"What bet?" asked a voice with a sudden start in it. The secretary
was blinking as he drained his glass.
"About the very thing we've just had explained to us," said I,
watching my man intently as I spoke. "I made sure it was a man-trap.
Raffles thought it must be something else. We had a tremendous
argument about it. Raffles said it wasn't a man-trap. I said it
was. We had a bet about it in the end. I put my money on the
man-trap. Raffles put his upon the other thing. And Raffles was
right - it wasn't a man-trap. But it's every bit as good - every
little bit - and the whole boiling of you are caught in it except
me!"
I sank my voice with the last sentence, but I might just as well
have raised it instead. I had said the same thing over and over
again to see whether the wilful tautology would cause the secretary
to open his eyes. It seemed to have had the very opposite effect.
His head fell forward on the table, with never a quiver at the
blow, never a twitch when I pillowed it upon one of his own
sprawling arms. And there sat Maguire bolt upright, but for the
jowl upon his shirt-front, while the sequins twinkled in a regular
rise and fall upon the reclining form of the lady in the fanciful
chair.
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