If Madame Sara had one prerogative more than another it was that of
taking people unawares. When least expected she would spring a mine at
your feet, engulf you in a most horrible danger, stab you in the dark, or
injure you through your best friend; in short, this dangerous woman was
likely to become the terror of London if steps were not soon taken to
place her in such confinement that her genius could no longer assert
itself.

Months went by after my last adventure. Once again my fears slumbered.
Madame Sara's was not the first name that I thought of when I awoke in
the morning, nor the last to visit my dreams at night. Absorbed in my
profession, I had little time to waste upon her. After all, I made up my
mind, she might have left London; she might have carried her
machinations, her cruelties, and her genius elsewhere.

That such was not the case this story quickly shows.

The matter which brought Madame Sara once again to the fore began in the
following way.

On the 17th of July, 1900, I received a letter; it ran as follows:--

"23, West Terrace,

"Charlton Road, Putney.

"DEAR MR. DRUCE,--I am in considerable difficulty and am writing to beg
for your advice. My father died a fortnight ago at his castle in
Portugal, leaving me his heiress. His brother-in-law, who lived there
with him, arrived in London yesterday and came to see me, bringing me
full details of my father's death. These are in the last degree
mysterious and terrifying. There are also a lot of business affairs to
arrange. I know little about business and should greatly value your
advice on the whole situation. Can you come here and see me to-morrow at
three o'clock? Senhor de Castro, my uncle, my mother's brother, will be
here, and I should like you to meet him. If you can come I shall be very
grateful.--Yours sincerely,

"HELEN SHERWOOD."

I replied to this letter by telegram:---

"Will be with you at three to-morrow."

Helen Sherwood was an old friend of mine; that is, I had known her since
she was a child. She was now about twenty-three years of age, and was
engaged to a certain Godfrey Despard, one of the best fellows I ever met.
Despard was employed in a merchant's office in Shanghai, and the chance
of immediate marriage was small. Nevertheless, the young people were
determined to be true to each other and to wait that turn in the tide
which comes to most people who watch for it.

Helen's life had been a sad one. Her mother, a Portuguese lady of good
family, had died at her birth; her father, Henry Sherwood, had gone to
Lisbon in 1860 as one of the Under-Secretaries to the Embassy and never
cared to return to England. After the death of his wife he had lived as
an eccentric recluse. When Helen was three years old he had sent her
home, and she had been brought up by a maiden aunt of her father's, who
had never understood the impulsive, eager girl, and had treated her with
a rare want of sympathy. This woman had died when her young charge was
sixteen years of age. She had left no money behind her, and, as her
father declined to devote one penny to his daughter's maintenance, Helen
had to face the world before her education was finished. But her
character was full of spirit and determination. She stayed on at school
as pupil teacher, and afterwards supported herself by her attainments.
She was a good linguist, a clever musician, and had one of the most
charming voices I ever heard in an amateur. When this story opens she was
earning a comfortable independence, and was even saving a little money
for that distant date when she would marry the man she loved.

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