'I have a friend in New York,' she said, 'who came to see me yesterday, and in the course of some gossip about this place and the people in it she happened to mention a certain Mrs. Griswold, who holds a high position here, and who is a great admirer of the drama. My friend told me that Mrs. Griswold had been particularly anxious to see me in one of my best parts, and had taken places for our first appearance. This Mrs. Griswold, it appears, was very handsome, very charming, and altogether a somebody. I fancied I should like to recognise her, if possible, among the audience; and as my friend knew where she was going to sit, she gave me a description of her appearance and dress, which would have enabled me to recognise her, had this lady occupied the place my friend knew she had taken. The description was--brown hair, worn plain, without flowers or jewels, brown eyes, pale blue velvet dress, gold ornaments, and a blue-and-gold fan. Not very distinct, after all, when you come to think of it, now that pale blue velvet is so fashionable; but true enough, when I looked at the place my friend had directed my attention to--the last seat but two, dress circle, right-hand side--I saw a lady who was watching the play intently, and whose appearance and dress entirely coincided with my friend's description--but the lady was not Mrs. Griswold.' 'Not Mrs. Griswold!' exclaimed Bryan Duval. 'How do you know?' 'Because,' returned Miss Montressor impressively, 'the face was the face of Mr. Foster's wife, as I saw it in the miniature enclosed in the watch-cover; the hair and the eyes were quite unmistakable. That she was the woman who had sat for that miniature I cannot entertain the smallest doubt. It is Mrs. Foster, and therefore _not_ Mrs. Griswold!' Bryan Duval had listened to the latter part of Miss Montressor's narrative with intense, even painful, eagerness. It was evident that he attached immense importance to the apparently insignificant mistake made by Miss Montressor; a mistake easily to be explained on the theory that her friend had given her an erroneous indication of Mrs. Griswold's place in the house. Not so did Bryan Duval interpret it. 'You are quite sure,' he repeated, 'that you looked at the place where you were told to look for Mrs. Griswold?' 'I am quite sure.' 'You are quite sure that the lady you saw in that place bore a close resemblance to the miniature likeness of Mr. Foster's wife?' 'I am perfectly certain of it,' returned Miss Montressor; 'every feature and line was identical, and the peculiar unornamented mode in which the hair was dressed was a conclusive proof to my mind. Stay a moment,' she said, with a start like one catching at a suddenly suggested point, and laying her hand upon his arm, 'there is a curious coincidence in this. My friend told me that Mrs. Griswold had beautiful brown hair, in which she never wore any ornament.'