So, finding exertion out of the question, he leant back with almost contentment among the pillows, and fell to wondering in whose house he might be. From the shape of the room and the aspect of the garden more than anything he came to the conclusion that the roof which sheltered him was that of Mme. Estelle. On this point, however, he could not quite make up his mind until the door opened softly and Mme. Estelle herself came into the room. She walked over to the couch and stood looking down at him pleasantly and kindly. Westerham was so astonished at her appearance that he could say nothing at all. It was Madame who spoke first, but before doing so she drew a chair to his side and sat down. Then she said: “Sir Paul, I owe you a deep apology.” Westerham contented himself with a slight inclination of his weary head, and waited for Madame to explain. “I can speak quite frankly now,” she said, “knowing that there is no one about to overhear, and I must begin by asking you to forgive me.” Westerham nodded, but still said nothing, though now he saw plainly enough that the letter had merely been a blind. “Yet,” Madame continued, turning her face away from him, “it was not so great a lie. Lady Kathleen was in peril, and is still in peril, but not in the peril which I really imagined at the time.” “What do you mean?” asked Westerham. Madame glanced uneasily about her, and then shrugged her shoulders. “I cannot tell you, my friend. I wish I could.” “She was in peril, is still in peril, but not in the peril in which she was,” Westerham repeated to himself. He removed his puzzled gaze from the woman's face and glanced at his feet. Then he started violently, for the boots which he wore, comfortable though they were, were not his boots. Struggling into a half-sitting posture, he looked hastily over his clothes. They were not his clothes. He endeavoured to rise and Madame helped him to his feet. On one side he supported himself by the table, and on the other by Madame's arm. Then he took a step forward and deliberately surveyed himself in the glass. And his look of inspection filled him with intense surprise, though he did not allow himself to so much as utter an exclamation. Mechanically he began to employ those little tricks of gesture which a man indulges in when he is anxious to ascertain if his clothes sit well on him. To his amazement not one article of attire was his own; yet the blue serge suit in which he was clad was of such a perfect fit that he might have been moulded into it. He moved his toes inside his boot and found that of all the boots he had ever worn these were the most comfortable.