Miss Trelawny met me in the hall. She was not in any way shy. She
seemed to rule all around her with a sort of high-bred dominance, all
the more remarkable as she was greatly agitated and as pale as snow. In
the great hall were several servants, the men standing together near the
hall door, and the women clinging together in the further corners and
doorways. A police superintendent had been talking to Miss Trelawny;
two men in uniform and one plain-clothes man stood near him. As she
took my hand impulsively there was a look of relief in her eyes, and she
gave a gentle sigh of relief. Her salutation was simple.

"I knew you would come!"

The clasp of the hand can mean a great deal, even when it is not
intended to mean anything especially. Miss Trelawny's hand somehow
became lost in my own. It was not that it was a small hand; it was fine
and flexible, with long delicate fingers--a rare and beautiful hand; it
was the unconscious self-surrender. And though at the moment I could
not dwell on the cause of the thrill which swept me, it came back to me
later.

She turned and said to the police superintendent:

"This is Mr. Malcolm Ross." The police officer saluted as he answered:

"I know Mr. Malcolm Ross, miss. Perhaps he will remember I had the
honour of working with him in the Brixton Coining case." I had not at
first glance noticed who it was, my whole attention having been taken
with Miss Trelawny.