ely confirmed the
recognition. As for her presence in Westminster at a time when she
should have been at Mrs. Dennis Sutherland's house in Kensington, or at
home with the Cayleys in Chelsea, that could be easily accounted for on
the presumption that she had not stayed long at Mrs. Sutherland's. Had
the Cayleys already discovered her flight? Probably not. Was Cassavetti
cognizant of it,--concerned with it in any way; and was the incident
of the open door that had so perplexed Jenkins another link in the
mysterious chain? At any rate, Cassavetti was not the man dressed as a
sailor; though he might have been the man in the boat.

The more I brooded over it the more bewildered--distracted--my brain
became. I tried to dismiss the problem from my mind, "to give it up," in
fact; and, since sleep was out of the question, to occupy myself with
preparations for the packing that must be done to-morrow--no, to-day,
for the dawn had come--if I were to start for Russia on Monday morning.

But it was no use. I could not concentrate my mind on anything;
also, though I'm an abstemious man as a rule, I guess I put away a
considerable amount of whiskey. Anyhow, I've no recollection of going to
bed; but I woke with a splitting headache, and a thirst I wouldn't take
five dollars for, and the first things I saw were a whiskey bottle and
soda syphon--both empty--on the dressing-table.

As I lay blinking at those silent witnesses--the bottle had been nearly
full overnight--and trying to remember what had happened, there came a
knock at my bedroom door, and Mrs. Jenkins came in with my breakfast
tray.

She was an austere dame, and the glance she cast at that empty whiskey
bottle was more significant and accusatory than any words could have
been; though all she said was: "I knocked before, sir, with your shaving
water, but you didn't hear. It's cold now, but I'll put some fresh
outside directly."

I mumbled meek thanks, and, when she retreated, poured out some tea. I
guessed there were eggs and bacon, the alpha and omega of British ideas
of breakfast, under the dish cover; but I did not lift it. My soul--and
my stomach--revolted at the very thought of such fare.

I had scarcely sipped my tea when I heard the telephone bell ring in the
adjoining room. I scrambled up and was at the door when Mrs. Jenkins
announced severely: "The telephone, Mr. Wynn," and retreated to the
landing.

"Hello?"

"Is that Mr. Wynn?" responded a soft, rich, fem