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She gave me the letter. There was no greeting, no signature.

"Mr Hartright, I am sorry to disturb you, but you are the only person who can advise me. A letter has just arrived for Miss Fairlie -- a horrible, unsigned letter, warning her not to marry Sir Percival Glyde. It has upset my sister very much. Should I try to find out who wrote it or wait to speak to Mr Gilmore, Mr Fairlie's legal adviser, who arrives tomorrow?"

As I sat alone in my room later that morning, my thoughts crowded in on me. There was no reason at all for me to connect Sir Percival Glyde with the man who had made Anne Catherick so afraid -- but I did. My suffering was great, but even greater was my feeling that some terrible, invisible danger lay ahead of us. Then I heard a knock at my door. It was Miss Halcombe.

Do you believe in dreams, Miss Fairlie? Last night I dreamt I saw you in your white wedding dress in a church, so pretty, so innocent. By your side stood a man with the scar of an old wound on his right hand -- a handsome man, but with a black, evil heart; a man who has brought misery to many, and who will bring misery to you. And in my dream I cried for you. Find out the past life of this man, Miss Fairlie, before you marry him. I send you this warning, because your mother was my first, my best, my only friend.

The date of the marriage! Those words filled me with jealous despair. Perhaps there was some truth in this letter. If I could find the writer, perhaps I would find a way to prove that Sir Percival Glyde was not the honest man he seemed.

"I think a woman wrote this letter," said Miss Halcombe. "It certainly refers to Sir Percival -- I remember that scar. What should I do, Mr Hartright? This mystery must be solved. Mr Gilmore is coming to discuss the financial details of Miss Fairlie's marriage, and Sir Percival arrives on Monday to fix the date of the marriage -- though Miss Fairlie does not know this yet."

"I think we should begin enquiries at once," I said. "The longer we delay, the harder it will be to find out anything."

We questioned the servants and learnt that the letter had been delivered by an elderly woman, who had then disappeared in the direction of the village. People in Limmeridge remembered seeing the woman, but no one could tell us who she was or where she had come from. Finally, I suggested asking the school teacher. As we approached the school door, we could hear the teacher shouting at one of the boys, saying angrily that there were no such things as ghosts. It was an awkward moment, but we went in anyway and asked our question. The teacher could tell us nothing. However, as we turned to leave, Miss Halcombe spoke to the boy standing in the corner:

These last words suggested an idea to me, which I was afraid to mention. Was I in danger of losing my balance of mind? Why should everything lead back to the woman in white?

"Yes, Miss. But I saw one! I saw it yesterday, in the churchyard. I did! It was -- it was the ghost of Mrs Fairlie!"

She stopped, turned pale, and looked at me. "What person?"

"Are you the foolish boy who was talking about ghosts?"

"What is your opinion of this?" Miss Halcombe asked me as we went out of the school.

"The boy may have seen someone," I said, "but not a ghost. I think we should examine the grave. I have this suspicion, Miss Halcombe, that the writer of the letter and the imagined ghost in the churchyard might be the same person."

"Anne Catherick," I replied. "The woman in white."

His answer visibly shocked Miss Halcombe, and the teacher quickly stepped in to explain that the silly boy had said he had seen (or probably imagined) a woman in white standing next to Mrs Fairlie's grave as he passed the churchyard yesterday evening. There was nothing more to it than that.

"I don't know why, but your suspicion frightens me," she said slowly. "I will show you the grave, and then I must go back to Laura. We'll meet again at the house later."

After about half an hour I heard footsteps. Then two women passed in front of me and walked to the grave. One wore a long cloak with a hood over her head, hiding her face. Below the cloak a little of her dress was visible -- a white dress. The other woman said something to her companion, and then walked away round the corner of the church, leaving the woman in the cloak next to the grave. After looking all around her, she took out a cloth, kissed the white cross and started to clean it.

In the churchyard I examined Mrs Fairlie's grave carefully, and noticed that the gravestone had been partly cleaned. Perhaps the person who had done the cleaning would return to finish the job. I decided to come back that evening and watch. Back at the house I explained my plan to Miss Halcombe, who seemed uneasy but made no objection. So, as the sun began to go down, I walked to the churchyard, chose my position, and waited.

I approached her slowly and carefully, but when she saw me, she jumped up and looked at me in terror.

There, in front of me, was the face of the woman in white.

"Don't be frightened," I said. "Surely you remember me?" Her eyes searched my face. "I helped you to find the way to London," I went on. "Surely you have not forgotten that?"

Her face relaxed as she recognized me, and she sighed in relief. Before this, I had seen her likeness in Miss Fairlie. Now I saw Miss Fairlie's likeness in her. Except that Miss Fairlie's delicate beauty was missing from this tired face, and I could not help thinking that if ever sorrow and suffering fell on Miss Fairlie, then, and only then, they would be the living reflections of one another. It was a horrible thought.

"Have you no father or mother to take care of you?"

Gently, I began to question her. I told her that I knew she had escaped from an asylum, and that I was glad I had helped her. But had she found her friend in London that night?

"Oh yes. That was Mrs Clements, who is here with me now. She was our neighbour in Hampshire, and took care of me when I was a little girl. She has always been my friend."

"I never saw my father -- I never heard mother speak of him. And I don't get on well with her. I'd rather be with Mrs Clements, who is kind, like you."

All the time we were talking she was cleaning the gravestone with her cloth.

I learnt that she was staying with relations of Mrs Clements at a farm, three miles from the village, but there were other, harder questions I wanted to ask. Who had shut her away in an asylum? Her "unkind" mother, perhaps? What was her motive in writing the letter to Miss Fairlie, accusing Sir Percival Glyde? Was it revenge? What wrong had Sir Percival done her?

She was easily frightened, easily confused, and could only hold one idea in her mind at a time. I tried not to alarm her. Had she ever, I asked, been wronged by a man and then abandoned? Her innocent, puzzled face told me that was not the answer.

"Mrs Fairlie was my best friend," she murmured. "And her daughter…" She looked up at me, then away again, as though hiding her face in guilt. "Is Miss Fairlie well and happy?" she whispered anxiously.

I decided to try and surprise a confession from her. "She was not well or happy this morning, after receiving your letter. You wrote it, didn't you? It was wrong to send such a letter."

Her face went deathly pale. Then she bent down and kissed the gravestone. "Oh, Mrs Fairlie! Mrs Fairlie! Tell me how to save your daughter. Tell me what to do."

"You mention no names in the letter, but Miss Fairlie knows that the person you describe is Sir Percival Glyde --"

Then Mrs Clements put her arm round Anne Catherick and led her away. I watched them go, feeling great pity for that poor, pale, frightened face.

The moment I said his name she gave such a scream of terror that my blood ran cold. Her face, now full of fear and hatred, told me everything. Without doubt the person who had shut her away in the asylum was Sir Percival Glyde.

At the sound of her scream, Mrs Clements came running and, looking angrily at me, said, "What is it, my dear? What has this man done to you?"

"Nothing," the poor girl said. "He was good to me once. He helped me…" She whispered the rest in her friend's ear.

Later Miss Halcombe and I walked to the farm, and Miss Halcombe went in while I waited nearby. To my surprise, she returned after only a few minutes.

Half an hour later I was back at the house, and the story I told Miss Halcombe made her very worried.

"I am certain Sir Percival Glyde put Anne Catherick in the asylum," I said. "But why? What is the connection between them?"

"We must find out," said Miss Halcombe. "We will go to the farm tomorrow, and I will speak to Anne Catherick myself."

"Does Anne Catherick refuse to see you?" I asked.

"Anne Catherick has gone," replied Miss Halcombe. "She left this morning, with Mrs Clements. The farmer's wife, Mrs Todd, has no idea why they left or where they went. She just said that Anne Catherick had been disturbed after reading something in the local newspaper a couple of days ago. I looked at the paper and saw that it mentioned Laura's future wedding. Then Mrs Todd said that Anne Catherick fainted last night, apparently in shock at something mentioned by one of the servant girls from our house, who was visiting the farm on her evening off."

The first thing I had to do the next morning was to ask Mr Fairlie if I could leave my job a month early. As his nerves were particularly bad, I could not speak to him directly but had to write a note, explaining that some unexpected news forced me to return to London. In reply I received a most unpleasant letter, informing me that I could go. Once, such a letter would have upset me greatly; now, I no longer cared.

At that moment a cab arrived and Mr Gilmore, the family friend and legal adviser, got out. He was an elderly man, pleasant-looking and neatly dressed. Miss Halcombe introduced me, and then went away to discuss family matters with him. I wandered out into the garden. My time at Limmeridge House was nearly at an end, and I wanted to say a last goodbye to the places where I had so often walked with Miss Fairlie, in the dream-time of my happiness and my love. But the autumn day was grey and damp, and those golden memories were already fading.

We hurried back to the house to question the servant girl. Miss Halcombe asked her if she had mentioned Sir Percival Glyde's name while at the farm. "Oh yes," the girl replied. "I said he was coming on Monday."

As I returned to the house, I met Mr Gilmore.

"Ah, Mr Hartright," he said. "Miss Halcombe has told me how helpful you have been about this strange letter received by Miss Fairlie. I want you to know that the investigation is now in my safe hands. I have written to Sir Percival Glyde's lawyer in London and I'm sure we will receive a satisfactory explanation."

"Well, well," said Mr Gilmore. "We will wait for events."

"Shall I play some of those pieces by Mozart that you like? Will you sit in your old chair near me?" she asked nervously.

"I'm afraid I am not so sure as you," was my reply.

At dinner that evening -- my last dinner at Limmeridge House -- it was a hard battle to keep my self-control. I saw that it was not easy for Miss Fairlie, either. She gave me her hand as she had done in happier days, but her fingers trembled and her face was pale. Mr Gilmore kept the conversation going, and afterwards we went into the sitting room as usual. Miss Fairlie sat at the piano.

"As it is my last night, I will," I answered.

"I am very sorry you are going," she said, almost in a whisper.

"I shall remember those kind words, Miss Fairlie, long after tomorrow has gone," I replied.

"Don't speak about tomorrow."

Then she played, and at last it was time to say goodnight.

The next morning I found Miss Halcombe and Miss Fairlie waiting for me downstairs. When I began to speak, Miss Fairlie turned and hurried from the room. I tried to control my voice, but could only say, "Will you write to me, Miss Halcombe?"

She left, and a few seconds later Miss Fairlie returned, holding something. It was her own sketch of the summer-house where we had first met. With tears in her eyes, she offered it to me," to remind you", she whispered. My own tears fell as I kissed her hand, then I turned to go. She sank into a chair, her head dropped on her arms. At that moment I knew that Laura Fairlie loved me too. But it was over. We were separated.

She took both my hands in hers, and her face grew beautiful with the force of her generosity and pity. "Of course I will, Walter. Goodbye -- and God bless you!"