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put up the horses, and I made inquiries for the lady whom I had come to interrogate. I had no difficulty in finding her rooms, which were central and well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome. Her face fell, however, when she saw that I was a stranger, and she sat down again and asked me the object of my visit.

The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons was one of extreme beauty. Her eyes and hair were of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though considerably freckled, were flushed with the exquisite bloom of the brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose. Admiration was, I repeat, the first impression. But the second was criticism. There was something subtly wrong with the face, some coarseness of expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which marred its perfect beauty. But these, of course, are afterthoughts. At the moment I was simply conscious that I was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that she was asking me the reasons for my visit. I had not quite understood until that instant how delicate my mission was.

โ€œI have the pleasure,โ€ said I, โ€œof knowing your father.โ€

It was a clumsy introduction, and the lady made me feel it. โ€œThere is nothing in common between my father and me,โ€ she said. โ€œI owe him nothing, and his friends are not mine. If it were not for the late Sir Charles Baskerville and some other kind hearts I might have starved for all that my father cared.โ€

โ€œIt was about the late Sir Charles Baskerville that I have come here to see you.โ€

The freckles started out on the ladyโ€™s face.

โ€œWhat can I tell you about him?โ€ she asked, and her fingers played nervously over the stops of her typewriter.

โ€œYou knew him, did you not?โ€

โ€œI have already said that I owe a great deal to his kindness. If I am able to support myself it is largely due to the interest which he took in my unhappy situation.โ€

โ€œDid you correspond with him?โ€

The lady looked quickly up with an angry gleam in her hazel eyes.

โ€œWhat is the object of these questions?โ€ she asked sharply.

โ€œThe object is to avoid a public scandal. It is better that I should ask them here than that the matter should pass outside our control.โ€

She was silent and her face was still very pale. At last she looked up with something reckless and defiant in her manner.

โ€œWell, Iโ€™ll answer,โ€ she said. โ€œWhat are your questions?โ€

โ€œDid you correspond with Sir Charles?โ€

โ€œI certainly wrote to him once or twice to acknowledge his delicacy and his generosity.โ€

โ€œHave you the dates of those letters?โ€

โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œHave you ever met him?โ€

โ€œYes, once or twice, when he came into Coombe Tracey. He was a very retiring man, and he preferred to do good by stealth.โ€

โ€œBut if you saw him so seldom and wrote so seldom, how did he know enough about your affairs to be able to help you, as you say that he has done?โ€

She met my difficulty with the utmost readiness.

โ€œThere were several gentlemen who knew my sad history and united to help me. One was Mr. Stapleton, a neighbour and intimate friend of Sir Charlesโ€™s. He was exceedingly kind, and it was through him that Sir Charles learned about my affairs.โ€

I knew already that Sir Charles Baskerville had made Stapleton his almoner upon several occasions, so the ladyโ€™s statement bore the impress of truth upon it.

โ€œDid you ever write to Sir Charles asking him to meet you?โ€ I continued.

Mrs. Lyons flushed with anger again. โ€œReally, sir, this is a very extraordinary question.โ€

โ€œI am sorry, madam, but I must repeat it.โ€

โ€œThen I answer, certainly not.โ€

โ€œNot on the very day of Sir Charlesโ€™s death?โ€

The flush had faded in an instant, and a deathly face was before me. Her dry lips could not speak the โ€œNoโ€ which I saw rather than heard.

โ€œSurely your memory deceives you,โ€ said I. โ€œI could even quote a passage of your letter. It ran โ€˜Please, please, as you are a gentleman, burn this letter, and be at the gate by ten oโ€™clock.โ€™โ€

I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself by a supreme effort.

โ€œIs there no such thing as a gentleman?โ€ she gasped.

โ€œYou do Sir Charles an injustice. He did burn the letter. But sometimes a letter may be legible even when burned. You acknowledge now that you wrote it?โ€

โ€œYes, I did write it,โ€ she cried, pouring out her soul in a torrent of words. โ€œI did write it. Why should I deny it? I have no reason to be ashamed of it. I wished him to help me. I believed that if I had an interview I could gain his help, so I asked him to meet me.โ€

โ€œBut why at such an hour?โ€

โ€œBecause I had only just learned that he was going to London next day and might be away for months. There were reasons why I could not get there earlier.โ€

โ€œBut why a rendezvous in the garden instead of a visit to the house?โ€

โ€œDo you think a woman could go alone at that hour to a bachelorโ€™s house?โ€

โ€œWell, what happened when you did get there?โ€

โ€œI never went.โ€

โ€œMrs. Lyons!โ€

โ€œNo, I swear it to you on all I hold sacred. I never went. Something intervened to prevent my going.โ€

โ€œWhat was that?โ€

โ€œThat is a private matter. I cannot tell it.โ€

โ€œYou acknowledge then that you made an appointment with Sir Charles at the very hour and place at which he met his death, but you deny that you kept the appointment.โ€

โ€œThat is the truth.โ€

Again and again I cross-questioned her, but I could never get past that point.

โ€œMrs. Lyons,โ€ said I as I rose from this long and inconclusive interview, โ€œyou are taking a very great responsibility and putting yourself in a very false position by not making an absolutely clean breast of all that you know. If I have to call in the aid of the

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