A sallow maidservant with rather a foreign air opened the door, and conveyed the card of Paul to her mistress. Speedily she returned, and led him into a cosy sitting-room with two windows which looked out on to the grimy trees in the centre of the square. It did not appear like the den of a conspirator, for the paper was of a cheerful pattern, the chairs and sofa were covered with rose-sprigged chintz, and on the walls were portraits, signed by the leading musicians and singers of the day. Judging from the number of these, Catinka was a favourite with her fellow-artistes. There was also a grand piano, covered with loose sheets of music, and a violin lying carelessly on the top; but what attracted Paul most was a fan of stained feathers, which was spread out in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece. The four colours mentioned by Baldini stretched in bars across the fan; and Paul became aware that he was looking at the symbol of the Anarchist society of which he had lately heard so much. Dyed feathers and an innocent-looking fan; yet the sign of the hatred borne by a crushed country against its conqueror. Paul was struck by the incongruity of the symbol and its meaning. "Good-day to you, sir," said a voice behind him, with a slight foreign accent. "You wish for to--ah!" broke off Catinka, as Paul turned--"it is my nice critic of the English town! How do you do, Mr. Mexton?" "You have not forgotten me," said Paul, in rather a faltering voice. "Oh, my dear, no! I never forget those who speak well of me. Sit down, you good young critic, and let us talk of what you wish." The violinist was a pretty, sparkling brunette, of no great height, with an olive-hued face, handsome and calm. She was dressed to perfection in a tea-gown of amber-coloured silk, trimmed with black lace; and her back hair was gathered into a kind of coronet, through which was thrust a tortoise-shell silver-headed pin. She was all vivacity and charm and sympathy; yet Baldini had assured him that she had no heart and that she was a dangerous conspirator. Paul could believe neither statement in the presence of this dainty little lady. "And now, Mr. Mexton," cried Catinka, when they were seated, "why you come for this visit--eh?" "I want to ask you a question." "Oh yes; assuredly. What you will, my dear sir?" "It has to do with Barnstead," said Paul, in a hesitating manner. Catinka's charming face hardened, and she shot a keen look at Paul. "Ah!" said she, after a pause; "that is a place near to your city where I was giving--a concert. Quite so. Oh, yes. And what you say about Barnstead?" "I want to know why you were in Barnstead Church three weeks ago?" "Eh?" said Catinka, attempting no denial. "You see me there?" "No, but I know that you were there--and also that you were in the Winding Lane on the night a young lady was killed." Catinka leaned her cheek on her hand and looked at him curiously. "You are a police?" she asked.