I was due at a bachelor gathering that evening, and after dinner, the affair being fresh in my mind, I talked about it. I am not sure, but I think it was in connection with a discussion on Maeterlinck. It was that sudden lifting of the blind that had caught hold of me. As if, blundering into an empty theatre, I had caught a glimpse of some drama being played in secret. We passed to other topics, and when I was leaving a fellow guest asked me which way I was going. I told him, and, it being a fine night, he proposed that we should walk together. And in the quiet of Harley Street he confessed that his desire had not been entirely the pleasure of my company. "It is rather curious," he said, "but today there suddenly came to my remembrance a case that for nearly eleven years I have never given a thought to. And now, on top of it, comes your description of that woman's face. I am wondering if it can be the same." "It was the eyes," I said, "that struck me as so remarkable." "It was the eyes that I chiefly remember her by," he replied. "Would you know the street again?" We walked a little while in silence. "It may seem, perhaps, odd to you," I answered, "but it would trouble me, the idea of any harm coming to her through me. What was the case?" "You can feel quite safe on that point," he assured me. "I was her counsel--that is, if it is the same woman. How was she dressed?" I could not see the reason for his question. He could hardly expect her to be wearing the clothes of eleven years ago. "I don't think I noticed," I answered. "Some sort of a blouse, I suppose." And then I recollected. "Ah, yes, there was something uncommon," I added. "An unusually broad band of velvet, it looked like, round her neck." "I thought so," he said. "Yes. It must be the same." We had reached Marylebone Road, where our ways parted. "I will look you up to-morrow afternoon, if I may," he said. "We might take a stroll round together." He called on me about half-past five, and we reached the street just as the one solitary gas-lamp had been lighted. I pointed out the house to him, and he crossed over and looked at the number. "Quite right," he said, on returning. "I made inquiries this morning. She was released six weeks ago on ticket-of-leave." He took my arm. "Not much use hanging about," he said. "The blind won't go up to-night. Rather a clever idea, selecting a house just opposite a lamp-post." He had an engagement that evening; but later on he told me the story--that is, so far as he then knew it. * * *