It was a curious utterance, and Theydon tried to relieve her evident nervousness by being mildly humorous.

“I hope to correct my juvenile appearance in course of time,” he said, smiling.  “Meanwhile, won’t you be seated?  You are not quite unknown to me, Miss Beale.  That is—­ I heard of you last night from the Scotland Yard people.”

She sat down at once, but seemed to be at a loss for words.  Her lips trembled, and Theydon thought she was going to cry.

“Have you traveled from Oxford this morning?” he said, simulating a courteous nonchalance he was far from feeling.  “If so, you must have started from home at an ungodly hour.  Let me have some breakfast prepared for you.”

“No—­ no,” she stammered.

“Well, a cup of tea, then?  Come, now, no woman ever refuses a cup of tea.”

“You are very kind.”

He rang the bell.

“I would not have ventured to call on you if I had not seen your name in the newspaper,” she went on.

Miss Beale certainly had the knack of saying unexpected things.  It was nothing new that Theydon should find his own name in print, but on this occasion he could not choose but associate the distinction with the cringe in No. 17; that he should be mentioned in connection with it was neither anticipated nor pleasing.  At the same time he realized the astounding fact that he had not even glanced at a newspaper during twenty-four hours.

“What in the world have the newspapers to say about me?” he cried.

“It—­ it said—­ that Mr. Francis Berrold Theydon, the well-known author, lived in No. 18, the flat exactly opposite that which my unhappy niece occupied.  I—­ I have read some of your books, Mr. Theydon, and I pictured you quite a serious-looking person of my own age.”

He laughed.  Bates entered, and was almost shocked at finding his master in such lively mood.

“Oh, this lady has traveled from Oxford this morning; a cup of tea and some nice toast, please, Bates,” said Theydon.  Then when the two were alone together again, he brushed aside the question of his age as irrelevant.

“I assure you that since this time yesterday I have lost some of the careless buoyancy of youth,” he said.  “I had not the honor of Mrs. Lester’s acquaintance, but I knew her well by sight, and I received the shock of my life last evening when I heard of her terrible end.  It is an extraordinary thing, seeing that we were such close neighbors, but I believe you got the news long before I did, because I left home early and heard nothing of what had happened till my man met me at Waterloo in the evening.”

“You have seen the—­ the detectives in the meantime?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will be able to tell me something definite.  I have promised to call at Scotland Yard at eleven o’clock, and the only scraps of intelligence I have gathered are those in the papers.  I would have come to London last night, but was afraid to travel, lest I should faint in the train.  Moreover, some one in London promised to send a detective to see me.  He came, but could give no information.  Indeed, he wanted to learn certain things from me.  So, after a weary night, I caught the first train, and it occurred to me, as you lived so near, that you might be kind enough to—­ to—­”