ing
in nippers. What, at any rate, if she does look queer? She must be mad
not to accept that alternative."

"She _is_ mad," said Geoffrey Dawling.

"Mad to refuse you, I grant. Besides," I went on, "the pince-nez, which
was a large and peculiar one, was all awry: she had half pulled it off,
but it continued to stick, and she was crimson, she was angry."

"It must have been horrible!" my companion groaned.

"It _was_ horrible. But it's still more horrible to defy all warnings;
it's still more horrible to be landed in--" Without saying in what I
disgustedly shrugged my shoulders.

After a glance at me Dawling jerked round. "Then you do believe that she
may be?"

I hesitated. "The thing would be to make _her_ believe it. She only
needs a good scare."

"But if that fellow is shocked at the precautions she does take?"

"Oh who knows?" I rejoined with small sincerity. "I don't suppose
Iffield is absolutely a brute."

"I would take her with leather blinders, like a shying mare!" cried
Geoffrey Dawling.

I had an impression that Iffield wouldn't, but I didn't communicate it,
for I wanted to pacify my friend, whom I had discomposed too much for the
purposes of my sitting. I recollect that I did some good work that
morning, but it also comes back to me that before we separated he had
practically revealed to me that my anecdote, connecting itself in his
mind with a series of observations at the time unconscious and
unregistered, had covered with light the subject of our colloquy. He had
had a formless perception of some secret that drove Miss Saunt to
subterfuges, and the more he thought of it the more he guessed this
secret to be the practice of making believe she saw when she didn't and
of cleverly keeping people from finding out how little she saw. When one
pieced things together it was astonishing what ground they covered. Just
as he was going away he asked me from what source at Folkestone the
horrid tale had proceeded. When I had given him, as I saw no reason not
to do, the name of Mrs. Meldrum he exclaimed: "Oh I know all about her;
she's a friend of some friends of mine!" At this I remembered wilful
Betty and said to myself that I knew some one who would probably prove
more wilful still.

CHAPTER VIII

A few days later I again heard Dawling on my stairs, and even before he
passed my threshold I knew he had something to tell.

"I've been down to Folkestone--it was necessary I should