I caught sight of her face, for the first time, and my heart beat faster than ever. It was her face--the face that had dawned upon my blindness--the face I had grown to worship. I looked at her, transfixed with wonder. She settled herself unconcerned in the farther corner of the carriage. I took the opposite seat and leaned forward. "You are Miss Deane?" I asked tremulously. She drew herself up, on the defensive. "That is my name," she said. "Valerie!" I cried in exultation. She half rose. "What right have you to address me?" "I am Harold Winter," said I, taken aback by her outraged demeanour. "Is it possible that you don't recognize me?" "I have never seen or heard of you before in my life," replied the young lady tartly, "and I hope you won't force me to take measures to protect myself against your impertinence." I lay back against the cushions, gasping with dismay. "I beg your pardon," said I, recovering; "I am neither going to molest you nor be intentionally impertinent. But, as your face has never been out of my mind for three months, and as I am travelling straight through from Vienna to Grandchester to see it for the first time, I may be excused for addressing you." She glanced hurriedly at the communication-cord and then back at me, as if I were a lunatic. "You are Miss Deane of Grandchester--daughter of Dr. Deane?" I asked. "Yes." "Valerie Deane, then?" "I have told you so." "Then all I can say is," I cried, losing my temper at her stony heartlessness, "that your conduct in turning an honest, decent man into a besotted fool, and then disclaiming all knowledge of him, is outrageous. It's damnable. The language hasn't a word to express it!" She stood with her hand on the cord. "I shall really have to call the guard," she said, regarding me coolly. "You are quite free to do so," I answered. "But if you do, I shall have to show your letters, in sheer self-defence. I am not going to spend the day in a police-station." She let go the cord and sat down again. "What on earth do you mean?" she asked. I took a bundle of letters from my pocket and tossed one over to her. She glanced at it quickly, started, as if in great surprise, and handed it back with a smile. "I did not write that." I thought I had never seen her equal for unblushing impudence. Her mellow tones made the mockery appear all the more diabolical. "If you didn't write it," said I, "I should like to know who did." "My Cousin Valerie." "I don't understand," said I. "My name is Valerie Deane and my cousin's name is Valerie Deane, and this is her handwriting." Bewildered, I passed my hand over my eyes. What feline trick was she playing? Her treachery was incomprehensible. "I suppose it was your Cousin Valerie who tended me during my blindness at your father's house, who shed tears because she had to leave me, who----"