He let some moments pass while he considered the situation. Wrathful suspicion still claimed him hotly, yet he was conscious that at present it amounted to no more, and that it was above all things necessary for him to behave with circumspection. After a minute of deliberation, he tapped resolutely with the brass knocker that hung upon the door. The connoisseur in him observed, as he did so, that the knocker was good and an antique. After some little delay the door was opened, or half opened, as if the person behind it questioned the character of the visitor, and a woman looked out. She was neat, formal, severe in aspect, suggesting the housekeeper to a greater mansion. She wore an apron, but no cap. Her face was narrow, the lips compressed, her bosom flat, and the hair drawn plainly down her temples. “Yes?” she said, in a thin harsh voice. “I wish to see Mrs Nightingale,” said Gilead. “Who?” “Mrs Nightingale.” “She doesn’t live here,” said the woman, and prepared to shut the door. Gilead, quietly but effectively, prevented her. “Pardon me. I saw her this moment go in,” he said. “You are mistaken, sir.” “I don’t think so.” “Will you take your foot away, sir, or must I call for some one?” “You may call,” said Gilead. “I don’t think it would be wise. She may not be Mrs Nightingale--nothing more likely--and yet fear exposure.” To his surprise, the woman opened the door wide, beckoned him in and closed it upon them. “What are you saying?” she whispered fiercely. Her eyes sparkled in their gloomy rings. “Why do you speak like that on the public stair?” “Why do you force me to?” said Gilead. She stared at him a moment. Then, “Come,” she said, and led the way into a pretty room beyond. Its windows faced upon the park; the polished floor was spread with Eastern rugs; chairs, little tables, what-nots, a bookcase, a dainty bureau, a daintier corner-cupboard, all of rare old Chippendale and loaded where they might be with bijoutry, silver, and exquisite scraps of china, made up the furniture. And on the walls, all framed in slender white, hung many beautiful specimens of Japanese colour prints, _among them, in a place of honour, the very Haronobu which Gilead had coveted_. Looking round and round in amazement, his eyes suddenly fixed themselves on the prize; and there they remained riveted, while he endeavoured to take in the stupendous situation. The truth dawned, grew plain, grew monstrous to him as he gazed. She had played that trick upon him, had invented that lying story with the sole purpose of acquiring its possession; and out of his humanity, his--yes, his damned credulity--he had come to be defrauded and desolated. He could not doubt it. He pointed at the print speechless. “Yes,” said the woman; “these things are a fancy--a craze--of my sister’s--I don’t hold by them myself--and that is her latest. She values it above everything.” He turned upon her, goaded to frenzy.