She stood up, and, looking me straight in the face, said, "Lord Murchison, there is nothing to tell you." - "You went to meet some one," I cried; "this is your mystery." She grew dreadfully white, and said, "I went to meet no one." - "Can't you tell the truth?" I exclaimed. "I have told it," she replied. I was mad, frantic; I don't know what I said, but I said terrible things to her. Finally I rushed out of the house. She wrote me a letter the next day; I sent it back unopened, and started for Norway with Alan Colville. After a month I came back, and the first thing I saw in the Morning Post was the death of Lady Alroy. She had caught a chill at the Opera, and had died in five days of congestion of the lungs. I shut myself up and saw no one. I had loved her so much, I had loved her so madly. Good God! how I had loved that woman!'

`You went to the street, to the house in it?' I said.

`Yes,' he answered.

`One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was tortured with doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectable-looking woman opened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms to let. "Well, sir," she replied, "the drawing-rooms are supposed to be let; but I have not seen the lady for three months, and as rent is owing on them, you can have them." - "Is this the lady?" I said, showing the photograph. "That's her sure enough," she exclaimed; "and when is she coming back, sir?" - "The lady is dead," I replied. "Oh, sir, I hope not! said the woman; `she was my best lodger. She paid me three guineas a week merely to sit in my drawing-rooms now and then." - "She met some one here?" I said; but the woman assured me that it was not so, that she always came alone, and saw no one. "What on earth did she do here?" I cried. "She simply sat in the drawing-room, sir, reading books, and sometimes had tea," the woman answered. I did not know what to say, so I gave her a sovereign and went away. Now, what do you think it all meant? You don't believe the woman was telling the truth?'

`I do.'

`Then why did Lady Alroy go there?'

`My dear Gerald,' I answered, `Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a mania for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there with her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion for secrecy, but she herself was merely a Sphinx without a secret.'

`Do you really think so?'

`I am sure of it,' I replied.

He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph. `I wonder?' he said at last.