E. W. Hornung_A J Raffles 03 by A Thief in the Night

courtesy, to the two
remaining guests. They were the pair who had driven up in the
hansom; one turned out to be Kingsmill, Q.C.; the other I knew at
a glance from his photographs as Parrington, the backwoods novelist.
They were admirable foils to each other, the barrister being plump
and dapper, with a Napoleonic cast of countenance, and the author
one of the shaggiest dogs I have ever seen in evening-clothes.
Neither took much stock of me, but both had an eye on Raffles as I
exchanged a few words with each in turn. Dinner, however, was
immediately announced, and the six of us had soon taken our places
round a brilliant little table stranded in a great dark room.
    I had not been prepared for so small a party, and at first I felt
relieved. If the worst came to the worst, I was fool enough to say
in my heart, they were but two to one. But I was soon sighing for
that safety which the adage associates with numbers. We were far
too few for the confidential duologue with one's neighbor in which
I, at least, would have taken refuge from the perils of a general
conversation. And the general conversation soon resolved itself
into an attack, so subtly concerted and so artistically delivered
that I could not conceive how Raffles should ever know it for an
attack, and that against himself, or how to warn him of his peril.
But to this day I am not convinced that I also was honored by the
suspicions of the club; it may have been so, and they may have
ignored me for the bigger game.
    It was Lord Thornaby himself who fired the first shot, over the very
sherry. He had Raffles on his right hand, and the backwoodsman of
letters on his left. Raffles was hemmed in by the law on his right,
while I sat between Parrington and Ernest, who took the foot of the
table, and seemed a sort of feudatory cadet of the noble house. But
it was the motley lot of us that my lord addressed, as he sat back
blinking his baggy eyes.
    "Mr. Raffles," said he, "has been telling me about that poor fellow
who suffered the extreme penalty last March. A great end, gentlemen,
a great end! It is true that he had been unfortunate enough to
strike a jugular vein, but his own end should take its place among
the most glorious traditions of the gallows. You tell them Mr.
Raffles: it will be as new to my friends as it is to me."
    "I tell the tale as I heard it last time I played at Trent Bridge;
it was never in the papers, I believe," said Raffles gravely. "You
may remember the tremendous excitement over the Test Matches out in
Australia at the time: it seems that the result of the crucial game
was expected on the condemned man's last day on earth, and he
couldn't rest until he knew it. We pulled it off, if you recollect,
and he said it would make him swing happy."
    "Tell 'em what else he said!" cried Lord Thornaby, rubbing his podgy
hands.
    "The chaplain remonstrated with him on his excitement over a game
at such a time, and the convict is said to have replied: 'Why, it's
the first thing they'll ask me at the other end of the drop!'"
    The story was new even to me, but I had no time to appreciate its
points. My concern was to watch its effect upon the other members
of the party. Ernest, on my left, doubled up with laughter, and
tittered and shook for several minutes. My other neighbor, more
impressionable by temperament, winced first, and then worked himself
into a state of enthusiasm which culminated in an assault upon his
shirt-cuff with a joiner's pencil. Kingsmill, Q.C., beaming
tranquilly on Raffles, seemed the one least impressed, until he spoke.
    "I am glad to hear that," he remarked in a high bland voice. "I
thought that man would die game."
    "Did you know anything about him, then?" inquired Lord Thornaby.
    "I led for the Crown," replied the barrister, with a twinkle. "You
might almost say that I measured the poor man's neck."
    The point must have been quite unpremeditated; it was not the less
effective for that. Lord Thornaby looked askance at the callous silk.
It was some