“But how do you know?--my dear sir, how? From what you tell me, she hasn’t said an intelligent thing to you; she’s been in a condition of _non compos mentis_ ever since you set eyes upon her. After an hour’s exchange of conversational bonbons with a lunatic woman, how can you tell what she’s like when she’s sane?” “Miss Adair, if you are coming as Miss Moore’s friend, be her friend; if not, I will stop the cab--you shall go back again.” She was silent for a second or two. I suspected her of stifling a smile. “Thank you. You need not stop the cab.” She looked at me, mischief in her eyes. “I believe, Mr. Ferguson, that you’re a Scotchman.” There is Scotch blood in my veins; I did not see why she should charge it against me as a fault. I told her so. She laughed outright. Miss Adair was a charming woman, but I will own that I was glad when we reached our destination. She was in a provoking mood, as she showed by the remark she made as she got out of the cab. “Now to interview this ideal conception of what our mothers should be.” I did not reply. I followed her into the lift. “The top floor,” I said. But as we were passing the first floor, she started from her seat. “There’s Bessie!” she cried. From where I sat, as I turned my head, I was just in time to see my last night’s visitor vanish round the corner of the staircase. We were still ascending. I told the lift-man to return. When he had done so, and we were out upon the landing, the lady was already some distance along the corridor. She had passed my rooms, and was moving rapidly towards No. 64. “Where is she going?” asked Miss Adair. “Bessie!” Her call went unheeded. Apparently the other did not hear. She continued to hasten from us as if she were making for a particular goal, with a well-defined purpose in view. I thought it probable that the dead man’s body was still somewhere in his chambers, and certainly all the plain evidences of the tragedy would have been studiously left untouched. “Quick!” I exclaimed. “She doesn’t know what she is doing; she is going to Lawrence’s room, where he lies murdered. We must stop her before she gets there.” We hurried in pursuit, but had only gone a few yards when some one caught me by the arm. I had previously realised that some one else was standing in the corridor, but my attention had been too much engrossed by Miss Moore to permit of my noticing who it was. I now perceived that it was Hume. He gripped my arm with what seemed unnecessary force, his countenance betraying a degree of agitation of which I had not thought him capable. “Ferguson!” he cried. “Miss Adair! What is Miss Moore doing here?” His recognition surprised me, even at such a moment. “Do you know her?” “I believe I have that pleasure.” His words sounded like a sneer, they were so bitterly uttered. “But what’s the meaning of it all? I spoke to her, but she passed without a sign of recognition. What’s the matter with her? She looks ill; where’s she going?”