I had no opportunity to tell the baronet what I had learned about Mrs.
Lyons upon the evening before, for Dr. Mortimer remained with him at
cards until it was very late. At breakfast, however, I informed him
about my discovery and asked him whether he would care to accompany
me to Coombe Tracey. At first he was very eager to come, but on second
thoughts it seemed to both of us that if I went alone the results might
be better. The more formal we made the visit the less information we
might obtain. I left Sir Henry behind, therefore, not without some
prickings of conscience, and drove off upon my new quest.

When I reached Coombe Tracey I told Perkins to put up the horses, and
I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no
difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed.
A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room
a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a
pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that
I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my
visit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her
eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though
considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the
brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose.
Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the second was
criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some
coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness
of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are
afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in
the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the
reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how
delicate my mission was.

"I have the pleasure," said I, "of knowing your father."

It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. "There
is nothing in common between my father and me," she said. "I owe him
nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir
Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for
all that my father cared."

"It was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to
see you."

The freckles started out on the lady's face.

"What can I tell you about him?" she asked, and her f