, or one of even nobler rank,
travelling in disguise; the quiet, dark young man, her foster sister's
husband, was a woodcarver, who was out of work and only too glad to
serve the foreign lady, who out of generous pity had come to stay with
them.

I, of course, gave no credence to these seemingly absurd reports, but,
all the same, I was aware that there was a mystery at No. 3. The lady
was young, beautiful, and distinguished looking, she had dark, pathetic,
haunting eyes, which reminded me forcibly of other eyes I had seen, but
when and where I could not recall; and though her dresses were dark,
they were _chic_, the word Paris was writ plain on all her toques.

Madame made no friends, and it was clear from the first that she desired
to be undisturbed, at any rate by her neighbours. Every now and again
there were visitors at No 3, but these were strangers, foreign looking
visitors, cloaked, swarthy and sombre men who came and went, one of whom
I overheard say in French as he flicked the ash from his cigar: "Chut!
the rat keeps in his hole, he will not stir."

At Maytime, in the early gloaming, the foreign lady and I met in the
narrow street.

We met face to face, and passed each other with a slight bow of
recognition; a moment after I heard soft, hurried footfalls, and the
strange lady was by my side.

She held out an envelope addressed to me, saying:

"Pardon me, if I mistake not, you dropped this. Is it not so?"

I thanked her, and took the letter, saying:

"It _is_ mine, and I should have troubled had I lost it."

This little incident broke down our old-time reserve, and saying:

"I go to-morrow," she placed a bunch of amber roses she was carrying in
my hand. I thanked her, and asked by what name I might remember her?

"As Nadine," she whispered softly. "I need not ask you yours."

The mention of the name electrified me. Here was I bidding farewell to
Nadine, whose little sister Irene, our sweet snow flower, I had loved
and lost at the old school far away.

Nadine noticed my excitement, and putting her finger to her lips,
cautioned me to silence. But I was not to be denied.

"Irene?" I said in a whisper, "Irene, where is Irene?"

"Hush!" she said, taking me by the arm and drawing me in at the open
doorway of No. 3. "Speak of it not again. Irene fell a victim to our
cruel Russian laws, and lies beside her husband among the snow tombs of
Siberia."

The next morning the strange dark house was empty. Th