Without answering, Agnes pointed to a chair. She could do this, and, for the time, she could do no more. All that she had read of the hidden and sinister life in the palace at Venice; all that she had heard of Montbarry’s melancholy death and burial in a foreign land; all that she knew of the mystery of Ferrari’s disappearance, rushed into her mind, when the black-robed figure confronted her, standing just inside the door. The strange conduct of Lady Montbarry added a new perplexity to the doubts and misgivings that troubled her. There stood the adventuress whose character had left its mark on society all over Europe—the Fury who had terrified Mrs. Ferrari at the hotel—inconceivably transformed into a timid, shrinking woman! Lady Montbarry had not once ventured to look at Agnes, since she had made her way into the room. Advancing to take the chair that had been pointed out to her, she hesitated, put her hand on the rail to support herself, and still remained standing. “Please give me a moment to compose myself,” she said faintly. Her head sank on her bosom: she stood before Agnes like a conscious culprit before a merciless judge. The silence that followed was, literally, the silence of fear on both sides. In the midst of it, the door was opened once more—and Henry Westwick appeared. He looked at Lady Montbarry with a moment’s steady attention—bowed to her with formal politeness—and passed on in silence. At the sight of her husband’s brother, the sinking spirit of the woman sprang to life again. Her drooping figure became erect. Her eyes met Westwick’s look, brightly defiant. She returned his bow with an icy smile of contempt. Henry crossed the room to Agnes. “Is Lady Montbarry here by your invitation?” he asked quietly. “No.” “Do you wish to see her?” “It is very painful to me to see her.” He turned and looked at his sister-in-law. “Do you hear that?” he asked coldly. “I hear it,” she answered, more coldly still. “Your visit is, to say the least of it, ill-timed.” “Your interference is, to say the least of it, out of place.” With that retort, Lady Montbarry approached Agnes. The presence of Henry Westwick seemed at once to relieve and embolden her. “Permit me to ask my question, Miss Lockwood,” she said, with graceful courtesy. “It is nothing to embarrass you. When the courier Ferrari applied to my late husband for employment, did you—” Her resolution failed her, before she could say more. She sank trembling into the nearest chair, and, after a moment’s struggle, composed herself again. “Did you permit Ferrari,” she resumed, “to make sure of being chosen for our courier by using your name?” Agnes did not reply with her customary directness. Trifling as it was, the reference to Montbarry, proceeding from _that_ woman of all others, confused and agitated her. “I have known Ferrari’s wife for many years,” she began. “And I take an interest—”