I had not seen Raffles Holmes for some weeks, nor had I heard from him, although I had faithfully remitted to his address his share of the literary proceeds of his adventures as promptly as circumstances permitted ­$600 on the first tale, $920 on the second, and no less than $1800 on the third, showing a constantly growing profit on our combination from my side of the venture.  These checks had not even been presented for payment at the bank.  Fearing from this that he might be ill, I called at Holmes’s lodgings in the Rexmere, a well-established bachelor apartment hotel, on Forty-fourth Street, to inquire as to the state of his health.  The clerk behind the desk greeted my cordially as I entered, and bade me go at once to Holmes’s apartment on the eighteenth floor, which I immediately proceeded to do.

“Here is Mr. Holmes’s latch-key, sir,” said the clerk.  “He told me you were to have access to his apartment at any time.”

“He is in, is he?” I asked.

“I really don’t know, sir.  I will call up and inquire, if you wish,” replied the clerk.

“Oh, never mind,” said I.  “I’ll go up, anyhow, and if he is out, I’ll wait.”

So up I went, and a few moments later had entered the apartment.  As the door opened, the little private hallway leading to his den at the rear burst into a flood of light, and from an inner room, the entrance to which was closed, I could hear Holmes’s voice cheerily carolling out snatches of such popular airs as “Tammany” and “Ef Yo’ Habn’t Got No Money Yo’ Needn’t Bodder Me.”

I laughed quietly and at the same time breathed a sigh of relief.  It was very evident from the tone of his voice that there was nothing serious the matter with my friend and partner.

“Hullo, Raffles!” I called out, knocking on the door to the inner room.

     “Tam-ma-nee, Tam-ma-nee;
     Swampum, swampum,
     Get their wampum,
     Tam-ma-nee,”

was the sole answer, and in such fortissimo tones that I was not surprised that he did not hear me.

“Oh, I say, Raffles,” I hallooed, rapping on the door again, this time with the head of my cane.  “It’s Jenkins, old man.  Came to look you up.  Was afraid something had happened to you.”

     “’Way down upon the Suwanee River,
     Far, far away,
     Dere’s whar my heart am turnin’ ever,
     Dere’s whar de olé folks stay,”

was the reply.

Again I laughed.

“He’s suffering from a bad attack of coonitis this evening,” I observed to myself.  “Looks to me as if I’d have to let it run its course.”

Whereupon I retired to a very comfortable couch near the window and sat down to await the termination of the musical.

Five minutes later the singing having shown no signs of abatement I became impatient, and a third assault on the door followed, this time with cane, hands, and toes in unison.

“I’ll have him out this time or die!” I ejaculated, filled with resolve, and then began such a pounding upon the door as should have sufficed to awake a dead Raffles, not to mention a living one.

“Hi, there, Jenkins!” cried a voice behind me, in the midst of this operation, identically the same voice, too, as that still going on in the room in front of me.  “What the dickens are you trying to do ­batter the house down?”

I whirled about like a flash, and was deeply startled to see Raffles himself standing by the divan I had just vacated, divesting himself of his gloves and light overcoat.

“You ­Raffles?” I roared in astonishment.

“Yep,” said he.  “Who else?”

“But the ­the other chap ­in the room there?”

“Oh,” laughed Raffles.  “That’s my alibi-prover ­hold on a minute and I’ll show you.”

Whereupon he unlocked the door into the bedroom, whence had come the tuneful lyrics, threw it wide open, and revealed to my astonished gaze no less an object than a large talking-machine still engaged in the strenuous fulfilment of its noisy mission.

“What the dickens!” I said.

“It’s attacked to my front-door,” said Raffles, silencing the machine.  “The minute the door is opened it begins to sing like the four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”

“But what good is it?” said I.

“Oh, well ­it keeps the servants from spending too much time in my apartment, snooping among my papers, perhaps; and it my some day come in useful in establishing an alibi if things go wrong with me.  You’d have sworn I was in there just now, wouldn’t you?”

“I would indeed,” said I.

“Well ­you see, I wasn’t, so there you are,” said Raffles Holmes.  “By-the-way, you’ve come at an interesting moment.  There’ll be things doing before the evening is over.  I’ve had an anxious caller here five times already to-day.  I’ve been standing in the barber-shop opposite getting a line on him.  His card name is Grouch, his real name is ­”

Here Raffles Holmes leaned forward and whispered in my ear a name of such eminent respectability that I fairly gasped.

“You don’t mean the Mr. ­”

“Nobody else,” said Raffles Holmes.  “Only he don’t know I know who he is.  The third time Grouch called I trailed him to Blank’s house, and then recognized him as Blank himself.”

“And what does he want with you?” I asked.

“That remains to be seen,” said Raffles Holmes.  “All I know is that next Tuesday he will be required to turn over $100,000 unregistered bonds to a young man about to come of age, for whom he has been a trustee.”

“Aha!” said I.  “And you think ­”

“I don’t think, Jenkins, until the time comes.  Gray matter is scarce these times, and I’m not wasting any of mine on unnecessary speculation,” said Raffles Holmes.

At this point the telephone-bell rang and Raffles answered the summons.

“Yes, I’ll see Mr. Grouch.  Show him up,” he said.  “It would be mighty interesting reading if some newspaper showed him up,” he added, with a grin, as he returned.  “By-the-way, Jenkins, I think you’d better go in there and have a half-hour’s chat with the talking-machine.  I have an idea old man Grouch won’t have much to say with a third party present.  Listen all you want to, but don’t breathe too loud or you’ll frighten him away.”

I immediately retired, and a moment later Mr. Grouch entered Raffles Holmes’s den.

“Glad to see you,” said Raffles Holmes, cordially.  “I was wondering how soon you’d be here.”

“You expected me, then?” asked the visitor, in surprise.

“Yes,” said Holmes.  “Next Tuesday is young Wilbraham’s twenty-first birthday, and ­”

Peering through a crack in the door I could see Grouch stagger.

“You ­you know my errand, then?” he gasped out.

“Only roughly, Mr. Grouch,” said Holmes, coolly.  “Only roughly.  But I am very much afraid that I can’t do what you want me to.  Those bonds are doubtless in some broker’s box in a safe-deposit company, and I don’t propose to try to borrow them surreptitiously, even temporarily, from an incorporated institution.  It is not only a dangerous but a criminal operation.  Does your employer know that you have taken them?”

“My employer?” stammered Grouch, taken off his guard.

“Yes.  Aren’t you the confidential secretary of Mr. ?” Here Holmes mentioned the name of the eminent financier and philanthropist.  No one would have suspected, from the tone of his voice, that Holmes was perfectly aware that Grouch and the eminent financier were one and the same person.  The idea seemed to please and steady the visitor.

“Why ­ah ­yes ­I am Mr. Blank’s confidential secretary,” he blurted out.  “And ­ah ­of course Mr. Blank does not know that I have speculated with the bonds and lost them.”

“The bonds are ­”

“In the hands of Bunker & Burke.  I had hoped you would be able to suggest some way in which I could get hold of them long enough to turn them over to young Wilbraham, and then, in some other way, to restore them later to Bunker & Burke.”

“That is impossible,” said Raffles Holmes.  “For the reasons stated, I cannot be party to a criminal operation.”

“It will mean ruin for me if it cannot be done,” moaned Grouch.  “For Mr. Blank as well, Mr. Holmes; he is so deep in the market he can’t possibly pull out.  I thought possibly you knew of some reformed cracksman who would do this one favor for me just to tide things over.  All we need is three weeks’ time ­three miserable little weeks.”

“Can’t be done with a safe-deposit company at the other end of the line,” said Raffles Holmes.  “If it were Mr. Blank’s own private vault at his home it would be different.  That would be a matter between gentlemen, between Mr. Blank and myself, but the other would put a corporation on the trail of the safe-breaker ­an uncompromising situation.”

Grouch’s eye glistened.

“You know a man who, for a consideration and with a guarantee against prosecution, would break open my ­I mean Mr. Blank’s private vault?” he cried.

“I think so,” said Raffles Holmes, noncommittally.  “Not as a crime, however, merely as a favor, and with the lofty purpose of saving an honored name from ruin.  My advice to you would be to put a dummy package, supposed to contain the missing bonds, along with about $30,000 worth of other securities in that vault, and so arrange matters that on the night preceding the date of young Wilbraham’s majority, the man I will send you shall have the opportunity to crack it open and get away with the stuff unmolested and unseen.  Next day young Wilbraham will see for himself why it is that Mr. Blank cannot turn over the trust.  That is the only secure and I may say decently honest way out of your trouble.”

“Mr. Raffles Holmes, you are a genius!” cried Grouch, ecstatically.  And then he calmed down again as an unpleasant thought flashed across his mind.  “Why is it necessary to put $30,000 additional in the safe, Mr. Holmes?”

“Simply as a blind,” said Holmes.  “Young Wilbraham would be suspicious if the burglar got away with nothing but his property, wouldn’t he?”

“Quite so,” said Grouch.  “And now, Mr. Holmes, what will this service cost me?”

“Five thousand dollars,” said Holmes.

“Phe-e-e-w!” whistled Grouch.  “Isn’t that pretty steep?”

“No, Mr. Grouch.  I save two reputations ­yours and Mr. Blank’s.  Twenty-five hundred dollars is not much to pay for a reputation these days ­I mean a real one, of course, such as yours is up to date,” said Holmes, coldly.

“Payable by certified check?” said Grouch.

“Not much,” laughed Holmes.  “In twenty-dollar bills, Mr. Grouch.  You may leave them in the safe along with the other valuables.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Grouch, rising.  “It shall be as you say.  Before I go, sir, may I ask how you knew me and by what principle of deduction you came to guess my business so accurately?”

“It was simple enough,” said Holmes.  “I knew, in the first place, that so eminent a person as Mr. Blank would not come to me in the guise of a Mr. Grouch if he hadn’t some very serious trouble on his mind.  I knew, from reading the society items in the Whirald, that Mr. Bobby Wilbraham would celebrate the attainment of his majority by a big fête on the 17th of next month.  Everybody knows that Mr. Blank is Mr. Wilbraham’s trustee until he comes of age.  It was easy enough to surmise from that what the nature of the trouble was.  Two and two almost invariably make four, Mr. Grouch.”

“And how the devil,” demanded Grouch, angrily ­“how the devil did you know I was Blank?”

“Mr. Blank passes the plate at the church I go to every Sunday,” said Holmes, laughing, “and it would take a great sight more than a two-dollar wig and a pair of fifty-cent whiskers to conceal that pompous manner of his.”

“Tush!  You would better not make me angry, Mr. Holmes,” said Grouch, reddening.

“You can get as angry as you think you can afford to, for all I care, Mr. Blank,” said Holmes.  “It’s none of my funeral, you know.”

And so the matter was settled.  The unmasked Blank, seeing that wrath was useless, calmed down and accepted Holmes’s terms and method for his relief.

“I’ll have my man there at 4 A.M., October 17th, Mr. Blank,” said Holmes.  “See that your end of it is ready.  The coast must be kept clear or the scheme falls through.”

Grouch went heavily out, and Holmes called me back into the room.

“Jenkins,” said he, “that man is one of the biggest scoundrels in creation, and I’m going to give him a jolt.”

“Where are you going to get the retired burglar?” I asked.

“Sir,” returned Raffles Holmes, “this is to be a personally conducted enterprise.  It’s a job worthy of may grandsire on my mother’s side.  Raffles will turn the trick.”

And it turned out so to be, for the affair went through without a hitch.  The night of October 16th I spend at Raffles’s apartments.  He was as calm as though nothing unusual were on hand.  He sang songs, played the piano, and up to midnight was as gay and skittish as a school-boy on vacation.  As twelve o’clock struck, however, he sobered down, put on his hat and coat, and, bidding me remain where I was, departed by means of the fire-escape.

“Keep up the talk, Jenkins,” he said.  “The walls are thin here, and it’s just as well, in matters of this sort, that our neighbors should have the impression that I have not gone out.  I’ve filled the machine up with a choice lot of songs and small-talk to take care of my end of it.  A consolidated gas company, life yourself, should have no difficulty in filling in the gaps.”

And with that he left me to as merry and withal as nervous a three hours as I ever spent in my life.  Raffles had indeed filled that talking-machine ­ thirteen full cylinders of it ­with as choice an assortment of causeries and humorous anecdotes as any one could have wished to hear.  Now and again it would bid me cheer up and not worry about him.  Once, along about 2 A.M., it cried out:  “You ought to see me now, Jenkins.  I’m right in the middle of this Grouch job, and it’s a dandy.  I’ll teach him a lesson.”  The effect of all this was most uncanny.  It was as if Raffles Holmes himself spoke to me from the depths of that dark room in the Blank household, where he was engaged in an enterprise of dreadful risk merely to save the good name of one who no longer deserved to bear such a thing.  In spite of all this, however, as the hours passed I began to grow more and more nervous.  The talking-machine sang and chattered, but when four o’clock came and Holmes had not yet returned, I became almost frenzied with excitement ­and then at the climax of the tension came the flash of his dark-lantern on the fire-escape, and he climbed heavily into the room.

“Thank Heaven you’re back,” I cried.

“You have reason to,” said Holmes, sinking into a chair.  “Give me some whiskey.  That man Blank is a worse scoundrel than I took him for.”

“What’s happened?” I asked.  “Didn’t he play square?”

“No,” said Holmes, breathing heavily.  “He waited until I had busted the thing open and was on my way out in the dark hall, and then pounced on me with his butler and valet.  I bowled the butler down the kitchen stairs, and sent the valet holing into the dining-room with an appendicitis jab in the stomach and had the pleasure of blacking both of Mr. Blank’s eyes.”

“And the stuff?”

“Right here,” said Holmes, tapping his chest.  “I was afraid something might happen on the way out and I kept both hands free.  I haven’t much confidence in philanthropists like Blank.  Fortunately the scrimmage was in the dark, so Blank will never know who hit him.”

“What are you going to do with the $35,000?” I queried, as we went over the booty later and found it all there.

“Don’t know ­haven’t made up my mind,” said Holmes, laconically.  “I’m too tired to think about that now.  It’s me for bed.”  And with that he turned in.

Two days later, about nine o’clock in the evening, Mr. Grouch again called, and Holmes received him courteously.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” Grouch observed, unctuously, rubbing his hands together, “it was a nice job, neatly done.  It saved the day for me.  Wilbraham was satisfied, and has given me a whole year to make good the loss.  My reputation is saved, and ­”

“Excuse me, Mr. Blank ­or Grouch ­er ­to what do you refer?” asked Holmes.

“Why, our little transaction of Monday night ­or was it Tuesday morning?” said Grouch.

“Oh ­that!” said Holmes.  “Well, I’m glad to hear you managed to pull it off satisfactorily.  I was a little worried about it.  I was afraid you were done for.”

“Done for?” said Grouch.  “No, indeed.  The little plan when off without a hitch.”

“Good,” said Holmes.  “I congratulate you. Whom did you get to do the job?”

“Who ­what ­what ­why, what do you mean, Mr. Holmes?” gasped Grouch.

“Precisely what I say ­or maybe you don’t like to tell me ­such things are apt to be on a confidential basis.  Anyhow, I’m glad you’re safe, Mr. Grouch, and I hope your troubles are over.”

“They will be when you give me back my $30,000,” said Grouch.

“Your what?” demanded Holmes, with well-feigned surprise.

“My $30,000,” repeated Blank, his voice rising to a shout.

“My dear Mr. Grouch,” said Holmes, “how should I know anything about your $30,000?”

“Didn’t your ­your man take it?” demanded Grouch, huskily.

“My man?  Really, Mr. Grouch, you speak in riddles this evening.  Pray make yourself more clear.”

“Your reformed burglar, who broke open my safe, and ­” Grouch went on.

“I have no such man, Mr. Grouch.”

“Didn’t you send a man to my house, Mr. Raffles, to break open my safe, and take certain specified parcels of negotiable property therefrom?” said Grouch, rising and pounding the table with his fists.

“I did not!” returned Holmes, with equal emphasis.  “I have never in my life sent anybody to your house, sir.”

“Then who in the name of Heaven did?” roared Grouch.  “The stuff is gone.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“I am willing,” said he, calmly, “to undertake to find out who did it, if anybody, if that is what you mean, Mr. Grouch.  Ferreting out crime is my profession.  Otherwise, I beg to assure you that my interest in the case ceases at this moment.”

Here Holmes rose with quiet dignity and walked to the door.

“You will find me at my office in the morning, Mr. Grouch.” he remarked, “in case you wish to consult me professionally.”

“Hah!” sneered Grouch.  “You think you can put me off this way, do you?”

“I think so,” said Holmes, with a glittering eye.  “No gentleman or other person may try to raise a disturbance in my private apartments and remain there.”

“We’ll see what the police have to say about this, Mr. Raffles Holmes,” Grouch shrieked, as he made for the door.

“Very well,” said Holmes.  “I’ve no doubt they will find our discussion of the other sinners very interesting.  They are welcome to the whole story as far as I am concerned.”

And he closed the door on the ashen face of the suffering Mr. Grouch.

“What shall I do with your share of the $30,000, Jenkins?” said Raffles Holmes a week later.

“Anything you please,” said I.  “Only don’t offer any of it to me.  I can’t question the abstract justice of your mulcting old Blank for the amount, but, somehow or other, I don’t want any of it myself.  Send it to the Board of Foreign Missions.”

“Good!” said Holmes.  “That’s what I’ve done with my share.  See!”

And he showed me an evening paper in which the board conveyed its acknowledgment of the generosity of an unknown donor of the princely sum of $15,000.