She looked around her in ever-increasing surprise.  Certainly it was the strangest room she had ever been in.  The floor was dusty and innocent of any carpet; the window was bare and uncurtained.  The walls were unpapered but covered here and there with strange-looking plans, one of them taking up nearly the whole side of the room—­a very rough piece of work with little dabs of blue paint here and there, and shadings and diagrams which were absolutely unintelligible.  She herself was lying upon a battered iron bedstead, and she was wearing a very coarse nightdress.  Her own clothes were folded up and lay upon a piece of brown paper on the floor by the side of the bed.  To all appearance, the room was entirely unfurnished, except that in the middle of it was a hideous papier mache screen.

After her first bewildered inspection of her surroundings, it was upon this screen that her attention was naturally directed.  Obviously it must be there to conceal something.  Very carefully she leaned out of bed until she was able to see around the corner of it.  Then her heart gave a little jump and she was only just able to stifle an exclamation of fear.  Some one was sitting there—­a man—­sitting on a battered cane chair, bending over a roll of papers which were stretched upon a rude deal table.  She felt her cheeks grow hot.  It must be Tavernake!  Where had he brought her?  What did his presence in the room mean?

The bed creaked heavily as she regained her former position.  A voice came to her from behind the screen.  She knew it at once.  It was Tavernake’s.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered,—­“yes, I am awake.  Is that Mr. Tavernake?  Where am I, please?”

“First of all, are you better?” he inquired.

“I am better,” she assured him, sitting up in bed and pulling the clothes to her chin.  “I am quite well now.  Tell me at once where I am and what you are doing over there.”

“There is nothing to be terrified about,” Tavernake answered.  “To all effects and purposes, I am in another room.  When I move to the door, as I shall do directly, I shall drag the screen with me.  I can promise you—­”

“Please explain everything,” she begged, “quickly.  I am most —­ uncomfortable.”

“At half-past twelve this morning,” Tavernake said, “I found myself alone in a taxicab with you, without any luggage or any idea where to go to.  To make matters worse, you fainted.  I tried two hotels but they refused to take you in; they were probably afraid that you were going to be ill.  Then I thought of this room.  I am employed, as you know, by a firm of estate agents.  I do a great deal of work on my own account, however, which I prefer to do in secret, and unknown to any one.  For that reason, I hired this room a year ago and I come here most evenings to work.  Sometimes I stay late, so last month I bought a small bedstead and had it fixed up here.  There is a woman who comes in to clean the room.  I went to her house last night and persuaded her to come here.  She undressed you and put you to bed.  I am sorry that my presence here distresses you, but it is a large building and quite empty at night-time.  I thought you might wake up and be frightened, so I borrowed this screen from the woman and have been sitting here.”