E. W. HORNUNG
A. C. D.
THIS FORM OF FLATTERY
THE AMATEUR CRACKSMAN
THE IDES OF MARCH
It was half-past twelve when I returned to the Albany as a last
desperate resort. The scene of my disaster was much as I had
left it. The baccarat-counters still strewed the table, with the
empty glasses and the loaded ash-trays. A window had been opened
to let the smoke out, and was letting in the fog instead.
Raffles himself had merely discarded his dining jacket for one of