“Understandably,” I said.
“The aristocracy,” Raffles said, “pins its faith to three pillars of society — the Church, the Law, and the Army. Jay was not only an Army man, he was one who’d earned in aristocratic circles a reputation for integrity, secrecy, and skill in the handling of damaging imbroglios. With no war of any size on, he could have remained stuck at Captain’s rank for a decade. He saw a need and a better chance for himself in civilian life. So Captain George Jay, of the Hussars, resigned his commission and became plain Mr. Jay, profession confidential — his receipt of custom, 5 Finch Court, Southampton Row. And I’d like very much,” Raffles said, “to know which of his clients put him on to investigating me.”
“When I saw Jay just now,” I said, and my heart was thumping, “he was coming out of the Cavendish Hotel in Jermyn Street.”
“What?” said Raffles.
“He’d probably been in there,” I said, my throat dry, “to see a client.”
Never before had I seen Raffles so shaken. He drew in his breath, looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“She’s due at four,” he said. “She told me she’d love to see my habitation, here in the Albany, so I invited her and her aunt to tea. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Then I’d better go.”
“No!” Raffles said. He frowned, in thought. “Bunny, your presence here, a stranger to them, might make the conversation a bit stilted, but I’d like to get your impression of Diana. Go into my other room there and leave the door slightly ajar. Don’t argue! Go quick! I hear them coming!”
Scarcely had I obeyed him than I heard a knock on his outer door, heard it open, heard the hall porter’s voice: “Mrs. Diana Rivenhurst to see you, Mr. Raffles.”
“Thank you, Bellairs,” said Raffles, adding, as I heard the outer close, “Why, Diana! You’re alone?”
“My aunt still has a migraine headache. She’s in bed with a cold compress.”
“What a shame! But how nice of you to come yourself!”
“I shouldn’t have, really. I can only stay for a minute.”
“Nonsense! You must have some tea. I’ve lighted the spirit-stove, the kettle’s already singing.”
“Well — just one very small cup of tea, perhaps.”
“Let me help you off with your things.”
“I shouldn’t, really. But — oh, well — just for a minute or two.”
Embarrassed as I was at this unexpected situation, Diana coming alone, I put an askance eye to the door-crack. Raffles was helping her off with her things.
“Ah,” he said, “the kettle’s boiling. I’ll make the tea.”
“So this is where you live! What a nice room! Such comfortable saddlebag chairs, and so many books and cricket bats and golf clubs and — is that a sword of some kind?”
“A sabre, Diana. I fence occasionally, rapier and sabre, at the Salle D’Armes in Covent Garden. It strengthens the wrist for cricket. Tea’s ready.”
“Would you like me to pour?”
“Please do. You did it so gracefully at breakfast at Winchcombe Glebe.”
“Did you like my home?”
“I thought it as enchanting as its hostess.”
“What a nice thing to say! And you take one knob of sugar in your tea. I remember that — from your week at Winchcombe Glebe.”
“For me, Diana, a very happy week.”
“For me, too. It was so nice to have a man in the house.”
“Won’t you try one of these Eclairs, Diana? They’re from the DuBarry Buttery in Piccadilly.”
“Well — just a tiny one.” Softly, after a moment: “Arthur?”
I seldom heard Raffles called by his first name or even by his initials. Among men, it was not a thing that was done. To hear him called “Arthur” by a lovely woman sounded so intimate, so almost uxorious, that my embarrassment became insupportable. I felt I had better leave. I tiptoed to the other door of the room I was in. It was a door by which the Albany rear exit, to Vigo Street, could be reached. But the door was locked.
“Yes, Diana?” I heard Raffles say.
“Do you get lonely sometimes? I do. Oh, of course, I know lots of people. And — men — well, quite often they want to marry me.”
“Does that surprise you, Diana?”
“Not really, I suppose — to be honest. But — you see — I’m quite well off, but — are they? I mean, is it honestly me they want to marry? Or is it — well — my money?”
“I see your problem, Diana.”
“I think it’s managed, this sort of thing, so much better on the Continent. There the financial position of the persons concerned is frankly discussed before any betrothal is entered into. But here, in hypocritical England, a woman often has to — well, just leap in the dark. Oh, I’ve thought so much about this! It must be so awful for a woman who finds she’s married a man who has to keep coming to her for money. And it can’t be a very nice situation for a man, d’you think?”
“I should imagine not, Diana — though some men don’t seem to mind.”
“Would you mind, Arthur?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“I knew it! And I’m so glad! Because I’d like to ask your advice about something. May I?”
“Of course.”
In the other room, I now was listening — through the door-crack — quite intently. My embarrassment was forgotten.
“Arthur,” I heard Diana say, “don’t lawyers have a term — ‘in escrow’ — something like that?”
“I think they have some such term, Diana, yes.”
“Well, tell me, in your honest opinion, Arthur, d’you think it would be very awful for a woman to suggest to a man who proposed marriage to her that both he and she each place an agreed cash sum in — sort of escrow for an agreed period, however brief, while they — kind of thought things over? Would such a suggestion seem very dreadful — coming from a woman?”
“It doesn’t seem very dreadful to me, Diana.”
“Really? Truly? I mean, for example — suppose I were to say to you, ‘Let’s each put £5000 in kind of escrow for — let’s say a week.’ Would you do it?”
“Certainly,” said Raffles.
“Then let’s,” said Diana. “It’d be a kind of — earnest. And such fun! I have an absolutely reliable man of business. He acts only for the very best people. He could hold the — sort of escrow money for us. Let’s do it, Arthur, just as a kind of dare! Do let’s!”
“Diana,” Raffles said indulgently, “I can refuse you nothing.”
“To-morrow afternoon, then? Say, at two o’clock? We’ll meet at his office, each of us bringing £5000 in cash to place in his safekeeping for — yes, let’s say just one week. Could we? Or would tomorrow be too soon for you, Arthur?”
“Not in the least, Diana.”
“Then it’s agreed?”
“On one condition — that you have supper with me, alone, at the Café Royal to-morrow night.”