Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person.  Seldom have I seen so graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a face.  She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and haggard.  Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and water.  The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick, observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her courage had been shaken by her terrible experience.  She was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.

‘I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,’ she said, wearily.  ’Could you not repeat it for me?  Well, if you think it necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred.  Have they been in the dining-room yet?’

‘I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.’

’I shall be glad when you can arrange matters.  It is horrible to me to think of him still lying there.’  She shuddered and buried her face in her hands.  As she did so, the loose gown fell back from her forearms.  Holmes uttered an exclamation.

‘You have other injuries, madam!  What is this?’ Two vivid red spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs.  She hastily covered it.

’It is nothing.  It has no connection with this hideous business tonight.  If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you all I can.

’I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall.  I have been married about a year.  I suppose that it is no use my attempting to conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one.  I fear that all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt to deny it.  Perhaps the fault may be partly mine.  I was brought up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia, and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is not congenial to me.  But the main reason lies in the one fact, which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was a confirmed drunkard.  To be with such a man for an hour is unpleasant.  Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night?  It is a sacrilege, a crime, a villany to hold that such a marriage is binding.  I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a curse upon the land—­God will not let such wickedness endure.’  For an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing from under the terrible mark upon her brow.  Then the strong, soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing.  At last she continued: