It flashed upon him that this was a woman of distinction, one who belonged naturally, if not in effect, to the world of which even he could not claim to be a habitant.

What was she doing in his rooms ?--of what interest to her were he and his few possessions?
"Herbert Wrayson," she repeated, leaning a little 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.