"That's not the least strange part of the whole strange business--where she is. I've been wondering if it's a sign that God's finger has been slowly moving to set on her His brand. The young gentleman in whom, I presume, you take a certain amount of interest, since, one day, you design to honour him by allowing him to make of you his wife--Mr. Harry Talfourd--told me that he acts as secretary to a lady." "I know." "The lady's name is Lamb--Mrs. Gregory Lamb." "Yes." Margaret, as she uttered the word, was conscious of a catching in her breath; she herself did not know why. "Mrs. Gregory Lamb is the woman I found by the roadside; who told me that her name was Isabel Burney; who called herself Mrs. Cuthbert Grahame; who juggled into existence the will under which she inherits; who murdered the man out of whom she got it by a trick." Margaret was silent, curiously silent. Then she drew a long breath, and she said-- "Now I understand". The doctor was struck by something in her intonation which was odd. "Just what is it you understand?" She repeated her own words. "Now I understand. The veil which seemed to obscure my sight is being torn away; things are getting plainer and plainer. She was not mad, as we thought; it was we who were ignorant. Doctor, I believe that the finger of God, of which you spoke just now, has moved already." "It is likely. It is some time since I looked for it to move, but He chooses His own time. As for what you say about your understanding, to me your words are cryptic--unriddle them, young lady, if you please." Margaret, in her turn, told her tale: of her visit to Mrs. Gregory Lamb; of its abrupt and singular termination. The doctor listened with every sign of the liveliest interest. "As you observe," he cried, when she had done, "it would seem that the finger of God has moved already. She knew you although you did not know her, and the sight of you was as though one had risen from the grave; it filled her with unescapable terror."