Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward
composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty,
well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was,
however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore
with it a suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre
grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small
turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of
white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of
feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet
and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over
many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked
upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and
sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took the
seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her
hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward
agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once
enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little
domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness
and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully. "I believe
that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as
I remember it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of
mine. I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly
inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."