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"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.