I
The square shall be nameless, but if you drive due west from Piccadilly
the cab-man will eventually find it on his left, and he ought to thank
you for two shillings. It is not a fashionable square, but there are
few with a finer garden, while the studios on the south side lend
distinction of another sort. The houses, however, are small and dingy,
and about the last to attract the expert practitioner in search of a
crib. Heaven knows it was with no such thought I trailed Raffles
thither, one unlucky evening at the latter end of that same season,
when Dr. Theobald had at last insisted upon the bath-chair which I had
foreseen in the beginning. Trees whispered in the green garden
aforesaid, and the cool, smooth lawns looked so inviting that I
wondered whether some philanthropic resident could not be induced to
lend us the key. But Raffles would not listen to the suggestion, when I
stopped to make it, and what was worse, I found him looking wistfully
at the little houses instead.
“Such balconies, Bunny! A leg up, and there you would be!”
I expressed a conviction that there would be nothing worth taking in
the square, but took care to have him under way again as I spoke.
“I daresay you’re right,” sighed Raffles. “Rings and watches, I
suppose, but it would be hard luck to take them from people who live in
houses like these. I don’t know, though. Here’s one with an extra
story. Stop, Bunny; if you don’t stop I’ll hold on to the railings!
This is a good house; look at the knocker and the electric bell.
They’ve had that put in. There’s some money here, my rabbit! I dare bet
there’s a silver-table in the drawing-room; and the windows are wide
open. Electric light, too, by Jove!”
Since stop I must, I had done so on the other side of the road, in the
shadow of the leafy palings, and as Raffles spoke the ground floor
windows opposite had flown alight, showing as pretty a little
dinner-table as one could wish to see, with a man at his wine at the
far end, and the back of a lady in evening dress toward us. It was like
a lantern-picture thrown upon a screen. There were only the pair of
them, but the table was brilliant with silver and gay with flowers, and
the maid waited with the indefinable air of a good servant. It
certainly seemed a good house.
“She’s going to let down the blind!” whispered Raffles, in high
excitement. “No, confound them, they’ve told her not to. Mark down her
necklace, Bunny, and invoice his stud. What a brute he looks! But I
like the table, and that’s her show. She has the taste; but he must
have money. See the festive picture over the sideboard? Looks to me
like a Jacques Saillard. But that silver-table would be good enough for
me.”
“Get on,” said I. “You’re in a bath-chair.”
“But the whole square’s at dinner! We should have the ball at our feet.
It wouldn’t take two twos!”
“With those blinds up, and the cook in the kitchen underneath?”
He nodded, leaning forward in the chair, his hands upon the wraps about
his legs.
“You must be mad,” said I, and got back to my handles with the word,
but when I tugged the chair ran light.
“Keep an eye on the rug,” came in a whisper from the middle of the
road; and there stood my invalid, his pale face in a quiver of pure
mischief, yet set with his insane resolve. “I’m only going to see
whether that woman has a silver-table—”
“We don’t want it—”
“It won’t take a minute—”
“It’s madness, madness—”
“Then don’t you wait!”
It was like him to leave me with that, and this time I had taken him at
his last word, had not my own given me an idea. Mad I had called him,
and mad I could declare him upon oath if necessary. It was not as
though the thing had happened far from home. They could learn all about
us at the nearest mansions. I referred them to Dr. Theobald; this was a
Mr. Maturin, one of his patients, and I was his keeper, and he had
never given me the slip before. I heard myself making these
explanations on the doorstep, and pointing to the deserted bath-chair
as the proof, while the pretty parlor maid ran for the police. It would
be a more serious matter for me than for my charge. I should lose my
place. No, he had never done such a thing before, and I would answer
for it that he never should again.
I saw myself conducting Raffles back to his chair, with a firm hand and
a stern tongue. I heard him thanking me in whispers on the way home. It
would be the first tight place I had ever got him out of, and I was
quite anxious for him to get into it, so sure was I of every move. My
whole position had altered in the few seconds that it took me to follow
this illuminating train of ideas; it was now so strong that I could
watch Raffles without much anxiety. And he was worth watching.
He had stepped boldly but softly to the front door, and there he was
still waiting, ready to ring if the door opened or a face appeared in
the area, and doubtless to pretend that he had rung already. But he had
not to ring at all; and suddenly I saw his foot in the letter-box, his
left hand on the lintel overhead. It was thrilling, even to a hardened
accomplice with an explanation up his sleeve! A tight grip with that
left hand of his, as he leant backward with all his weight upon those
five fingers; a right arm stretched outward and upward to its last
inch; and the base of the low, projecting balcony was safely caught.
I looked down and took breath. The maid was removing the crumbs in the
lighted room, and the square was empty as before. What a blessing it
was the end of the season! Many of the houses remained in darkness. I
looked up again, and Raffles was drawing his left leg over the balcony
railing. In another moment he had disappeared through one of the French
windows which opened upon the balcony, and in yet another he had
switched on the electric light within. This was bad enough, for now I,
at least, could see everything he did; but the crowning folly was still
to come. There was no point in it; the mad thing was done for my
benefit, as I knew at once and he afterward confessed; but the lunatic
reappeared on the balcony, bowing like a mountebank—in his crape mask!
I set off with the empty chair, but I came back. I could not desert old
Raffles, even when I would, but must try to explain away his mask as
well, if he had not the sense to take it off in time. It would be
difficult, but burglaries are not usually committed from a bath-chair,
and for the rest I put my faith in Dr. Theobald. Meanwhile Raffles had
at least withdrawn from the balcony, and now I could only see his head
as he peered into a cabinet at the other side of the room. It was like
the opera of _Aïda_, in which two scenes are enacted simultaneously,
one in the dungeon below, the other in the temple above. In the same
fashion my attention now became divided between the picture of Raffles
moving stealthily about the upper room, and that of the husband and
wife at table underneath. And all at once, as the man replenished his
glass with a shrug of the shoulders, the woman pushed back her chair
and sailed to the door.
Raffles was standing before the fireplace upstairs. He had taken one of
the framed photographs from the chimney-piece, and was scanning it at
suicidal length through the eye-holes in the hideous mask which he
still wore. He would need it after all. The lady had left the room
below, opening and shutting the door for herself; the man was filling
his glass once more. I would have shrieked my warning to Raffles, so
fatally engrossed overhead, but at this moment (of all others) a
constable (of all men) was marching sedately down our side of the
square. There was nothing for it but to turn a melancholy eye upon the
bath-chair, and to ask the constable the time. I was evidently to be
kept there all night, I remarked, and only realized with the words that
they disposed of my other explanations before they were uttered. It was
a horrible moment for such a discovery. Fortunately the enemy was on
the pavement, from which he could scarcely have seen more than the
drawing-room ceiling, had he looked; but he was not many houses distant
when a door opened and a woman gasped so that I heard both across the
road. And never shall I forget the subsequent tableaux in the lighted
room behind the low balcony and the French windows.
Raffles stood confronted by a dark and handsome woman whose profile, as
I saw it first in the electric light, is cut like a cameo in my memory.
It had the undeviating line of brow and nose, the short upper lip, the
perfect chin, that are united in marble oftener than in the flesh; and
like marble she stood, or rather like some beautiful pale bronze; for
that was her coloring, and she lost none of it that I could see,
neither trembled; but her bosom rose and fell, and that was all. So she
stood without flinching before a masked ruffian, who, I felt, would be
the first to appreciate her courage; to me it was so superb that I
could think of it in this way even then, and marvel how Raffles himself
could stand unabashed before so brave a figure. He had not to do so
long. The woman scorned him, and he stood unmoved, a framed photograph
still in his hand. Then, with a quick, determined movement she turned,
not to the door or to the bell, but to the open window by which Raffles
had entered; and this with that accursed policeman still in view. So
far no word had passed between the pair. But at this point Raffles said
something, I could not hear what, but at the sound of his voice the
woman wheeled. And Raffles was looking humbly in her face, the crape
mask snatched from his own.
“Arthur!” she cried; and that might have been heard in the middle of
the square garden.
Then they stood gazing at each other, neither unmoved any more, and
while they stood the street-door opened and banged. It was her husband
leaving the house, a fine figure of a man, but a dissipated face, and a
step even now distinguished by the extreme caution which precedes
unsteadiness. He broke the spell. His wife came to the balcony, then
looked back into the room, and yet again along the road, and this time
I saw her face. It was the face of one glancing indeed from Hyperion to
a satyr. And then I saw the rings flash, as her hand fell gently upon
Raffles’s arm.
They disappeared from that window. Their heads showed for an instant in
the next. Then they dipped out of sight, and an inner ceiling flashed
out under a new light; they had gone into the back drawing-room, beyond
my ken. The maid came up with coffee, her mistress hastily met her at
the door, and once more disappeared. The square was as quiet as ever. I
remained some minutes where I was. Now and then I thought I heard their
voices in the back drawing-room. I was seldom sure.
My state of mind may be imagined by those readers who take an interest
in my personal psychology. It does not amuse me to look back upon it.
But at length I had the sense to put myself in Raffles’s place. He had
been recognized at last, he had come to life. Only one person knew as
yet, but that person was a woman, and a woman who had once been fond of
him, if the human face could speak. Would she keep his secret? Would he
tell her where he lived? It was terrible to think we were such
neighbors, and with the thought that it was terrible came a little
enlightenment as to what could still be done for the best. He would not
tell her where he lived. I knew him too well for that. He would run for
it when he could, and the bath-chair and I must not be there to give
him away. I dragged the infernal vehicle round the nearer corner. Then
I waited—there could be no harm in that—and at last he came.
He was walking briskly, so I was right, and he had not played the
invalid to her; yet I heard him cry out with pleasure as he turned the
corner, and he flung himself into the chair with a long-drawn sigh that
did me good.
“Well done, Bunny—well done! I am on my way to Earl’s Court, she’s
capable of following me, but she won’t look for me in a bath-chair.
Home, home, home, and not another word till we get there!”
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.
“Southern blood?”
“Spanish.”
“She’ll be pestering you to run off with her, old chap,” said I.
Raffles was pacing the room. He stopped in his stride for half a
second. So she had begun pestering him already! It is wonderful how
acute any fool can be in the affairs of his friend. But Raffles resumed
his walk without a syllable, and I retreated to safer ground.
“So you sent her to Earl’s Court,” I mused aloud; and at last he
smiled.
“You’ll be interested to hear, Bunny,” said he, “that I am now living
in Seven Dials, and Bill Sikes couldn’t hold a farthing dip to me.
Bless you, she had my old police record at her fingers’ ends, but it
was fit to frame compared with the one I gave her. I had sunk as low as
they dig. I divided my nights between the open parks and a thieves’
kitchen in Seven Dials. If I was decently dressed it was because I had
stolen the suit down the Thames Valley beat the night before last. I
was on my way back when first that sleepy square, and then her open
window, proved too much for me. You should have heard me beg her to let
me push on to the devil in my own way; there I spread myself, for I
meant every word; but I swore the final stage would be a six-foot
drop.”
“You did lay it on,” said I.
“It was necessary, and that had its effect. She let me go. But at the
last moment she said she didn’t believe I was so black as I painted
myself, and then there was the balcony scene you missed.”
So that was all. I could not help telling him that he had got out of it
better than he deserved for ever getting in. Next moment I regretted
the remark.
“If I have got out of it,” said Raffles, doubtfully. “We are dreadfully
near neighbors, and I can’t move in a minute, with old Theobald taking
a grave view of my case. I suppose I had better lie low, and thank the
gods again for putting her off the scent for the time being.”
No doubt our conversation was carried beyond this point, but it
certainly was not many minutes later, nor had we left the subject, when
the electric bell thrilled us both to a sudden silence.
“The doctor?” I queried, hope fighting with my horror.
“It was a single ring.”
“The last post?”
“You know he knocks, and it’s long past his time.”
The electric bell rang again, but now as though it never would stop.
“You go, Bunny,” said Raffles, with decision. His eyes were sparkling.
His smile was firm.
“What am I to say?”
“If it’s the lady let her in.”
It was the lady, still in her evening cloak, with her fine dark head
half-hidden by the hood, and an engaging contempt of appearances upon
her angry face. She was even handsomer than I had thought, and her
beauty of a bolder type, but she was also angrier than I had
anticipated when I came so readily to the door. The passage into which
it opened was an exceedingly narrow one, as I have often said, but I
never dreamt of barring this woman’s way, though not a word did she
stoop to say to me. I was only too glad to flatten myself against the
wall, as the rustling fury strode past me into the lighted room with
the open door.
“So this is your thieves’ kitchen!” she cried, in high-pitched scorn.
I was on the threshold myself, and Raffles glanced towards me with
raised eyebrows.
“I have certainly had better quarters in my day,” said he, “but you
need not call them absurd names before my man.”
“Then send your ‘man’ about his business,” said Jacques Saillard, with
an unpleasant stress upon the word indicated.
But when the door was shut I heard Raffles assuring her that I knew
nothing, that he was a real invalid overcome by a sudden mad
temptation, and all he had told her of his life a lie to hide his
whereabouts, but all he was telling her now she could prove for herself
without leaving that building. It seemed, however, that she had proved
it already by going first to the porter below stairs. Yet I do not
think she cared one atom which story was the truth.
“So you thought I could pass you in your chair,” she said, “or ever in
this world again, without hearing from my heart that it was you!”