ad escaped me which, under the scrutiny that I now
gave it, became apparent. This was simply that the key which opened the
hall door of the bedroom and which we had seldom if ever used was not as
old a key as that of the corresponding door in the parlour, and this
fact, small as it was, led me to make inquiries.

The result was that I learned something about the couple who had
preceded us in the use of these rooms. They were of middle age and of
great personal elegance but uncertain pay, the husband being nothing
more nor less than a professional gambler. Their name was L'Hommedieu.

When I first heard of them I thought that Mrs. L'Hommedieu might be the
Mrs. Helmuth in whose history I was so interested, but from all I could
learn she was a very different sort of person. Mrs. L'Hommedieu was gay,
dashing, and capable of making a show out of flimsy silk a shopgirl
would hesitate to wear. Yet she looked distinguished and wore her cheap
jewelry with more grace than many a woman her diamonds. I would,
consequently, have dropped this inquiry if some one had not remarked
upon her having had a paralytic stroke after leaving the house. This,
together with the fact that the key to the rear door, which I had found
replaced by a new one, had been taken away by her and never returned,
connected her so indubitably with my mysterious visitor that I resolved
to pursue my investigations into Mrs. L'Hommedieu's past.

For this purpose I sought out a quaint little maiden lady living on the
top floor who, I was told, knew more about the L'Hommedieus than any one
in the building. Miss Winterburn, whose acquaintance I had failed to
make while residing in the house, was a fluttering, eager, affable
person whose one delight was, as I soon found, to talk about the
L'Hommedieus. Of the story she related I give as much of it as possible
in her own words.

"I was never their equal," said she, "but Mrs. L'Hommedieu was lonely,
and, having no friends in town, was good enough to admit me to her
parlour now and then and even to allow me to accompany her to the
theatre when her husband was away on one of his mysterious visits. I
never liked Mr. L'Hommedieu, but I did like her. She was so different
from me, and, when I first knew her, so gay and so full of conversation.
But after a while she changed and was either feverishly cheerful or
morbidly sad, so that my visits caused me more pain than pleasure. The
reason for these changes in her was patent