I stared at her silently for a time, and presently her full lips parted in a slow smile. My ideas were diverted into another channel.
“You have yet to tell me what alarmed you,” I said in a low voice, but as courteously as possible, “and if I can be of any assistance in the matter.”
My visitor seemed to recollect her fright—or the necessity for simulation. The pupils of her fine eyes seemed to grow larger and darker; she pressed her white teeth into her lower lips, and resting her hands upon the table leaned toward me.
“I am a stranger to London,” she began, now exhibiting a certain diffidence, “and to-night I was looking for the chambers of Mr. Raphael Philips of Figtree Court.”
“This is Figtree Court,” I said, “but I know of no Mr. Raphael Philips who has chambers here.”
The black eyes met mine despairingly.
“But I am positive of the address!” protested my beautiful but strange caller—from her left glove she drew out a scrap of paper, “here it is.”
I glanced at the fragment, upon which, in a woman's hand the words were pencilled: “Mr. Raphael Philips, 36-b Figtree Court, London.”
I stared at my visitor, deeply mystified.
“These chambers are 36-b!” I said. “But I am not Raphael Philips, nor have I ever heard of him. My name is Malcolm Knox. There is evidently some mistake, but”—returning the slip of paper—“pardon me if I remind you, I have yet to learn the cause of your alarm.”