'My dear Edith, he's nothing particular to _see_, but he's a man who might be--very useful.' 'Oh, shall you take a private room?' 'I don't think so. Why? You can wear what you wore last night.... You looked quite nice in it, and you can take it from me, once for all'--he got up, looked in the glass, and said--'that _Raggett's all right_. Now, tell cook we're dining out. She might have a holiday tonight. A change may do her good; and I shall hope to find the omelette less leathery tomorrow.' Edith did not point out that Bruce, after specially ordering breakfast punctually at nine, had come down at half-past ten. 'And now I must go.... The dinner was charming last night. It was only spoilt by that empty-headed fool--what's his name--Reeve, who was obviously making up to Hyacinth. Anyone can see she only endures his attentions from politeness, of course. He knows nothing about anything. I found _that_ out when we were smoking after dinner; and one can't get a word out of old Cannon.' Edith was putting Bruce's writing-table in order when she found an open letter in the blotting-book, glanced at the signature, and saw that it was from Raggett. So she eagerly read it, hoping to get some further light on the mysterious man in whose honour Bruce was prepared to offer so extravagant a festivity. It was written on a rough sheet of paper, with no address. The handwriting was small, compressed, and very untidy. It ran.-- 'DEAR OTTLEY, 'Y'rs to hand. I shall be glad to dine with you, as I have told you several times, and I would accept your invitation with pleasure if I knew when and where the dinner was to be. These two points you have always avoided mentioning. 'Y'rs truly, J.R. RAGGETT' It struck Edith that it was quite extraordinary, after so many descriptions from Bruce--some vivid, some sketchy, others subtly suggestive--how little she could imagine Raggett. Notwithstanding quantities of words, nothing, somehow, had ever come out to throw the least glimmer of light either on his character, personality, or walk of life. Not bad, all right, useful, rather wonderful, but quite ordinary and nothing particular, were some of the phrases she recalled. She had never been told anything about his age, nor his appearance, nor how long Bruce had known him. She had only gathered that he wasn't athletic like Goldthorpe (Bruce's golf companion), and that he wasn't in the Foreign Office, and didn't belong to Bruce's club. Where, how, and when could he be useful? If she seemed bored when Bruce was enthusiastic about him, he was offended; but if she seemed interested and asked leading questions, he became touchy and cautious, almost jealous. Sometimes she had begun to think that Raggett was a Mrs Harris--that there was no such person. There, evidently, she had been wrong.