Margaret Henson shot up from the piano like a statue. There was no
welcome on her face, no surprise there, nothing but deep, unutterable
contempt and loathing.

"I have been asleep," she said. She passed her hand dreamily over her
face. "I have been in a dream for seven long years. Enid brought me back
to the music again to-night, and it touched my heart, and now I am awake
again. Do you recollect the 'Slumber Song,' Hatherly Bell? The last time
I sang it you were present. It was a happy night; the very last happy
night in the world to me."

"I recollect it perfectly well, Lady Littimer," Bell said.

"Lady Littimer! How strange it is to hear that name again. Seven years
since then. Here I am called Margaret Henson, and nobody knows. And
now _you_ have found out. Do you come here to blackmail and rob me
like the rest?"

"I come here entirely on your behalf and my own, my lady."

"That is what they all say--and then they rob me. You stole the
Rembrandt."

The last words came like a shot from a catapult. Enid's face grew colder.
Bell drew a long tube of discoloured paper carefully tied round a stick
from his pocket.

"I am going to disprove that once and for all," he said. "The Rembrandt
is at present in Lord Littimer's collection. There is an account of it in
to-day's _Telegraph_. It is perfectly familiar to both of you. And, that