despite the ravages of sorrow or illness, signs of quite unusual beauty.
Her eyes were wide opened, and terror-stricken, the pupils contracted
almost to vanishing point. She wore a magnificent cloak of civet fur
wrapped tightly about her, and, as Leroux opened the door, she tottered
past him into the lobby, glancing back over her shoulder.

With his upraised hands plunged pathetically into the mop of his hair,
Leroux turned and stared at the intruder. She groped as if a darkness
had descended, clutched at the sides of the study doorway, and then,
unsteadily, entered--and sank down upon the big chesterfield in utter
exhaustion.

Leroux, rubbing his chin, perplexedly, walked in after her. He
scarcely had his foot upon the study carpet, ere the woman started up,
tremulously, and shot out from the enveloping furs a bare arm and a
pointing, quivering finger.

"Close the door!" she cried hoarsely--"close the door!... He has...
followed me!"...

The disturbed novelist, as a man in a dream, turned, retraced his steps,
and closed the outer door of the flat. Then, rubbing his chin more
vigorously than ever and only desisting from this exercise to fumble in
his dishevelled hair, he walked back into the study, whose Athenean calm
had thus mysteriously been violated.

Two minutes to midnight; the most respectable flat in respectable
Westminster; a lonely and very abstracted novelist--and a pale-faced,
beautiful woman, enveloped in costly furs, sitting staring with fearful
eyes straight before her. This was such a scene as his sense of the