: 'Mr. Gryce has made a mistake. The
parasol is not mine; yet he certainly deserves credit for the use he has
made of it, in this search. I should like to tell him so. Is he at his
office, and do you think I would be received?'

"'He would be delighted,' I returned, not imagining she was in earnest.
But she was, sir. In less time than you would believe, I perceived a
very stately, almost severe, lady descend the stairs. She was dressed
for the street, and spoke to me with quite an air of command. 'Have you
a cab?' she asked.

"'No,' said I.

"'Then get one.'

"Here was a dilemma. Should I leave her and thus give her an opportunity
to escape, or should I trust to her integrity and the honesty of her
look, which was no common one, sir, and obey her as every one about her
was evidently accustomed to do?

"I concluded to trust to her integrity, and went for the cab. But it was
a risk, sir, which I promise not to repeat in the future. She was
awaiting me on the stoop when I got back, and at once entered the hack
with a command to drive immediately to Police Headquarters. I saw her as
I came in just now sitting in the outer office, waiting for you. Are you
ready to say I have done well?"

Mr. Gryce, with an indescribable look of mingled envy and indulgence,
pressed the hand held out to him, and passed out. His curiosity could be
restrained no longer, and he went at once to where this mysterious woman
was awaiting him. Did he think it odd that she knew him, that she sought
him? If so, he did not betray this in his manner, which was one of great
respect. But that manner suddenly changed as he came face to face with
the lady in question. Not that it lost its respect, but that it betrayed
an astonishment of a more pronounced character than was usually indulged
in by this experienced detective. The lady before him was one well known
to him; in fact, almost an associate of his in certain bygone matters;
in other words, none other than that most reputable of ladies, Miss
Amelia Butterworth of Gramercy Park.

CHAPTER VI.

SUGGESTIONS FROM AN OLD FRIEND.

The look with which this amiable spinster met his eye was one which a
stranger would have found it hard to understand. He found it hard to
understand himself, perhaps because he had never before seen this lady
when she was laboring under an opinion of herself that was not one of
perfect complacency.

"Miss Butterworth! What does this mean? Have you----"

"There