She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could speak.
“You are mad, Mr. Holmes—you are mad!” she cried, at last.
He drew a small piece of cardboard from his pocket. It was the face of a woman cut out of a portrait.
“I have carried this because I thought it might be useful,” said he. “The policeman has recognised it.”
She gave a gasp and her head dropped back in the chair.
“Come, Lady Hilda. You have the letter. The matter may still be adjusted. I have no desire to bring trouble to you. My duty ends when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. Take my advice and be frank with me. It is your only chance.”
Her courage was admirable. Even now she would not own defeat.
“I tell you again, Mr. Holmes, that you are under some absurd illusion.”
Holmes rose from his chair.
“I am sorry for you, Lady Hilda. I have done my best for you. I can see that it is all in vain.”
He rang the bell. The butler entered.
“Is Mr. Trelawney Hope at home?”
“He will be home, sir, at a quarter to one.”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“ Still a quarter of an hour,” said he. “Very good, I shall wait.”
The butler had hardly closed the door behind him when Lady Hilda was down on her knees at Holmes' feet, her hands out-stretched, her beautiful face upturned and wet with her tears.
“Oh, spare me, Mr. Holmes! Spare me!” she pleaded, in a frenzy of supplication. “For heaven's sake, don't tell him!
