Capable of following him? She overtook us before we were past the studios on the south side of the square, the woman herself, in a hooded opera-cloak. But she never gave us a glance, and we saw her turn safely in the right direction for Earl's Court, and the wrong one for our humble mansions. Raffles thanked his gods in a voice that trembled, and five minutes later we were in the flat. Then for once it was Raffles who filled the tumblers and found the cigarettes, and for once (and once only in all my knowledge of him) did he drain his glass at a draught.
"You didn't see the balcony scene?" he asked at length; and they were his first words since the woman passed us on his track.
"Do you mean when she came in?"
"No, when I came down."
"I didn't."
"I hope nobody else saw it," said Raffles devoutly. "I don't say that Romeo and Juliet were brother and sister to us. But you might have said so, Bunny!"
He was staring at the carpet with as wry a face as lover ever wore.
"An old flame?" said I, gently.
"A married woman," he groaned.
"So I gathered."
"But she always was one, Bunny," said he, ruefully. "That's the trouble. It makes all the difference in the world!"
I saw the difference, but said I did not see how it could make any now. He had eluded the lady, after all; had we not seen her off upon a scent as false as scent could be? There was occasion for redoubled caution in the future, but none for immediate anxiety. I quoted the bedside Theobald, but Raffles did not smile. His eyes had been downcast all this time, and now, when he raised them, I perceived that my comfort had been administered to deaf ears.
"Do you know who she is?" said he.
"Not from Eve."
"Jacques Saillard," he said, as though now I must know.
But the name left me cold and stolid. I had heard it, but that was all. It was lamentable ignorance, I am aware, but I had specialized in Letters at the expense of Art.
"You must know her pictures," said Raffles, patiently; "but I suppose you thought she was a man. They would appeal to you, Bunny; that festive piece over the sideboard was her work.
Sometimes they risk her at the Academy, sometimes they fight shy.
She has one of those studios in the same square; they used to live up near Lord's."
My mind was busy brightening a dim memory of nymphs reflected in woody pools. "Of course!" I exclaimed, and added something about "a clever woman." Raffles rose at the phrase.
"A clever woman!" he echoed, scornfully; "if she were only that I should feel safe as houses. Clever women can't forget their cleverness, they carry it as badly as a boy does his wine, and are about as dangerous. I don't call Jacques Saillard clever outside her art, but neither do I call her a woman at all. She does man's work over a man's name, has the will of any ten men I ever knew, and I don't mind telling you that I fear her more than any person on God's earth. I broke with her once," said Raffles, grimly, "but I know her. If I had been asked to name the one person in London by whom I was keenest NOT to be bowled out, I should have named Jacques Saillard."
That he had never before named her to me was as characteristic as the reticence with which Raffles spoke of their past relations, and even of their conversation in the back drawing-room that evening.
It was a question of principle with him, and one that I like to remember. "Never give a woman away, Bunny," he used to say; and he said it again to-night, but with a heavy cloud upon him, as though his chivalry was sorely tried.
"That's all right," said I, "if you're not going to be given away yourself."
"That's just it, Bunny! That's just--"
The words were out of him, it was too late to recall them. I had hit the nail upon the head.
"So she threatened you," I said, "did she?"
"I didn't say so," he replied, coldly.
"And she is mated with a clown!" I pursued.
"How she ever married him," he admitted, "is a mystery to me."
"It always is," said I, the wise man for once, and rather enjoying the role.
