Learning at the desk that the lady was really there, I sent my card up to her with a request for an immediate audience, and very soon I was summoned to her apartment. She greeted me with that air of frigid reserve typical of an English woman. Though not unattractive to look at, she possessed the high cheekbones and prominent teeth which are almost universal in the women of her nation. She was perhaps between thirty and forty years old, and had the air of a grande dame. “Mr. Burroughs?” she said, looking through her lorgnon at my card, which she held in her hand. “Yes,” I assented, and judging from her appearance that she was a woman of a decided and straightforward nature I came at once to the point. “I'm a detective, madam,” I began, and the remark startled her out of her calm. “A detective!” she cried out, with much the same tone as if I had said a rattlesnake. “Do not be alarmed, I merely state my profession to explain my errand.” “Not be alarmed! when a detective comes to see me! How can I help it? Why, I've never had such an experience before. It is shocking! I've met many queer people in the States, but not a detective! Reporters are bad enough!” “Don't let it disturb you so, Mrs. Purvis. I assure you there is nothing to trouble you in the fact of my presence here, unless it is trouble of your own making.” “Trouble of my own making!” she almost shrieked. “Tell me at once what you mean, or I shall ring the bell and have you dismissed.” Her fear and excitement made me think that perhaps I was on the track of new developments, and lest she should carry out her threat of ringing the bell, I plunged at once into the subject. “Mrs. Purvis, have you lost a gold-mesh bag?” I said bluntly. “No, I haven't,” she snapped, “and if I had, I should take means to recover it, and not wait for a detective to come and ask me about it.” I was terribly disappointed. To be sure she might be telling a falsehood about the bag, but I didn't think so. She was angry, annoyed, and a little frightened at my intrusion, but she was not at all embarrassed at my question. “Are you quite sure you have not lost a gold-link bag?” I insisted, as if in idiotic endeavor to persuade her to have done so. “Of course I'm sure,” she replied, half laughing now; “I suppose I should know it if I had done so.” “It's a rather valuable bag,” I went on, “with a gold frame-work and gold chain.” “Well, if it's worth a whole fortune, it isn't my bag,” she declared; “for I never owned such a one.” “Well,” I said, in desperation, “your visiting card is in it.” “My visiting card!” she said, with an expression of blank wonderment. “Well, even if that is true, it doesn't make it my bag. I frequently give my cards to other people.”