"How odd! How extremely singular! What a coincidence!" "What's a coincidence--and odd--and singular?" Nothing could have been grimmer than the tone in which Miss Forster put her question. She had taken up an attitude before the empty fireplace which was almost masculine, and again there was something which was almost masculine in the curt, unceremonious fashion of her speech; nothing could have been in more striking contrast than the other's airs and graces of a fine lady. "That you should have said such a thing as that to me about dear old Sydney." Miss Forster bit her lip. "Have the goodness not to speak of Mr. Beaton in my presence by his Christian name." "My dear Miss Forster, why not? When he and I have been such friends; I've always called him Sydney." "Whether that is or is not a lie I am not in a position to say; you'll speak of him as Mr. Beaton to me. Where is Mr. Beaton?" "That's what I said was so odd, so singular, such a coincidence. That you should put such a question to me, when one of the chief reasons why I was so anxious to have a talk was because I wished to put exactly the same question to you--where is Mr. Beaton?" "Do you mean to say that you don't know?" "I've no more idea than the dead." "You did know." "Up to a certain point of course I knew." "Where was he living when--I saw you last?" The visitor looked at her before she answered, with a smile which grew more and more pronounced; there was a singular quality in the woman's smile. In repose her face was good to look at; her smile invested it with a charm, a tenderness, a something daintily malicious, which made it almost irresistible. Miss Forster admitted to herself that she would be easy for any man to fall in love with, and, when she chose, there was a winning something in her voice; she had one of those flexible voices which are capable of expressing so many, and such fine, shades of meaning. "Where was he living when you saw me last? Well, that's rather a question. I needn't tell you that a good many people would like to know. But as I have every reason to believe that you really are his friend, and have no sympathy with those objectionable creatures, the police, I don't mind telling you. He had rooms at Notting Hill--78 Caversham Street. Mine were close to Brompton Road, and when he wasn't in my rooms I was in his." Miss Forster was making a note on a sheet of paper. "78 Caversham Street, Notting Hill. You say that was his address at the time of the Easter ball at Avonham?"