“You will pardon this intrusion,” she said in the correct careful English of one who has learned the speech from a book.  “I have come for a brief word with you—­then I shall go.”

I could think of nothing to say.  I stood gaping like a schoolboy.

“My word,” the woman went on, “is in the nature of advice.  We do not always like those who give us advice.  None the less, I trust that you will listen.”

I found my tongue then.

“I am listening,” I said stupidly.  “But first—­a light—­” And I moved toward the matches on the mantelpiece.

Quickly the woman rose and faced me.  I saw then that she wore a veil—­not a heavy veil, but a fluffy, attractive thing that was yet sufficient to screen her features from me.

“I beg of you,” she cried, “no light!” And as I paused, undecided, she added, in a tone which suggested lips that pout:  “It is such a little thing to ask—­surely you will not refuse.”

I suppose I should have insisted.  But her voice was charming, her manner perfect, and that odor of lilacs reminiscent of a garden I knew long ago, at home.

“Very well,” said I.

“Oh—­I am grateful to you,” she answered.  Her tone changed.  “I understand that, shortly after seven o’clock last Thursday evening, you heard in the room above you the sounds of a struggle.  Such has been your testimony to the police?”

“It has,” said I.

“Are you quite certain as to the hour?” I felt that she was smiling at me.  “Might it not have been later—­or earlier?”

“I am sure it was just after seven,” I replied.  “I’ll tell you why:  I had just returned from dinner and while I was unlocking the door Big Ben on the House of Parliament struck—­”

She raised her hand.

“No matter,” she said, and there was a touch of iron in her voice.  “You are no longer sure of that.  Thinking it over, you have come to the conclusion that it may have been barely six-thirty when you heard the noise of a struggle.”

“Indeed?” said I. I tried to sound sarcastic, but I was really too astonished by her tone.

“Yes—­indeed!” she replied.  “That is what you will tell Inspector Bray when next you see him.  ‘It may have been six-thirty,’ you will tell him.  ‘I have thought it over and I am not certain.’”

“Even for a very charming lady,” I said “I can not misrepresent the facts in a matter so important.  It was after seven—­”

“I am not asking you to do a favor for a lady,” she replied.  “I am asking you to do a favor for yourself.  If you refuse the consequences may be most unpleasant.”

“I’m rather at a loss—­” I began.

She was silent for a moment.  Then she turned and I felt her looking at me through the veil.

“Who was Archibald Enwright?” she demanded.  My heart sank.  I recognized the weapon in her hands.  “The police,” she went on, “do not yet know that the letter of introduction you brought to the captain was signed by a man who addressed Fraser-Freer as Dear Cousin, but who is completely unknown to the family.  Once that information reaches Scotland Yard, your chance of escaping arrest is slim.