In another moment the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses as he went.

The woman, who was none other than Mrs. d’Aubigne, alias Edith Jones, alias the Tiger, turned and entered the house accompanied by her servant, Ellen, and presently Mr. Quest heard the rustle of her satin dress upon the stairs.  He stepped back into the darkness of the balcony and waited.  She opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her, and then, a little dazzled by the light, stood for some seconds looking about for her visitor.  She was a thin, tall woman, who might have been any age between forty and fifty, with the wrecks of a very fine agile-looking figure.  Her face, which was plentifully bedaubed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, and handsome, and crowned with a mane of false yellow hair.  Her eyes were cold and blue, her lips thin and rather drawn, so as to show a double line of large and gleaming teeth.  She was dressed in a rich and hideous tight-fitting gown of yellow satin, barred with black, and on her arms were long bright yellow gloves.  She moved lightly and silently, and looked around her with a long-searching gaze, like that of a cat, and her general appearance conveyed an idea of hunger and wicked ferocity.  Such was the outward appearance of the Tiger, and of a truth it justified her name.  “Why, where the dickens has he got to?” she said aloud; “I wonder if he has given me the slip?”

“Here I am, Edith,” said Mr. Quest quietly, as he stepped from the balcony into the room.

“Oh, there you are, are you?” she said, “hiding away in the dark—­just like your nasty mean ways.  Well, my long-lost one, so you have come home at last, and brought the tin with you.  Well, give us a kiss,” and she advanced on him with her long arms outspread.

Mr. Quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand, stopped her from coming near him.

“No, thank you,” he said; “I don’t like paint.”

The taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light shone in her cold eyes.

“No wonder I have to paint,” she said, “when I am so worn out with poverty and hard work—­not like the lovely Mrs. Q., who has nothing to do all day except spend the money that I ought to have.  I’ll tell you what it is, my fine fellow:  you had better be careful, or I’ll have that pretty cuckoo out of her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, like the monkey did to the parrot.”

“Perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to business.  I am in no mood for this sort of thing, Edith,” and he turned round, shut the window, and drew the blind.

“Oh, all right; I’m agreeable, I’m sure.  Stop a bit, though—­I must have a brandy-and-soda first.  I am as dry as a lime-kiln, and so would you be if you had to sing comic songs at a music hall for a living.  There, that’s better,” and she put down the empty glass and threw herself on to the sofa.  “Now then, tune up as much as you like.  How much tin have you brought?”