That very evening, as I was sitting quietly in my office, trying to divert my mind from the murder by reading, my boy came in and told me that there was a lady in the waiting-room who wanted to see me. There was something so peculiar about the way he imparted this very commonplace information that my curiosity was aroused; but I refrained from questioning him, and curtly bade him show the lady in. When she appeared I was no longer surprised at his manner, for a more strange and melodramatic figure I have seldom seen, even on the stage. The woman was tall and draped, or rather shrouded, in a long, black cloak, and a thick black veil was drawn down over her face. Her costume, especially considering the excessive heat, and that the clock pointed to 9.15, was alone enough to excite comment; but to a singularity in dress she added an even greater singularity of manner. She entered the room hesitatingly, and paused near the threshold to glance apprehensively about her, as if fearing the presence of some hidden enemy. The woman must be mad, I thought, as I motioned her to a chair and sat down opposite to her. With a theatrical gesture, she threw back her veil, and to my astonishment I recognised the handsome, rotund features of--Madame Argot! She smiled, evidently enjoying my bewilderment. "Meestair Docteur, I no disturb you?" she inquired. "Certainly not, madame; what can I do for you?" "Ah, meestair," she whispered, looking towards the door, "I so afraid zat my 'usban' 'e come back and fin' me gone; 'e terribly angry!" "Why should he be angry?" I asked. "He no like me to speak viz you. He no vant me to show you zis," she answered, pointing mysteriously to her left shoulder. "What is it that he doesn't want me to see?" "I go show you," and, opening her dress, she disclosed two terrible bruises, each as large as the palm of my hand; "and zat is not all," she continued, and, as she turned round, I saw that a deep gash disfigured one of her shoulder-blades. I was really shocked. "How did this happen?" I inquired. "Oh, I fall," she said, smiling coquettishly at me. "A very queer fall," I muttered. The wound was several days old and not serious, but, owing to neglect, had got into a very bad condition. "Ah, zat is better," she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when I had thoroughly cleansed the cut. I was just preparing to bandage it up, when she stopped me. "No, meestair; not zat! My 'usban', 'e see zat, 'e know I come here, and zen 'e angry. Ze vashin' and ze salve zey make me better!" "But look here, my good woman," I exclaimed, indignantly; "do you mean to say that your husband is such a brute that he objects to your having your wound dressed--a wound that you got in such a peculiar way, too?" Her manner changed instantly; she drew herself haughtily up, and began buttoning up her dress. "My 'usban' 'e no brute; 'e verra nice man; 'e love' me verra much." "Really!"