the same moment that she had in her hand the little embroidered bag of
the night before.

"Geoffrey begins."

"Well, it'll thrill you," said Geoffrey slowly, "because there was a spy
among us last night--'takin' notes.'"

And with the heightening touches that every good story-teller bestows
upon a story, he described the vision of the lake--the strange woman's
face, as he had seen it in the twilight beside the yew trees.

Buntingford gradually dropped his cigarette to listen.

"Very curious--very interesting," he said ironically, as French paused,
"and has lost nothing in the telling."

"Ah, but wait till you hear the end!" cried Helena. "Now, it's my turn."

And she completed the tale, holding up the bag at the close of it, so
that the tarnished gold of its embroidery caught the light.

Buntingford took it from her, and turned it over. Then he opened it, drew
out the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "'F. M.'" He shook his
head. "Conveys nothing. But you're quite right. That bag has nothing to
do with a village woman--unless she picked it up."

"But the face I saw had nothing to do with a village woman, either," said
French, with conviction. "It was subtle--melancholy--intense--more than
that!--_fierce_, fiercely miserable. I guess that the woman possessing it