After a dozen yards or so they paused and the young fellow looked round. He appeared disconcerted to see that I was watching them, and drew his mother forward again. Then I nearly laughed aloud. The woman took two or three steps without either the waddle or the limp; suddenly recollected herself and went lame with the wrong foot. I hastened after them and as they quickened their pace, I called out in English: “You’ve forgotten which is your lame foot, Miralda.” They stopped and turned, but even when I was close to them and saw their faces clearly, I should not have recognized the market woman as Miralda, nor the lanky youth as Inez, had it not been for Miralda’s eyes. I had looked too often into them not to know them. “It is I, Ralph; you’ve been running away from me the last hour or more,” I added, laughing. “Ralph!” cried Miralda. “What does it all mean?” “You shall know all directly, but I must speak to your son there first. He has not a moment to lose if he means to catch this train.” “Mr. Donnington?” exclaimed Inez. “Where----” “You must let me talk, please,” I interrupted. “When Dr. Barosa left that house he ran into a party of police, but I managed to get a word or two with him before he fled, and I have to give you this ticket and the money with it. You are to leave by this train. If you remain another hour in Lisbon, you will be arrested.” “Where is he?” “You haven’t a second to spare,” I cried, giving her the ticket and pressing the envelope into her hand. “You will learn everything later. Miralda is pardoned. And now go, or it will be too late;” and I urged her away in the direction of the barrier, without giving her time to question me. She hesitated, walked away a few steps, paused in doubt, and was turning back, when the call to the passengers to enter the train came. She choked back a hundred unspoken questions, hurried through the barrier and got into the train. With a sigh of satisfaction I watched it move along the platform and disappear in the darkness, and then turned to Miralda. Her disguise was really wonderful. The complexion was darkened almost to the tan of a mulatto, and the skin of the forehead, nose and upper half of the cheeks was lined very cunningly and had the wrinkled look of age: on the left side of the face was what looked like the cicatrice of a bad wound or burn, and on the right a large disfiguring claret-coloured birth-mark. Both mark and scar extended to the lips, and along the edges of both and across the lower lip was fastened a cleverly moulded skin-covered plastic pad which gave the appearance of the flabby cheeks and fat double chin of a woman of middle age, the lower part being lost in the folds of a neckerchief. The effect was grotesque, and as I stared at her in amazement, the upper part of her face crinkled, while the lower remained stolidly impassive. “Are you trying to smile?” I asked.