Left alone for several minutes, she moved about half timidly, half boldly, looking here and there--at the great globes, celestial and terrestrial, which occupied one corner,--at the long telescope on its stand ready for use and pointed out to the heavens--and especially at a curious instrument of fine steel set on a block of crystal, which swung slowly up and down incessantly, striking off an infinitesimal spark of fire as it moved. “Some clock-work thing,” she said half aloud. “But where is its mechanism?” “Ah, where!” echoed a deep, rather pleasant voice close at her ear. “That, as Hamlet remarked, is the question!” She started and turned quickly with a flush of colour mounting to her brows,--a man of slight build and medium height stood beside her. “You are Dr. Dimitrius?” she said. He smiled. “Even so! I am he! And you----?” Swiftly she glanced him over. He was not at all an alarming, weird, or extraordinary-looking personage. Young?--yes, surely young for a man--not above forty; and very personable, if intelligent features, fine eyes and a good figure can make a man agreeable to outward view. And yet there was something about him more than mere appearance,--she could not tell what it was, and just then she had no time to consider. She rushed at once into the business of her errand. “My name is May,--Diana May,” she said, conscious of nervousness in speaking, but mastering herself by degrees. “I have come from England in answer to your advertisement. I am interested--very deeply interested--in matters of modern science, and I have gained some little knowledge through a good deal of personal, though quite unguided study. I am most anxious to be useful--and I am not afraid to take any risks----” She broke off, a little confused under the steady scrutiny of Dr. Dimitrius’s eyes. He placed an easy chair by the nearest window. “Pray sit down!” he said, with a courteous gesture,--then, as she obeyed: “You have walked here from Geneva?” “Yes.” “When did you arrive from England?” “Two days ago.” “Have you stated to anyone the object of your journey?” “Only to one person--an intimate woman friend who lent me the money for my travelling expenses.” “I see!” And Dimitrius smiled benevolently. “You have not explained yourself or your intentions to any good Genevese hotel proprietor?” She looked up in quick surprise. “No, indeed!” “Wise woman!” Here Dimitrius drew up a chair opposite to her and sat down. “My experience has occasionally shown me that lone ladies arriving in a strange town and strange hotel, throw themselves, so to speak, on the bosom of the book-keeper or the landlady, and to her impart their whole business. It is a mistake!--an error of confiding innocence--but it is often made. You have _not_ made it,--and that is well! You have never married?” Diana coloured--then answered with gentleness: “No. I am what is called a spinster,--an old maid.”