towards him. "If your name is Herbert Wrayson, what are you doing in these rooms?"
"They happen to be mine," he answered calmly.
"Yours!"
She picked up a small latch-key from the desk.
"This is number 11, isn't it?" she asked quickly.
"No! Number 11 is the flat immediately overhead," he told her.
She appeared unconvinced.
"But I opened the door with this key," she declared.
"Mr. Barnes and I have similar locks," he said. "The fact remains that this is number 9, and number 11 is one story overhead."
She drew a long breath, presumably of relief, and moved a step forward.
"I am very sorry!" she declared. "I have made a mistake. You must please accept my apologies."
He stood motionless in front of the door. He was pale, clean-shaven, and slim, and in his correct evening clothes he seemed a somewhat ordinary type of the well-bred young Englishman. But his eyes were grey, and his mouth straight and firm.
She came to a standstill. Her eyes seemed to be questioning him. She scarcely understood his attitude.
"Kindly allow me to pass!" she said coldly.
"Presently!" he answered.
Her veil was still raised, and the flash of her eyes would surely have made a weaker man quail. But Wrayson never flinched.
"What do you mean by that?" she demanded. "I have explained my presence in your room. It was an accident which I regret. Let me pass at once."
"You have explained your presence here," he an-
