"Outside, sir—in the hall. I told her I would see if you were at home."
"She must be unpleasantly wet if she had no carriage."
"No carriage, sir: they always come on foot. I think she is a little damp, sir."
"Well, let her in; but I don't want the maid. I may as well see her now, I suppose, and end the affair."
"Yes, sir."
I did not put down my book. My visitor should have a hearing, but not much more: she had sacrificed her womanly claims by her persistent attacks upon my door. Presently Simpson ushered her in. "Miss Grief," he said, and then went out, closing the curtain behind him.
A woman—yes, a lady—but shabby, unattractive, and more than middle-aged.
I rose, bowed slightly, and then dropped into my chair again, still keeping the book in my hand. "Miss Grief?" I said interrogatively as I indicated a seat with my eyebrows.
"Not Grief," she answered—"Crief: my name is Crief."
She sat down, and I saw that she held a small flat box.