bronze, and its hazel eye like clear amber. The pink faded before our
gaze, the bronze turned a sickly sallow; and there stood Teddy Garland as
if glued to the bureau behind him, clutching its edge with all his might.
I can see his knuckles gleaming like ivory under the back of each
sunburnt hand.

"What is it? What are you hiding?" demanded Raffles. His love for the lad
had rung out in his first greeting; his puzzled voice was still jocular
and genial, but the other's attitude soon strangled that. All this time I
had been standing in vague horror on the threshold; now Raffles beckoned
me in and switched on more light. It fell full upon a ghastly and a
guilty face, that yet stared bravely in the glare. Raffles locked the
door behind us, put the key in his pocket, and strode over to the desk.

No need to report their first broken syllables: enough that it was no
note young Garland was writing, but a cheque which he was laboriously
copying into Raffles's cheque-book, from an old cheque abstracted from a
pass-book with A. J. RAFFLES in gilt capitals upon its brown leather
back. Raffles had only that year opened a banking account, and I
remembered his telling me how thoroughly he meant to disregard the
instructions on his cheque-book by always leaving it about to advertise
the fact. And this was the result. A glance convicted his friend of
criminal intent: a sheet of notepaper lay covered with trial signatures.
Yet Raffles could turn and look with infinite pity upon the miserable
youth who was still looking defiantly on him.

"My poor chap!" was all he said.

And at that the broken boy found the tongue of a hoarse and
quavering old man.