One of them was a neat little woman in a brown coat and skirt. We had come across one another while shopping in the North End Road. One day when we were both in the grocer’s shop her string-bag collapsed and I assisted at a rescue of the parcels. She thanked me; she had a musical voice and spoke well--with a slight American accent. After that, we always spoke when we met; it was mostly about the weather, but gradually she told me one or two things about herself. She was married and had no children and wanted none. She liked old houses, and lived in one. “There are plenty of them in Fulham, if you know where to look,” she added. On the night that Minnie was “doing up” Mrs. Saunders, I dined at a little confectioner’s near Walham Green. That is to say, I had a mutton chop, a jam tartlet, and a glass of lemonade there. One took this weird meal in a little place at the back of the shop, just big enough to hold two small tables and the chairs thereof, and decently veiled by a bead curtain from the eye of the curious. I sat waiting for my chop and reading the evening paper when a rattle of the curtain made me look up. In came the little woman in brown. She seemed rather bewildered at seeing me, said “Good evening,” and modestly took her place at the other table. But she had clearly hesitated about it, and I could not seem too unsociable. “Won’t you come and sit here?” I said. “Unless, of course, you are expecting anybody.” “Thanks so much, I’m quite alone. I didn’t know--I thought you might be waiting for a friend.” I laughed. “No, I have no friends--in London at any rate.” “I am sure you have no enemies,” she said with conviction. “I don’t think I have. I’m all alone, you see. Do you often come here? It’s a quaint little place.” “Not very often. But to-night my husband is out--professionally engaged--he is a spiritualist, you know. So I let my maid go out too, and locked up the house and came here.” “So your husband is a spiritualist. That sounds interesting. Does he see visions and make tables jump, and do automatic writing, and all those things?” “Oh, no! He has been for years a student of spiritualism. And, of course, he is, as I am, a profound believer in it. He understands the best ways to conduct a _séance_, and mediums like to work with him for that reason, but he is not a medium himself. I am a medium--at least, I was.” She fiddled with a little pepper-pot on the table, turning it round and round. “Oh, I wish I were you!” she said suddenly. I was astonished. “But why?” I asked. “Well, the story is no secret if it won’t bore you. It’s known to many people already. Have you ever heard of Mr. Wentworth Holding?” “Of course. You mean the financier and millionaire.”