"At any rate it's most extraordinary," I said. Then, turning to Boyd, I asked, "Why not leave the inquiry in that quarter to me? Knowing her, I can obtain information far more easily than you can." "Yes," Cleugh urged. "It would be a better course--much better." "Very well," answered the detective, not, however, without some hesitation. "But be careful not to disclose too much. Try and find out one fact only--the reason she took the house. Leave all the rest to us." I promised, and after drinking together over in the refreshment bar at High Street Station we parted, and Cleugh and I took a bus back to our chambers. He stopped in Holborn to buy some last editions of the papers, while I hurried on, for, being terribly hungry, I wished to give old Mrs. Joad early intimation of our readiness for the diurnal steak. With my latch-key I entered our chambers. The succulent scent of grilled meat greeted my nostrils, and I strode eagerly forward shouting for the Hag. As I entered the sitting-room I started and drew back. A quick word of apology died from my lips, for out of our single armchair there arose a tall female dark, well-fitting dress, bowing with a grace that was charming. I saw before me, half concealed beneath a thin black veil, a smiling face eminently pretty, a tiny mouth parted to show an even row of pearly teeth, a countenance that was handsome in every feature. That pair of eyes peering forth at me held me motionless, dumb. I stood before my visitor, confused and speechless. CHAPTER NINE. THE LOVE OF LONG AGO. There are hours in our lives which are apparently without importance, but which, nevertheless, exercise an influence on our destiny. Little wonder was it that at this instant I stood before my visitor voiceless in amazement, for in her erect, neat figure I recognised the broken idol of those long-past summer days--Mary Blain. Of all persons she was the one I most desired at that moment to meet. Her letter to me, and her presence in my chambers that evening, were two facts that appeared pre-arranged with some ulterior motive rather than mere coincidence. Not an hour before Boyd had made a most puzzling statement regarding her mother, and here she was, confronting me with that smile I knew so well, as if anxious to make explanation. "I believe I've startled you, Frank," she exclaimed, laughing, as she held out her gloved hand in greeting. "Is it so long since we met? Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to come here to your chambers, but I wanted to see you. Mother would be furious if she knew. Why didn't you answer my letter?" "Forgive me," I said in excuse. "I've been busy. The life of a daily journalist leaves so very little time for correspondence," and I invited her to be re-seated in our only armchair. She shrugged her shoulders, smiling dubiously. "You men are always adepts at the art of excuse," she remarked.