I turned into the studio, where I found Marion—who had been listening attentively to this dialogue—in markedly better spirits.
“It seems a regular muddle,” she remarked cheerfully. “They have come to arrest the wrong man and now it appears that he isn’t there.”
“Don’t talk to me for a few minutes, Marion, dear,” said I. “There is something behind this and I want to think what it can be. I have seen that woman somewhere, I feel certain. Now where was it?”
I cudgelled my brains for some time without succeeding in recovering the recollections connected with her. I re-visualized the face that I had seen through the glass, with its deep-set, hollow eyes and strong, sharply-sloping eyebrows, and tried to connect it with some person whom I had seen, but in vain. And then in a flash it came to
