“Number, please,” said Miss Childe, who had entered the closet and was standing a-tiptoe before a mirror to adjust a patch beneath her left eye.

“Lot 207,” said I.

“Line’s engaged,” said Miss Childe.  “Didn’t you see it in The Times?”

By way of answer, I threw a large plate at her.  She seemed more pleased than otherwise with the attention, and began to pluck the delicate flowers with which it was painted and gather them into a nosegay.  In some dudgeon, I blew a small jug of great beauty on to a carved prie-dieu, to which it adhered as though made of some slimy substance.

“Cannon,” said my lady.  “Shall I put you on?”

“I wish you would.  It’s rather important.”

“You’re through.”

“Tallboy speaking,” said a faint voice.  “Tallboy.  Tallboy.”

“How d’ye do?” said I.

“Ill,” said the voice, “so ill.  All these years I’ve carried it, and no one knew——­”

“Pardon me,” said I.  “I only put it there five minutes ago.  You see, the fire was almost out and——­”

“Measurements tell,” said the voice.  “But they never do that.  They polish my panels and lay fair linen within me, and great folk have stood about me telling each other of my elegance, and once a baby child mirrored its little face in one of my sides.  And all the time measurements tell.  But they never do that.”

A sigh floated to my ears, a long, long sigh that rose into a wail of the wind, and a casement behind me blew to with a shaking clash.

Somewhere a dog was howling.

On a sudden I felt cold.  The sunshine was gone, and the chamber had become grey and dismal.  Misery was in the air.

A stifled exclamation made me look round.

My lady had backed shrinking into a corner, one little hand pressed to her heart, and in her hunted eyes sat Fear dominant.  The sweet face was drawn and colourless, and her breath came quickly, so that it was grievous to mark the flutter of her smooth white chest.

Mechanically I turned to seek the cause of her terror.

I saw a powerfully-built man standing square in the closet’s doorway.  His face was coarse and red and brutal, and his small black eyes glowed with an ugly twinkle as he surveyed his quarry.  Upon the thick lips there was a sinister smile, which broadened hideously as he glanced at the nosegay held betwixt his finger and thumb—­the little nosegay that she had gathered so lightly from the painted plate.  A wide-skirted coat of red fell nearly to his knees and hid his breeches.  His short black periwig was bobbed, and a black silk tie was knotted about his neck.  Stockings were rolled above his knees, and a huge tongue thrust out from each of his buckled shoes.  And in his left hand was a heavy riding-whip whose handle was wrought about with gold.  This he kept clapping against his leg with a smack and a ghastly relish that there was no mistaking.