time the extraordinary business of the stolen slipper; but it
persistently intruded upon my mind. Particularly, my thoughts
turned to the night of Professor Deeping's murder, and to the
bewitchingly pretty woman who had warned me of the impending tragedy.
She had bound me to secrecy--a secrecy which had proved irksome,
for it had since appeared to me that she must have been an
accomplice of Hassan of Aleppo. At the time I had been at a loss
to define her peculiar accent, now it seemed evidently enough to
have been Oriental.

I threw down my pen in despair, for work was impossible, went
downstairs, and walked out under the arch into Fleet Street. Quite
mechanically I turned to the left, and, still engaged with idle
conjectures, strolled along westward.

Passing the entrance to one of the big hotels, I was abruptly
recalled to the realities--by a woman's voice.

"Wait for me here," came musically to my ears.

I stopped, and turned. A woman who had just quitted a taxi-cab was
entering the hotel. The day was hot and thunderously oppressive,
and this woman with the musical voice wore a delicate costume of
flimsiest white. A few steps upward she paused and glanced back.
I had a view of a Greek profile, and for one magnetic instant looked
into eyes of the deepest and most wonderful violet.

Then, shaking off inaction, I ran up the steps and overtook the
lady in white as a porter swung open the door to admit her. We
entered together.