I was in London again a few days later, and Captain Cardew lunched with
me at the club.
"You were poor Guy's intimate friend," I remarked as we sat together.
"Have you ever heard him speak of a Mrs Olliffe, who lives somewhere
near Bath?"
"Oh yes," was his reply, as he sat twisting his wineglass by the stem.
"He knew her. She had a niece or something, a Miss Farquhar, living
with her, and he was rather sweet on her at one time, I believe."
"Have you ever met the widow?" I asked.
"Guy introduced me to them one night at the Savoy."
"Where is the young lady now?"
"Somewhere in India, I think. Her father's a civilian out there."
"But this Mrs Olliffe," I said. "Don't you know any thing about her?"
"Only that she is a widow, and very well off; has some fine pheasant
shooting, I believe, and gives some gay week-end parties."
"What was her husband?"
"I fancy he was a banker, or something."