As I stepped upon the platform a smart chauffeur met me, my traps were quickly stowed into a powerful grey Daimler, and in a few moments we were tearing along the leafy Devonshire lanes, away in the direction of the Moor.
I sat back with my cigarette and reflected.
This visit of mine was, indeed, a curious one—as curious as the circumstances which had induced it.
Perhaps I had better describe them.
One night, about three months before, just as I had thrown down the evening paper with thoughts of bed, the telephone bell rang, and a woman's refined voice asked me to call at an address in Queen's Gate, a few doors from Old Brompton Road, which, as you know, is a high-class neighbourhood about half a mile from my house. Scenting a wealthy patient, I promised to go at once, and on arrival found the house a large, old-fashioned one, drab painted, with porch and deep basement.
In the drawing-room, to which I was shown by a grave, white-headed man-servant, I was greeted by a rather handsome woman of thirty in a dinner-gown of black satin and sequins, reheved by a bunch of scarlet flowers in the corsage.
