“In five minutes,” repeated Mrs. Hamlyn.  “And what’s this picture about, Walter?  Is it a little girl with a doll?”

“Oh, dat bootiful,” said the eager little lad, who was not yet as quick in speech as he was in ideas.  “It says she—­dere’s papa!”

In came Philip Hamlyn, tall, handsome, genial.  Walter ran to him and was caught in his arms.  He and his wife were just a pair for adoring the child.

But nurse, inexorable, appeared again at the five minutes’ end, and Master Walter was carried off.

“You came home in a cab, Philip, did you not?  I thought I heard one stop.”

“Yes; it is a miserable evening.  Raining fast now.”

“Raining!” she repeated, rather wondering to hear it was not snowing.  She went to the window to look out, and the first object her eyes caught sight of was the woman; leaning in the old place against the railings, in the growing dusk.

“I’m not sorry to see the rain; we shall have it warmer now,” remarked Mr. Hamlyn, who had drawn a chair to the fire.  “In fact, it’s much warmer already than it was this morning.”

“Philip, step here a minute.”

His wife’s tone had dropped to a half-whisper, sounding rather mysterious, and he went at once.

“Just look, Philip—­opposite.  Do you see a woman standing there?”

“A woman—­where?” cried he, looking of course in every direction but the right one.

“Just facing us.  She has her back against the railings.”

“Oh, ay, I see now; a lady in a cloak.  She must be waiting for someone.”

“Why do you call her a lady?”

“She looks like one—­as far as I can see in the gloom.  Does she not?  Her hair does, any way.”

“She has been there I cannot tell you how long, Philip; half-an-hour, I’m sure; and it seems to me that she is watching this house.  A lady would hardly do that.”

“This house?  Oh, then, Eliza, perhaps she’s watching for one of the servants.  She might come in, poor thing, instead of standing there in the rain.”

“Poor thing, indeed!—­what business has any woman to watch a house in this marked manner?” retorted Eliza.  “The neighbourhood will be taking her for a female detective.”

“Nonsense!”

“She has given me a creepy feeling; I can tell you that, Philip.”

“But why?” he exclaimed.

“I can’t tell you why; I don’t know why; it is so.  Do not laugh at me for confessing it.”

Philip Hamlyn did laugh; heartily.  “Creepy feelings” and his imperiously strong-minded wife could have but little affinity with one another.

“We’ll have the curtains drawn, and the lights, and shut her out,” said he cheerily.  “Come and sit down, Eliza; I want to show you a letter I’ve had to-day.”

But the woman waiting outside there seemed to possess for Eliza Hamlyn somewhat of the fascination of the basilisk; for she never stirred from the window until the curtains were drawn.