“I think,” said Raffles Holmes, as he ran over his expense account while sitting in my library one night some months ago, “that in view of the present condition of my exchequer, my dear Jenkins, it behooveth me to get busy.  Owning a motor-car is a demned expensive piece of business, and my balance at the back has shrunk to about $1683.59, thanks to my bills for cogs, clutches, and gasoline, plus the chauffeur’s fines.”

“In what capacity shall you work, Raffles or Holmes?” I asked, pausing in my writing and regarding him with that affectionate interest which contact with him had inspired in me.

“Play the combination always, Jenkins,” he replied.  “If I did the Raffles act alone, I should become the billionaire in this land of silk and money, your rich are so careless of their wealth ­but where would my conscience be?  On the other hand, if I stuck to the Holmes act exclusively, I’d starve to death; but the combination ­ah ­there is moderate fortune, my boy, with peace of mind thrown in.”

Here he rose up, buttoned his coat about his spare figure, and reached out for his hat.

“I guess I’ll tackle that case of the missing pendants to-morrow,” he continued, flicking the ash from his cigar and gazing up at the ceiling with that strange twist in his eye which I had learned to regard as the harbinger of a dawning idea in his mind.  “There’s ten thousand dollars for somebody in that job, and you and I might as well have it as any one else.”

“I’m ready,” said I, as well I might be, for all I had to do in the matter was to record the adventure and take my half of the profits ­no very difficult proceeding in either case.

“Good,” quoth he.  “I’ll go to Gaffany & Co. to-morrow and offer my services.”

“You have a clew?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” he answered.  “As for the lost diamonds, I know no more of their whereabouts than you do, but I shall be able beyond all question to restore to Gaffany & Co. two pendants just as good as those they have lost, and if I do that I am entitled to the reward, I fancy, am I not?”

“Most certainly,” said I.  “But where the dickens will you find two such stones?  They are worth $50,000 apiece, and they must match perfectly the two remaining jewels which Gaffany & Co. have in their safe.”

“I’ll match ’em so closely that their own mother couldn’t tell ’em apart,” said Holmes, with a chuckle.

“Then the report that they are of such rarity of cut and lustre is untrue?” I asked.

“It’s perfectly true,” said Holmes, “but that makes no difference.  The two stones that I shall return two weeks from to-day to Gaffany & Co. will be as like the two they have as they are themselves.  Ta-ta, Jenkins ­you can count on your half of that ten thousand as surely as though it is jingled now in your pockets.”

And with that Raffles Holmes left me to my own devices.

I presume that most readers of the daily newspapers are tolerably familiar with the case of the missing pendants to which Holmes referred, and on the quest for which he was now about to embark.  There may be some of you, however, who have never heard of the mysterious robbery of Gaffany & Co., by which two diamonds of almost matchless purity ­half of a quartet of these stones ­pear-shaped and valued at $50,000 each, had disappeared almost as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.  They were a part of the famous Gloria Diamond, found last year at Kimberley, a huge, uncut gem of such value that no single purchaser for it could be found in the world.  By a syndicate arrangement Gaffany & Co. had assumed charge of it, and were in the process of making for a customer a bar with four pendants cut from the original, when two of them disappeared.  They had been last seen in the hands of trusted employe of many years’ standing, to whom they had been intrusted for mounting, and he had been seen to replace them, at the end of the day’s work, in the little cage-like office of the custodian of the safe in which jewels of great value were kept at night.  This was the last seen of them, and although five weeks had elapsed since the discovery of their loss and Holmes’s decision to look into the matter, no clew of the slightest description had been discovered by the thousands of sleuths, professional or amateur, who had interested themselves in the case.

“He had such assurance!” I muttered.  “To hear him talk one would almost believe that they were already in his possession.”

I did not see Raffles Holmes again for five days, and then I met him only by chance, nor should I have known it was he had he not made himself known to me.  I was on my way uptown, a little after six o’clock, and as I passed Gaffany’s an aged man emerged from the employes’ entrance, carrying a small bag in his hand.  He was apparently very near-sighted, for he most unceremoniously bumped into me as he came out of the door on to the sidewalk.

Deference to age has always been a weakness of mine, and I apologized, although it was he that was at fault.

“Don’t mention it, Jenkins,” he whispered.  “You are just the man I want to see.  Cafe Panhard ­to-night ­eleven o’clock.  Just happen in, and if a foreign-looking person with a red beard speaks to you don’t throw him down, but act as if you were not annoyed by his mistake.”

“You know me?” I asked.

“Tush, man ­I’m Raffles Holmes!” and with that he was off.

His make-up was perfect, and as he hobbled his way along Broadway through the maze of cars, trucks, and hansoms, there was not in any part of him a hint or a suggestion that brought to mind my alert partner.

Of course my excitement was intense.  I could hardly wait for eleven o’clock to come, and at 9.30 I found myself in front of the Cafe Panhard a full hour and a half ahead of time, and never were there more minutes in that period of waiting than there seemed to be then as I paced Broadway until the appointed hour.  It seemed ages before the clock down in front of the Whirald Building pointed to 10.55, but at last the moment arrived, and I entered the cafe, taking one of the little tables in the farther corner, where the light was not unduly strong and where the turmoil of the Hungarian band was reduced by distance from moltofortissimo to a moderate approach to a pianissimo, which would admit of conversation.  Again I had to wait, but not for so long a time.  It was twenty minutes past eleven when a fine-looking man of military bearing, wearing a full red beard, entered, and after looking the cafe over, sauntered up to where I sat.

“Good-evening, Mr. Jenkins,” said he, with a slight foreign accent.  “Are you alone?”

“Yes,” said I.

“If you don’t mind, I should like to sit here for a few moments,” he observed, pulling out the chair opposite me.  “I have your permission?”

“Certainly, Mr. ­er ­”

“Robinstein is my name,” said he, sitting down, and producing a letter from his pocket.  “I have here a not from my old friend Raffles Holmes ­a note of introduction to you.  I am a manufacturer of paste jewels ­or rather was.  I have had one or two misfortunes in my business, and find myself here in America practically stranded.”

“Your place of business was ­”

“In the Rue de l’Echelle in Paris,” he explained.  “I lost everything in unfortunate speculation, and have come here to see if I could not get a new start.  Mr. Holmes thinks you can use your influence with Markoo & Co., the theatrical costumers, who, I believe, manufacture themselves all the stage jewelry they use in their business, to give me something to do.  It was said in Paris that the gems which I made were of such quality that they would deceive, for a time anyhow, the most expert lapidaries, and if I can only get an opening with Markoo & Co.  I am quite confident that you will not repent having exerted your good offices in my behalf.”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Robinstein,” said I.  “Any friend of Raffles Holmes may command my services.  I know Tommy Markoo very well, and as this is a pretty busy time with him, getting his stuff out for the fall productions, I have little doubt I shall be able to help you.  By Jove!” I added, as I glanced over the cafe, “that’s a singular coincidence ­there is Markoo himself just coming in the doorway.”

“Really?” said Mr. Robinstein, turning and gazing towards the door.  “He’s a different-looking chap from what I had imagined.  Perhaps, Mr. Jenkins, it would ­er ­expedite matters if you ­”

“Of course,” I interrupted.  “Tommy is alone ­we’ll have him over.”

And I beckoned to Markoo and invited him to join us.

“Good!” said he, in his whole-souled way.  “Glad to have a chance to see you ­I’m so confoundedly busy these days ­just think of it, I’ve been at the shop ever since eight o’clock this morning.”

“Tommy, I want to introduce you to my friend Mr. Robinstein,” said I.

“Not Isidore Robinstein, of Paris?” said Markoo.

“I have that misfortune, Mr. Markoo,” said Robinstein.

“Misfortune?  Gad, Mr. Robinstein, we look at things through different glasses,” returned Markoo.  “The man who can do your work ought never to suffer misfortune ­”

“If he only stays out of the stock-market,” said Robinstein.

“Aha,” laughed Tommy.  “Et tu, Brute?”

We all laughed, and if there was any ice to be broken after that it was along the line of business of the cafe.  We got along famously together, and when we parted company, two hours later, all the necessary arrangements had been made for Mr. Robinstein to begin at once with Markoo ­the following day, in fact.

Four nights later Holmes turned up at my apartment.

“Well,” said I, “have you come to report progress?”

“Yes,” he said.  “The reward will arrive on time, but it’s been the de’il’s own job.  Pretty, aren’t they!” he added, taking a small package wrapped in tissue-paper out of his pocket, and disclosing its contents.

“Gee-rusalem, what beauties!” I cried, as my eyes fell on two such diamonds as I had never before seen.  They sparkled on the paper like bits of sunshine, and that their value was quite $100,000 it did not take one like myself, who knew little of gems, to see at a glance.  “You have found them, have you?”

“Found what?” asked Raffles Holmes.

“The missing pendants,” said I.

“Well ­not exactly,” said Raffles Holmes.  “I think I’m on the track of them, though.  There’s an old chap who works beside me down at Gaffany’s who spends so much of his time drinking ice-water that I’m getting to be suspicious of him.”

I roared with laughter.

“The ice-water habit is evidence of a criminal nature, eh?” I queried.

“Not per se,” said Holmes, gravely, “but in conjunctibus ­if my Latin is weak, please correct me ­it is a very suspicious habit.  When I see a man drink ten glasses of water in two hours it indicates to my mind that there is something in the water-cooler that takes his mind off his business.  It is not likely to be either the ice or the water, on the doctrine of probabilities.  Hence it must be something else.  I caught him yesterday with his hand in it.”

“His hand?  In the water-cooler?” I demanded.

“Yes,” said Holmes.  “He said he was fishing around for a little piece of ice to cool his head, which ached, but I think differently.  He got as pale as a ghost when I started in to fish for a piece for myself because my head ached too.  I think he took the diamonds and has hid them there, but I’m not sure yet, and in my business I can’t afford to make mistakes.  If my suspicions are correct, he is merely awaiting his opportunity to fish them out and light out with them.”

“Then these,” I said, “are ­are they paste?”

“No, indeed, they’re the real thing,” said Raffles Holmes, holding up one of the gems to the light, where it fairly coruscated with brilliance.  “These are the other two of the original quartet.”

“Great Heavens, Holmes ­do you mean to say that Gaffany & Co. permit you to go about with things like this in your pocket?” I demanded.

“Not they,” laughed Holmes.  “They’d have a fit if they knew I had ’em, only they don’t know it.”

“But how have you concealed the fact from them?” I persisted.

“Robinstein made me a pair exactly like them,” said Holmes.  “The paste ones are now lying in the Gaffany safe, where I saw them placed before leaving the shop to-night.”

“You’re too deep for me, Holmes,” said I.  “What’s the game?”

“Now don’t say game, Jenkins,” he protested.  “I never indulge in games.  My quarry is not a game, but a scheme.  For the past two weeks, with three days off, I have been acting as a workman in the Gaffany ship, with the ostensible purpose of keeping my eye on certain employes who are under suspicion.  Each day the remaining two pendant-stones ­these ­have been handed to me to work on, merely to carry out the illusion.  The first day, in odd moments, I made sketches of them, and on the night of the second I had ’em down in such detail as to cut and color, that Robinstein had no difficulty in reproducing them in the materials at his disposal in Markoo’s shop.  And to-night all I had to do to get them was to keep them and hand in the Robinstein substitutes when the hour of closing came.”

“So that now, in place of four $50,000 diamonds, Gaffany & Co. are in possession of ­”

“Two paste pendants, worth about $40 apiece,” said Holmes.  “If I fail to find the originals I shall have to use the paste ones to carry the scheme through, but I hate to do it.  It’s so confoundly inartistic and as old a trick as the pyramids.”

“And to-morrow ­”

Raffles Holmes got up and paced the floor nervously.

“Ah, Jenkins,” he said, with a heart-rending sigh, “that is the point.  To-morrow!  Heavens! what will to-morrow’s story be?  I ­I cannot tell.”

“What’s the matter, Holmes?” said.  “Are you in danger?”

“Physically, no ­morally, my God!  Jenkins, yes.  I shall need all of your help,” he cried.

“What can I do?” I asked.  “You know you have only to command me.”

“Don’t leave me this night for a minute,” he groaned.  “If you do, I am lost.  The Raffles in me is rampant when I look at those jewels and think of what they will mean if I keep them.  An independent fortune forever.  All I have to do is to get aboard a ship and go to Japan and live in comfort the rest of my days with the wealth in my possession, and all the instincts of honest that I possess, through the father in me, will be powerless to prevent my indulgence in this crime.  Keep me in sight, and if I show the slightest inclination to give you the slip, knock me over the head, will you, for my own good?”

I promised faithfully that I would do as he asked, but, as an easier way out of an unpleasant situation, I drugged his Remsen cooler with a sleeping-powder, and an hour later he was lying off on my divan lost to the world for eight hours at least.  As a further precaution I put the jewels in my own safe.

The night’s sleep had the desired effect, and with the returning day Holmes’s better nature asserted itself.  Raffles was subdued, and he returned to Gaffany’s to put the finishing touches to his work.

“Here’s your check, Jenkins,” said Raffles Holmes, handing me a draft for $5000.  “The gems were found to-day in the water-cooler in the work-room, and Gaffany & Co. paid up like gentlemen.”

“And the thief?” I asked.

“Under arrest,” said Raffles Holmes.  “We caught him fishing for them.”

“And your past jewels, where are they?”

“I wish I knew,” he answered, his face clouding over.  “In the excitement of the moment of the arrest I got ’em mixed with the originals I had last night, and they didn’t give me time or opportunity to pick ’em out.  The four were mounted immediately and sent under guard to the purchaser.  Gaffany & Co. didn’t want to keep them a minute longer than was necessary.  But the purchaser is so rich he will never have to sell ’em ­so, you see, Jenkins, we’re as safe as a church.”

“Your friend Robinstein was a character, Holmes,” said I.

“Yes,” sighed Holmes.  “Poor chap ­he was a great loss to his friends.  He taught me the art of making paste gems when I was in Paris.  I miss him like the dickens.”

“Miss him!” said I, getting anxious for Robinstein.  “What happened?  He isn’t ­”

“Dead,” said Holmes.  “Two years ago ­dear old chap.”

“Oh, come now, Holmes,” I said.  “What new game is this you are rigging on me?  I met him only five nights ago ­and you know it.”

“Oh ­that one,” said Raffles Holmes, with a laugh. “I was that Robinstein.”

“You?” I cried.

“Yes, me,” said Holmes.  “You don’t suppose I’d let a third party into our secret, do you?”

And then he gave me one of those sweet, wistful smiles that made the wonder of the man all the greater.

“I wish to the dickens I knew whether these were real or paste!” he muttered, taking the extra pendants from his wallet as he spoke.  “I don’t dare ask anybody, and I haven’t got any means of telling myself.”

“Give them to me,” said I, sternly, noting a glitter in his eye that suggested the domination for the moment of the Raffles in him.

“Tush, Jenkins,” he began, uneasily.

“Give them to me, or I’ll brain you, Holmes,” said I, standing over him with a soda-water bottle gripped in my right hand, “for your own good.  Come, give up.”

He meekly obeyed.

“Come now, get on your hat,” said I.  “I want you to go out with me.”

“What for, Jenkins?” he almost snarled.

“You’ll see what for,” said I.

And Raffles Holmes obeying, we walked down to the river’s edge, where I stood for a moment, and then hurled the remaining stones far out into the waters.

Holmes gave a gasp and then a sigh of relief.

“There,” I said.  “It doesn’t matter much to us now whether the confounded things were real or not.”