“Where do you live?” Julian continued.

The lady dived into the back part of her skirt, and, after a long and passionate pursuit, ran a small purse to earth.  Opening it with deliberation, she extracted a good-sized card, and handed it up to Julian.

“There you are, dearie,” she said.

On the card was printed, “Cuckoo Bright, 400 Marylebone Road.”

“I will come at five this afternoon and take you out to tea,” said Julian.

“Right you are, Bertie,” the lady cried, in a voice thrilling with pride and exultation.

Julian rode off, and she watched him go, preening herself against the rail like some gaudy bird.  She looked up at a policeman and laughed knowingly.

“Well, copper,” she said; “how’s that, eh?”

The policeman was equal to the occasion.

“Not out,” he answered, with a stiff and semi-official smile.  “Move along.”

And Cuckoo Bright moved as one who walked on air.

Julian had joined Valentine, who had observed the colloquy from afar, controlling with some difficulty the impatience of his mare, excited by her gallop.

“You know that lady?” he asked, still laughing, with perhaps a touch of contempt.

“Very platonically.  We met at a coffee-stall in Piccadilly as I was going home after your trance.  She was with me when I saw that strange flame.”

“When you imagined you saw it.”

“If you prefer it, Val.  I am going to see her this afternoon.”

“My dear fellow—­why?”

“I’ll tell you,” Julian answered gravely.  “I believe she is the woman who went to the ‘European’ with Marr, who must have been with Marr when he was taken ill, and who fled.  I have a reason for thinking so.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you later, when I have talked to her.”

“Surely you don’t suspect the poor creature of foul play?”

“Not I. It’s sheer curiosity that takes me to her.”

“Oh.”

They rode on a step or two.  Then Valentine said: 

“Are you going to take her out?  She’s—­well, she is a trifle unmistakable, Julian.”

“Yes, I know.  You are right.  She’s not for afternoon wear, poor soul.  What damned scoundrels men are.”

Valentine did not join in the sentiment thus forcibly expressed.

Between four and five that afternoon Julian hailed a cab and drove to Marylebone Road.  The houses in it seemed endless, and dreary alike, but at length the cab drew up at number 400, tall, gaunt and haggard, like the rest.  Julian rang the bell, and immediately a shrill dog barked with a piping fury within the house.  Then the door was opened by an old woman, whose arid face was cabalistic, and who looked as if she spent her existence in expecting a raid from the police.

“Is Miss Cuckoo Bright at home?”

“Miss Bright!  I’ll see.”

The old dame turned tail, and slithered, flat-footed, to a room opening from the dirty passage.  She vanished and Julian heard two gentle voices muttering.  The old woman returned.