I drew forth a footstool for her, and noting how wild and strange was her manner, seated myself near her. The thought that she was insane came upon me, but I set aside such an idea as ridiculous. She was as sane as myself. There was nevertheless in her appearance an indescribable mysteriousness. She bore no resemblance to any other woman, so frail were her limbs, so thin and fine her features, so graceful all her movements. No illness could have imparted to her face that curious Sphinx-like look which it assumed when her countenance was not relaxed in conversing with me.
And her eyes. They were not the eyes of a person suffering from insanity. They possessed a bewitching fascination which was not human. Nay, it was Satanic.
I shuddered, as I always did when she were present. The touch of that slim hand covered by its neat, black glove was fatal. This visitor of mine was the Daughter of Evil; the woman of whom Muriel’s lover had said, that the people of London would, if they knew the mysterious truth, rend her limb from limb!
She put up her flimsy veil and raised a tiny lace handkerchief to her face. From it was diffused a perfume of lilies—those flowers the odour of which is so essentially the scent of the death-chamber.
“Well?” she asked at last, in that curious, far-distant voice, which sounded so musical, yet so unusual. “And your love? Did you discover her, as I had said?”
“I did,” I answered in sorrow. “But it is useless. Another has snatched her from me.”
She knit her brows, regarding me with quick, genuine astonishment.
“Has she forgotten you?”
“Yes,” I answered in despair. “My dream of felicity is over. She has cast me aside in favour of one who cannot love her as I have done.”
“But she loves you!” my monitress exclaimed.