“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.

“What, then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes.  It is terror.”  She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal.  Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard.  Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm.  “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt.  You have come in by train this morning, I see.”

“You know me, then?”

“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove.  You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling.  “The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places.  The marks are perfectly fresh.  There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.”

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she.  “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo.  Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues.  I have no one to turn to—­none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid.  I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need.  It was from her that I had your address.  Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me?  At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.”

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh,” said he.  “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara.  I think it was before your time, Watson.  I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend.  As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best.  And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.”