As A. J. Raffles wandered back to his rooms at the Albany, he reflected on his evening. He'd spent a night at the home of Inspector Mackenzie, hamming it up and playing coy as usual. He'd been invited because Raffles had feigned an interest in golf and asked to come round to see the officer's collection of clubs, balls, and other memorabilia. The poor Inspector was so oblivious, he reflected, thinking of all of the intel he'd provided on Scotland Yard just with the aid of two tumblers full of whiskey. There had been the usual banter as well, and God knows too much discussion about golf, but Raffles was feeling positively excited to make use of some of the faults he'd heard the Inspector sharing tonight.

The chills of autumn were beginning to settle in, and a blast of wind was quite colder than Raffles had expected, so he tucked closer into his inverness, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He expected to close his fingers around the edges of the razor case which contained his lockpicking tools, but instead he found emptiness. He stopped in his tracks. Raffles was sure he hadn't left the kit at home, he remembered having it on the way there. A fearful realization dawned on him as he realized what it would mean if the Inspector had his hands on that piece of equipment.

There was only one thing to do: Raffles had to break in to Mackenzie's house and get that case back. It daunted him to think of attempting such a thing without his tools, but there was no alternative. At the very least, he could see if he could get some help... He started walking again, this time with a new destination.

A few minutes later, Raffles stood at Mount Street, on the doorstep of his dear friend Bunny Manders. He checked his watch; only eleven thirty. It was unlikely that Bunny would have gone to bed already, if Raffles knew his rabbit. He rang on the bell and waited, hopeful that his friend would be able to help him out of his twist.