Instead of keeping behind her straight home, I turned from the main road, and with my mind full of gloomy thoughts, wandered about the dark, quiet thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of Campden Hill until, having walked for over an hour undecided how to act, I awoke to a consciousness that I was before my own house.

When I entered I opened a telegram lying on the hall table, and found it was from Lord Warnham, stating that he was leaving the Premier’s suddenly, and asking me to call at Berkeley Square at six. It was then a quarter to six, and I saw that even by cab I must be ten minutes late for the appointment.

“Has my wife returned, Juckes?” I asked my faithful man, who stood ready to relieve me of hat and coat.

“Yes, sir. She returned an hour ago, and is now in the drawing-room.”

My first impulse was to return to Berkeley Square without seeing her, but unable longer to bear the suspense, I allowed Juckes to take my things, and entered the room, where she awaited me.

“Ah! Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet with an expression of joy, and coming forward to meet me. “I expected you home long ago, dearest.” And she raised her face for the habitual kiss.

“Oh,” I said coldly, placing her away from me without caressing her. “Have you been home long?”

“A long, long time,” she answered, regarding my coldness with unfeigned surprise.

“Where have you been to-day?” I inquired, rather sharply, taking up a position on the hearthrug, with my back to the bright wood fire.

“This morning I went to Mr Praga’s studio in Hornton Street, and gave him a sitting. He is painting my portrait for the Academy, you know.”

“Yes,” I answered. “He told me so at the club the other day. Where else have you been?”

“Why are you so anxious to have a complete record of my doings?” she asked, pouting. “You seem absurdly suspicious.”

I smiled bitterly. Since her return she had exchanged her tailor-made gown for a handsome dinner-dress, and wore as her only ornament a string of pearls, my wedding gift. She stood gazing at me with her dark blue eyes wide-open, and brows arched in well-feigned reproach.

“You did not return to lunch,” I said quietly.

“No, I went to Pont Street,” she answered. “Mother was so fearfully upset.”

“Why?”

“Last night she detected Helmholtz in the act of opening a letter he had taken from the postman. It contained a cheque, and she was compelled to discharge him at a moment’s notice.”

“I understood he was quite a model servant,” I said, in genuine surprise at this latest development. To me it was astounding that a shrewd officer like Renouf should have thus allowed himself to be caught napping.

“Mother thought most highly of him,” she went on. “But it now appears that for the past few weeks she has had suspicions that her letters were being tampered with, for two cheques sent by tenants for rent have been stolen.”

“I never thought very much of him,” I said.

“Neither did I,” she declared. “He had such a silent, cunning way, and moved so softly, that dozens of times when I have turned suddenly I have been quite startled to find him standing close to me. I’m glad mother has got rid of him. She packed him off bag and baggage.”

“Did he protest his innocence?”

“No. He treated her with cool indifference, placed his things in his portmanteau leisurely, hailed a cab, and went off without asking for his wages.”

I was silent. The reason Renouf should descend to steal cheques was inexplicable. One thing, however, appeared clear, namely, that he had taken an unusual interest in the nature of Mrs Laing’s correspondence. To me it was a matter for congratulation that as he had been detected by his mistress and discharged, he could not cast upon me the blame for his betrayal.

“What did you do after lunch?” I at last inquired, returning to my charge.

“I went shopping,” she replied, smiling.

“With whom?”

“Alone.”

“Were you alone the whole time?” I inquired, regarding her intently.

Her lips quivered slightly and her glance wavered. “Yes,” she answered, “I did not meet anyone I knew.”

“That is a lie, Ella!” I cried.

“It is not,” she stammered, pale and agitated. “I have told you the truth.”

“To prevaricate is utterly useless,” I said angrily. “I followed you through Kensington Gardens, where you were walking with your lover. I – ”

“My lover?” she cried hoarsely, in dismay. “He – he is not my lover. I had never seen him before!”

“Then by your own admission you have abandoned all respect for me and yourself. You are addicted to strolling alone with any idiot who flatters you.”

“I swear I do not,” she retorted. “You misjudge me entirely.” And she placed her trembling hand upon my arm.

But I shook it off wrathfully, saying, “I have discovered the truth, alas! too late. While making pretence to love me you prefer the society of other men. I was a blind fool, or I should have discovered the fact, plain to everybody else, that Ogle was your lover, and that you mourned for him when he met the fate he so justly deserved.”

“He never uttered one word of love to me, Geoffrey,” she protested. “How can you make such horrible charges against me when I love you so dearly,” she cried, bursting into a torrent of tears.

“Because!” I said, with emphasis, “because I have myself followed you this evening. Surely Kensington Gardens is not the spot where a wife should take recreation, unless clandestinely, as you have done! No, this is not the first occasion you have lied to me, Ella; but it shall be the last.”

“The last!” she gasped, glancing up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I can have no further confidence in you, and that we are better apart.”

“You don’t intend to leave me. Surely you would never be so cruel, Geoffrey. It would kill me.”

“I have loved you, Ella,” I said hoarsely, after a pause, brief and full of suspense. “No man could have loved a woman with a passion more tender than I have done, but now that I have discovered how basely I have been deceived, my affection has turned to hatred.”

“You hate me!” she wailed. “Ah, no, you cannot – you shall not,” she cried, as, rushing towards me, she threw both arms around my neck, and, notwithstanding my efforts to avert her, pressed her tear-stained face to mine.

Roughly I unclasped her arms and cast her from me, saying, —

“I have resolved. Nothing will cause me to reconsider my decision. We must part.”

“It is not like you, Geoffrey, to be cruel to a woman,” she said reproachfully, standing before me. “I admit I have acted foolishly, but that man you saw was not my lover. I care for no one except your own dear self.”

“Terms of endearment are unnecessary,” I answered impatiently, turning from her. “Such expressions from one who has so grossly deceived me are absolutely nauseating. I have striven for your social advancement and have loved you dearly, but from this moment you are my wife only in name.”

She buried her face in her hands and was seized by a fit of hysterical sobbing. All her self-control had vanished at the instant she realised that I know the truth, and she now stood before me bent and penitent.

“Forgive me,” she whispered earnestly. “Forgive me, Geoffrey.”

“No,” I answered, with firmness. “I cannot trust you.”

“Overlook this incident, and I will never again give you cause for jealousy,” she exclaimed. “I will do anything you ask, only have patience with me.”

“I have already had patience,” I answered. “Yet, deceived as I am daily, we can live together no longer.”

“But I love you,” she declared, with fierce earnestness, fixing her fathomless eyes upon me. “If I lose you I shall kill myself.”

“It is your own fault entirely,” I said. “You have chosen to act in this manner, and whatever are the consequences they are of your own seeking. I suppose you will tell me next that this man who was with you compelled you to meet him.”

“That is the absolute truth,” she faltered.

“Ah, always the same lame tale,” I observed in disgust. “I have not forgotten that night at ‘The Nook’ when I watched you walking with Beck. No, Ella. There is some strange mystery about it all that I don’t like. You pretend to love me; but you have some ulterior motive.”

“There is a mystery, it is true,” she admitted, her eyes dimmed with tears. “A mystery so strange and startling that when you know the truth you will stand aghast and dumbfounded. But with its elucidation you will have knowledge of how I have suffered and striven for your sake; therefore I can only pray that the revelations that must accrue may be hastened, for, although to-day you regard me as base and deceitful, you will then learn how much one woman has endured and sacrificed because she loved you.”

“Then we must part until this mystery is cleared up,” I said calmly, my heart full of grief. “You refuse to take me, your husband, into your confidence, therefore I can place no further reliance in your word.”

“Think,” she cried, clutching my arms convulsively. “Why should the happiness of both of us be wrecked by a mere misunderstanding?”

“A misunderstanding!” I echoed. “It is assuredly more than that.”

“No,” she answered, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. “You misunderstand me, believing me false to you, whereas I am acting solely in our mutual interests.”

“To walk alone with a stranger is surely not acting in your husband’s interests,” I observed bitterly.

“Ah, you are mistaken,” she said quickly. “When all is explained you will regret the cruel words you have uttered this evening.”

“Have I, then, no cause to object to your acquaintance with this man?” I inquired, looking sharply at her.

“None whatever. He is neither my lover nor my friend.”

“What is his name?”

“I do not know. He did not tell me,” she replied.

“Was this the only occasion you had met?”

“It was.”

“He spoke to you casually in the street, I suppose?”

“No, we met by appointment at Victoria Station,” she answered quite frankly.

“By appointment! Then you knew him!”

“No, our meeting was arranged by a third person. It was by no means of an amatory character, I assure you.”

“What was its object?” I asked.

Slowly she shook her head. “I cannot tell you without relating to you facts which I dare not yet divulge.”

“Ah! as I thought,” I cried in anger. “You refuse always to explain. As each week passes the mystery surrounding you increases.”

“Unfortunately I cannot prevent it,” she answered in a low, earnest tone. “Before we married I told you plainly that I intended to seek the truth of the conspiracy against Dudley’s life, and you did not object.”

“Why not leave that wretched affair to the police and secure our own happiness?” I urged.

“Because the police are powerless. They can have no clue.”

“Is it then absolutely necessary that you should attain this end?” I inquired dubiously. “Are you ready to sacrifice your own home and husband in order to ascertain the truth regarding a crime?”

“Yes, it is absolutely imperative,” she replied emphatically. “Before perfect happiness can be ours we must both be aware of the causes which led to Dudley’s sudden death. Towards that end I am striving, and knowing what I do, I am regardless of your suspicions and your cruel words. If we part – well, it will be you who one day will be filled with bitter regret; and as for me, I shall not pause in my merciless quest.”

Often she had told me that to ascertain the true cause of Dudley’s death was, next to her duty as my wife, her main object in life, and these words, uttered with an earnestness that was genuine, bore out her most frequent declarations. Glancing at the facts as a whole, it was not surprising that I should have suspected Dudley of having been her lover, whose death she intended to avenge.

In silence and hesitation I paced the room that she had furnished with such exquisite taste. A dozen times she asked forgiveness, but no word passed my lips. She stood motionless, her head bent in submission, her hands clasped before her, awaiting my decision.

Her pale, tear-stained face betrayed signs of a terrible, breathless suspense, she fearing that I intended to cast her off, while I could not bring myself to any firm belief that her declarations of affection were genuine. Between us there yawned a gulf of darkness and mystery which hourly grew wider and more impassable.

“Tell me that you’ll still be patient and wait,” she implored at last. “Surely you can see how intensely I love you and how utterly aimless will be my life if we part.”

“This mystery is, I confess, Ella, driving me to distraction,” I said, halting at last before her. “Cannot you confide in me? I will preserve silence, I promise.”

“No, no,” she gasped in fear. “I dare not.”

Her attitude was one of deep dejection, yet I could not fail to notice, even at this moment of her abject despair, how beautiful she was. But a look of unutterable terror was in her deep blue eyes, and upon her handsome features was an expression as though, dreading exposure, she were haunted by some terrible ghost of the past.

“You told me this once before,” I said gravely, “and I trusted you. To-day I have discovered my confidence ill-placed.”

“Trust me once again,” she cried hoarsely. “Only once, and I will show you ere long that your suspicions are utterly without foundation.”

I took another turn up and down the drawing-room, my hands clasped behind my back, my gaze fixed upon the carpet. I was still undecided.

With a sudden impulse she rushed forward, and flinging her warm arms about my neck, kissed me, next second bursting into tears and burying her face upon my shoulder. My hand unconsciously stroked her hair, and, bending, I pressed my lips upon her soft cheek.

Then she knew that I had forgiven, and holding back her sobs with difficulty, raised her face, and kissing me passionately, thanked me in a low, broken voice, assuring me that I should never regret the step I had taken.

During half-an-hour we remained together, she full of love and confidence, I admiring and hopeful. I was glad I had not acted rashly, nor left her as I had intended, and as we went in to dinner arm in arm, we laughed together, joyous in each other’s love.

After we had eaten, I smoked a cigarette and lingered as long as possible, happy with my well-beloved; then kissing her fondly, I was compelled to take a hansom to Berkeley Square, promising her to return at the earliest possible moment, and expressing confidence that our love would last always.

The Earl, grumbling at my tardy arrival, was busy in his library with a number of important dispatches relating to our affairs in the East. When he had expressed displeasure that I had not been waiting to receive him, he added, —

“But there, I suppose now you are married, Deedes, your wife is exacting; they always are. She likes you to dine with her, eh?”

“Yes,” I admitted, smiling. “I did dine at home.”

“Ah, I thought so,” snapped the shrewd old Minister. “A good dinner and your wife’s smiles were of more consequence to you than England’s prestige with the Sultan, – oh?”

I made no answer to this sarcasm, but began busying myself with the correspondence, packing it away in the dispatch-bag and sealing it for delivery to Hammerton, the messenger, who was waiting in an adjoining room ready to take it to Constantinople.

Not until eleven o’clock was I able to get away from Berkeley Square, and leaving the aged statesman alone, deeply immersed in the puzzling applications for advice of all sorts from Her Majesty’s representatives at the various Courts of Europe, I drove back to Phillimore Gardens.

On arrival home my first question of Juckes was whether Ella was in the drawing-room.

“No, sir. Madame is out, sir.”

“Out! When did she go out?”

“About an hour after you had left, sir,” replied the man. “She has gone into the country, I believe.”

“Into the country? What makes you think so?”

“Because she put on her travelling dress, and took two trunks with her,” he answered. “Roberts, her maid, says she packed the boxes herself three days ago.”

“Did she say where she was going?” I inquired breathlessly.

“No, sir. She left no message with anyone.”

Entering the drawing-room with my overcoat still on, I noticed, lying upon her little rosewood escritoire, a note addressed to me.

Eagerly I took it up, tore it open, and read its contents. There were only a few hurriedly-scrawled words – a brief and formal farewell.

“You cannot trust me,” she wrote, “therefore we are best apart. Do not attempt to follow me, for you cannot find me. Do not think ill of me, for even if I have wronged and deceived you, I have, nevertheless, been your friend.” It commenced formally, without any endearing term, and concluded abruptly with the two words, “Your Wife.”

For a few moments I stood with it in my hand, staring at it in blank amazement. Then it occurred to me that in that very escritoire she kept all her correspondence, and it was more than probable that I might learn the truth from some of the letters therein contained.

I endeavoured to open it, but it was, as usual, locked. She had taken the key. In my sudden excitement I called to Juckes to bring a hammer, and with a few sharp blows broke open the sloping, leather-covered top, finding a number of letters addressed in unfamiliar handwriting.

One, larger than the rest, crumpled, dirty and worn, as if it had reposed in someone’s pocket for a long period, I took out, and eagerly opened beneath the soft-shaded lamp.

“My God!” I cried aloud, scarcely able to believe my own eyes, when next instant I realised the terrible truth. “My God! I had never suspected this!”

Chapter Twenty Three
A Terrible Truth

Ella’s cold, formal adieu stunned me. I stood open-mouthed, petrified. We had parted on the best of terms, she kissing me affectionately, and with wifely solicitude bidding me hasten back; yet in my absence she had departed, evidently carrying out some pre-arranged plan. Her maid, Roberts, had noticed her packing her trunks three days before, therefore it was certain that she meant to desert me as soon as opportunity offered.

Unaccountable and astounding as was her sudden flight, the discovery I had made among the papers in her escritoire was even more amazing. It held me stupefied and aghast.

The paper I held in my hand was the original of the secret convention between England and Germany; the document which had been stolen from me, transmitted by telegraph to the Russian Foreign Office, and had nearly caused a terrible and disastrous European war.

When I took it from among the letters and saw its neat, formal writing and sprawly signatures, I gazed upon it in blank amazement, unable at first to realise the startling truth. There was, however, no room for doubt. It was the actual document which had been so ingeniously purloined, for it reposed in the escritoire still in its official envelope. The great black seal affixed by the Earl of Warnham had been broken, and both envelope and document had the appearance of having at some time or other been folded small, besides being sadly crumpled.

Beneath the shaded light I examined the envelope carefully, and detected a faint carmine streak upon it; then, placing it to my nostrils, found that it exuded a stale odour of sampaguita. In an instant the truth was plain. The pink discolouration had been caused by rouge; the scent was Ella’s favourite perfume, which she always procured from Paris. No doubt the document had been carried for a considerable period in her pocket for safety, and become crumpled, as papers will if carried in a woman’s dress. While the envelope might easily have absorbed the odour of that unmistakable perfume from her handkerchief, the streak of rouge puzzled me, for I had never suspected her of an artificial complexion, nor had I ever seen the hare’s foot and carmine among her toilet articles.

“Tell Roberts I wish to speak to her,” I said, turning to Juckes, who had stood by in silence, puzzled at my strange action of breaking the top of the escritoire.

He obeyed, and in a few moments the neat, dark-eyed maid entered.

“Roberts,” I exclaimed, “I want you to tell me something. Does my wife use any carmine to give artificial colour to her cheeks?”

“Oh, no, sir,” the girl assured me. “Madame is very averse to the use of such things. Once or twice, when she has been going out at night, and looked unusually pale, I have suggested a little additional colour, but she has always refused.”

“Did she have any rouge or anything of that sort in her possession?” I inquired.

“No, sir, I am quite certain she hadn’t.”

“Why are you so confident?”

“Because only the other day, when I was ill with a sick headache, madame urged me to use some colour, as my face was so pale. Visitors were coming, she said, and she didn’t want me to look like a ghost. I told her that I had no carmine, and she remarked that she had none, therefore nothing could be done.”

“When did my wife pack those two trunks she took with her this evening?”

“Last Monday, sir,” the girl answered, slowly twisting her befrilled apron in her hands. “She received a note by boy-messenger, and immediately set about packing the boxes.”

“Did she tell you anything?” I asked, adding confidentially, “I have reason to believe that my wife has left us, therefore anything you tell me may assist me in tracing her.”

The girl glanced at me in genuine surprise.

“Do you mean, sir, that madame has – has run away?” she gasped.

“No – well, not exactly,” I stammered. “But did she tell you anything?”

With eyes downcast the girl paused in hesitation, answering at last, “She didn’t actually tell me anything.”

“But what do you know about her intentions?”

“Nothing,” she answered. Then, after a pause, she added, “Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I had suspicions.”

“Of what? Do not fear to speak because I am her husband,” I said reassuringly. “I may as well know the worst at once.”

“She used frequently to receive notes from a gentleman. They were brought by a commissionaire or by a man-servant, who waited for the answer. When they came I always knew that on the following day she would be absent many hours.”

“You believe that she met this mysterious individual – eh?” I asked huskily.

“Yes, for she always told me never to admit to you that she had been long absent. Therefore I had suspicion that she met somebody clandestinely.”

“What was his name?”

“I have never been able to ascertain. Once I glanced at a note lying on madame’s dressing-table. It merely announced the writer’s intention to attend Lady Pearson’s ‘at home,’ and was signed ‘X.’”

“Well,” I said hoarsely, after a long silence. “What else?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “That is all I know, sir.”

“Has my wife taken her jewels?” I inquired.

“No. She has left her jewel-case unlocked, but everything is there. She has even left behind her wedding-ring.”

“Her wedding-ring!” I echoed, astounded and dismayed. “Then she has discarded me completely.”

“Unfortunately it appears so, sir,” the girl observed gravely.

“Very well, Roberts,” I said in a broken voice. “Thank you. You may go.”

The girl glanced at me for an instant, with a sad, pitying look, then turned and left, closing the door noiselessly behind her.

Alone, I sank into the chair utterly broken down, still holding in my nervous, trembling fingers the secret document that secured the peace and welfare of the two most powerful nations on earth. I had at last discovered the hideous truth. Ella, the woman whose grace and beauty had held me enmeshed, and whom I had loved with an intensity of passion that was all-consuming, was, after all, base and worthless. Although making a hollow pretence to love me, she had cast me aside for this mysterious man who signed himself with an initial, and who met her secretly almost daily. I had been a blind, devoted idiot, I knew, but until I had watched her in Kensington Gardens I had never suspected her of infamy. It seemed, however, that she had no sense of shame, and cared nought for my dishonour or despair. Her perfidy was now revealed in all its painful reality. Ella, whom I had always regarded as pure, honest and trusting, was a woman of tarnished repute. The fact that she had the secret convention in her possession was, in itself, sufficient evidence that the mystery surrounding her was deep, and of no ordinary character. Sonia had warned me that she was my enemy, and this fact was now indeed vividly apparent.

How she had become possessed of the stolen treaty was inexplicable. Full well she knew all the terrible anxiety its loss had caused me, and the sensation that its revelation had created throughout Europe. Times without number I had mentioned to her how anxious my chief was to recover the original, so that our enterprising friends in St Petersburg could have no tangible proof that it had actually existed, yet she had given no sign that she knew anything of it, much less that it actually reposed in my own drawing-room. I did not fail, in those moments of my despair, to recollect that she had been on the most intimate terms with Dudley Ogle, the man suspected to have been in the service of the Tzar’s Government, and as I sat in wonderment it became gradually impressed upon me that through those many months I had been basely tricked, and that Ella herself, charming and ingenuous as she seemed, was actually a secret agent of the enemies of England.

Several facts that I recollected combined to produce this startling belief. Because of my confidential position as secretary to the Earl of Warnham, it was apparent that Ella, with the assistance of my whilom friend Dudley and the encouragement of her mother, had conspired to hold me beneath her spell. She had become my wife, not because she had ever loved me, but because she could feign affection or hatred with equal impunity, and had some ulterior motive in obtaining my confidence. Her firm resolve to ascertain the true facts regarding Dudley’s mysterious end showed plainly that if they were not lovers they had acted in complete accord, and what was more likely than that he, having stolen the secret convention, had on that memorable night at “The Nook” handed it to her, the instigator of the ingenious theft. Yet an hour or so later he died from some cause that neither doctors nor police had been able to determine.

To her, the tragic occurrence was a mystery, as to all, and her refusal to render me any explanation of her suspicious actions was, I now saw, quite natural. Held beneath the iron thraldom of her masters in St Petersburg, she dared not utter one word; hence I had remained in the outer darkness of doubt and ignorance.

However it might be, one thing was certain. She had been unexpectedly parted from me, either by choice or compulsion. Perhaps it was that to pose as my wife was no longer necessary; yet if she were actually a spy, was it not curious that in departing she should overlook this document, of which the Ministry at St Petersburg were so anxious to possess themselves.

Again, as I sat alone before the cheerless grate, I reflected that if she were in the pay of Russia, surely Monsieur Grodekoff, the Ambassador, would have been acquainted with her. Besides, what reason could Renouf have had in making such careful inquiries, or why did Paul Verblioudovitch discredit the truths uttered by Sonia and urge me to marry the woman I loved? Nevertheless if, as I supposed, my position in the Foreign Office had caused me to be the victim of a clever and deeply-conceived conspiracy, it was scarcely surprising that the Tzar’s representative should disclaim all knowledge of the sweet-faced agent, or that Paul had praised her and cast obloquy upon Sonia in order that their plans, whatever they were, should be achieved. Of the actions of Renouf, and his strange disregard for detection, I could form no satisfactory conclusion. All I knew was that Ella’s career had been an unscrupulous and inglorious one, and that she had cast me aside as soon as her infamous ends had been attained.

The only person who could elucidate the mystery was Sonia, the pretty girl who had been denounced by Renouf as a murderess, and who was now in hiding in far-off Russia, in some out-of-the-world place where I could never hope to find her. If she were clever enough to elude the combined vigilance of the detective force of Europe, as undoubtedly she had done, there was but little hope that I could ever run her to earth.

The mystery had, by Ella’s flight, been increased rather than explained, for the more I pondered the more deeply-rooted became the conviction that she had decamped because she had cause to fear some strange development that would lead to her exposure and shame.

After a time I roused myself, and taking from the broken escritoire the other letters it contained, five in number, examined them eagerly beneath the light.

All were in the same hand, a heavy masculine one, written evidently with a quill. One by one I read them, finding that they contained appointments, which fully bore out her maid’s suspicions.

“My dear Ella,” one ran, “to-morrow I shall be on the departure platform at King’s Cross Station at 11:30. I have good news for you. Come. – X.”

Another regretted the writer’s inability to keep an appointment, as he had been called unexpectedly to Paris, and was compelled to leave by the night mail from Charing Cross. He, however, promised to return in three days, and gave her the Grand Hotel as his address if she found it necessary to telegraph.

Strangely enough, the letters contained no endearing terms either at their commencement or conclusion. Formal and brief, they all related to appointments at various places in London where two persons might meet unnoticed by the crowd, and all were signed by the single mysterious initial. I stood with them in my hand for a long time, puzzled and hesitating, then placing them carefully in my pocket, together with the secret document I had so unexpectedly unearthed, I crammed on my hat and hastily drove to Pont Street.

The house was in darkness, save for a light in the basement, and in answer to my summons, after a lapse of some minutes a tall, gaunt, woman in rusty black appeared in the area below.