But technique isn't everything;
to get out of Dartmoor and into the Albany in the same
twenty-four hours is a whole that justifies its parts. Good
Lord!"
We had passed a man in the foggy courtyard, and Raffles had
nipped my arm.
"Who was it?"
"The last man we want to see! I hope to heaven he didn't hear
me!"
"But who is he, Raffles?"
"Our old friend Mackenzie, from the Yard!"
I stood still with horror.
"Do you think he's on Crawshay's track?"
"I don't know. I'll find out."
And before I could remonstrate he had wheeled me round; when I
found my voice he merely laughed, and whispered that the bold
course was the safe one every time.
"But it's madness--"
"Not it. Shut up! Is that YOU, Mr. Mackenzie?"
The detective turned about and scrutinized us keenly; and through
the gaslit mist I noticed that his hair was grizzled at the
temples, and his face still cadaverous, from the wound that had
nearly been his death.
"Ye have the advantage o' me, sirs," said he.
"I hope you're fit again," said my companion. "My name is
Raffles, and we met at Milchester last year."
"Is that a fact?" cried the Scotchman, with quite a start. "Yes,
now I remember your face, and yours too, sir. Ay, yon was a bad
business, but it ended vera well, an' that's the main thing."
His native caution had returned to him.
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