As Lady Raytham drew aside the long velvet curtains, she looked down into Berkeley Square. It was half-past four o’clock on a cheerless February evening. Rain and sleet were falling and a thin yellow mist added to the gloom of the dying day. An interminable string of cars and taxicabs was turning toward Berkeley Street, their shining black roofs reflecting the glare of the overhead light that had just then hissed and spluttered to life. She looked blankly toward the desolation of the gardens, a place of bare-limbed trees and shivering shrubs--stared, as though she expected to see some fog wraith take a definite and menacing shape and give tangible form to the shadows that menaced reason and…
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