"You are Monsieur Crewe, the great detective--is it not so?" she asked,
as she sat down. The glance she now gave the detective at closer range
from her large dark eyes was innocent and ingenuous, with a touch of
admiration. The contrast between it and her former look was not lost on
Crewe, and he realised that his visitor was no ordinary woman.
"My name is Crewe," he said, ignoring the compliment. "What do you wish
to see me for?"
The visitor did not immediately reply. She nervously unfastened a bag she
carried, and taking out a singularly unfeminine-looking handkerchief--a
large cambric square almost masculine in its proportions, and guiltless
of lace or perfume--held it to her face for a moment. But Crewe noticed
that her eyes were dry when she removed it to remark:
"What I say to you, monsieur, is in strictest confidence--as sacred as
the confession."
"Anything you say to me will be in strict confidence," said Crewe a
little grimly.
"And the boy? Can he not hear through the keyhole?" Crewe's visitor
glanced expressively at the door by which she had entered.
"You are quite safe here, madame--mademoiselle, I should say," he added,
with a quick glance at her left hand, from which she slowly removed the
glove as she spoke.
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