“I didn’t say as I was, sir,” replied the policeman. “But that’s queer talk for a gentleman like you, sir, in the British Museum!” And he wagged his helmet at my invalid, who had taken his airing in frock-coat and top-hat, the more readily to assume his present part. “What!” cried Raffles, “simply saying to my friend that I’d like to lift the gold cup? Why, so I should, officer, so I should! I don’t mind who hears me say so. It’s one of the most beautiful things I ever saw in all my life.” The constable’s face had already relaxed, and now a grin peeped under the limp moustache. “I daresay there’s many as feels like that, sir,” said he. “Exactly; and I say what I feel, that’s all,” said Raffles airily. “But seriously, officer, is a valuable thing like this quite safe in a case like that?” “Safe enough as long as I’m here,” replied the other, between grim jest and stout earnest. Raffles studied his face; he was still watching Raffles; and I kept an eye on them both without putting in my word. “You appear to be single-handed,” observed Raffles. “Is that wise?” The note of anxiety was capitally caught; it was at once personal and public-spirited, that of the enthusiastic savant, afraid for a national treasure which few appreciated as he did himself. And, to be sure, the three of us now had this treasury to ourselves; one or two others had been there when we entered; but now they were gone. “I’m not single-handed,” said the officer, comfortably. “See that seat by the door? One of the attendants sits there all day long.” “Then where is he now?” “Talking to another attendant just outside. If you listen you’ll hear them for yourself.” We listened, and we did hear them, but not just outside. In my own mind I even questioned whether they were in the corridor through which we had come; to me it sounded as though they were just outside the corridor. “You mean the fellow with the billiard-cue who was here when we came in?” pursued Raffles. “That wasn’t a billiard-cue! It was a pointer,” the intelligent officer explained. “It ought to be a javelin,” said Raffles, nervously. “It ought to be a poleaxe! The public treasure ought to be better guarded than this. I shall write to the _Times_ about it—you see if I don’t!” All at once, yet somehow not so suddenly as to excite suspicion, Raffles had become the elderly busybody with nerves; why, I could not for the life of me imagine; and the policeman seemed equally at sea. “Lor’ bless you, sir,” said he, “I’m all right; don’t you bother your head about _me_.” “But you haven’t even got a truncheon!” “Not likely to want one either. You see, sir, it’s early as yet; in a few minutes these here rooms will fill up; and there’s safety in numbers, as they say.” “Oh, it will fill up soon, will it?” “Any minute now, sir.” “Ah!” “It isn’t often empty as long as this, sir. It’s the Jubilee, I suppose.”