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Macfarren, moving mechanically like a sleep-walker, picked up a small lighted lamp from a table near, although the gas in a gaudy chandelier flared brightly above him, and examined the picture. He put the lamp down carefully. He was a member of the Nineteenth Century Club, and had heard some queer talk about psychology and theosophy which had impressed him as being rather more baseless and extravagant than Jack and the Bean-stalk. What, then, was this? He walked rapidly into the outer sitting-room, locked the door, and returned. And there, sitting gracefully upright in a chair, was the Lady Marian.

Something common to worshipers in all ages happened to Macfarren. He fell on his knees. Lady Marian seemed in no wise disconcerted, and, leaning forward, held out her hand. Macfarren kissed passionately the warm pink palm.

"Friend," said she, in a soft and composed voice, "how came I hither?"

The question confused Macfarren hopelessly. He dared not tell her that he had bought her—that she came in a box which was opened in the custom-house, and that he had paid a thirty-per-cent ad valorem duty on her. He was inexpert as a liar, although quick at diplomacy. He could only murmur, after an awkward pause, "I do not know."