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Updated: May 31, 2025


No, I remember him as well as I remembered Crawshay; they were quite different types. Yet I did think of it, for hours. I was always anxious to do my part by Raffles; he had done more than his by me, not once or twice, to-day or yesterday, but again and again from the very first. I need not state the obvious reasons I had for fighting shy of the personal custody of his accursed chest.

"Then we all shouted, and old Crawshay coming up to the doorway, I got down from the lamp-post, not wishing to let him see me there, though I was only standing on my rights. But Mr.

Yet the solid fact held good held better than ever that I had seen his plunder safely planted in my bank. Crawshay himself could not follow it there. I was certain he had not followed my cab: in the acute self-consciousness induced by that abominable drive, I should have known it in my bones if he had. I thought of the porter's friend who had helped me with the chest.

"Pessimist!" was the angry retort. "I'll just ask you one question, my son. Where's Downs?" "I certainly think," Crawshay admitted, "that under the circumstances he might have been at the station to meet us." "He wouldn't even talk through the 'phone," Hobson pointed out. "I had to explain who we were to one of his inspectors. No one seemed to know a goldarned thing about us."

It was like the ride of madmen, and more than once they had both hung on to their seats in something which was almost terror. "How are we going?" Crawshay had asked perpetually. "Still that infernal half-hour," was the continual reply. "We are doing seventy, but we don't seem to be able to work it down."

"Try me," Crawshay begged. She held it out a long, rather thin, capable woman's hand, manicured a few hours ago in the latest fashion, but ringless. Crawshay promptly raised it to his lips. She snatched it away, half amused, half vexed, and glanced furtively around. "If you did that in an American restaurant," she told him, "you'd stand some chance of getting yourself laughed at."

Crawshay knocked at the door of the captain's room, received a stentorian invitation to enter, and sank a little plaintively into a vacant easy-chair. The purser, who had been in close confabulation with his chief, hastily took his leave. "Good morning, sir," the visitor said languidly. "Good morning, Mr. Crawshay," the captain replied. "Feeling a little stronger this morning, I hope?"

"If it really is the German raider," he remarked, "they might as well fire off a popgun as that thing. She is supposed to be armed with four six-inch guns and two torpedo tubes." Crawshay nodded. "So I told the captain. We might have a go at a submarine, but the raider would sink us in two minutes if we tried to tackle her. What a beastly voyage this is!" he went on, in a depressed tone.

Looking back to the morning when he and Father Rowley sat with Bishop Crawshay in his bedroom, he realized how much the personality of the dead bishop had dominated his surroundings and how little all this dignity and splendour, which must have been as imposing then as it was now, had impressed his imagination.

"I'm afraid you won't find much else to do." "One can never tell," Crawshay sighed. "I have started on ocean trips sometimes which promised absolutely nothing in the way of entertainment, and I have discovered myself, before the end of the journey, thoroughly interested and amused." "Nothing like looking on the bright side of things," Jocelyn observed.

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