"How far are they apart?" she inquired, looking up from the book, dismayed. "I don't know the distance," I was compelled to admit. "But the one is on one side of London, and the other is in the opposite direction-- perhaps nearly eight miles away." "I believe it's Ellerdale Street. I've always called it that, and neither of my aunts has corrected me." Then suddenly, as she glanced round the room, she started as if in terror, and pointing to the little side-table, cried-- "Oh, look!" I turned quickly, but saw nothing. "Why, what is it?" I inquired in quick concern. But in an instant her face, a moment before suddenly blanched by some mysterious fear, relaxed into a smile, as she answered-- "Nothing! It was really nothing. I thought--I thought I saw something in that corner." "Saw something!" I exclaimed, advancing to the table. "What do you mean?" "Nothing," and she laughed a strange, forced laugh. "It was really nothing, I assure you." "But surely your imagination did not cause you to start like that," I said dubiously. She was, I felt convinced, trying to conceal something from me. Could she, I wondered, be subject to hallucinations? Then, as if to change the subject, she crossed to my side, and pointing to an antique ivory cross upon an ebony stand, much battered and yellow with age, which I had picked up in a shop on the Ponte Vecchio, in Florence, long ago, she exclaimed-- "What a quaint old crucifix!" And she took it up and examined it closely, as a connoisseur might look at it. "The figure, I see, is in silver," she observed. "And it is very old. Italian, I should say." "Yes," I replied, rather surprised at her knowledge. "How did you know that?" But she smiled, and declared that she only guessed it to be so, as I had half an hour ago spoken of a recent winter spent in Italy. Then, after admiring it, she placed it down, and again turned, sighed heavily, and bent over the Directory, which was still open upon the table. As she did so, she suddenly burst forth-- "At last! I've found it. Look! there can be no mistake. It isn't Ellerdale Street, but Ellerdale Road!" And bending beside her I read where she pointed with her slim finger the words, "16, Popejoy, Mrs" "Is that your aunt's name?" I asked. "Yes," she replied. "And yours?" I asked. But she pursed up her lips and did not seem inclined to impart this knowledge to me. "My name is really of no account," she said. "We shall not meet again." "Not meet again?" I cried, for the thought of losing a friend so beautiful and so charming was an exceedingly unhappy one. "Why shall we not meet? You are going to live in London now, you say," and taking a card from my cigarette-case I handed it to her. With her clear, brilliant eyes fixed upon mine, she took the card almost mechanically, then glanced at it.