All the way up in the train she had thought, “I needn’t see her. I can ring her up and say that I’ve changed my mind. Then I can shop, and do a matinée, and go back home-” No, she couldn’t just go back. She had borne it too long. She couldn’t bear it any longer without some relief. Having come so far, she must see Miss Silver. She need not tell her anything, but having made the appointment, she must keep it. If Miss Silver did not impress her favorably, she could always withdraw, say she needed time to think the matter over, and then let it fade… Something in her shuddered. “No-no-there’s no relief that way. I must-I must tell someone. I can’t bear it alone any longer.”

She opened her eyes and sat up straight. Her heart felt cold in her, but her mind was made up. She had played with the idea of seeing someone, talking to someone, shifting this dreadful burden of fear. But now the make-believe was over. Her mind was firmly set. Whatever came of it, she would not go back without unburdening herself.

The taxi drew up. She paid the man and mounted half a dozen steps to the modest entrance of Montague Mansions. It seemed to be a block of flats. No porter, stone stairs going up, and one of those small lifts you work yourself. Rachel Treherne was always rather afraid of them, because twenty years ago when she was a girl her dress had caught in the iron grill of the lift shaft and she had had a narrow escape from being killed. She remembered Venice, and being nineteen, and the American who had wrenched her free, tearing the muslin of her dress with his square, powerful hands. How odd things were. She had forgotten his face, and she had never known his name, but she could still see those very strong hands which had saved her life. She had never felt really comfortable in an automatic lift since then, but of course one did not give way to such a foolish feeling.

She managed the lift very well, and found herself presently standing in front of a door with the number 15 upon it. And, just over the bell, a small brass plate with “Miss Silver. Private Enquiries.” She rang quickly, and had a momentary sensation of relief. If you have been brought up as a gentlewoman you don’t play the errand-boy’s trick of ringing a bell and running away.