“But I am positive of the address!” protested my beautiful but strange caller—­from her left glove she drew out a scrap of paper, “here it is.”

I glanced at the fragment, upon which, in a woman’s hand the words were pencilled:  “Mr. Raphael Philips, 36-b Figtree Court, London.”

I stared at my visitor, deeply mystified.

“These chambers are 36-b!” I said.  “But I am not Raphael Philips, nor have I ever heard of him.  My name is Malcolm Knox.  There is evidently some mistake, but”—­returning the slip of paper—­“pardon me if I remind you, I have yet to learn the cause of your alarm.”

“I was followed across the court and up the stairs.”

“Followed!  By whom?”

“By a dreadful-looking man, chattering in some tongue I did not understand!”

My amazement was momentarily growing greater.

“What kind of a man?” I demanded rather abruptly.

“A yellow-faced man—­remember I could only just distinguish him in the darkness on the stairway, and see little more of him than his eyes at that, and his ugly gleaming teeth—­oh! it was horrible!”

“You astound me,” I said; “the thing is utterly incomprehensible.”  I switched off the light of the lamp.  “I’ll see if there’s any sign of him in the court below.”

“Oh, don’t leave me!  For heaven’s sake don’t leave me alone!”

She clutched my arm in the darkness.

“Have no fear; I merely propose to look out from this window.”

Suiting the action to the word, I peered down into the court below.  It was quite deserted.  The night was a very dark one, and there were many patches of shadow in which a man might have lain concealed.

“I can see no one,” I said, speaking as confidently as possible, and relighting the lamp, “if I call a cab for you and see you safely into it, you will have nothing to fear, I think.”

“I have a cab waiting,” she replied, and lowering the veil she stood up to go.

“Kindly allow me to see you to it.  I am sorry you have been subjected to this annoyance, especially as you have not attained the object of your visit.”

“Thank you so much for your kindness; there must be some mistake about the address, of course.”

She clung to my arm very tightly as we descended the stairs, and often glanced back over her shoulder affrightedly, as we crossed the court.  There was not a sign of anyone about, however, and I could not make up my mind whether the story of the yellow man was a delusion or a fabrication.  I inclined to the latter theory, but the object of such a deception was more difficult to determine.

Sure enough, a taxicab was waiting at the entrance to the court; and my visitor, having seated herself within, extended her hand to me, and even through the thick veil I could detect her brilliant smile.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Knox,” she said, “and a thousand apologies.  I am sincerely sorry to have given you all this trouble.”