He did not know if this was "cock-a-tree"; but if it was he found himself enjoying it. "And yours is Randall. Mr. Randall Ransome, aren't you?" "I say, you know; how did you get hold of that?" "Why--Winny told me." In the strangeness of it all he had forgotten Winny. "Then she told you wrong. Now I think of it, Winny doesn't know my real name. My real name would take your breath away." "Tell it me." "Well--if you will have it--stand well back and hold your hat on. Don't let it catch you full in the face. John--Randall--Fulleymore--Ransome. Now you know me." She smiled enchantingly. "Not quite. But I know something about you Winny doesn't know. That's strange, isn't it?" It was, if you came to think of it. They had crossed the Euston Road now, and Miss Usher turned presently up another side street going north. She stopped at a door in a long row of dingy houses. "This is me," she said, "I've got a room here. It was awfully good of you to bring me." "Not at all," he murmured. "And you're sure you didn't mind my speaking to you like that? I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been Winny's friend." "Of course not." She was not sure whether he were answering her question or assenting to her statement. "And now," she said, "you're going home?" "I suppose so." But he remained rooted to the doorstep, digging into a crevice in it with his stick. From the upper step she watched him intently. "And we sha'n't see each other again." _He_ was not sure whether it was a statement or a question. "Sha'n't we?" He said it submissively, as if she really knew. She was opening the door now and letting herself in. Miss Usher had a latch key. "Where?" said Miss Usher, softly, but with incision. She had turned now and was standing on her threshold. "Oh--anywhere--" "Anywhere's nowhere." Miss Usher was smiling at him, but as she smiled she stepped back and shut the door in his excited face. He turned away, more stupefied than ever. For the first time in his life he had encountered mystery. And he had no name for it. But he had made a note of her street, and of the number of her door. CHAPTER VIII That night Ransome was more than ever the prey of thought, if you could call it thought, that mad racing and careering of his brain which followed his encounter with Miss Usher. The stupefaction which had been her first effect had given way to a peculiar excitement and activity of mind. When he said to himself that Miss Usher had behaved queerly, he meant that she had acted with a fine defiance of convention. And she had carried it off. She had compelled him to accept her with her mystery as a thing long known. She had pushed the barriers aside, and in a moment she had established intimacy.