"I must not return to London in the same attire: that would be to contradict the letter; and I must not return in my own: that might involve _me_ in suspicion, and give rise to awkward questions if it were known that I had been at Dover on the morning of Captain Willard's flight. No! I would return disguised in a woman's dress. Ha! ha! how often have I heard you discuss the identity of the veiled lady who travelled with you from Dover to London! Learn now that the veiled lady is before you. Now you know why she was dumb. I could not disguise my voice so effectually but that you might recognise it next morning at the wedding." To say that I was amazed at this revelation is but a feeble way of expressing it. Great as was my amazement, however, it did not check for an instant my working for freedom. "There was living then at Dover an old friend of mine from Rivoli--Matteo Carito by name. He was caretaker to an Italian family who were spending their winter abroad. I had paid him a chance visit the previous week, and he had casually told me that he meant to spend his Christmas with some Italian friends in London; he thought he might safely leave the house for a day or two. It would be empty, then, on Christmas morning. Good! Unknown to him, I procured a key that would open the front door; in the secrecy of this house I would assume my female disguise. Do you remember finding me outside old Matteo's house? You came on me as swiftly and silently as a ghost. I was startled, for I knew you were his brother--Daphne had many a time pointed out your portrait to me--and I thought all was discovered. But I baffled you--I eluded you--how adroitly you know. Matteo's house was my asylum. But Matteo had not gone to London after all, and discovered me in the very act of changing my attire. He wanted to know how I had gained access to the house, and why I was masquerading in two different disguises. For a minute I hesitated; I thought of braining him on the spot. It would have been rare sport. But I pitied him--he had known me from childhood--and I concocted some story that seemed to satisfy him at the time. Would now that I had slain him there and then! It would have saved me a world of trouble. He discovered it all!" I was still tearing away fiercely at my bonds, confident that if the artist continued his ravings for a few more minutes my hands would be free. The friction of the silk on the jagged edge of the pillar produced a sharp rustling noise, but the artist noticed neither the sound nor my motions, so taken was he with the story of his own cleverness. He seemed to be orating more for his own satisfaction than for my information.