"Oh cream-cakes!" he ejaculated, with profane emphasis.
A week after the incidents just described he walked into my room with a small package under his arm.
"There's the pair!" he observed, unwrapping the parcel and displaying its contents—two superb, golden pepper-pots, both inscribed "A.R. to C.C." "Beauties, aren't they?"
"They are, indeed. Did Bruce give it up willingly?" I asked.
"He never said a word," laughed Holmes. "Fact is, he snored all the time I was there."
"Snored?" said I.
"Yes—you see, it was at 3.30 this morning," said Holmes, "and I went in the back way. Climbed up to the extension roof, in through Bruce's bedroom window, down-stairs to the dining-room, while Bruce slept unconscious of my arrival. The house next to his is vacant, you know, and it was easy travelling."
"You—you—" I began.
"Yes—that's it," said he. "Just a plain vulgar bit of second-story business, and I got it. There were a lot of other good things lying around," he added, with a gulp, "but—well, I was righting a wrong this time, so I let 'em alone, and, barring this, I didn't deprive old Bruce of a blooming thing, not even a wink of sleep."
"And now what?" I demanded.