“Most assuredly,” she responded promptly. “You certainly did not see us together.”
“And your companion was not a woman?”
“No; it was a man.”
“Who?”
“I have already told you that I object to any one interfering in my private affairs.”
“A lover?” I said, with some asperity perhaps. “You are entirely at liberty to think what you please. I only deny that I have set eyes upon my mysterious visitor since that evening in Gloucester Square.”
“Well, she was in the house last night,” I answered decisively. “She was in your room.”
“In my room?” gasped my well-beloved, in alarm. “Impossible?”
“I watched her enter there,” I replied; and then continuing, gave her an exact account of all that transpired—how she had first entered my room, and how the strange evil of her presence had so strangely affected me afterwards.
“It’s absolutely astounding,” she declared. “I was utterly ignorant of it all. Are you absolutely certain that it was the same woman?”