and
drawing up in front of a policeman, asked him if he had seen a woman in
white, promising a reward if he caught her.

"What has she done?" queried the policeman.

"Done!" exclaimed one of the men. "She has escaped from our asylum."

The day following this strange adventure I arrived at Limmeridge House,
and the next morning made the acquaintance of the household. Marian
Halcombe and Laura Fairlie, her half-sister, were, in point of
appearance, the exact reverse of each other. The former was a tall,
masculine-looking woman, with a masculine capacity for deep friendship.
The latter was made in a slighter mould, with charming, delicate
features, set off by a mass of pale-brown hair. Mr. Frederick Fairlie I
found to be a neurotic, utterly selfish gentleman, who passed his life
in his own apartments, amusing himself with bullying his valet,
examining his works of art, and talking of his nerves.

With the other members of the household I soon became on a friendly
footing. Miss Halcombe, when I told her of my strange adventure on
Hampstead Heath, turned up her mother's correspondence with her second
husband, and discovered there a reference to the woman in white, who
bore a striking resemblance to Miss Fairlie. Her name was Anne
Catherick. She had stayed for a short time in the neighbourhood with her
mother, and had been befriended by Mrs. Fairlie.

As the months went by I fell passionately and hopelessly in love with
Laura Fairlie. No word of love, however, passed between us, but Miss
Halcombe, realising the situation, broke to me gently the fact that my
love was hopeless. Almost from childhood Laura had been engaged to Sir
Percival Clyde, a Hampshire baronet, and her marriage was due to take
place shortly. I accepted the inevitable and decided to resign my
position. But before I set out from Limmeridge House, many strange
things happened.

Shortly before the arrival of Sir Percival Clyde to settle the details
of his marriage, Laura had an anonymous letter, warning her against the
union, and concluding with the words, "your mother's daughter has a
tender place in my heart, for your mother was my first, my best, my only
friend." Two days after the receipt of this letter I came upon Anne
Catherick, busily tending the grave of Mrs. Fairlie. With difficulty I
persuaded her to tell me something of her story. That she had been
locked up in an asylum--unjustly, it was clear--I already knew. She
confessed to having written