Hearing this, I tried to persuade her to tell me how she got into the room.

Unluckily, her manuscript on the table caught her eye; she returned to her writing.

"The Baron wants money," she said; "I must get on with my play." What she saw or dreamed while she was in your room last night, it is at present impossible to discover.

But judging by my brother's account of her, as well as by what I remember of her myself, some recent influence has been at work which has produced a marked change in this wretched woman for the worse.

Her mind (since last night, perhaps) is partially deranged.