'If you ask _me_,' he said, 'that guy was after something better than plated spoons. Yes, sir! If you want my opinion, it was Buck MacGinnis, or Chicago Ed., or one of those guys, and what he was trailing was me. They're always at it. Buck had a try for me in the fall of '07, and Ed.--' 'Do you hear me? Will you return instantly--' 'If you don't believe me I can show you the piece there was about it in the papers. I've got a press-clipping album in my box. Whenever there's a piece about me in the papers, I cut it out and paste it into my album. If you'll come right along, I'll show you the story about Buck now. It happened in Chicago, and he'd have got away with me if it hadn't been--' 'Twenty bad marks!' 'Mr Abney!' It was the person standing behind me who spoke. Till now he or she had remained a silent spectator, waiting, I suppose, for a lull in the conversation. They jumped, all together, like a well-trained chorus. 'Who is that?' cried Mr Abney. I could tell by the sound of his voice that his nerves were on wires. 'Who was that who spoke?' 'Shall I telephone for the police?' asked Glossop. Ignored. 'I am Mrs Sheridan, Mr Abney. You were expecting me to-night.' 'Mrs Sheridan? Mrs Sher--I expected you in a cab. I expected you in--ah--in fact, a cab.' 'I walked.' I had a curious sensation of having heard the voice before. When she had told me not to move, she had spoken in a whisper--or, to me, in my dazed state, it had sounded like a whisper--but now she was raising her voice, and there was a note in it that seemed familiar. It stirred some chord in my memory, and I waited to hear it again. When it came it brought the same sensation, but nothing more definite. It left me groping for the clue. 'Here is one of the men, Mr Abney.' There was a profound sensation. Boys who had ceased to squeal, squealed with fresh vigour. Glossop made his suggestion about the telephone with a new ring of hope in his voice. Mrs Attwell shrieked. They made for us in a body, boys and all, White leading with the lantern. I was almost sorry for being compelled to provide an anticlimax. Augustus Beckford was the first to recognize me, and I expect he was about to ask me if I liked sitting on the gravel on a frosty night, or what gravel was made of, when Mr Abney spoke. 'Mr Burns! What--dear me!--_what_ are you doing there?' 'Perhaps Mr Burns can give us some information as to where the man went, sir,' suggested White. 'On everything except that,' I said, 'I'm a mine of information. I haven't the least idea where he went. All I know about him is that he has a shoulder like the ram of a battleship, and that he charged me with it.' As I was speaking, I thought I heard a little gasp behind me. I turned. I wanted to see this woman who stirred my memory with her voice. But the rays of the lantern did not fall on her, and she was a shapeless blur in the darkness. Somehow I felt that she was looking intently at me. I resumed my narrative.