"Yes, but I have never seen them closed. The master often sat up late after we had all gone to bed, and he never shut them. I suppose he considered the high garden wall sufficient protection." "Did anyone come to see your master that night?" "No." In this particular the man was wrong. When, a few minutes later, the two women servants returned, one of them--the housemaid--said she had answered a ring at the bell after the man servant had gone to bed. It was a young lady. She gave no name, but said that Mr. Seligmann was expecting her. This was true, for the master had had her shown in at once. "He told me not to wait. He would show her out himself." "What was the lady like?" I asked. "Rather tall and well dressed. She wore a veil, so I could not see her face very clearly." "Was she alone?" asked Quarles. "Yes." "Quite alone?" the professor insisted. "She didn't turn to speak to anyone as she entered the house?" "No." "Did you switch off the light in the hall?" "I may have done. I do not remember." "So late a visitor surprised you, of course?" "Only because the master was to be in the house so short a time. He has a great deal to do with professional people, so we often get late visitors--after the theaters are over. The mistress----" She stopped. There was the soft purring of a motor at the front door, and a moment later the sharp ring of a bell. "That is the mistress," she said. The door was opened, and a woman came in swiftly, young, beautiful, and, even in her agitated movements, full of grace. "Tell me! Tell me!" she said, turning toward Quarles and myself, as if a man's strength were necessary to her just then. Quarles told her with a gentleness which I had not often seen in him. "I must see him," she said. We tried to dissuade her, but she insisted, so we went with her. The dead man lay on a sofa, a handkerchief over his face. His wife lifted the covering herself and for a moment stood motionless. Then she swayed and would have fallen had I not caught her. My touch seemed to strengthen her, and, with a low cry, she rushed out of the room. From the moment she had entered the house I had been trying to remember where I had seen her before. Perhaps it was some involuntary movement as she left the room which made me remember. She was the famous Hungarian dancer we had seen on Saturday at the opera. "Did you know she was Seligmann's wife, professor?" "No," he answered, almost as if his ignorance annoyed him. "I'm going back to Chelsea. He had a visitor, you see, Wigan, and a woman. There is nothing more to say at present. I dare say you will be able to see Mrs. Seligmann presently; ask her two things: Did she expect her husband to join her at Maidenhead in the small hours of Sunday morning? Does she know of any woman, a singer possibly, who has been worrying her husband to get her an engagement?"