"I don't understand. Do you mean to say, Mr Coventry, that yesterday morning you received £10,000 from a stranger?" "I do. In ten bank-notes of a thousand pounds each." "But it's ridiculous. They can't be genuine." "Aren't they? See for yourself. If they're not, then I never saw a genuine bank-note yet." He took an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Miss Hardy. "Is this the envelope in which they came?" "It is." "And are these the bank-notes?" "They are." She took out the rustling pieces of paper. Her eyes sparkled. She laughed; it sounded like a little laugh of pleasure. "Bank-notes! Ten of them, for a thousand each! You beauties!" She pressed them between her little hands. "Think of all they can buy. Ten thousand pounds!" She laughed again; this time in her laughter there was the sound of something very like a sob. "Why, Mr Coventry, it's--it's like a fairy tale. Some people never dream that they will be able to even handle such a sum--just once." "It is a queer start." Mr Coventry rose from his chair. He stood with his back to the fireplace. The little woman followed him with her eyes. "Come, Mr Coventry, you know very well from whom they came." "I wish I did." "Think! They came from that rich old uncle you have been telling me about." "He would see me starve before he gave me a fiver. I know it is a fact." "Is there nobody of whom you can think?" "Not a soul! I don't believe there's an individual in the world who would give me a hundred pounds to keep me from the workhouse." There was a pause. The gentleman looked at the lady; the lady looked at him. She kept folding and unfolding the notes between her dainty fingers; a smile parted her lips. "Mr Coventry, I know from whom they came." "Miss Hardy, you don't mean it! From whom?" "They came," with a rapid glance she looked down, then up again, "from a woman." "A woman!" Mr Coventry looked considerably startled. "What woman?" "Ah, there it is!" Mr Coventry still looked startled. "I suppose, Miss Hardy, you are simply making a shot at it." "It looks to me like the act of a woman. Think! Is there a woman possible?" Mr Coventry looked even disconcerted. "It--it can't be. It--it's quite impossible." "I thought there was. Mr Coventry, here are your notes. I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence." "But, I--I assure you, the--thing can't be." "Still, I fancy, the thing is, and so, I see, do you. Mr Coventry, if it is not stretching feminine curiosity too far--in my case you have piqued it--might I ask who is the woman?" "There isn't one; I assure you there isn't. But I'll tell you all about it." Mr Coventry fidgeted about the room, then sat down on the chair he had just vacated. "Have--have you ever heard of a Mrs Murphy?" "Had she anything to do with Mr Murphy?" "You mean the iron man? It's his widow. She's--she's stopping at the Métropole just now." "Isn't she rich?" "Awfully, horribly rich. In fact my--my uncle wrote to me about her."