Alas! He was not prepared for what awaited him. Had he asked himself what kind of woman he should meet, he would have imagined a person broken down by the discovery of her guilt; throwing herself at his feet, ready to confess everything--a woman with whom he would be the conqueror. That the tables would be turned upon him, he never even thought possible. Who would? He had discovered that the real heir to the name and title of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe had actually died at Birmingham twenty-four years ago. Who, then, was the present so-called Sir Humphrey? "Thou art the woman!" "Alas! alas! I am the woman." This was the pretty dialogue of conquest and confession which he fondly imagined. What happened? At the hour of three he called and sent in his card. He was taken upstairs to the drawing-room, where a lady of august presence and severe aspect, who struck an unexpected terror into him at the outset, was sitting at a table with a secretary. This severe person put up her glasses curiously, and icily motioned him to wait, while she went on dictating to the secretary. When she had finished--which took several minutes--she dismissed her assistant and turned to her visitor, who was still standing, hat in hand, already disconcerted by this contemptuous treatment, and expectant of unpleasantness. She pushed back her chair and took a paper from the table. "You sent me a letter yesterday, Mr. Woodroffe." "I did," he said huskily. Then, with a feeling of being cross-examined, he cleared his throat and tried to assume an attitude of dignity. "This is the letter, I believe. Read it, to make sure." "That is the letter." "Oh! And you are come, I suppose, to talk over the matter, to see what you can make out of it. Well, sir, I have taken advice upon this letter. I was advised to have the door shut in your face; I was advised to send you to my lawyers; but I am not afraid, even of the black-mailer. I resolved to see you. Now, sir, you may sit down, if you like." Richard sank into a chair, his cheeks flaming. "Go on, then," she added impatiently. "Don't waste my time. Explain this letter, sir, instantly." She rapped the table sharply with a paper-knife. The triumphant detective jumped. "I can--I can explain it." The poor young man felt all his confidence slipping away from him. For it looked as if she was actually going to brazen it out--a contingency that had not occurred to him. "One moment, Mr. Woodroffe. I am the more inclined to give you an opportunity to explain personally, because I hear that my son has already met you. I can hardly say, made your acquaintance--met you--and that you are, or pretend to be--it matters nothing--a distant cousin of his. And now, sir, having said so much, I am prepared to listen." "I can give you the whole story, Lady Woodroffe." "_The_ whole story? _A_ whole story, you mean. Call things by their right names. But go on. Do not occupy my time needlessly, and do not be tedious."