I would have voiced my amazement, notwithstanding the spell cast on me by the loveliness of this fascinating apparition, were it not that, even as I tried to find words, both Karl and his companion vanished from my sight, and I was confronted by a totally different scene. Instead of the half-visible corridor, I tenanted a large room, brilliantly illuminated. It is noteworthy, as testifying to my normal condition, that I believed, for an instant, that the communicating door had been opened to allow the pair in front to enter the music salon. This impression quickly yielded to realities. Yes, I repeat, realities. No ambiguous phrase would describe the clear-cut recollection I have of that vast square chamber, with its low, Arabesque ceiling, its huge fireplace of Carrara marble, its deep Italian windows, its wealth of carved wainscoting and antique furniture. A log fire burned dully in the grate. Kneeling on a rug near the hearth, but in such a position that I could see her profile, was a slimly built girl, dressed in white, whom I recognized as Maggie Hutchinson. Seemingly, she was alone. Tears were streaming from her eyes, and her lips quivered, yet I had a queer belief that her agitation arose from some unhappy combination of sorrow fraught with gladness, one of those tantalizing experiences sent to vex frail mortality, wherein, if only circumstances could be altered, abiding melancholy would forthwith become extravagant joy. Were I a painter, seeking inspiration to depict an angel tempted to rebel but faithful to an eternal vow, I should strive to place on canvas the expression of Maggie Hutchinson’s face caught in that transient glimpse. And that was all. The door leading to the heedless throng of guests was really flung open, I heard the cackle of conversation blending with a piano solo, my dazed eyes rested on Karl holding back the curtain with a questioning smile on his face, and I returned to solid earth again. Now, I had seen Nora Cazenove surrounded with a halo, and Maggie Hutchinson on her knees crying, within the space of six and seven short strides. Nevertheless, keen as my wits were to note these things, they were slow enough to return to a just appreciation of my surroundings. Karl told me afterwards that I arranged to meet Nora at the Stanhope Gate, or call at her house, at 2.30 P.M., next day, and he said that I left it to the Meteorological Bureau to decide which rendezvous we would attend. Anyhow, I forget using any such phrase or even making the appointment, and I first regained my grasp of current events when we were seated in the brougham which Karl had caused to be summoned by telephone. “What do you think of it all now?” he asked in the unemotional voice of a man who might be alluding to the singing and the fiddling and the scandal. “Karl, I am worn out,” I answered. “I cannot center my ideas to-night.”