The Best of Sisters, Part Three
He continued not to think of food through all the long afternoon- while I, on the other hand, could think of almost nothing else.
“At least let me have a whisky,” I begged at intervals. “A whisky would be better than nothing at all.”
But this comfort Raffles unkindly refused me, saying, “When the opportunity we’re looking for comes, it’s possible that we’ll need to move very quickly. You must be perfectly alert, Bunny. The least stumble might be fatal to our chances.”
I hardly saw how I could be both alert and faint from hunger, but Raffles was adamant that I should have nothing but soda-water to drink.
In response to my complaining, as night fell Raffles went canvassing among his neighbors (I seized the chance to have a quick one), returning at last with a small packet of biscuits; and of this we made our slim dinner. Then, very late, we went hungry to bed, where, contrary to my expectations, I actually slept quite well.
When I woke, Raffles was already up, dressed, and peering through the window.
Silently, he pointed to the pile of my clothes, indicating that I should put them on at once.
“What’s the hurry?” I muttered, yawning. With no breakfast to look forward to, I felt no particular urgency to leave my warm bed.
But Raffles, smiling, said, “I think I’ve found our ‘opportunity’! The removers are here!”
I jumped up from the bed at once.
I soon discovered, however, that our situation was not quite so happy a one as I’d hoped. We’d likely still miss our breakfasts, Raffles informed me- and possibly our luncheons as well.
“There’s no possibility of hiding ourselves in that wagon until a great deal of furniture’s been loaded into it already,” he said. “Hold yourself in readiness, and I’ll tell you when we’re to go down.”
Deeply sighing, I sat down in my accustomed chair.
The removers went on working all the morning. Evidently our departing neighbor had a great many possessions. My stomach had given up complaining by now- as did I, finally, as the hours dragged on. As often as I asked, Raffles repeated that the time for our escape had not yet arrived.
At last - just as I had begun, mentally, to compose a pathetic farewell to the world from which hunger looked likely soon to remove me - my friend turned from the window and said, his face shining, “At last! The piano! That’s our signal, Bunny! Come along quickly, now!”
Asked I, querulously, “A piano? We’ve been waiting for a piano?”
“It’s bound to be nearly the last item placed on the wagon,” he replied. “Hurry, hurry! What are you dawdling for? We must move!”
But I had no “hurry” left in me, and Raffles was downstairs and already engaged in friendly conversation with the removal-men before I reached him.
As I walked up, one of them was saying wisely, “Say, I know you, don’t I? You’re that cricket fellow.” (To the others), “This here’s that cricket fellow, ain’t he? What’s the name- ? Aye, Ives; that’s it.” (To Raffles again), “You’re Mr. Ives, ain’t you? I’ve seen you play!”
Raffles startled me by replying, eyes sparkling, “That’s right: George Ives is my name.” Turning to me, he announced, “It seems they’ve found me out, Murgatroyd.”
“So I perceive,” I muttered sourly. Raffles might not object to being “Ives”, but I was conceiving a considerable distaste for having to answer to the name of Murgatroyd.
Following this exchange, we spent some little further time in earnest discussion of the game of cricket- in which I was happy to take part, of course.
Then, looking past the work-men, who were by this time sincerely assuring “Mr. Ives” that, though they were not ordinarily great supporters of the Middlesex side, they admired his play, Raffles said, “Is that sofa behind you still to go? It is? Come on, Murgatroyd; let’s help these good fellows, shall we? We’ll carry the sofa out. -No, no; don’t mention it. We’re going out that way in any case. Might as well not go empty-handed.”
Becoming uneasy at once, the removers began to object; but cheerfully ignoring them, Raffles led me into the now nearly empty rooms and pointed me to one end of the sofa in question.
“Of course,” Raffles continued, playfully snatching the cap from the head of the man nearest him and replacing it with his own hat, “if we’re to move furniture, we must be dressed fit for the part, mustn’t we? -Take his hat, Murgatroyd,” he said, indicating the particularly loathsome and greasy piece of head-gear atop the fellow standing nearest me.
“You go have a drink now, and my friend and I will see this safely into the van,” Raffles urged the still-protesting removers; adding truthlessly, “I always take my beer at the ‘Bell’ in Vigo Street; and if you mention my name there, the publican will see to it that your round is put down to the account of George Ives.”
The he and I shouldered the sofa (a monstrously large specimen, constructed, apparently, of carved mahogany and solid lead), and using it as best we could to hide ourselves, we staggered off in the direction of the wagon.
Once safely in the remover’s van, we searched frantically among the boxes and items of furniture piled high around us for a place in which to hide. After rejecting several of my suggestions, Raffles found a position he thought would do, and we were tucked snugly into it, out of sight, but with clear egress, when the workmen returned complaining bitterly to each other of the trick that had been played upon them with regard to the beer (there is not and has never to my knowledge been a “Bell” in Vigo Street); and shortly after, the wagon began at last to move.
Well away from Piccadilly, we jumped from the van at a crossing, and then traveled by a succession of omnibuses to one of the suburban stations- keeping a sharp eye out, meanwhile, for any sign of Moriarty’s men. Once we were certain we were not being followed, Raffles went to buy rail-tickets, while I secured us our long-delayed meal at a pub nearby.
“Where are we going?” I asked my friend when he had joined me. “-Scotch egg, A. J.?”
Shuddering, Raffles gestured the item in question away.
“To visit my sister,” he replied. “I let on to the ticket-agent that we wanted to go all the way to Maidstone - just in case someone comes asking him later - but we’ll get off at Tunbridge Wells instead. My brother-in-law’s the clergyman of a small village near there, and though unfortunately there’s no railway-line directly to it, if we head straight across the fields we’ll only have a walk of five or six miles to their house.”
Ordinarily, a dirty walk of five or six miles would have discouraged me. Now, contentedly patting my full belly, I said, “Why not?”
The trudge was a little muddier and more arduous than I’d expected, however; and furthermore we arrived at the door of the parsonage in a state of embarrassing undress, having left our own hats behind when we’d assumed the removal-men’s caps, and the caps (at my insistence) in the mover’s wagon.
“If I were your sister, I’m not certain I’d take you in,” I murmured to Raffles as he rang at the door. “You look a sight, and I’m sure I’m a worse one.”
“Of course she’ll let me in,” Raffles replied. “She always does.”
Before I had time to ask how many other times he might have imposed upon her in the same way, the door was opened by Sophronia Combe herself.
Though I had never met her, I had no doubt it was she, since in every feature she was simply a female version of her brother. She had his slim figure; his fine, upright carriage; his black, curling hair- in her case worn piled becomingly on top of her head - as well as, most surprisingly, his distinctive, penetrating glance. I had previously imagined that no one in the world but Raffles had an eye like that.
The lady briefly started at sight of us; then, crying, “Arthur darling, you bad thing!” she gave her brother’s cheek an affectionate pat, and offered her own to be kissed. “Oh, dear me! What have you done this time? You look utterly disreputable,” she said.
Protested Raffles, “What makes you think I’ve done something? Can’t a man visit his own sister if he wants to?”
“At any time,” she replied, a little tartly. “Only in general, you don’t. -Well, no doubt you’ve been very naughty- but do come in anyway.”
As Raffles was pronouncing my name to Mrs. Combe, I had just time to form a brief impression of an apparition resembling a smaller version of herself approaching to peek warily from behind her skirts; and then, without warning, the air was rent by an ear-shattering shriek, and the apparition - a blur of curls and blue ruffles - hurtled past me and flung herself into Raffles’s arms.
“Uncle Arthur!” the little girl (for so the blue blur proved to be) exclaimed happily.
“Edwina!” he returned, soundly kissing her cheek. “-Where’re your brothers?”
“Upstairs,” she replied. “They’re just little boys, you know, and must have their tea in the nursery. -I have mine in the parlor now,” she told him smugly.
Then, looking at me, she asked, “Is this another one of your friends, Uncle Arthur? He’s much taller than the last one, isn’t he?”
Before Raffles could answer this, her mother interrupted.
“Edwina, go pour for your father, won’t you?” she urged. “You know how he hates to be kept waiting for his tea. -Arthur, where are your bags, dear? I’ll have them taken up.”
Raffles was forced to acknowledge then that we had not brought any luggage with us.
“In the matter of clean linen, we were depending upon the charity of the Reverend Mr. Combe,” he admitted.
“Oh, what a nuisance you always are,” replied his sister- though so cheerfully as to belie her words. “Mind your manners while you’re here, then, or I’ll make you wear something from the poor-bag.” Shepherding us toward the parlor, she called out, “Edwin, darling: Here’s Arthur and his friend Mr. Manders come to visit us. Isn’t that a nice surprise?”
I suspected from the expression on his face that the Reverend Mr. Combe didn’t care much for such “surprises”- but his manner as he welcomed us was a model of Christian fortitude.
Two days later, just before dinner-time, Raffles came up to my room to discuss our projected next steps with regard to the stolen wallet.
But first he asked, “How’s the ankle?”
His tone seemed one of concern, but I thought I detected a gleam of satisfaction in Raffles’s eye. I looked away, not bothering to answer.
When I said nothing, he continued, “That’s one of the legitimate uses of the bat in cricket, you know. As well as to keep the ball away from the wicket, you may employ it to keep the ball away from you. Next time, don’t go after those fast ones. Just parry them off.”
“Next time!” I exclaimed, bitterly.
We’d spent the afternoon in a field playing cricket, six to a side, with the five Combe children, supplemented by the household servants, including the children’s ancient nanny. Raffles and his niece Edwina (outfitted in what I was sure was one of Raffles’ own cast-off Zingari blazers) had been the bowlers; and when the lots were drawn and I found myself on Raffles’ team, I’d been on the whole relieved to know that I wouldn’t have to bat against my friend. He’d go easy on the children, I was sure- but I didn’t care to have any witnesses to how quickly he could retire me if he put his mind to it. I thought, when it was my at-bat, that I’d play along for awhile, hitting a few gentle ones for the fielders to practice on, and then let little Edwina take the wicket and enjoy a moment of triumph.
Things worked out rather differently from this plan, however.
As I watched, astonished, his niece handily retired batsman after batsman- including the Combe’s “outside man”, whose play was certainly as good as mine. Raffles then proudly informed me that he’d taught Edwina everything she knew.
“We practice whenever I visit,” he said. “What an arm she’s got, eh?”
With this assessment I uncomfortably agreed.
“Be careful when you get up to bat,” he advised me. “She’ll send you down a few easy ones first, just to take your measure; but don’t be fooled. Once she knows your weaknesses, she’ll move straight in for the kill.”
-A strategy, no doubt, that she’d had from her uncle’s own lips.
With set jaw and fear in my heart, I was just holding my own against her - or thought I was - when what looked like an easy hit for me abruptly pitched straight for my ankle, cracked it smartly, and put me out of the game.
And then, just to add insult to injury, as I sat glumly on the sidelines where Nanny was pouring tea (having not, in her turn at bat, been retired by the charitable Raffles until he had first allowed her to score a respectable number of runs- or in her case, hobbles), my throbbing foot propped up on a chair, I received a sudden sharp whack to my knuckles.
Yelping with pain, I turned to confront the old lady, demurely returned to her knitting. “Sandwiches before cake, Mr. Manders!” she said, severely.
“Poor Bunny,” Raffles commiserated, trying (not very successfully) to hide a smile. “You didn’t have a good day, did you?”
“Thanks to you, I had a perfectly wretched day,” I replied. “I don’t blame you - much - for my ankle; but why didn’t you warn me about Nanny Harridan, at least? I don’t know which hurts worse, my foot or my hand.”
Raffles looked as though he were about to reply to this, then changed his mind and said instead, “I sent off the letter. It’ll take some time for us to get an answer, though.”
I sat up higher on the bed. This news, at least, had real interest.
“It had to go under cover, of course,” Raffles continued. “That means at least an extra day until Moriarty gets it, while my friend passes it on.” (I didn’t know who this obliging friend was, but I understood without being told that I mustn’t ask for his name.) “Then once Moriarty answers, it’ll take an extra day for that letter to be passed back to us, too.”
“Four or five more days at a minimum, then,” I reflected. “Do we have to stay here so long as that?”
“Why not?” replied Raffles. “There’s no more charming place in the world to hide out in than a little English village, is there?”
“There’s Paris,” I countered.
Raffles laughed. “Well, we can’t afford to go to Paris; so a charming English village it must be,” he said.
“We could go if you’d done as I said, and picked Mr. Industrialist’s pocket instead of the albino’s,” I muttered; adding aloud, “Oh, all right. -But no more cricket.”
“Cricket every day,” said Raffles firmly. “Edwina wants the practice.”
“A. J.,” I asked then, “who else have you brought here?”
“What?! Are you jealous, Bunny?”
“Not in the least. Just curious, that’s all.”
Rising briskly, Raffles replied only, “No one that you know. -Now that I think of it, there’ll be no cricket tomorrow, at least. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“So?”
“So in this household, Sunday means church.”
“Church!” I cried. “Better cricket, than church!”
But church, of course, it had to be.
Part One / Part Two // Part Four / Part Five
“At least let me have a whisky,” I begged at intervals. “A whisky would be better than nothing at all.”
But this comfort Raffles unkindly refused me, saying, “When the opportunity we’re looking for comes, it’s possible that we’ll need to move very quickly. You must be perfectly alert, Bunny. The least stumble might be fatal to our chances.”
I hardly saw how I could be both alert and faint from hunger, but Raffles was adamant that I should have nothing but soda-water to drink.
In response to my complaining, as night fell Raffles went canvassing among his neighbors (I seized the chance to have a quick one), returning at last with a small packet of biscuits; and of this we made our slim dinner. Then, very late, we went hungry to bed, where, contrary to my expectations, I actually slept quite well.
When I woke, Raffles was already up, dressed, and peering through the window.
Silently, he pointed to the pile of my clothes, indicating that I should put them on at once.
“What’s the hurry?” I muttered, yawning. With no breakfast to look forward to, I felt no particular urgency to leave my warm bed.
But Raffles, smiling, said, “I think I’ve found our ‘opportunity’! The removers are here!”
I jumped up from the bed at once.
I soon discovered, however, that our situation was not quite so happy a one as I’d hoped. We’d likely still miss our breakfasts, Raffles informed me- and possibly our luncheons as well.
“There’s no possibility of hiding ourselves in that wagon until a great deal of furniture’s been loaded into it already,” he said. “Hold yourself in readiness, and I’ll tell you when we’re to go down.”
Deeply sighing, I sat down in my accustomed chair.
The removers went on working all the morning. Evidently our departing neighbor had a great many possessions. My stomach had given up complaining by now- as did I, finally, as the hours dragged on. As often as I asked, Raffles repeated that the time for our escape had not yet arrived.
At last - just as I had begun, mentally, to compose a pathetic farewell to the world from which hunger looked likely soon to remove me - my friend turned from the window and said, his face shining, “At last! The piano! That’s our signal, Bunny! Come along quickly, now!”
Asked I, querulously, “A piano? We’ve been waiting for a piano?”
“It’s bound to be nearly the last item placed on the wagon,” he replied. “Hurry, hurry! What are you dawdling for? We must move!”
But I had no “hurry” left in me, and Raffles was downstairs and already engaged in friendly conversation with the removal-men before I reached him.
As I walked up, one of them was saying wisely, “Say, I know you, don’t I? You’re that cricket fellow.” (To the others), “This here’s that cricket fellow, ain’t he? What’s the name- ? Aye, Ives; that’s it.” (To Raffles again), “You’re Mr. Ives, ain’t you? I’ve seen you play!”
Raffles startled me by replying, eyes sparkling, “That’s right: George Ives is my name.” Turning to me, he announced, “It seems they’ve found me out, Murgatroyd.”
“So I perceive,” I muttered sourly. Raffles might not object to being “Ives”, but I was conceiving a considerable distaste for having to answer to the name of Murgatroyd.
Following this exchange, we spent some little further time in earnest discussion of the game of cricket- in which I was happy to take part, of course.
Then, looking past the work-men, who were by this time sincerely assuring “Mr. Ives” that, though they were not ordinarily great supporters of the Middlesex side, they admired his play, Raffles said, “Is that sofa behind you still to go? It is? Come on, Murgatroyd; let’s help these good fellows, shall we? We’ll carry the sofa out. -No, no; don’t mention it. We’re going out that way in any case. Might as well not go empty-handed.”
Becoming uneasy at once, the removers began to object; but cheerfully ignoring them, Raffles led me into the now nearly empty rooms and pointed me to one end of the sofa in question.
“Of course,” Raffles continued, playfully snatching the cap from the head of the man nearest him and replacing it with his own hat, “if we’re to move furniture, we must be dressed fit for the part, mustn’t we? -Take his hat, Murgatroyd,” he said, indicating the particularly loathsome and greasy piece of head-gear atop the fellow standing nearest me.
“You go have a drink now, and my friend and I will see this safely into the van,” Raffles urged the still-protesting removers; adding truthlessly, “I always take my beer at the ‘Bell’ in Vigo Street; and if you mention my name there, the publican will see to it that your round is put down to the account of George Ives.”
The he and I shouldered the sofa (a monstrously large specimen, constructed, apparently, of carved mahogany and solid lead), and using it as best we could to hide ourselves, we staggered off in the direction of the wagon.
Once safely in the remover’s van, we searched frantically among the boxes and items of furniture piled high around us for a place in which to hide. After rejecting several of my suggestions, Raffles found a position he thought would do, and we were tucked snugly into it, out of sight, but with clear egress, when the workmen returned complaining bitterly to each other of the trick that had been played upon them with regard to the beer (there is not and has never to my knowledge been a “Bell” in Vigo Street); and shortly after, the wagon began at last to move.
Well away from Piccadilly, we jumped from the van at a crossing, and then traveled by a succession of omnibuses to one of the suburban stations- keeping a sharp eye out, meanwhile, for any sign of Moriarty’s men. Once we were certain we were not being followed, Raffles went to buy rail-tickets, while I secured us our long-delayed meal at a pub nearby.
“Where are we going?” I asked my friend when he had joined me. “-Scotch egg, A. J.?”
Shuddering, Raffles gestured the item in question away.
“To visit my sister,” he replied. “I let on to the ticket-agent that we wanted to go all the way to Maidstone - just in case someone comes asking him later - but we’ll get off at Tunbridge Wells instead. My brother-in-law’s the clergyman of a small village near there, and though unfortunately there’s no railway-line directly to it, if we head straight across the fields we’ll only have a walk of five or six miles to their house.”
Ordinarily, a dirty walk of five or six miles would have discouraged me. Now, contentedly patting my full belly, I said, “Why not?”
The trudge was a little muddier and more arduous than I’d expected, however; and furthermore we arrived at the door of the parsonage in a state of embarrassing undress, having left our own hats behind when we’d assumed the removal-men’s caps, and the caps (at my insistence) in the mover’s wagon.
“If I were your sister, I’m not certain I’d take you in,” I murmured to Raffles as he rang at the door. “You look a sight, and I’m sure I’m a worse one.”
“Of course she’ll let me in,” Raffles replied. “She always does.”
Before I had time to ask how many other times he might have imposed upon her in the same way, the door was opened by Sophronia Combe herself.
Though I had never met her, I had no doubt it was she, since in every feature she was simply a female version of her brother. She had his slim figure; his fine, upright carriage; his black, curling hair- in her case worn piled becomingly on top of her head - as well as, most surprisingly, his distinctive, penetrating glance. I had previously imagined that no one in the world but Raffles had an eye like that.
The lady briefly started at sight of us; then, crying, “Arthur darling, you bad thing!” she gave her brother’s cheek an affectionate pat, and offered her own to be kissed. “Oh, dear me! What have you done this time? You look utterly disreputable,” she said.
Protested Raffles, “What makes you think I’ve done something? Can’t a man visit his own sister if he wants to?”
“At any time,” she replied, a little tartly. “Only in general, you don’t. -Well, no doubt you’ve been very naughty- but do come in anyway.”
As Raffles was pronouncing my name to Mrs. Combe, I had just time to form a brief impression of an apparition resembling a smaller version of herself approaching to peek warily from behind her skirts; and then, without warning, the air was rent by an ear-shattering shriek, and the apparition - a blur of curls and blue ruffles - hurtled past me and flung herself into Raffles’s arms.
“Uncle Arthur!” the little girl (for so the blue blur proved to be) exclaimed happily.
“Edwina!” he returned, soundly kissing her cheek. “-Where’re your brothers?”
“Upstairs,” she replied. “They’re just little boys, you know, and must have their tea in the nursery. -I have mine in the parlor now,” she told him smugly.
Then, looking at me, she asked, “Is this another one of your friends, Uncle Arthur? He’s much taller than the last one, isn’t he?”
Before Raffles could answer this, her mother interrupted.
“Edwina, go pour for your father, won’t you?” she urged. “You know how he hates to be kept waiting for his tea. -Arthur, where are your bags, dear? I’ll have them taken up.”
Raffles was forced to acknowledge then that we had not brought any luggage with us.
“In the matter of clean linen, we were depending upon the charity of the Reverend Mr. Combe,” he admitted.
“Oh, what a nuisance you always are,” replied his sister- though so cheerfully as to belie her words. “Mind your manners while you’re here, then, or I’ll make you wear something from the poor-bag.” Shepherding us toward the parlor, she called out, “Edwin, darling: Here’s Arthur and his friend Mr. Manders come to visit us. Isn’t that a nice surprise?”
I suspected from the expression on his face that the Reverend Mr. Combe didn’t care much for such “surprises”- but his manner as he welcomed us was a model of Christian fortitude.
Two days later, just before dinner-time, Raffles came up to my room to discuss our projected next steps with regard to the stolen wallet.
But first he asked, “How’s the ankle?”
His tone seemed one of concern, but I thought I detected a gleam of satisfaction in Raffles’s eye. I looked away, not bothering to answer.
When I said nothing, he continued, “That’s one of the legitimate uses of the bat in cricket, you know. As well as to keep the ball away from the wicket, you may employ it to keep the ball away from you. Next time, don’t go after those fast ones. Just parry them off.”
“Next time!” I exclaimed, bitterly.
We’d spent the afternoon in a field playing cricket, six to a side, with the five Combe children, supplemented by the household servants, including the children’s ancient nanny. Raffles and his niece Edwina (outfitted in what I was sure was one of Raffles’ own cast-off Zingari blazers) had been the bowlers; and when the lots were drawn and I found myself on Raffles’ team, I’d been on the whole relieved to know that I wouldn’t have to bat against my friend. He’d go easy on the children, I was sure- but I didn’t care to have any witnesses to how quickly he could retire me if he put his mind to it. I thought, when it was my at-bat, that I’d play along for awhile, hitting a few gentle ones for the fielders to practice on, and then let little Edwina take the wicket and enjoy a moment of triumph.
Things worked out rather differently from this plan, however.
As I watched, astonished, his niece handily retired batsman after batsman- including the Combe’s “outside man”, whose play was certainly as good as mine. Raffles then proudly informed me that he’d taught Edwina everything she knew.
“We practice whenever I visit,” he said. “What an arm she’s got, eh?”
With this assessment I uncomfortably agreed.
“Be careful when you get up to bat,” he advised me. “She’ll send you down a few easy ones first, just to take your measure; but don’t be fooled. Once she knows your weaknesses, she’ll move straight in for the kill.”
-A strategy, no doubt, that she’d had from her uncle’s own lips.
With set jaw and fear in my heart, I was just holding my own against her - or thought I was - when what looked like an easy hit for me abruptly pitched straight for my ankle, cracked it smartly, and put me out of the game.
And then, just to add insult to injury, as I sat glumly on the sidelines where Nanny was pouring tea (having not, in her turn at bat, been retired by the charitable Raffles until he had first allowed her to score a respectable number of runs- or in her case, hobbles), my throbbing foot propped up on a chair, I received a sudden sharp whack to my knuckles.
Yelping with pain, I turned to confront the old lady, demurely returned to her knitting. “Sandwiches before cake, Mr. Manders!” she said, severely.
“Poor Bunny,” Raffles commiserated, trying (not very successfully) to hide a smile. “You didn’t have a good day, did you?”
“Thanks to you, I had a perfectly wretched day,” I replied. “I don’t blame you - much - for my ankle; but why didn’t you warn me about Nanny Harridan, at least? I don’t know which hurts worse, my foot or my hand.”
Raffles looked as though he were about to reply to this, then changed his mind and said instead, “I sent off the letter. It’ll take some time for us to get an answer, though.”
I sat up higher on the bed. This news, at least, had real interest.
“It had to go under cover, of course,” Raffles continued. “That means at least an extra day until Moriarty gets it, while my friend passes it on.” (I didn’t know who this obliging friend was, but I understood without being told that I mustn’t ask for his name.) “Then once Moriarty answers, it’ll take an extra day for that letter to be passed back to us, too.”
“Four or five more days at a minimum, then,” I reflected. “Do we have to stay here so long as that?”
“Why not?” replied Raffles. “There’s no more charming place in the world to hide out in than a little English village, is there?”
“There’s Paris,” I countered.
Raffles laughed. “Well, we can’t afford to go to Paris; so a charming English village it must be,” he said.
“We could go if you’d done as I said, and picked Mr. Industrialist’s pocket instead of the albino’s,” I muttered; adding aloud, “Oh, all right. -But no more cricket.”
“Cricket every day,” said Raffles firmly. “Edwina wants the practice.”
“A. J.,” I asked then, “who else have you brought here?”
“What?! Are you jealous, Bunny?”
“Not in the least. Just curious, that’s all.”
Rising briskly, Raffles replied only, “No one that you know. -Now that I think of it, there’ll be no cricket tomorrow, at least. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“So?”
“So in this household, Sunday means church.”
“Church!” I cried. “Better cricket, than church!”
But church, of course, it had to be.
Part One / Part Two // Part Four / Part Five