“Campbell,” I said, beckoning one of the attendants, “there’s a lady upstairs with blue birds in her hat. Don’t notice her for a moment, but look up presently and tell me if you know who she is.” “Very well, sir,” he replied with a significant smile, arranging his gilt chain of office over his glossy shirt-front, and strolling away along the gallery. Returning in a few moments, he bent over me and exclaimed, “That lady, sir.” “Yes,” I said anxiously. “She’s Mrs. Elworthy, wife of the Member for North-west Huntingdon. She’s well known in society, and comes as regularly when her husband speaks as Mrs. Gladstone does.” “Mrs. Elworthy!” I ejaculated. “Ah, thanks,” I added. Remarking that I was welcome to the information, Campbell walked away. Mrs. Elworthy! My thoughts were only of her. I knew her by reputation as a leader of fashion; the centre of a dashing set. She joked pleasantly with her elder companion, uttering a low, musical laugh. The diamonds on her slim wrist sparkled as the daintily gloved hand grasped the iron-work. I was watching that hand surreptitiously, when a strange thought occurred to me. I wondered whether it was the same that had reached through the creeper-covered trellis in Petersburg two years before! But as these grave thoughts took possession of me, the “House” filled, the tellers advanced to the table, and the result of the division was declared. I went out to hand it to my telegraphist in the lobby. When I returned the object of my thoughts had gone. It was certainly a curious coincidence that we should thus meet, yet what proof had I that she was a murderess? Nothing beyond a strange, fitful fancy. In a handsome drawing-room in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, where the wintry twilight filtered through pale-blue silk curtains, I was, about two months later, sitting alone with Mrs. Elworthy. Through a friend of the family I had succeeded in obtaining an introduction to her, and now regularly received cards for all her little festivities. Both she and her husband welcomed me warmly whenever I called, and very soon I found myself one of a very pleasant, if extravagant set. I made, however, two discoveries of a somewhat remarkable character. Firstly, that Mrs. Elworthy was a Russian, and, secondly, that the fascinating girl I had known as Wanda Waluiski was living with her, and was, in reality, her daughter! On this particular afternoon I had remained behind after the other visitors had departed, and was chatting with Mrs. Elworthy, who, with all a woman’s cunning, had chosen a _vieux rose_ tea-gown, which, falling in artistic folds, gave sculptural relief to her almost angular outline. For a woman, she was unusually conversant with political questions, and I had purposely turned our discussion upon the prevalence of famine in Russia. “Were you ever in Petersburg?” I asked, glancing at her suddenly. She gazed at me inquiringly, and the smile died from her face.