She re-seated herself upon the sofa, leaving me no alternative but to sit down in the only chair which the coffee-room boasted.  I could not fail to notice, however, that although she addressed me as Mr. Addison, she did not volunteer her own name.  Furthermore, she remained throughout with her back to the window.

“Never,” I replied; “it is very interesting in many ways, I believe.”

“You will find Friar’s Park most fascinating,” she assured me.  “It stands upon the site of one of the oldest and largest monasteries in the south of England.  Indeed, some parts of the house, notably the chapel and the west tower, which is visible from here, I think, are remains of the original building.”

She was palpably trying to interest me; and conscious that my somewhat frigid attitude was churlish, if she was really what she professed to be—­namely, a friend of Lady Coverly’s—­I endeavored in turn to display an intelligent interest in the history of the old monastic house.

I do not regret that I did so.  I think that I have never heard the dry bones of history clothed so fascinatingly.  The knowledge displayed by my unknown visitor of the history of that old monkish corner of England was truly amazing.  The Coverlys, it appeared, had played their part in that history right back to the misty times of Saxon England.  The scenes conjured up by my first sight of the curiously wild country which lay between the village and the distant parkland were presented now with all the color and truth of real life.  This woman seemingly was acquainted with almost every act of importance of every Coverly since the days of Canute and with the doings of all the abbots who had ever ruled over Croix-de-Lis.

Finally, while I listened in ever growing wonder, fascinated by the extent of this strange woman’s knowledge and in part, too, by the husky music of her voice, she seemed to become conscious of the passage of time and, rising suddenly, she laughed; and her laughter again awakened a memory.

“How perfectly absurd of me, Mr. Addison!” she said.  “You will certainly think I am more than eccentric to sit here fulfilling the part of a local guide.”

Even as she spoke the words, a sound intruded from the road outside.  A heavy footstep came first, the footstep of one who approached the door of the inn; then: 

“Martin!” I heard; “a moment, please.”

It was Dr. Damar Greefe!

If the sound of his voice had startled me, its effect upon my visitor was truly singular.  Taking a swift step towards me, she grasped my arm with her strangely slender gloved hand.  Now that she stood so close to me, I realized that she was even taller than I had supposed, nearly as tall as myself, in fact.  Her swift, lithe movements possessed an indescribable grace which, as I thought, and experienced a sudden revulsion, were oddly uncanny—­cat-like.

“Oh, Mr. Addison,” she said, and drew even nearer, so that I could feel her breath upon my cheek, “I fear that man as one fears a snake.  I am going to ask a favor of you.  I see that there is another door to this room, and I have a particular reason for wishing to avoid him.  I don’t know where that doorway leads to, but I can doubtless find my way out.”