“There is!” she persisted. “She’s there just behind you. Mind! She intends to do you harm! Yes,” she added. “I saw her at Hendon. I remember, most distinctly! She knows you—and she means to do you harm!”
I returned to her side, frantic at my inability to convince her that all was her imagination.
There was no doubt that, deeply impressed upon her memory, was some recollection of terrifying events in which a mysterious woman had played a leading part.
As I looked at that blank, yet horrified expression upon her pale, sweet face I became more than ever convinced that she had been held beneath the thraldom of some woman of evil intent—that woman whom she described as possessing the crafty eyes of a leopard.
For a full half-hour I argued with her, endeavouring to calm her but, unfortunately, to little avail. Presently, however, her expression altered, she grew less agitated, until at last, as I sat holding her in my arms, I kissed her fondly upon the lips, and again begged:
“Do tell me, my darling, where you have been all this long time? I’ve searched for you everywhere.”
“I—I don’t know,” was her blank reply. “I can’t tell you.”
“But surely you recollect something?” I urged eagerly. “Those are not your own clothes that you are wearing. Where did you get them from?”
She looked quickly down at her jersey and at her skirt, and then raised her eyes to me in dismay. Apparently, for the first time, she now realised that she was dressed in some one else’s clothes.
“That’s curious!” she exclaimed, as though speaking to herself. “That’s very curious. That hat is not mine, either!”