On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, begging Gladys to come and lunch with her that day. "Forgive me for my long silence and absorption," she concluded. "But I know you will understand what I have lately suffered." She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructions to wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila's face flushed with pleasure as she read it. "I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive," wrote the warm-hearted girl. "But it will be heavenly to see you again and talk together as we used." She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited, kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner of women. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, she declared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was. Gladys looked puzzled. "But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila! Which one is it? Let me see it." Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: "It is the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it is quite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I should have written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange--very strange! What does it mean?" Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered: "Yes, I did think it strange that you did not write. I thought it so far as I am capable of thinking. But I know I have been very difficult lately, and I fancied perhaps you didn't want to make advances, and that you just sent that as a reminder of old times, trusting to me to respond." Lady Gladys kissed her warmly. "Ah! you poor darling, I quite see," she said. "But who could have sent it? That is the puzzle." They both discussed it, at intervals, at table, and could arrive at no solution. When Lady Gladys had left, Sheila puzzled over it all by herself, with no better result. Then, at last, weary of thinking, she telephoned to Wingate. Austin, who was in his office, agreed that the thing was very mysterious, and that he was as much mystified as she was. He ended the brief conversation by advising her to go to Smeaton. "Our brains are no good at this sort of thing," he said candidly. "The atmosphere of mystery seems to suit them at Scotland Yard--they breathe it every day." She drove at once to Scotland Yard, where they knew her well by now. Smeaton was disengaged, and she was taken to his room at once. "Any news. Miss Monkton?" he asked eagerly. "Has that young woman called?" The girl shook her head. "No, I waited in all day yesterday, but to no purpose. Now another strange thing has happened," and she told him briefly of the receipt of the photograph from some unknown person. "You didn't look at the envelope, I suppose?" "No, Mr Smeaton. I hardly ever do look at envelopes. I threw it away with the rest. It would have given you a clue, of course."