"I turned it over in my own mind then," he continued, "and I've turned
it over in my own mind since, and I can make no sort of an account of
it--a young lady travelling without any friends in a dress like that, as
if she had not had a minute to spare in getting ready for her journey.
It was a bad night for a journey too. Could she be going to see some
friend who was dying? At every station I looked out to see if my young
lady left the train; but no, not even at Southampton. Was she going on
to France? 'I must look out for her at the pier-head,' I said to myself.
But when we stopped at the pier I did not want her to think I was
watching her, only I stood well in the light, that she might see me when
she looked round. I saw her stand as if she was considering, and I moved
away very slowly to our boat, to give her the chance of speaking to me,
if she wished. But she only followed me very quietly, as if she did not
want me to see her, and she went down into the ladies' cabin in a
moment, out of sight. Then I thought, 'She is running away from some
one, or from something.' She had no shawls, or umbrellas, or baskets,
such as ladies are always cumbered with, and that looked strange."

"How was she dressed?" I asked.

"She wore a soft, bright-brown jacket," he answered--"a seal-skin they
call it, though I never saw a seal with a skin like that--and a hat like
it, and a blue-silk gown, and her little muddy velvet slippers. It was a
strange dress for travelling, wasn't it, doctor?"

"Very strange indeed," I repeated. An idea was buzzing about my brain
that I had heard a description exactly similar before, but I could not
for the life of me recall where. I could not wait to hunt it out then,
for Tardif was in a full flow of confidence.