Certainly she did not know him. In the restaurant she had inquired who he was. But, later, she had said that his profile seemed familiar to her, that perhaps she had seen him about London. Her departure from the restaurant had been strangely abrupt. Perhaps--could she have recognized Arabian after he, Craven, had left her alone and had gone to speak to Miss Van Tuyn? The man looked a wrong ‘un. Craven felt certain he was a wrong ‘un. But if so, surely Lady Sellingworth could not know him, or even know anything about him. There was something so remote and distinguished about her life, her solitary, retired life. She did not come in contact with such people. “Get you a kib, gentleman?” said a soft cockney voice in Craven’s ear. He started, and walked on quickly. In Lady Sellingworth’s conduct that night, in the last look she had given him, there was mystery. He was quite unable to fathom it, and he went home to his flat in the greatest perplexity, and feeling very uneasy. When Murgatroyd opened the door to his mistress it was not much after nine, and he was surprised to see her back so early and alone. “Tea, please, Murgatroyd!” she said. “Yes, my lady.” She passed by him and ascended the big staircase. He heard her go into the drawing-room and shut the door. When, a few minutes later, he brought in the tea, she was standing by the fire. She had taken off her big hat and laid it on a table. “I shall want nothing more. Good night.” “Good night, my lady.” He went towards the door. When he was just going out he heard her say, “Murgatroyd!” and turned. “My lady!” “Please let Cecile know I shan’t want her to-night. She is not to sit up for me. I’ll manage for myself.” “Yes, my lady.” “Make it quite understood, please.” “Certainly, my lady.” He went out and shut the door. When she was quite alone Lady Sellingworth stood for several minutes by the fire quite still, with her head bent down and her hands folded together. Then she went to the tea table, poured out a cup of tea, sat down and sipped it slowly, looking into vacancy with the eyes of one whose real gaze was turned inwards upon herself. She finished the tea, sat still for a little while, then got up, went to the writing-table, sat before it, took a pen and a sheet of note-paper, and began slowly to write. She wrote first at the top of the sheet in the left-hand corner, “Strictly private,” and underlined the words. Then she wrote: