I was dressed in ordinary outdoor attire, and seemed much excited and annoyed about something. I was talking continuously, as it seemed to her; but she could not make out any connected sentences, and "wondered what had upset me" so much. She spoke to me, asking what had happened; but I took no notice of her questions, standing with my face to the window and my back to her for a few moments. Then I turned round, and deliberately retraced my steps, past the ottoman, skirting round the bed, and was just disappearing through the door, when she made a final effort to attract my attention, asking a very practical question: "Emmie! Do tell me before you go, what number you are staying at in Oxford Terrace" (the part of town where I always stayed at that time). Lady Wincote said: "You made no answer at all, but whisked out of the door in a great hurry, and then for the first time I remembered _that you were in India_. It had all seemed so natural, as you had often been in my bedroom, that I only thought at the moment that you must have returned unexpectedly to London from the country. My one anxiety was to know which number on the Terrace would find you, in case you had changed your address there." Now all this was, fortunately, written out to me by my friend on the very day that it happened--_i.e._ 8th January 1891--and _crossed my letter to her telling her of the incident_. My letter was written a day or two later I think; but I was keeping a strict diary at the time, and under date of 8th January have the record of the event, corresponding with the date of Lady Wincote's letter to me.[3] [3] Both my diary and Lady Wincote's letter were shown to Mr Myers on my return to England, also my letter which crossed the one from Lady Wincote to me. He was greatly interested in the account. Probably in any case I should have written to tell this friend of the incident, on account of a conversation I had with Bobajee when he returned from his ghastly entertainment. I had looked inside the Memorial, and had seen that the stone steps were crumbling away and looked very unsafe, so when he came back and said: "_Something bad inside there, Lady Sahib_," I concluded naturally that he was referring to the state of the staircase, and attributing the poor coolie's fall to some such cause. But he denied this strenuously: "_No! no! Lady Sahib--some bad debil inside there. He threw coolie over!_" Then he went on to tell us that on one special night in the year no native man, woman, or child in the whole city could be induced to pass the Mutiny Memorial at midnight. The few daring souls who _had_ passed there, had found the tower all lighted up inside, and the Sepoys and the British soldiers had come back, and were fighting their battles over again! The man spoke in simple good faith, and assured me that all Delhi people knew this to be a fact, and gave the place a wide berth on that anniversary.