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 even in the almirahs. Then I saw that she held one of my black silk evening stockings in her hand. I paused with the cup of tea half way to my lips. Something dreadful was dawning upon me. 'There was one of your black silk stockings on this chair, miss,' Ermyntrude said at last, after much fruitless searching. 'But the other one is not to be found anywhere.' I put down my cup of tea. I could not trust my hands to hold it any longer. 'Ermyntrude,' I asked hoarsely, 'was that stocking marked?' 'Marked, miss?' queried Ermyntrude, doubts as to my sanity evidently overcoming her again as she looked at me. 'Yes, marked,' I said feebly—'marked with my name or initials?' Ermyntrude suddenly drew herself up primly. 'No, miss,' was all she said, but the variety of expressions that flashed across her face in those few seconds spoke volumes. All at once I realised what dreadful things Ermyntrude's vivid imagination might be conjuring up about that missing stocking. Partly at that, partly from relief that that stocking wasn't marked, I lay back and laughed hysterically. When I recovered I told the horrified Ermyntrude the whole story of the night's adventures, of course leaving out the parts about my own personal feelings. In the narrative I appeared to have acted with great courage and discretion