So it was that at the last moment I had my first unobstructed view
of the little old tower of other days. Raffles was out of the way;
the bit of candle was still burning on the floor, and in its dim
light the familiar haunt was cruelly like itself of innocent memory.
A lesser ladder still ascended to a tinier trap-door in the apex of
the tower; the fixed seats looked to me to be wearing their old,
old coat of grained varnish; nay the varnish had its ancient smell,
and the very vanes outside creaked their message to my ears. I
remembered whole days that I had spent, whole books that I had read,
here in this favorite fastness of my boyhood. The dirty little
place, with the dormer window in each of its four sloping sides,
became a gallery hung with poignant pictures of the past. And here
was I leaving it with my life in my hands and my pockets full of
stolen jewels! A superstition seized me. Suppose the conductor
came down with me . . . suppose I slipped . . . and was picked
up dead, with the proceeds of my shameful crime upon me, under the
very windows
.
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