“Miss Treherne? I hope you did not have a very cold journey. Pray be seated.”

A chair had been placed in readiness on the far side of the table. Miss Treherne sat down, and was aware of scrutiny, not prolonged but keen. Miss Silver’s small grayish eyes raked her and dropped to the knitting which she had taken from her lap and which now appeared to engage her whole attention. The garment on her needles was one of those small coatees which are showered upon expectant mothers. In color it was of a delicate shade of pink. A large white silk handkerchief protected the wool from contact with Miss Silver’s snuff-colored lap.

What the gray eyes had seen was a tall and slender woman who might be anything between thirty-five and forty years of age-good carriage, good skin, good eyes, good hair. The coloring should have been dark and rich, but there was a blight upon it-a chill. The lips held an anxious line. The eyes went here and there like those of a startled horse. The hands held one another. So much for the woman.

Miss Silver looked up from her knitting, took another glance, and could have written a complete inventory of Miss Treherne’s habiliments-a hand-knitted suit in a beige and brown mixture, heavy silk stockings, and excellently cut low-heeled shoes of dark brown leather; a very good fur coat; a single modest row of real pearls; a small brown felt hat. Everything betokened the woman of taste and means who lives a country life.

Everything also betokened a woman driven by fear. Whilst Miss Treherne made answer that the weather was very cold for November, Miss Silver was noting the nervous movement of those clasping hands. She knitted half a row before she said,

“You are very punctual. I appreciate punctuality. Will you tell me why you have come to see me?”