Footsteps were receding up the stone stairs.  Craning my neck, I peered up the well of the staircase.  I could not see the woman, but from the sound of her tread it was possible to count the landings which she passed.  When she had reached the fourth, and I heard her step upon yet another flight, I knew that she must be bound for the topmost floor; and observing every precaution, almost holding my breath in a nervous endeavour to make not the slightest sound, rapidly I mounted the stairs.

I was come to the third landing in this secret fashion when quite distinctly I heard the grating of a key in a lock!

Since four doors opened upon each of the landings, at all costs, I thought, I must learn by which door she entered.

Throwing caution to the winds I raced up the remaining flights . . . and there at the top the woman confronted me, with blazing eyes!—­ with eyes that thrilled every nerve; for they were violet eyes, the only truly violet eyes I have ever seen!  They were the eyes of the woman who like a charming, mocking will-o’-the-wisp had danced through this tragic scene from the time that poor Professor Deeping had brought the Prophet’s slipper to London up to this present hour!

There at the head of those stone steps in that common dwelling-house I knew her—­and in the violet eyes it was written that she knew, and feared, me!

“What do you want?  Why are you following me?”

She made no endeavour to disguise her voice.  Almost, I think, she spoke the words involuntarily.

I stood beside her.  Quickly as she had turned from the door at my ascent, I had noted that it was that numbered forty-eight which she had been about to open.

“You waste words,” I said grimly.  “Who lives there?”

I nodded in the direction of the doorway.  The violet eyes watched me with an expression in their depths which I find myself wholly unable to describe.  Fear predominated, but there was anger, too, and with it a sort of entreaty which almost made me regret that I had taken this task upon myself.  From beneath the shabby black hat escaped an errant lock of wavy hair wholly inconsistent with the assumed appearance of the woman.  The flickering gaslight on the landing sought out in that wonderful hair shades which seemed to glow with the soft light seen in the heart of a rose.  The thick veil was raised now and all attempts at deception abandoned.  At bay she faced me, this secret woman whom I knew to hold the key to some of the darkest places which we sought to explore.

“I live there,” she said slowly.  “What do you want with me?”

“I want to know,” I replied, “for whom are those provisions in your basket?”

She watched me fixedly.

“And I want to know,” I continued, “something that only you can tell me.  We have met before, madam, but you have always eluded me.  This time you shall not do so.  There’s much I have to ask of you, but particularly I want to know who killed the Hashishin who lies dead at no great distance from here!”