ingers played
nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

"You knew him, did you not?"

"I have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am
able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took
in my unhappy situation."

"Did you correspond with him?"

The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

"What is the object of these questions?" she asked sharply.

"The object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask
them here than that the matter should pass outside our control."

She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up
with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

"Well, I'll answer," she said. "What are your questions?"

"Did you correspond with Sir Charles?"

"I certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and
his generosity."

"Have you the dates of those letters?"

"No."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Yes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very
retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth."

"But if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know
enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has
done?"

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

"There were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to
help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir
Charles's. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir
Charles learned about my affairs."

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his
almoner upon several occasions, so the lady's statement bore the impress
of truth upon it.

"Did you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?" I continued.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. "Really, sir, this is a very
extraordinary question."

"I am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it."

"Then I answer, certainly not."

"Not on the very day of Sir Charles's death?"

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her
dry lips could not speak the "No" which I saw rather than heard.

"Surely your memory deceives you," said I. "I could even quote a passage
of your letter. It ran 'Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn
this letter, and be at the gate by ten o'clock.'"

I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme
effort.

"Is there no such thing as a gentleman?" she gasped.

"You