"Oh, merely a letter from Clara, saying she was leaving Mrs. Carson," answered Trall, hastily. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I didn't think it worth while." "Everything is worth while that concerns Carson," rebuked Drabble. "Where is the letter, you fool?" "In the fire; there were only half a dozen lines. But how do you know that Clara wrote to me?" added Trall, turning to Mallow. "Well, she happened to drop her letter when about to post it. I picked it up, and naturally I saw the name and address." "Oh, well, it was only a little letter--a very little letter," mumbled Jeremiah, and slipped out of the room. "Little or big," roared Drabble after him, "you bring the next one to me. Come, Mr. Mallow, let us go and see Madame." Mallow followed the doctor along a dark passage and into another room in the front of the house. Here at a window overlooking the street sat a pale little woman with dark hair arranged smoothly in bands. She wore a plain black dress without trimming or ornament of any kind. Her pallid face was bent intently over some wool-work she was knitting. She looked up when the two men came in, and rose to her feet. "Mrs. Arne," said Drabble graciously, "this is our new recruit, Mr. Mallow." Mallow turned pale and felt his heart beating wildly. In this woman, introduced as Mrs. Arne, he recognized the housekeeper of Althelstane Place. CHAPTER V. "MADAME DEATH-IN-LIFE." As Mallow, at Drabble's elbow, stared at the demure little figure clothed in black, he realized that this was the fate controlling all things in connection with the affair he had in hand. Instantly he recognized in her the newspaper descriptions of the unknown housekeeper who had vanished so mysteriously and so completely from Athelstane Place. By name she had just been made known to him as Mrs. Arne, and he now learned that she and Madame Death-in-Life--the notorious Madame Death-in-Life who was dreaded throughout Europe--were one and the same person. He was face to face with the terrible woman with the terrible nick-name, the stormy petrel of Anarchy. At the mere rumour of her presence in their city, those in authority were wont suspiciously to look about them and doubly to safeguard their rulers. The Continental police would have given much to have had her safe in Monte Valerien, or Spandau, or Siberia. Hitherto she had always evaded them at the last moment--had thwarted their most zealous endeavours and carefully laid plans. She was Italian by birth, and had married an Englishman. She was now a widow and had made her husband's country her permanent home. As she sat before him now, so peacefully knitting, Mallow thought of Madame Defarge. "I am delighted to see you, Mr. Mallow," she said in excellent English, with but little trace of foreign accent. "I have been expecting you for some time. You can go, doctor." "But I want to----"