The morning was cold and gray. A drizzling rain was falling. The passers were few, and the appearance of the streets dirty and, with littered kennels, was dreary indeed. I found it hard at once to keep myself warm and to avoid observation as I hung about. Ten o'clock had rung from more than one steeple, and I was beginning to think myself a fool for my pains, when a woman of middle height, slender and young in figure, but wearing a shabby brown cloak, and with her head muffled in a hood, as though she had the toothache or dreaded the weather more than ordinary, turned the corner of the belfry and made straight toward me. She drew near, and seemed about to pass me without notice. But when abreast of me she glanced up suddenly, her eyes the only features I could see. "Follow me to the church!" she murmured gently. And she swept on to the porch. I obeyed reluctantly; very reluctantly, my feet seeming like lead. For I knew who she was. Though I had only seen her eyes, I had recognized them, and guessed already what her business with me was. She led the way resolutely to a quiet corner. The church was empty and still, with only the scent of incense in the air to tell of a recent service. It was no surprise to me when she turned abruptly, and, removing her hood, looked me in the face. "What have you done with him?" she panted, laying her hand on my arm. "Speak! Tell me what you have done with him?" The question, the very question, I had foreseen! Yet I tried to fence with her. I said, "With whom?" "With whom?" she repeated bitterly. "You know me! I am not so changed in three years that you do not recognize me?" "No; I know you," I said. There was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and it seemed to me that the dark hair was thinner on her thin temples than when I had seen her last. But the eyes were the same. "Then why ask with whom?" she cried passionately. "What have you done with the man you called Clarence?" "Done with him?" I said feebly. "Ay, done with him? Come, speak and tell me!" she repeated in fierce accents, her hand clutching my wrist, her eyes probing my face with merciless glances. "Have you killed him? Tell me!" "Killed him, Mistress Anne?" I said sullenly. "No, I have not killed him." "He is alive?" she cried. "For all I know, he is alive." She glared at me for some seconds to assure herself that I was telling the truth. Then she heaved a great sigh; her hands fell from my wrists, the color faded out of her face, and she lowered her eyes. I glanced round with a momentary idea of escape--I so shrank from that which was to come. But before I had well entertained the notion she looked up, her face grown calm. "Then what have you done with him?" she asked. "I have done nothing with him," I answered.