The words “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” fitted with a horrible nicety the throbbing of the engine, and he was still muttering to himself “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” “Sacrifice!” “Murderess!” when he reached the narrow door in the wall of the house of Mme. Estelle. CHAPTER VIII SCOTLAND YARD INTERVENES Mme. Estelle was at home, and Westerham was immediately shown into a long, low, pretty drawing-room, which gave on to a garden at the back of the house. Judged, indeed, from Madame's pose, and from the gown she wore, she might have been expecting visitors. The lights were shaded so that the hard lines on her face were softened, and in the dimness of the pretty room she looked the really beautiful woman she once must have been. In his generous spirit—though he knew nothing of Madame's past, and practically nothing of her present—his heart was touched by a certain air of loneliness the woman wore, and by the very pleasant smile of greeting which she gave him. Sir Paul was conscious that Mme. Estelle surveyed him with a certain amount of quiet wonderment. And it came home to him that for the first time for many years he had been shaken out of himself—so badly shaken out of himself that evidently his countenance bore some traces of his unquiet mind. Madame's words of welcome were, however, quite conventional, and bore no evidence of surprise. “This is a most unexpected pleasure,” she said. “The pleasure, I assure you,” answered Westerham in the same conventional strain, “is entirely mine. I do not wish in the least to be discourteous, but I have to tell you that I have called on business.” Madame nodded as if she understood. “Suppose,” she said, in a pleasant voice, “that while we discuss business we drink tea.” “I shall be more than delighted,” returned Westerham, though he was anxious to get the matter over and go back to the quiet of his room, where he could think without interruption. So Madame rang the bell, gave her orders, and the tea came in. It was not till they were alone again and fairly certain of not being interrupted that Westerham went straight to the point. “Madame,” he said, and his tone was formal—so formal that he paused for a moment to be amused at himself; he might have been a family solicitor about to talk business with a difficult client. “Whatever they may have been to you,” he continued, “the last few days have meant much to me. Possibly you are aware of how I made Captain Melun's acquaintance.” Madame pursed up her mouth and smiled. “I can guess,” she said; “but, of course, versions differ.” Westerham's heart gave a little bound of triumph. After all, this woman was not wholly sunk in admiration of the gallant captain.