"I have an aunt living in the country. Perhaps I shall go to her. I must first hear what my father counsels, now that our enemy is dead." Then after a pause she raised her eyes to mine and added: "I think you are acquainted with a certain lady named Hardwick, are you not?" I started. She seemed to be aware of all my private affairs. It was extraordinary. Surely these people had not spied upon me? "I knew a lady of that name some time ago." She smiled mysteriously, for she had watched my face and seen my expression of surprise. "And the recollection of her is not a very pleasant one, eh?" "How did you know that?" I asked quickly. She shrugged her shoulders with that foreign air which showed her to be a born cosmopolitan and laughed, but made no reply. That she knew more concerning me than she admitted was quite plain. "And what has the woman Hardwick to do with the affair?" I asked in surprise. "She is not your friend," she answered, in a low, serious voice. "You have seen her lately, I presume." "I met her last while at supper at the Savoy about a fortnight ago," I said. "She then pressed me to go and dine with her." "Of course. Hitherto you had not seen her for several months." "No. She has been abroad, I understand." "Yes. In Italy." "And she invited me with some sinister motive?" I exclaimed in surprise. "She wishes to resume your acquaintance, and to regain your confidence. It was, I think, part of an intrigue." "I refused her invitation," I said. "I had long ago discovered that she was not my friend." "That is fortunate. Otherwise you might have cause to deeply regret it. The woman is an adventuress of the worst type--a fact which I daresay you are already aware of." "I discovered it by mere accident, and for that reason I dropped her acquaintance. But what you have told me is utterly astounding." "That man's end relieves you of all further anxiety, yet at the same time it dooms me to shame--and to death!" she remarked hoarsely, rising suddenly to her feet with quick resolution. I made no remark. What she had revealed to me was so bewildering. That the woman, before me had interests in common with myself was now plain. She was in deep distress--in fear of what the dark future held in store for her, abandoned by the one man who could clear her of this mysterious allegation, so infamous that she dare not repeat it to me, a stranger. Her grace and beauty, too, were assuredly incomparable. Truly she was one of the prettiest women I had ever met--yet at the same time the most despairing. I saw tragedy in her countenance--the shadow of death was in her eyes, and I stood before her silent and fascinated by the mystery which enveloped her.