evening vexed at her conduct and bewildered about my affair. After reflection and thought I wrote her a letter asking her to allow me to see her on another occasion. No answer came from her for several days, and at last I received a short note from her saying that she would be ready to meet me at four o'clock on the coming Sunday afternoon. And she added this strange remark: 'Please do not write to me again; I will explain the reason when I see you.'

"On Sunday she received me at her house, and she was charming, alluring, enchanting; and before I left she entreated me not to write to her at her home address but to the following one: 'Mrs. Knox, Whittaker's Library, Green Street.' Then she said: 'There are reasons that prevent me from receiving letters at my house.'

"We met often during that season, and the air of secrecy and mystery never left her. I sometimes thought she might be at the mercy of some man, but I believed she was not one of those women who can be easily approached.

"In truth it was very hard for me to reach any conclusion about her, for she was like those relics we see in museums of antiquities, which at one moment appear clear to the eye and at another turn dark and dim. In the end I resolved to ask her hand in marriage. I had grown weary of this secrecy repeated at every one of my visits and in my few letters to her, so I wrote to her at the library address asking her to meet me at six o'clock on the coming Monday evening. She answered yes, and I felt as though I were flying to the seventh heaven for very joy; she had bewitched me and robbed me of my reason.

"I said to myself: 'She is the woman I love, and whatever secrecy and mystery I imagine in her is nothing but sheer illusion and fancy. Yet I wondered how the fates had driven me and thrown me upon the mercy of this obscurity and mystery.'"

I said to my companion: "Then you discovered her secret at last?"

He answered: "I think so—and you can judge for yourself...

"When Monday came I went to lunch at my uncle's. At about four o'clock I found myself walking along the Marylebone Road, for my uncle lives in Regent's Park. I wanted to reach Piccadilly, so I cut through some narrow streets, and suddenly there I was, face to face with Lady Alroy. She was walking quickly, her face covered with a thick veil, and when she reached the end of the street I saw her go up the steps of the last house in it, take a key from her pocket, open the door, and slip inside. I said to myself: here is the secret! I hurried

to the house and stood examining it, and it seemed to be one of those lodging houses used for storing goods. And looking down, I saw that her handkerchief had fallen from her onto the step. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I began to consider what ought to be done. But I said to myself that I had no right to spy upon her. Then I walked to the club, and at six o'clock I went to call on her. She was reclining on a sofa, dressed in a silver gown shot through with threads of gleaming silver rays, and adorned with some of the pre-cious stones she was accustomed to wear, and she looked enchanting