o me than Raffles himself, one whose name
shall not even now be sullied by association with ours.

Suffice it that I had been engaged to her before that mad March deed.
True, her people called it "an understanding," and frowned even upon
that, as well they might. But their authority was not direct; we bowed
to it as an act of politic grace; between us, all was well but my
unworthiness. That may be gauged when I confess that this was how the
matter stood on the night I gave a worthless check for my losses at
baccarat, and afterward turned to Raffles in my need. Even after that
I saw her sometimes. But I let her guess that there was more upon my
soul than she must ever share, and at last I had written to end it all.
I remember that week so well! It was the close of such a May as we had
never had since, and I was too miserable even to follow the heavy
scoring in the papers. Raffles was the only man who could get a wicket
up at Lord's, and I never once went to see him play. Against
Yorkshire, however, he helped himself to a hundred runs as well; and
that brought Raffles round to me, on his way home to the Albany.

"We must dine and celebrate the rare event," said he. "A century takes
it out of one at my time of life; and you, Bunny, you look quite as
much in need of your end of a worthy bottle. Suppose we make it the
Cafe Royal, and eight sharp? I'll be there first to fix up the table
and the wine."

And at the Cafe Royal I incontinently told him of the trouble I was in.
It was the first he had ever heard of my affair, and I told him all,
though not before our bottle had been succeeded by a pint of the same
exemplary brand. Raffles heard me out with grave attention. His
sympathy was the more grateful for the tactful brevity with which it
was indicated rather than expressed. He only wished that I had told
him of this complication in the beginning; as I had not, he agreed with
me that the only course was a candid and complete renunciation. It was
not as though my divinity had a penny of her own, or I could earn an
honest one. I had explained to Raffles that she was an orphan, who
spent most of her time with an aristocratic aunt in the country, and
the remainder under the repressive roof of a pompous politician in
Palace Gardens. The aunt had, I believed, still a sneaking softness
for me, but her illustrious brother had set his face against me from
the first.

"Hector Carruthers!" murmured Raffles, repeati