I had often wondered during the winter whether or no it would be quite the proper thing for me to take my friend Raffles Holmes into the sacred precincts of my club.  By some men ­and I am one of them ­the club, despite the bad name that clubs in general have as being antagonistic to the home, is looked upon as an institution that should be guarded almost as carefully against the intrusion of improper persons as is one’s own habitat, and while I should never have admitted for a moment that Raffles was an undesirable chap to have around, I could not deny that in view of certain characteristics which I knew him to possess, the propriety of taking him into “The Heraclean” was seriously open to question.  My doubts were set at rest, however, on that point one day in January last, when I observed seated at one of our luncheon-tables the Reverend Dr. Mulligatawnny, Rector of Saint Mammon-in-the-Fields, a highly esteemed member of the organization, who had with him no less a person than Mr. E. H. Merryman, the railway magnate, whose exploits in Wall Street have done much to give to that golden highway the particular kind of perfume which it now exudes to the nostrils of people of sensitive honor.  Surely, if Dr. Mulligatawnny was within his rights in having Mr. Merryman present, I need have no misgivings as to mine in having Raffles Holmes at the same table.  The predatory instinct in his nature was as a drop of water in the sea to that ocean of known acquisitiveness which has floated Mr. Merryman into his high place in the world of finance, and as far as the moral side of the two men was considered respectively, I felt tolerably confident that the Recording Angel’s account-books would show a larger balance on the right side to the credit of Raffles than to that of his more famous contemporary.  Hence it was that I decided the question in my friend’s favor, and a week or two later had him in at “The Heraclean” for luncheon.  The dining-room was filled with the usual assortment of interesting men ­men who had really done something in life and who suffered from none of that selfish modesty which leads some of us to hide our light under the bushel of silence.  There was the Honorable Poultry Tickletoe, the historian, whose articles on the shoddy quality of the modern Panama hat have created such a stir throughout the hat trade; Mr. William Darlington Ponkapog, the poet, whose epic on the “Reign of Gold” is one of the longest, and some writers say the thickest, in the English language; James Whistleton Potts, the eminent portraitist, whose limnings of his patients have won him a high place among the caricaturists of the age, Robert Dozyphrase, the expatriated American novelist, now of London, whose latest volume of sketches, entitled Intricacies, has been equally the delight of his followers and the despair of students of the occult; and, what is more to the purpose of our story, Major-General Carrington Cox, U.S.A., retired.  These gentlemen, with others of equal distinction whom I have not the space to name, were discussing with some degree of simultaneity their own achievements in the various fields of endeavor to which their lives had been devoted.  They occupied the large centre-table which has for many a year been the point of contact for the distinguished minds of which the membership of “The Heraclean” is made up; the tennis-net, as it were, over which the verbal balls of discussion have for so many years volleyed to the delight of countless listeners.

Raffles and I sat apart at one of the smaller tables by the window, where we could hear as much of the conversation at the larger board as we wished ­so many members of “The Heraclean” are deaf that to talk loud has become quite de rigueur there ­and at the same time hold converse with each other in tones best suited to the confidential quality of our communications.  We had enjoyed the first two courses of our repast when we became aware that General Carrington Cox had succeeded in getting to the floor, and as he proceeded with what he had to say, I observed, in spite of his efforts to conceal the fact, that Raffles Holmes was rather more deeply interested in the story the General was telling than in such chance observations as I was making.  Hence I finished the luncheon in silence and even as did Holmes, listened to the General’s periods ­and they were as usual worth listening to.

“It was in the early eighties,” said General Cox.  “I was informally attached to the Spanish legation at Madrid.  The King of Spain, Alphonso XII, was about to be married to the highly esteemed lady who is now the Queen-Mother of that very interesting youth, Alphonso XIII.  In anticipation of the event the city was in a fever of gayety and excitement that always attends upon a royal function of that nature.  Madrid was crowded with visitors of all sorts, some of them not as desirable as they might be, and here and there, in the necessary laxity of the hour, one or two perhaps that were most inimical to the personal safety and general welfare of the King.  Alphonso, like many another royal personage, was given to the old Haroun Al Raschid habit of travelling about at night in a more or less impenetrable incognito, much to the distaste of his ministers and to the apprehension of the police, who did not view with any too much satisfaction the possibility of disaster to the royal person and the consequent blame that would rest upon their shoulders should anything of a serious nature befall.  To all of this, however, the King was oblivious, and it so happened one night that in the course of his wanderings he met with the long dreaded mix-up.  He and his two companions fell in with a party of cut-throats who promptly proceeded to hold them up.  The companions were speedily put out of business by the attacking party, and the King found himself in the midst of a very serious misadventure, the least issue from which bade fair to be a thorough beating, if not an attempt on his life.  It was at the moment when his chances of escape were not one in a million, when, on my way home from the Legation, where I had been detained to a very late hour, I came upon him struggling in the hands of four as nasty ruffians as you will find this side of the gallows.  One of them held him by the arms, another was giving him a fairly expert imitation of how it feels to be garroted, which the other two were rifling his pockets.  This was too much for me.  I was in pretty fit physical condition at that time and felt myself to be quite the equal in a good old Anglo-Saxon fist fight of any dozen ordinary Castilians, so I plunged into the fray, heart and soul, not for an instant dreaming, however, what was the quality of the person to whose assistance I had come.  My first step was to bowl over the garroter.  Expecting no interference in his nefarious pursuit and unwarned by his companions, who were to busily engaged in their adventure of loot to observe my approach, he was easy prey, and the good, hard whack that I gave him just under his right ear sent him flying, an unconscious mass of villanous clay, into the gutter.  The surprise of the onslaught was such that the other three jumped backward, thereby releasing the King’s arms so that we were now two to three, which in a moment became two to two, for I lost no time in knocking out my second man with as pretty a solar plexus as you ever saw.  There is nothing in the world more demoralizing than a good, solid blow straight from the shoulder to chaps whose idea of fighting is to sneak up behind you and choke you to death, or to stick a knife into the small of your back, and had I been far less expert with my fists, I should still have had an incalculable moral advantage over such riffraff.  Once the odds in the matter of numbers were even, the King and I had no further difficulty in handling the others.  His Majesty’s quarry got away by the simple act of taking to his heels, and mine, turning to do likewise, received a salute from my right toe which, if I am any judge, must have driven the upper end of his spine up through the top of his head.  Left alone, his Majesty held out his hand and thanked me profusely from my timely aid, and asked my name.  We thereupon bade each other good-night, and I went on to my lodging, little dreaming of the service I had rendered to the nation.

“The following day I was astonished to receive at the Legation a communication bearing the royal seal, commanding me to appear at the palace at once.  The summons was obeyed, and, upon entering the palace, I was immediately ushered into the presence of the King.  He received me most graciously, dismissing, however, all his attendants.

“‘Colonel Cox,’ he said, after the first formal greetings were over, ’you rendered me a great service last night.’

“‘I, your majesty?’ said I.  ‘In what way?’

“‘By putting those ruffians to flight,’ said he.

“‘Ah!’ said I.  ’Then the gentleman attacked was one of your Majesty’s friends?’

“‘I would have it so appear,’ said the King.  ’For a great many reasons I should prefer that it were not known that it was I ­’

“‘You, your Majesty?’ I cried, really astonished.  ’I had no idea ­”

“‘You are discretion itself, Colonel Cox,’ laughed the King, ’and to assure you of my appreciation of the fact, I beg that you will accept a small gift which you will some day shortly receive anonymously.  It will not be at all commensurate to the service you have rendered me, nor to the discretion which you have already so kindly observed regarding the principals involved in last night’s affair, but in the spirit of friendly interest and appreciation back of it, it will be of a value inestimable.’

“I began to try to tell his Majesty that my government did not permit me to accept gifts of any kind from persons royal or otherwise, but it was not possible to do so, and twenty minutes later my audience was over and I returned to the Legation with the uncomfortable sense of having placed myself in a position where I must either violate the King’s confidence to acquire the permission of Congress to accept his gift, or break the laws by which all who are connected with the diplomatic service, directly or indirectly, are strictly governed.  I assure you it was not in the least degree in the hope of personal profit that I chose the latter course.  Ten days later a pair of massive golden pepper-pots came to me, and, as the King had intimated would be the case, there was nothing about them to show whence they had come.  Taken altogether, they were the most exquisitely wrought specimens of the goldsmith’s artistry that I had ever seen, and upon their under side was inscribed in a cipher which no one unfamiliar with the affair of that midnight fracas would even have observed ­’A.R. to C.C.’ ­Alphonso Rex to Carrington Cox being, of course, the significance thereof.  They were put away with my other belongings, and two years later, when my activities were transferred to London, I took them away with me.

“In London I chose to live in chambers, and was soon established at N Park Place, St. James’s, a more than comfortable and centrally located apartment-house where I found pretty much everything in the way of convenience that a man situated as I was could reasonably ask for.  I had not been there more than six months, however, when something happened that made the ease of apartment life seem somewhat less desirable.  That is, my rooms were broken open during my absence, over night on a little canoeing trip to Henley, and about everything valuable in my possession was removed, including the truly regal pepper-pots sent me by his Majesty the King of Spain, that I had carelessly left standing upon my sideboard.

“Until last week,” the General continued, “nor hide nor hair of any of my stolen possessions was every discovered, but last Thursday night I accepted the invitation of a gentleman well known in this country as a leader of finance, a veritable Captain of Industry, the soul of honor and one of the most genial hosts imaginable.  I sat down at his table at eight o’clock, and, will you believe me, gentlemen, one of the first objects to greet my eye upon the brilliantly set napery was nothing less than one of my lost pepper-pots.  There was no mistaking it.  Unique in pattern, it was certain of identification anyhow, but what made it the more certain was the cipher ‘A.R. to C.C.’”

“And of course you claimed it?” asked Dozyphrase.

“Of course I did nothing of the sort,” retorted the General.  “I trust I am not so lacking in manners.  I merely remarked its beauty and quaintness and massiveness and general artistry.  My host expressed pleasure at my appreciation of its qualities and volunteered the information that it was a little thing he had picked up in a curio shop on Regent Street, London, last summer.  He had acquired it in perfect good faith.  What its history had been from the time I lost it until then, I am not aware, but there it was, and under circumstances of such a character that although it was indubitably my property, a strong sense of the proprieties prevented me from regaining its possession.”

“Who was your host, General?” asked Tickletoe.

The General laughed.  “That’s telling,” said he.  “I don’t care to go into any further details, because some of you well-meaning friends of mine might suggest to Mr. ­ahem ­ha ­well, never mind his name ­that he should return the pepper-pot, and I know that that is what he would do if he were familiar with the facts that I have just narrated.”

It was at about this point that the gathering broke up, and, after our cigars, Holmes and I left the club.

“Come up to my rooms a moment,” said Raffles, as we emerged upon the street.  “I want to show you something.”

“All right,” said I.  “I’ve nothing in particular to do this afternoon.  That was a rather interesting tale of the General’s, wasn’t it?” I added.

“Very,” said Holmes.  “I guess it’s not an uncommon experience, however, in these days, for the well-to-do and well-meaning to be in possession of stolen property.  The fact of its turning up again under the General’s very nose, so many years later, however, that is unusual.  The case will appear even more so before the day is over if I am right in one of my conjectures.”

What Raffles Holmes’s conjecture was was soon to be made clear.  In a few minutes we had reached his apartment, and there unlocking a huge iron-bound chest in his bedroom, he produced from it capacious depths another gold pepper-pot.  This he handed to me.

“There’s the mate!” he observed, quietly.

“By Jove, Raffles ­it must be!” I cried, for beyond all question, in the woof of the design on the base of the pepper-pot was the cipher “A.R. to C.C.”  “Where the dickens did you get it?”

“That was a wedding-present to my mother,” he explained.  “That’s why I have never sold it, not even when I’ve been on the edge of starvation.”

“From whom ­do you happen to know?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied.  “I do know.  It was a wedding-present to the daughter of Raffles by her father, my grandfather, Raffles himself.”

“Great Heavens!” I cried.  “Then it was Raffles who ­well, you know.  That London flat job?”

“Precisely,” said Raffles Holmes.  “We’ve caught the old gentleman red-handed.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said I.  “Doesn’t it beat creation how small the world is.”

“It does indeed.  I wonder who the chap is who has the other,” Raffles observed.

“Pretty square of the old General to keep quiet about it,” said I.

“Yes,” said Holmes.  “That’s why I’m going to restore this one.  I wish I could give ’em both back.  I don’t think my old grandfather would have taken the stuff if he’d known what a dead-game sport the old General was, and I sort of feel myself under an obligation to make amends.”

“You can send him the one you’ve got through the express companies, anonymously,” said I.

“No,” said Holmes.  “The General left them on his sideboard, and on his sideboard he must find them.  If we could only find out the name of his host last Thursday ­”

“I tell you ­look in the Sunday Gazoo supplement,” said I.  “They frequently publish short paragraphs of the social doings of the week.  You might get a clew there.”

“Good idea,” said Holmes.  “I happen to have it here, too.  There was an article in it last Sunday, giving a diagram of Howard Vandergould’s new house at Nippon’s Point, Long Island, which I meant to cut out for future reference.”

Holmes secured the Gazoo, and between us, we made a pretty thorough search of its contents, especially “The Doings of Society” columns, and at last we found it, as follows: 

“A small dinner of thirty was given on Thursday evening last in honor of Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Rattington, of Boston, by Mrs. Rattington’s brother, John D. Bruce, of Bruce, Watkins & Co., at the latter’s residence, 74 ­ Fifth Avenue.  Among Mr. Bruce’s guests were Mr. and Mrs. W. K. Dandervelt, Mr. and Mrs. Elisha Scroog, Jr., Major-General Carrington Cox, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson Scovill, and Signor Caruso.”

“Old Bruce, eh?” laughed Holmes.  “Sans peur et sans reproche.  Well, that is interesting.  One of the few honest railroad bankers in the country, a pillar of the church, a leading reformer and ­a stolen pepper-pot on his table!  Gee!”

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.  “Write to Bruce and tell him the facts?”

Holmes’s answer was a glance.

“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.

“It’s me for Cedarhurst ­that’s where the General lives,” said he.  “I’ll get there about 11.30 to-night, and as soon as all is quiet, Jenkins, your old pal, Raffles Holmes, will climb easily up to the piazza, gently slide back the bolts of the French windows in the General’s dining-room, proceed cautiously to the sideboard, and replace thereon these two souvenirs of a brave act by a good old sport, whence they never would have been taken had my grandfather known his man.”

“You are taking a terrible risk, Raffles,” said I, “you can just as easily send the tings to the General by express, anonymously.”

“Jenkins,” he replied, “that suggestion does you little credit and appeals neither to the Raffles nor to the Holmes in me.  Pusillanimity was a word which neither of my forebears could ever learn to use.  It was too long, for one thing, and besides that it was never needed in their business.”

And with that he left me.

“Well, General,” said I to General Cox, a week later at the club, “heard anything further about your pepper-pots yet?”

“Most singular thing, Jenkins,” said he.  “The d ­d things turned up again one morning last week, and where the devil they came from, I can’t imagine.  One of them, however, had a piece of paper in it on which was written ’Returned with thanks for their use and apologies for having kept them so long.’”

The General opened his wallet and handed me a slip which he took from it.

“There it is.  What in thunder do you make out of it?” he asked.

It was in Raffles Holmes’s hand-writing.

“Looks to me as though Bruce also had been robbed,” I laughed.

“Bruce?  Who the devil said anything about Bruce?” demanded the General.

“Why, didn’t you tell us he had one of ’em on his table?” said I, reddening.

“Did I?” frowned the General.  “Well, if I did, I must be a confounded ass.  I thought I took particular pains not the mention Bruce’s name in the matter.”

And then he laughed.

“I shall have to be careful when Bruce comes to dine with me not to have those pepper-pots in evidence,” he said.  “He might ask embarrassing questions.”

And thus it was that Raffles Holmes atoned for at least one of the offences of his illustrious grandsire.