"Tell me one thing," I said, halting in our walk, for we were already at the commencement of Victoria Street--that street down which I had wandered blindly on that night long ago when I had lost myself--"tell me for what reason those previous appointments were made with me at Grosvenor Gate, at King's Cross, at Eastbourne, and elsewhere?" "You kept them," she replied. "You surely know." "No, that's just it," I said. "Of course, I don't expect you to give credence to what I say--it sounds too absurd--but I have absolutely no knowledge of keeping those appointments except the one at Grosvenor Gate, and I am totally ignorant of having met anybody." She paused, looking me full in the face with those grey eyes so full of mystery. "I begin to think that what the butler told me contains some truth," she observed bluntly. "No," I protested. "My mind is in no way unhinged. I am fully aware of all that transpired at The Boltons, of--" "At The Boltons?" she interrupted, turning a trifle pale. "What do you mean?" "Of the crime enacted at that house--in The Boltons." She held her breath. Plainly she was not before aware that I had discovered the spot where the tragedy had taken place. My words had taken her by surprise, and it was evident that she was utterly confounded. My discovery I had kept a profound secret unto myself, and now, for the first time, had revealed it. Her face showed how utterly taken aback she was. "There is some mistake, I think," she said lamely, apparently for want of something other to say. "Surely your memory carries you back to that midnight tragedy!" I exclaimed rather hastily, for I saw she would even now mislead me, if she could. "I have discovered where it took place--I have since re-entered that room?" "You have!" she gasped in the low, hoarse voice of one fearful lest her secret should be discovered. "You have actually re-discovered the house--even though you were stone blind?" "Yes," I answered. "How did you accomplish it?" I shrugged my shoulders, answering: "There is an old saying--a very true one--that `murder will out.'" "But tell me more. Explain more fully," she urged in an earnest tone. I hesitated. Next instant, however, I decided to keep my own counsel in the matter. Her readiness to deny that the events occurred in that house had re-aroused within me a distinct suspicion. "It is a long story, and cannot be told here," I answered evasively. "Then come along to the hotel," she suggested. "I, too, have much to say to you." I do not know that I should have obeyed her were it not for the mystery which had hitherto, veiled her identity. She had saved my life, it is true, and I supposed that I ought to consider her as a friend, yet in those few minutes during which I had gazed upon her a curious dislike of her had arisen within me. She was, I felt certain, not the straightforward person I had once believed her to be.