Beryl, who had spoken but little after Sir Henry's entrance, rose at last, announcing her intention of going out beneath the trees again. Her words conveyed an invitation to accompany her; therefore I strolled out at her side, anxious to learn from her what I could regarding the man to whom she had introduced me. How curiously events occur in our lives. Many of the ordinary circumstances of everyday existence which we pass by unnoticed seem to be governed by some laws of which we have absolutely no knowledge whatever. Reader, in your own life, there has occurred some strange combinations of circumstances quite unaccountable, yet by them the whole course of your existence has been altered. You may have noticed them, or you may not. You may call it Fate, or you may be a follower of that shadowy religion called Luck, yet it remains the same--the unexpected always happens. Who indeed would have expected that my wife herself would have introduced me to the man who had so cleverly baited the trap into which I had fallen? And yet it is always so. There is a mysterious all-ruling spirit of perversity ever at work in that complicated series of events which go to make up what we term life. "You were telling me that you know my husband," she said quickly, as we crossed the grass together. "Our conversation was interrupted by that man's arrival." Such reference to the new-comer showed me that she was not well-disposed towards him. "Do you know," I said, "I believe that we've met somewhere before. I know his face." "Possibly. But why Sir Henry should have invited him here again, I can't imagine." "Was his company so disagreeable?" I asked. "Disagreeable?" she echoed. "He is detestable." "Why?" "Oh, for many reasons," she responded ambiguously; "I have never liked him." "He says that he is always abroad," I remarked. "But I'm confident that we have met somewhere in England." "He did not apparently recognise you, when I introduced you." "No. He didn't wish to. The circumstances of our meeting were not such as to leave behind any pleasant recollections." "But you told me that you knew the identity of my husband," she said, after a pause, as we strolled together in the shadow of the great oaks. "Were you really serious?" "No, I was not serious," I answered quickly, for the unexpected arrival of this man who called himself Ashwicke, and whose name appeared in the _London Directory_ as occupier of the house in Queen's-gate Gardens, caused me to hesitate to tell her the truth. The manner in which they had met made it quite plain that some secret understanding existed between them. It seemed possible that this man had actually occupied the house before the present owner, Mrs Stentiford. "Then why did you say such a thing?" she asked, in a tone of reproach. "My position is no matter for joking."