n returning," Mrs. Clephane resumed; "and after
a while I put out the light, and going to the window raised the shade.
The cab was no longer before the house; it had moved a little distance
to the left, and the horse was lying down in the shafts. As I was
debating whether to risk the jump from the window, a man came down the
street and halted at the cab.--That man was you, Mr. Harleston. The rest
of the tale you know much better than I--and the material portion you
are to tell me, or rather to give me."

"How did you know the man at the cab was I? You didn't recognize me in
the corridor, this afternoon."

"Oh, yes I did--but I waited to see if you would follow me, or would go
up to the other woman in black and roses."

"I never was in doubt!" Harleston laughed. "I told you, on the
telephone, that I could pick you out in a crowd; after a glimpse of you,
I could--" he ended with a gesture.

"Still pick me out," she supplied. "Well, the important thing is that
you _did_ pick me out--and that you're a gentleman. Also you forget that
your picture has been pretty prominent lately, on account of the Du
Portal affair; and besides you've been pointed out to me a number of
times during the last few years as something of a celebrity. So, you
see, it was not a great trick to recognize you under the electric
lights, even at one o'clock in the morning."

Harleston nodded. It was plausible surely. Moreover, he was prepared to
accept her story; thus far it seemed straightforward and extremely
credible.

"It was about three when you telephoned to me--where were you then?" he
asked.

"At the Chateau. They were kind enough to release me about three
o'clock, and to send me back in a private car--at least, it wasn't a
taxi. Now, have you any other questions?"

"I think not, for the present."

"Have I satisfied you that my tale is true?"

"I am satisfied," he replied.

"Then you will give me the letter?" she said joyfully.

"And what of the roses?"

"I presented them to you last night."

"And of this handkerchief?" drawing it from his pocket.

She took the bit of lace, glanced at it, and handed it back.

"It is not mine," she replied. "Probably it's the other woman's." She
held out her hand, the most symmetrical hand Harleston had ever seen.
"My letter, please, Mr. Harleston."

"I no longer have the letter," said Harleston.

"Then why did you--" she exclaimed; "but you can lay your hand on it?"

"I can lay my hand on