Raffles
"Mr. Maturin!" said he. "Mr. Maturin indeed!"
"Well," said I, "what about him?"
"Do you think we don't know who he was?"
"Who was he?" I asked, defiantly.
"You ought to know," said he. "You got locked up through him the other time, too. His favorite name was Raffles then."
"It was his real name," I said, indignantly. "And he has been dead for years."
My captor simply chuckled.
"He's at the bottom of the sea, I tell you!"
But I do not know why I should have told him with such spirit, for what could it matter to Raffles now? I did not think; instinct was still stronger than reason, and, fresh from his funeral, I had taken up the cudgels for my dead friend as though he were still alive. Next moment I saw this for myself, and my tears came nearer the surface than they had been yet; but the fellow at my side laughed outright.
"Shall I tell you something else?" said he.
"As you like."
"He's not even at the bottom of that grave! He's no more dead than you or I, and a sham burial is his latest piece of villainy!"
I doubt whether I could have spoken if I had
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