"I called in Lane, who'd just finished work and was going home. Then we hailed a telegraph boy who was passing and sent him for the doctor and the police. At first we thought the poor mistress was dead, but, you see, she's still breathing, although very slightly. Look!" she added, holding up the scarf, "there's a funny smell about it." "Chloroform!" declared the gardener, Lane. "I 'ad it when I 'ad my operation in the 'orspital. I know that smell well enough." "But what was the motive?" I asked, puzzled, glancing around the room and noticing that beyond a chair having been overturned and an antimacassar lying on the floor there was no sign of disorder. The electric bell rang sharply, the cook went to answer the door, and a few moments later a constable in uniform entered. To him I briefly explained the circumstances, without, however, telling him of the strange scene I had witnessed when I halted outside the gate. Then after the housemaid and gardener had told their stories, he bent over the prostrate lady, listening intently. "She's still alive, that's quite certain," was his remark, then crossing over to the girl he knelt beside her. He made a cursory examination and shook his head dubiously. Like ourselves, he had doubts whether she still breathed. I had placed my hand upon her heart, but could discover no palpitation. There was a rigidity about the body, too, that caused me to suspect that the scarf had been around her mouth too long, and that she had expired under the effects of the drug. We explained to the constable that a doctor in the vicinity had been called, and while we awaited his arrival I made a tour of the room with the officer. It was a beautifully furnished apartment in the Louis Quinze style, with massive gold-framed mirrors and consoles, and furniture in gilt and pale blue, a room which betrayed everywhere the hand of a woman of culture and artistic taste. Upon the wall was a large velvet-lined frame, on which were a number of beautiful old miniatures, and behind the grand piano stood a huge palm that reached nearly to the ceiling. Suddenly as I advanced to the window, close to where the maid had been lying--for the gardener and the cook's brother had now lifted her on to a small couch--I noticed that there was a little glass-topped table in which were displayed some fine pieces of antique silver, and standing upon it was a cabinet portrait in a dark red leather frame. The picture caught my eye and caused me to start. I stood glaring at it in utter bewilderment, scarce believing my own eyes. Was I mistaken in those features? No. It was the same face-- undoubtedly the same face! The portrait was exactly similar, but somewhat larger, than that which Eric and I had discovered in Winsloe's kitbag--the picture of the dead unknown!