row," I protested.
"Very doubtful, Jenkins," said Raffles. "I sort of believe he'll be as gentle as a lamb when he finds out what I know—but, if he isn't, well, don't I represent law and order?" and Holmes displayed a detective's badge, which he wore for use in emergency cases, pinned to the inner side of his suspenders.
As he spoke, Darlington reappeared, and, leaving his key at the office, went out through the revolving doorway, and jumped into a hansom.
"Where to, sir?" asked the cabman.
"The Abbey," said Darlington.
"They're off!" whispered Holmes, with a laugh. "And now for Mr. Cato."
We walked back through the office, and, as we passed the bench upon which the bell-boys sat, Raffles stopped before the lad who had delivered the telegram to him.
"Here, son," he said, handing him a quarter, "run over to the news-stand and get me a copy of this months Salmagundi—I'll be in the smoking-room."
The boy went off on his errand, and in a few minutes returned with a magazine.