Having found her a cab, I bade her good-bye.  As we parted she suddenly seized my hand and kissed it with overwhelming gratitude.  Her conveyance was hardly out of sight when two men drove past in an open chaise, and drawing up in front of a policeman, asked him if he had seen a woman in white, promising a reward if he caught her.

“What has she done?” queried the policeman.

“Done!” exclaimed one of the men.  “She has escaped from our asylum.”

The day following this strange adventure I arrived at Limmeridge House, and the next morning made the acquaintance of the household.  Marian Halcombe and Laura Fairlie, her half-sister, were, in point of appearance, the exact reverse of each other.  The former was a tall, masculine-looking woman, with a masculine capacity for deep friendship.  The latter was made in a slighter mould, with charming, delicate features, set off by a mass of pale-brown hair.  Mr. Frederick Fairlie I found to be a neurotic, utterly selfish gentleman, who passed his life in his own apartments, amusing himself with bullying his valet, examining his works of art, and talking of his nerves.

With the other members of the household I soon became on a friendly footing.  Miss Halcombe, when I told her of my strange adventure on Hampstead Heath, turned up her mother’s correspondence with her second husband, and discovered there a reference to the woman in white, who bore a striking resemblance to Miss Fairlie.  Her name was Anne Catherick.  She had stayed for a short time in the neighbourhood with her mother, and had been befriended by Mrs. Fairlie.

As the months went by I fell passionately and hopelessly in love with Laura Fairlie.  No word of love, however, passed between us, but Miss Halcombe, realising the situation, broke to me gently the fact that my love was hopeless.  Almost from childhood Laura had been engaged to Sir Percival Clyde, a Hampshire baronet, and her marriage was due to take place shortly.  I accepted the inevitable and decided to resign my position.  But before I set out from Limmeridge House, many strange things happened.

Shortly before the arrival of Sir Percival Clyde to settle the details of his marriage, Laura had an anonymous letter, warning her against the union, and concluding with the words, “your mother’s daughter has a tender place in my heart, for your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.”  Two days after the receipt of this letter I came upon Anne Catherick, busily tending the grave of Mrs. Fairlie.  With difficulty I persuaded her to tell me something of her story.  That she had been locked up in an asylum—­unjustly, it was clear—­I already knew.  She confessed to having written the letter to Laura, but when I mentioned the name of Sir Percival Glyde, she shrieked aloud with terror.  It was obvious that it was the baronet who had placed her under restraint.

The Fairlies’ family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore, arriving next day, the whole matter was placed before him.  He decided to send the anonymous letter to Sir Percival Glyde’s solicitors and to ask for an explanation.  Before any reply was received, I had left Limmeridge House, bidding farewell to the place where I had spent so many happy hours, and to the girl I loved.