“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.