My search for the daughter necessitated my going through the several rooms, so that I had a tolerable notion of the house. Miss Emily's inheritance would not be great, although the lot was itself valuable. The furniture was all old and of just that antiquity which lacks value without acquiring charm. I remarked a vast what-not in one corner; one table promised well, and there were one or two really fine engravings; but for the most part the upholstered chairs were shabby, the tables and desks old and cracked, and the carpets of a faded elegance. The kitchen into which I passed was notably bleak, and the decrepit wood-stove seemed never to have held a fire. Miss Drainger came in the back entrance as I entered the kitchen. Her face was paler than I had ever seen it. She confronted me silently. "If you are through," she said bitingly, "I will let you out the front door." I observed mildly that her mother wanted her and accompanied her into the sitting room. I hesitated how best to broach the matter I had in mind without giving offense and resolved, unfortunately, on a deliberate lie. "My fee has been paid," I said, awkwardly enough. She searched my face. I affected to be busy with my hat. "I see," she commented with a short, cynical laugh. "Sometimes it is done that way, sometimes in ways less pleasant. We are quite used to it. I suppose I had better thank you." I felt my face flush scarlet. "It is not necessary," I faltered and was grateful to get out of the house without further blunders. I filled my lungs with the sweet August morning in positive relief, feeling that I had been in the land of the dead. IV I had no further contact with the Draingers for some days. Indeed, the whole curious episode was beginning to fade in my mind when, some three weeks later, a dinner that Helen was giving recalled my experience and added fresh interest to my relations with them. I sat next to one of those conventionally pretty women who require only the surface of one's attention, and I was preparing to be bored for the rest of the evening when I caught a chance remark of Isobel Allyn's. Mrs. Allyn (everybody calls her Isobel) was talking across the table to Dr. Fawcett. "You've lost your mysterious veiled lady," she said. "Yes," said Fawcett. Fawcett is a good fellow, about forty-five, and inclined to be reticent. "Veiled lady?" shrilled some feminine nonentity, much to Fawcett's distaste. "How thrilling! Do tell us about it!" "There is nothing to tell," growled Fawcett. Isobel, however, is not easily swept aside. "Oh, yes, there is," she persisted. "Dr. Fawcett has for years had a mysterious patient whose face, whenever he visits her, remains obstinately invisible. Now, without revealing her features, the lady has had the bad taste to die." I leaned forward. "Is it Mrs. Drainger, Fawcett?" He turned to me with mingled relief and inquiry. "Yes. How did you know?" I promised myself something later and remained vague.