“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.”