"Sorry you were out. Wanted to see you most urgently. Keep your promise at Piccadilly Circus, and know nothing concerning me. My movements are most uncertain, as something amazing has occurred which prevents me making explanation. I will, however, send you my address in secret as soon as I have one. I trust you, Teddy, for you are my only friend."Digby."
"Sorry you were out. Wanted to see you most urgently. Keep your promise at Piccadilly Circus, and know nothing concerning me. My movements are most uncertain, as something amazing has occurred which prevents me making explanation. I will, however, send you my address in secret as soon as I have one. I trust you, Teddy, for you are my only friend.
"Digby."
I read the note several times, and gathered that he was in hourly fear of arrest. Every corner held for him a grave danger. Yet what could have occurred that was so amazing and which prevented him speaking the truth.
That I had not been in when he called was truly unfortunate. But by the fact that he was in clerical attire I surmised that he was living in obscurity—perhaps somewhere in the suburbs. London is the safest city in the world in which to hide, unless, of course, creditors or plaintiffs make it necessary to seek peace "beyond the jurisdiction of the Court."
Many a good man is driven to the latter course through no fault of his own, but by the inexorable demands of the Commissioners of Income Tax, or by undue pressure from antagonistic creditors. Every English colony on the Continent contains some who have fallen victims—good, honest Englishmen—who are dragging out the remainder of their livesin obscurity, men whose names are perhaps household words, but who conceal them beneath one assumed.
Digby would probably join the throng of the exiled. So I could do naught else than wait for his promised message, even though I was frantic in my anxiety to see and to question him regarding the reason of the presence of my well-beloved at his flat on that fatal night.
Imagine my bitter chagrin that I had not been present to receive him! It might be many months before I heard from him again, for his promise was surely very vague.
Presently I took the glass very carefully from my pocket, unwrapped it from its paper, and locked it in a little cabinet in the corner of my room, until next morning I brought it forth, and placing it upon a newspaper powdered it well with the pale green chalk which revealed at once a number of finger-marks—mine, Bain's, and Phrida's.
I am something of a photographer, as everybody is in these days of photo competitions. Therefore, I brought out my Kodak with its anastigmat lens,—a camera which I had carried for some years up and down Europe, and after considerable arrangement of the light, succeeded in taking a number of pictures. It occupied me all the morning, and even then I was not satisfied with the result. My films might, for aught I know, be hopelessly fogged.
Therefore, with infinite care, I took the glass to a professional photographer I knew in Bond Street, and he also made a number of pictures, which were duly developed and enlarged some hours later, and showed the distinctive lines and curves of each finger-print.
Not until the morning of the day following wasI able to take these latter to Edwards, and then a great difficulty presented itself. How was I to explain how I had obtained the prints?
I sat for an hour smoking cigarettes furiously and thinking deeply.
At last a plan presented itself, and taking a taxi I went down to Scotland Yard, where I had no difficulty in obtaining an interview in his airy, barely-furnished business-like room.
"Hulloa, Mr. Royle!" he exclaimed cheerily as I entered. "Sit down—well, do you know anything more of that mysterious friend of yours—eh?"
I did not reply. Why should I lie? Instead, I said:
"I've been doing some amateur detective work. Have you the photographs of those finger-prints found on the specimen-table in Sir Digby's room?"
"Yes, of course," was his prompt reply, and going over to a cupboard he brought out a pile of papers concerning the case, and from it produced a number of photographic prints.
My heart stood still when I saw them. Were either of them exactly similar to any of those I carried with me? I almost feared to allow comparison to be made.
Edwards, noticing my hesitation, asked in what quarter my efforts had been directed.
"I've been getting some finger-prints, that's all," I blurted forth, and from my pocket drew the large envelope containing the prints.
The detective took them across to the window and regarded them very closely for some time, while I looked eagerly over his shoulder.
The curves and lines were extremely puzzling tome, unaccustomed as I was to them. Edwards, too, remained in silent indecision.
"We'll send them along to Inspector Tirrell in the Finger-print Department," my friend said at last. "He's an expert, and will tell at a glance if any marks are the same as ours."
Then he rang a bell, and a constable, at his instructions, carried all the prints to the department in question.
"Well, Mr. Royle," exclaimed the inspector when the door had closed; "how did you obtain those prints?"
I was ready for his question, and a lie was at once glibly upon my lips.
"Sir Digby, on the night of his disappearance, returned to me a small steel despatch box which he had borrowed some weeks before; therefore, after the affair, I examined it for finger-prints, with the result I have shown you," I said.
"Ah! but whatever prints were upon it were there before the entrance of the victim to your friend's rooms," he exclaimed. "He gave it to you when you bade him good-night, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And you carried the box home with you?"
"Yes," I repeated; in fear nevertheless, that my lie might in some way incriminate me. Yet how could I tell him of my suspicion of Phrida. That secret was mine—and mine alone, and, if necessary, I would carry it with me to the grave.
Edwards was again silent for some minutes.
"No, Mr. Royle, I can't see that your evidence helps us in the least. If there should be the same prints on your despatch box as we found upon the specimen-table, then what do they prove?—why, nothing. If the box had been in the roomat the time of the tragedy, then it might have given us an important clue, because such an object would probably be touched by any malefactor or assassin. But——"
"Ah!" I cried, interrupting. "Then you do not suspect Sir Digby, after all—eh?"
"Pardon me, Mr. Royle, but I did not say that I held no suspicion," was his quiet answer. "Yet, if you wish to know the actual truth, I, at present, am without suspicion of anyone—except of that second woman, the mysterious woman whose finger-prints we have, and who was apparently in the room at the same time as the unidentified victim."
"You suspect her, then?" I asked breathlessly.
"Not without further proof," he replied, with a calm, irritating smile. "I never suspect unless I have good grounds for doing so. At present we have three clear finger-prints of a woman whom nobody saw enter or leave, just as nobody saw the victim enter. Your friend Sir Digby seems to have held a midnight reception of persons of mysterious character, and with tragic result."
"I feel sure he is no assassin," I cried.
"It may have been a drama of jealousy—who knows?" said Edwards, standing erect near the window and gazing across at me. "Your friend, in any case, did not care to remain and explain what happened. A girl—an unknown girl—was struck down and killed."
"By whom, do you think?"
"Ah! Mr. Royle, the identity of the assassin is what we are endeavouring to discover," he replied gravely. "We must first find this man who has so successfully posed as Sir Digby Kemsley. He is a clever and elusive scoundrel, without a doubt. But his portrait is already circulated both here andon the Continent. The ports are all being watched, while I have five of the best men I can get engaged on persistent inquiry. He'll try to get abroad, no doubt. No doubt, also, he has a banking account somewhere, and through that we shall eventually trace him. Every man entrusts his banker with his address. He has to, in order to obtain money."
"Unless he draws his money out in cash and then goes to a tourist agency and gets a letter of credit."
"Ah, yes, that's often done," my friend admitted. "The tourist agencies are of greatest use to thieves and forgers. They take stolen notes, change them into foreign money, and before the numbers can be circulated are off across the Channel with their booty. If we look for stolen notes we are nearly certain to find them in the hands of a tourist agency or a money-changer."
"Then you anticipate that you may find my friend Digby through his bankers?"
"Perhaps," was his vague answer. "But as he is your friend, Mr. Royle, I perhaps ought not to tell you of the channels of information we are trying," he added, with a dry laugh.
"Oh, I assure you I'm entirely ignorant of his whereabouts," I said. "If I knew, I should certainly advise him to come and see you."
"Ah! you believe in his innocence, I see?"
"I most certainly do!"
"Well,—we shall see—we shall see," he said in that pessimistic tone which he so often adopted.
"What are you doing about those letters—that letter which mentions the fountain?" I asked.
"Nothing. I've dismissed those as private correspondence regarding some love episode of the long ago," he replied. "They form no clue, and are not worth following."
At that moment the constable re-entered bearing the photographs.
"Well, what does Inspector Tirrell say?" Edwards asked quickly of the man.
"He has examined them under the glass, sir, and says that they are the same prints in both sets of photographs—the thumb and index-finger of a woman—probably a young and refined woman. He's written a memo there, sir."
Edwards took it quickly, and after glancing at it, handed it to me to read.
It was a mere scribbled line signed with the initials "W. H. T.," to the effect that the same prints appeared in both photographs, and concluded with the words "No record of this person is known in this department."
I know I stood pale and breathless at the revelation—at the incontestable proof that my well-beloved had actually been present in Digby's room after my departure on that fatal night.
Why?
By dint of a great effort I succeeded in suppressing the flood of emotions which so nearly overcame me, and listened to Edwards as he remarked:
"Well, after all, Mr. Royle, it doesn't carry us any further. Our one object is to discover the identity of the woman in question, and I think we can only do that from your absconding friend himself. If the marks are upon your despatch-box as you state, then the evidence it furnishes rather disproves the theory that the unknown woman was actually present at the time of the tragedy."
I hardly know what words I uttered.
I had successfully misled the great detective of crime, but as I rode along in the taxi back to my rooms, I was in a frenzy of despair, for I had provedbeyond a shadow of doubt that Phrida was aware of what had occurred—that a black shadow of guilt lay upon her.
The woman I had loved and trusted, she who was all the world to me, had deceived me, though she smiled upon me so sweetly. She, alas! held within her breast a guilty secret.
Ah! in that hour of my bitterness and distress the sun of my life became eclipsed. Only before me was outspread a limitless grey sea of dark despair.
Thenight of my mysterious tryst—the night of January the fourteenth—was dark, rainy, and unpleasant.
That afternoon I had taken out the sealed letter addressed to "E. P. K." and turned it over thoughtfully in my hand.
I recollected the words of the fugitive. He had said:
"On the night of the fourteenth just at eight o'clock precisely, go to the Piccadilly Tube Station and stand at the first telephone box numbered four, on the Haymarket side, when a lady in black will approach you and ask news of me. In response you will give her this note. But there is a further condition. You may be watched and recognised. Therefore, be extremely careful that you are not followed on that day, and, above all, adopt some effective disguise. Go there dressed as a working man, I would suggest."
Very strange was that request of his. It filled me with eager curiosity. What should I learn from the mysterious woman in black who was to come to me for a message from my fugitive friend.
Had he already contemplated flight when he had addressed the note to her and made the appointment, I wondered.
If so, the crime at Harrington Gardens must have been premeditated.
I recollected, too, those strange, prophetic words which my friend had afterwards uttered, namely:
"I want you to give me your promise, Royle. I ask you to make a solemn vow to me that if any suspicion arises within your mind, that you will believe nothing without absolute and decisive proof. I mean, that you will not misjudge her."
By "her" he had indicated the lady whose initials were "E. P. K."
It was certainly mysterious, and my whole mind was centred upon the affair that day.
As I stood before my glass at seven o'clock that evening, I presented a strange, uncanny figure, dressed as I was in a shabby suit which I had obtained during the day from a theatrical costumier's in Covent Garden.
Haines, to whom I had invented a story that I was about to play a practical joke, stood by much amused at my appearance.
"Well, sir," he exclaimed; "you look just like a bricklayer's labourer!"
The faded suit, frayed at the wrists and elbows, had once been grey, but it was now patched, brown, smeared with plaster, and ingrained with white dust, as was the ragged cap; while the trousers were ragged at the knees and bottoms. Around my neck was a dirty white scarf and in my hand I carried a tin tea-bottle as though I had just returned from work.
"Yes," I remarked, regarding myself critically. "Not even Miss Shand would recognise me—eh, Haines?"
"No, sir. I'm sure she wouldn't. But you'll have to dirty your face and hands a bit. Your hands will give you away if you're not careful."
"Yes. I can't wear gloves, can I?" I remarked.
Thereupon, I went to the grate and succeeded in rubbing ashes over my hands and applying some of it to my cheeks—hardly a pleasant face powder, I can assure you.
At a quarter to eight, with the precious letter in the pocket of my ragged jacket, I left Albemarle Street and sauntered along Piccadilly towards the Circus. The rain had ceased, but it was wet underfoot, and the motor buses plashed foot passengers from head to foot with liquid mud. In my walk I passed, outside the Piccadilly Hotel, two men I knew. One of them looked me straight in the face but failed to recognise me.
Piccadilly Circus, the centre of the night-life of London, is unique, with its jostling crowds on pleasure bent, its congestion of traffic, its myriad lights, its flashing, illuminated signs, and the bright façade of the Criterion on the one side and the Pavilion on the other. Surely one sees the lure of London there more than at any other spot in the whole of our great metropolis.
Passing the Criterion and turning into the Haymarket, I halted for a moment on the kerb, and for the first time in my life, perhaps, gazed philosophically upon the frantic, hurrying panorama of human life passing before my eyes.
From where I stood I could see into the well-lit station entrance with the row to the telephone boxes, at the end of which sat the smart young operator,who was getting numbers and collecting fees. All the boxes were engaged, and several persons were waiting, but in vain my eyes searched for a lady in black wearing mimosa.
The winter wind was bitterly cold, and as I was without an overcoat it cut through my thin, shabby clothes, causing me to shiver. Nevertheless, I kept my watchful vigil. By a neighbouring clock I could see that it was already five minutes past the hour of the appointment. Still, I waited in eager expectation of her coming.
The only other person who seemed to loiter there was a thin, shivering Oriental, who bore some rugs upon his shoulder—a hawker of shawls.
Past me there went men and women of every grade and every station. Boys were crying "Extrur spe-shull," and evil-looking loafers, those foreign scoundrels who infest the West End, lurked about, sometimes casting a suspicious glance at me, with the thought, perhaps, that I might be a detective.
Ah! the phantasmagora of life outside the Piccadilly Tube at eight o'clock in the evening is indeed a strangely complex one. The world of London has then ceased to work and has given itself over to pleasure, and, alas! in so many cases, to evil.
In patience I waited. The moments seemed hours, for in my suspense I was dubious whether, after all, she would appear. Perhaps she already knew, by some secret means, of Sir Digby's flight, and if so, she would not keep the appointment.
I strolled up and down the pavement, for a policeman, noticing me hanging about, had gruffly ordered me to "Move on!" He, perhaps, suspectedme of "loitering for the purpose of committing a felony."
Everywhere my eager eyes searched to catch sight of some person in black wearing a spray of yellow blossom, but among that hurrying crowd there was not one woman, young or old, wearing that flower so reminiscent of the Riviera.
I entered the station, and for some moments stood outside the telephone box numbered 4. Then, with failing heart, I turned and went along to the spacious booking-hall, where the lifts were ever descending with their crowds of passengers.
Would she ever come? Or, was my carefully planned errand entirely in vain?
I could not have mistaken the date, for I had made a note of it in my diary directly on my return from Harrington Gardens, and before I had learned of the tragedy. No. It now wanted a quarter to nine and she had not appeared. At nine I would relinquish my vigil, and assume my normal identity. I was sick to death of lounging there in the cutting east wind with the smoke-blackened tin bottle in my hand.
I had been idly reading an advertisement on the wall, and turned, when my quick eyes suddenly caught sight of a tall, well-dressed woman of middle age, who, standing with her back to me, was speaking to the telephone-operator.
I hurried eagerly past her, when my heart gave a great bound. In the corsage of her fur-trimmed coat she wore the sign for which I had been searching for an hour—a sprig of mimosa!
With my heart beating quickly in wild excitement, I drew back to watch her movements.
She had asked the operator for a number, paid him, and was told that she was "on" at box No. 4.
I saw her enter, and watched her through the glass door speaking vehemently with some gesticulation. The answer she received over the wire seemed to cause her the greatest surprise, for I saw how her dark, handsome face fell when she heard the response.
In a second her manner changed. From a bold, commanding attitude she at once became apprehensive and appealing. Though I could not hear the words amid all that hubbub and noise, I knew that she was begging the person at the other end to tell her something, but was being met with a flat refusal.
I saw how the black-gloved hand, resting upon the little ledge, clenched itself tightly as she listened. I fancied that tears had come into her big, dark eyes, but perhaps it was only my imagination.
At last she put down the receiver and emerged from the box, with a strange look of despair upon her handsome countenance.
What, I wondered, had happened?
She halted outside the box for a moment, gazing about her as though in expectation of meeting someone. She saw me, but seeing only a labourer, took no heed of my presence. Then she glanced at the tiny gold watch in her bracelet, and noting that it was just upon nine, drew a long breath—a sigh as though of despair.
I waited until she slowly walked out towards the street, and following, came up beside her and said in a low voice:
"I wonder, madame, if you are looking for me?"
She glanced at me quickly, with distinct suspicion, and noting my dress, regarded me with some disdain.
Her dark brows were knit for a second in distinct displeasure, even of apprehension, and then in an instant I recollected my friend's injunction that I might be watched and followed. In giving her the message the greatest secrecy was to be observed.
She halted, as though in hesitation, took from her bag a tiny lace handkerchief and dabbed her face, then beneath her breath, and without glancing further at me, said:
"Follow me, and I will speak to you presently—when there is no danger."
Upon that I moved away and leisurely lit my pipe, as though entirely unconcerned, while she still stood in the doorway leading to the Haymarket, looking up and down as though awaiting somebody.
Yes, she was a distinctly handsome woman; tall, erect, and well preserved. Her gown fitted her perfectly, and her black jacket, trimmed with some rich dark fur, was a garment which gave her the stamp of a woman of wealth and refinement. She wore a neat felt hat also trimmed with fur, white gloves, and smart shoes, extremely small, even girlish, for a woman so well developed.
Presently she sauntered forth down the Haymarket, and a few moments afterwards, still smoking and carrying my bottle, I lounged lazily after her.
At the corner, by the Carlton, she turned into Pall Mall, continuing along that thoroughfare without once looking back. Opposite the United Service Club she crossed the road, and passing acrossthe square in front of the Athenæum, descended the long flight of steps which led into the Mall.
There in the darkness, beneath the trees, where there were no onlookers—for at that hour the Mall is practically deserted, save for a few loving couples and a stray taxi or two—she suddenly paused, and I quickly approached and raised my cap politely.
"Well?" she asked sharply, almost in a tone of annoyance. "What is it? What do you want with me, my man?"
I confessthat her attitude took me aback.
I was certainly unprepared for such a reception.
"I believed, madame, that you were in search of me?" I said, with polite apology.
"I certainly was not. I don't know you in the least," was her reply. "I went to the Tube to meet a friend who did not keep his appointment. Is it possible that you have been sent by him? In any case, it was very injudicious for you to approach me in that crowd. One never knows who might have been watching."
"I come as messenger from my friend, Sir Digby Kemsley," I said in a low voice.
"From him?" she gasped eagerly. "I—ah! I expected him. Is he prevented from coming? It was so very important, so highly essential, that we should meet," she added in frantic anxiety as we stood there in the darkness beneath the bare trees, through the branches of which the wind whistled weirdly.
"I have this letter," I said, drawing it from my pocket. "It is addressed 'For E. P. K.'"
"For me?" she cried with eagerness, as she took it in her gloved hand, and then leaving my side she hurried to a street lamp, where she tore it open and read the contents.
From where I stood I heard her utter an ejaculation of sudden terror. I saw how she crushed the paper in one hand while with the other she pressed her brow. Whatever the letter contained it was news which caused her the greatest apprehension and fear, for dashing back to me she asked:
"When did he give you this? How long ago?"
"On the night of January the sixth," was my reply. "The night when he left Harrington Gardens in mysterious circumstances."
"Mysterious circumstances!" she echoed. "What do you mean? Is he no longer there?"
"No, madame. He has left, and though I am, perhaps, his most intimate friend, I am unaware of his whereabouts. There were," I added, "reasons, I fear, for his disappearance."
"Who are you? Tell me, first."
"My name is Edward Royle," was my brief response.
"Ah! Mr. Royle," the woman cried, "he has spoken of you many times. You were his best friend, he said. I am glad, indeed, to meet you, but—but tell me why he has disappeared—what has occurred?"
"I thought you would probably know that my friend is wanted by the police," I replied gravely. "His description has been circulated everywhere."
"But why?" she gasped, staring at me. "Why are the police in search of him?"
For a few seconds I hesitated, disinclined to repeat the grave charge against him.
"Well," I said at last in a low, earnest voice, "the fact is the police have discovered that Sir Digby Kemsley died in South America some months ago."
"I don't follow you," she said.
"Then I will be more plain. The police, having had a report of the death of Sir Digby, believe our mutual friend to be an impostor!"
"An impostor! How utterly ridiculous. Why, I myself can prove his identity. The dead man must have been some adventurer who used his name."
"That is a point which I hope with your assistance to prove," I said. "The police at present regard our friend with distinct suspicion."
"And I suppose his worst enemy has made some serious allegation against him—that woman who hates him so. Ah! I see it all now. I see why he has written this to me—this confession which astounds me. Ah! Mr. Royle," she added, her gloved hands tightly clenched in her despair. "You do not know in what deadly peril Sir Digby now is. Yes, I see it plainly. There is a charge against him—a grave and terrible charge—which he is unable to refute, and yet he is perfectly innocent. Oh, what can I do? How can I act to save him?" and her voice became broken by emotion.
"First tell me the name of this woman who was such a deadly enemy of his. If you reveal this to me, I may be able to throw some light upon circumstances which are at the present moment a complete mystery."
"No, that is his secret," was her low, calmreply. "He made me swear never to reveal the woman's name."
"But his honour—nay, his liberty—is now at stake," I urged.
"That does not exonerate me from breaking my word of honour, Mr. Royle."
"Then he probably entertains affection for the woman, and is hence loth to do anything which might cause her pain. Strangely enough, men often love women whom they know are their bitterest enemies."
"Quite so. But the present case is full of strange and romantic facts—facts, which if written down, would never be believed. I know many of them myself, and can vouch for them."
"Well, is this unnamed woman a very vengeful person?" I asked, remembering the victim who had been found dead at Harrington Gardens.
"Probably so. All women, when they hate a man, are vengeful."
"Why did she hate him so?"
"Because she believed a story told of him—an entirely false story—of how he had treated the man she loved. I taxed him with it, and he denied it, and brought me conclusive proof that the allegation was a pure invention."
"Is she young or middle-aged?"
"Young, and distinctly pretty," was her reply.
Was it possible that this woman was speaking of that girl whom I had seen lying dead in my friend's flat? Had he killed her because he feared what she might reveal? How dearly I wished that I had with me at that moment a copy of the police photographs of the unidentified body.
But even then she would probably declare itnot to be the same person, so deeply had Sir Digby impressed upon her the necessity of regarding the affair as strictly secret.
Indeed, as I walked slowly at her side, I saw that, whatever the note contained, it certainly had the effect upon her of preserving her silence.
In that case, could the crime have been premeditated by my friend? Had he written her that secret message well knowing that he intended to kill the mysterious woman who was his deadliest enemy.
That theory flashed across my brain as I walked with her, and I believed it to be the correct one. I accepted it the more readily because it removed from my mind those dark suspicions concerning Phrida, and, also, in face of facts which this unknown lady had dropped, it seemed to be entirely feasible.
Either the unsuspecting woman fell by the hand of Digby Kemsley or—how can I pen the words—by the hand of Phrida, the woman I loved. There was the evidence that a knife with a triangular blade had been used, and such a knife had been, and was still, in the possession of my well-beloved; but from what I had learned that night it seemed that, little as I had dreamed the truth, my friend Digby had been held in bondage by a woman, whose tongue he feared.
Ah! How very many men in London are the slaves of women whom they fear. All of us are human, and the woman with evil heart is, alas! only too ready to seize the opportunity of the frailty of the opposite sex, and whatever may be the secret she learns, of business or of private life, she will most certainly turn it to her advantage.
It was similar circumstances I feared in the case of dear old Digby.
I was wondering, as I walked, whether I should reveal to my companion—whose name she had told me was Mrs. Petre—the whole of the tragic circumstances.
"Is it long ago since you last saw Digby?" I asked her presently, as we strolled slowly together, and after I had given her my address, and we had laughed together over my effective disguise.
"Nearly two months," she replied. "I've been in Egypt since the beginning of November—at Assuan."
"I was there two seasons ago," I said. "How delightful it is in Upper Egypt—and what a climate in winter! Why, it is said that it has never rained there for thirty years!"
"I had a most awfully jolly time at the Cataract. It was full of smart people, for only the suburbs, the demi-monde, and Germans go to the Riviera nowadays. It's so terribly played out, and the Carnival gaiety is so childish and artificial."
"It amuses the Cookites," I laughed; "and it puts money in the pockets of the hotel-keepers of Nice and the neighbourhood."
"Monte is no longerchic," she declared. "German women in blouses predominate; and the really smart world has forsaken the Rooms for Cairo, Heliopolis, and Assuan. They are too far off and too expensive for the bearer of Cook's coupons."
I laughed. She spoke with the nonchalant air of the smart woman of the world, evidently much travelled and cosmopolitan.
But I again turned the conversation to our mutualfriend, and strove with all the diplomatic powers I possessed to induce her to reveal the name or give me a description of the woman whom she had alleged to be his enemy—the woman who was under a delusion that he had wronged her lover. To all my questions, however, she remained dumb. That letter which I had placed in her hand had, no doubt, put a seal of silence upon her lips.
At one moment she assumed a haughtiness of demeanour which suited her manner and bearing, at the next she became sympathetic and eager. She was, I gauged, a woman of strangely complex character. Yet whom could she be? I knew most, perhaps even all, of Digby's friends, I believed. He often used to give cosy little tea parties, to which women—many of them well known in society—came. Towards them he always assumed quite a paternal attitude, for he was nothing if not a ladies' man.
She seemed very anxious to know in what circumstances he had handed me the note, and what instructions he had given me. To her questions I replied quite frankly. Indeed, I repeated his words.
"Ah! yes," she cried. "He urged you not to misjudge me. Then you will not, Mr. Royle—will you?" she asked me with sudden earnestness.
"I have no reason to misjudge you, Mrs. Petre," I said, quietly. "Why should I?"
"Ah! but you may. Indeed, you most certainly will."
"When?" I asked, in some surprise.
"When—when you know the bitter truth."
"The truth of what?" I gasped, my thoughtsreverting to the tragedy in Harrington Gardens. Though I had not referred to it I felt that she must be aware of what had occurred, and of the real reason of Digby's flight.
"The truth which you must know ere long," she answered hoarsely as we halted again beneath the leafless trees. "And when you learn it you will most certainly condemn me. But believe me, Mr. Royle, I am like your friend, Sir Digby, more sinned against than sinning."
"You speak in enigmas," I said.
"Because I cannot—I dare not tell you what I know. I dare not reveal the terrible and astounding secret entrusted to me. You will know it all soon enough. But—there," she added in a voice broken in despair, "what can matter now that Digby has shown the white feather—and fled."
"He was not a coward, Mrs. Petre," I remarked very calmly.
"No. He was a brave and honest man until——" and she paused, her low voice fading to a whisper that I did not catch.
"Until what?" I asked. "Did something happen?"
"Yes, it did," she replied in a hard, dry tone. "Something happened which changed his life."
"Then he is not the impostor the police believe?" I demanded.
"Certainly not," was her prompt reply. "Why he has thought fit to disappear fills me with anger. And yet—yet from this letter he has sent to me I can now see the reason. He was, no doubt, compelled to fly, poor fellow. His enemy forced him to do so."
"The woman—eh?"
"Yes, the woman," she admitted, bitter hatred in her voice.
Then, after a pause, I said: "If I can be of any service to you, Mrs. Petre, for we are both friends of Digby's, I trust you will not fail to command me."
And I handed her a card from my case, which I had carried expressly.
"You are very kind, Mr. Royle," she replied. "Perhaps I may be very glad of your services one day. Who knows? I live at Park Mansions."
"And may I call?"
"For the present, no. I let my flat while I went abroad, and it is still occupied for several weeks. I shall not be there before the first week in March."
"But I want to find Digby—I want to see him most urgently," I said.
"And so do I!"
"How can we trace him?" I asked.
"Ah! I am afraid he is far too elusive. If he wishes to hide himself we need not hope to find him until he allows us to," she replied. "No, all we can do is to remain patient and hopeful."
Again a silence fell between us. I felt instinctively that she wished to confide in me, but dare not do so.
Therefore I exclaimed suddenly:
"Will you not tell me, Mrs. Petre, the identity of this great enemy of our friend—this woman? Upon information which you yourself may give, Digby's future entirely depends," I added earnestly.
"His future!" she echoed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean only that I am trying to clear his good name of the stigma now resting upon it."
The handsome woman bit her lip.
"No," she replied with a great effort. "I'm sorry—deeply sorry—but I am now in a most embarrassing position. I have made a vow to him, and that vow I cannot break without first obtaining his permission. I am upon my honour."
I was silent. What could I say?
This woman certainly knew something—something which, if revealed, would place me in possession of the truth of what had actually occurred at Harrington Gardens on that fatal night. If she spoke she might clear Phrida of all suspicion.
Suddenly, after a pause, I made up my mind to try and clear up one point—that serious, crucial point which had for days so obsessed me.
"Mrs. Petre," I said, "I wonder if you will answer me a single question, one which does not really affect the situation much. Indeed, as we are, I hope, friends, I ask it more out of curiosity than anything else."
"Well, what is it?" she asked, regarding me strangely.
"I want to know whether, being a friend of Digby's, you have ever met or ever heard of a certain young lady living in Kensington named Phrida Shand."
The effect of my words was almost electrical. She sprung towards me, with fire in her big, dark eyes.
"Phrida Shand!" she cried wildly, her white-gloved hands again clenched. "Phrida Shand! You know that woman, eh? You know her, Mr. Royle. Is she a friend of yours?—or—or is sheyour enemy? Your friend, perhaps, because she is pretty. Oh, yes!" she laughed, hysterically. "Oh, yes! Of course, she is your friend. If she is—then curse her, Mr. Royle—invoke all the curses of hell upon her, as she so richly deserves!"
And from her lips came a peal of laughter that was little short of demoniacal, while I stood glaring at her in blank dismay.
What did she mean? Aye, what, indeed?
I stoodaghast at her words.
I strove to induce her to speak more openly, and to tell me why I should not regard Phrida as my friend.
But she only laughed mysteriously, saying:
"Wait, and you will see."
"You make a distinct charge against her, therefore I think you ought to substantiate it," I said in a tone of distinct annoyance.
"Ah! Mr. Royle. Heed my words, I beg of you."
"But, tell me, is Miss Shand the same person as you have denounced as Digby's enemy?" I asked in breathless apprehension. "Surely you will tell me, Mrs. Petre, now that we are friends."
"Ah! but are we friends?" she asked, looking at me strangely beneath the light of the street-lamp in that deserted thoroughfare, where all was silence save the distant hum of the traffic. The dark trees above stood out distinct against the dull red night-glare of London, as themysterious woman stood before me uttering that query.
"Because we are mutual friends of Sir Digby's. I hope I may call you a friend," I replied, as calmly as I was able.
She paused for a moment in indecision. Then she said:
"You admit that you are friendly with the girl Shand—eh?"
"Certainly."
"More than friendly, I wonder?" she asked in a sharp tone.
"Well—I'll be perfectly frank," was my answer. "I am engaged to be married to her."
"Married," she gasped, "to her! Are you mad, Mr. Royle?"
"I think not," I answered, greatly surprised at her sudden attitude. "Why?"
"Because—because," she replied in a low, earnest voice, scarce above a whisper, "because, before you take such a step make further inquiry."
"Inquiry about what?" I demanded.
"About—well, about what has occurred at Harrington Gardens."
"Then you know!" I cried. "You know the truth, Mrs. Petre?"
"No," she replied quite calmly. "I know from this letter what must have occurred there. But who killed the girl I cannot say."
"Who was the girl they found dead?" I asked breathlessly.
"Ah! How can I tell? I did not see her."
In a few quick words I described the deceased, but either she did not recognise her from thedescription, or she refused to tell me. In any case, she declared herself in ignorance.
The situation was galling and tantalising. I was so near discovering the truth, and yet my inquiries had only plunged me more deeply into a quagmire of suspicion and horror. The more I tried to extricate myself the deeper I sank.
"But whoever the poor girl may have been, you still maintain that Phrida Shand was Digby's most deadly enemy?" I asked quickly, setting a trap for her.
I took her unawares, and she fell into it.
"Yes," was her prompt response. An instant later, however, realising how she had been led to make an allegation which she had not intended, she hastened to correct herself, saying: "Ah, no! Of course, I do not allege that. I—I only know that Digby was acquainted with her, and that——"
"Well?" I asked slowly, when she paused.
"That—that he regretted the acquaintanceship."
"Regretted? Why?"
The woman shrugged her shoulders. All along she had been cognisant of the tragedy, yet with her innate cleverness she had not admitted her knowledge.
"A man often regrets his friendship with a woman," she said, with a mysterious air.
"What!" I cried fiercely. "Do you make an insinuation that——"
"My dear Mr. Royle," she laughed, "I make no insinuation. It was you who have endeavoured to compel me to condemn her as Digby's enemy. You yourself suggested it!"
"But you have told me that his fiercest and most bitter enemy was a woman!"
"Certainly. But I have not told you that woman's name, nor do I intend to break my vow of secrecy to Digby—fugitive that he may be at this moment. Yet, depend upon it, he will return and crush his enemies in the dust."
"I hope he will," was my fervent reply. "Yet I love Phrida Shand, and upon her there rests a terrible cloud of suspicion."
She was silent for a moment, still standing beneath the lamp, gazing at me with those big, dark eyes.
At last she said:
"The way out is quite easy."
"How?"
"If you have any regard for your future put your love aside," was her hard response.
"You hate her!" I said, knitting my brows, yet recollecting the proof I had secured of her presence in Digby's flat.
"Yes," was her prompt response. "I hate her—I have cause to hate her!"
"What cause?"
"That is my own affair, Mr. Royle—my own secret. Find Digby, and he will, no doubt, tell you the truth."
"The truth concerning Phrida?"
"Yes."
"But he knew I was engaged to her! Why did he not speak?"
"And expose her secret?" she asked. "Would he have acted as a gentleman had he done so? Does a man so lightly betray a woman's honour?"
"A woman's honour!" I gasped, staring at her,staggered as though she had struck me a blow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean nothing," was her cold reply. "Take it as you may, Mr. Royle, only be warned."
"But if Digby knew that she was worthless, he would surely have made some remark to arouse my suspicion?" I exclaimed.
"Why should he?" she queried. "A true gentleman does not usually expose a woman's secret."
I saw her point, and my heart sank within me. Were these scandalous allegations of hers based upon truth, or was she actuated by ill-feeling, perhaps, indeed, of jealousy?
We walked on again slowly until we reached St. James's Palace, and passed out into the end of Pall Mall, where it joined St. James's Street. Yet her attitude was one of complete mystery. I was uncertain whether the admission she had so unconsciously made regarding Phrida—that she was Digby's worst enemy—was the actual truth or not.
One thing was plain. This Mrs. Petre was a clever, far-seeing woman of the world, who had with great ingenuity held from me her knowledge of the crime.
A problem was, therefore, presented to me. By what means could she be aware of it? First, she had expected to meet Digby that evening; secondly, the letter I had brought was written before the assassination of the unknown girl.
How could she have obtained knowledge of the affair if it were not premeditated and hinted at in the letter I had so faithfully delivered?
Half way up St. James's Street my companion suddenly exclaimed:
"I must be going! Would you please hail me a taxi, Mr. Royle?"
"I will—when you have answered my question," I said, with great politeness.
"I have already replied to it," was her response. "You love Phrida Shand, but if you have any self-respect, any regard for your future, break off Whatever infatuation she has exercised over you. If you are Digby's friend, you will be a man, and act as such!"
"I really don't follow you," I said, bewildered.
"Perhaps not. But surely my words are plain enough!"
"Is she the enemy of Digby, of whom you have spoken?"
"That question I am not permitted to answer."
I was silent a few seconds. Then I asked earnestly:
"Tell me openly and frankly, Mrs. Petre. Is she the person you suspect of having committed the crime?"
She gave vent to a short dry laugh.
"Really, Mr. Royle," she exclaimed, "you put to me the most difficult riddles. How can I possibly suspect anyone of a crime of which I know nothing, and of which even the papers appear to be in ignorance?"
"But you are not in ignorance," I said. "How, pray, did you learn that a tragedy had occurred?"
"Ah!" she laughed. "That is my secret. You were very careful not to tell me the true cause of poor Digby's flight. Yes, Mr. Royle, I congratulate you upon your ingenuity in protecting thehonour of your friend. Rest assured he will not forget the great services you have already rendered him."
"I look for no reward. He was my friend," was my reply.
"Then, if he was your friend and you are still his, heed my warning concerning Phrida Shand."
"But tell me what you know?" I cried, clutching her arm as we walked together. "You don't understand that you are making allegations—terrible allegations—against the woman I love dearest in all the world. You have made an assertion, and I demand that you shall substantiate it," I added in frantic anxiety.
She shook off my hand angrily, declaring that nothing more need be said, and adding that if I refused to heed her, then the peril would be mine.
"But you shall not leave me until you have furnished me with proof of these perfidious actions of my love!" I declared vehemently.
"Mr. Royle, we really cannot use high words in the public street," she replied in a low tone of reproof. "I am sorry that I am not permitted to say more."
"But you shall!" I persisted. "Tell me—what do you know? Is Digby the real Sir Digby?"
"Of course he is!"
"And what are his exact relations with Phrida?"
"Ah!" she laughed. "You had better ask her yourself, Mr. Royle. She will, no doubt, tell you. Of course, she will—well, if you are to marry her. But there, I see that you are not quite responsible for your words this evening. It is, perhaps,natural in the circumstances; therefore I will forgive you."
"Natural!" I echoed. "I should think it is natural that I should resent such dastardly allegations when made against the woman I love."
"All I repeat is—go and ask her for yourself," was the woman's quiet response as she drew herself up, and pulled her fur more closely about her throat. "I really can't be seen here talking with you in that garb," she added.
"But you must tell me," I persisted.
"I can tell you no more than I have done. The girl you love will tell you everything, or—at least, if you have a grain of ingenuity, as you no doubt have—you will find out everything for yourself."
"Ah! but——"
"No, not another word, please, Mr. Royle—not to-night. If after making inquiry into the matter you care to come and see me when I am back in Park Mansions, I shall be very happy to receive you. By that time, however, I hope we shall have had news of poor Digby's whereabouts."
"If I hear from him—as I expect to—how can I communicate with you?" I asked.
For a few seconds she stood wondering.
"Write to me to Park Mansions," she replied. "My letters are always forwarded."
And raising her umbrella she herself hailed a passing taxi.
"Remember my warning," were her final words as she gave the man an address in Regent's Park, and entered the conveyance. "Go and see Phrida Shand at once and tell her what I have said."
"May I mention your name?" I asked hoarsely.
"Yes," she replied. "Good-night."
And a moment later I was gazing at the red back-lamp of the taxi, while soon afterwards I again caught a glimpse of the same lonely seller of shawls whom I had seen at the Tube station, trudging wearily homeward, there being no business doing at that hour of the evening.
I satin my rooms in Albemarle Street utterly bewildered.
My meeting with the mysterious woman who wore the spray of mimosa had, instead of assisting to clear up the mystery, increased it a hundredfold.
The grave suspicions I had entertained of Phrida had been corroborated by her strangely direct insinuations and her suggestion that I should go to her and tell her plainly what had been alleged.
Therefore, after a sleepless night, I went to Cromwell Road next morning, determined to know the truth. You can well imagine my state of mind when I entered Mrs. Shand's pretty morning-room, where great bowls of daffodils lent colour to the otherwise rather dull apartment.
Phrida entered, gay, fresh, and charming, in a dark skirt and white blouse, having just risen from breakfast.
"Really, Teddy," she laughed, "you ought to be awarded a prize for early rising. I fear I'm horribly late. It's ten o'clock. But mother and I went last night to the Aldwych, and afterwardswith the Baileys to supper at the Savoy. So I may be forgiven, may I not—eh?"
"Certainly, dear," I replied, placing my hand upon her shoulder. "What are you doing to-day?"
"Oh! I'm quite full up with engagements," she replied, crossing to the writing-table and consulting a porcelain writing tablet.
"I'm due at my dressmaker's at half-past eleven, then I've to call in Mount Street at half-past twelve, lunch at the Berkeley, where mother has two women to lunch with her, and a concert at Queen's Hall at three—quite a day, isn't it?" she laughed.
"Yes," I said. "You are very busy—too busy even to talk seriously with me—eh?"
"Talk seriously!" she echoed, looking me straight in the face. "What do you mean, Teddy? Why, what's the matter?"
"Oh! nothing very much, dearest," was my reply, for I was striving to remain calm, not withstanding my great anxiety and tortured mind.
"But there is," she persisted, clutching at my hand and looking eagerly into my face. "What is amiss? Tell me," she added, in low earnestness.
I was silent for a moment, and leaving her I crossed to the window and gazed out into the broad, grey thoroughfare, grim and dispiriting on that chilly January morning.
For a moment I held my breath, then, with sudden determination, I walked back to where she was standing, and placing both hands upon her shoulders, kissed her passionately upon the lips.
"You are upset to-day, Teddy," she said, with deep concern. "What has happened? Tell me, dear."
"I—I hardly know what's happened," I repliedin a low voice. "But, Phrida," I said, looking straight into her great eyes, "I want to—to ask you a question."
"A question—what?" she demanded, her cheeks paling slightly.
"Yes. I want you to tell me what you know of a Mrs. Petre, a——"
"Mrs. Petre!" she gasped, stepping back from me, her face pale as death in an instant. "That woman!"
"Yes, that woman, Phrida. Who is she—what is she?"
"Please don't ask me, Teddy," my love cried in distress, covering her pretty face with her hands and bursting suddenly into tears.
"But I must, Phrida—I must, for my own peace of mind," I said.
"Why? Do you know the woman?"
"I met her last night," I explained. "I delivered to her a note which my friend Digby had entrusted to me."
"I thought your friend had disappeared?" she said quickly.
"It was given to me before his flight," was my response. "I fulfilled a confidential mission with which he entrusted me. And—and I met her. She knows you—isn't that so?"
I stood with my eyes full upon the white face of the woman I loved, surveying her coldly and critically, so full of black suspicion. Was my heart at that moment wholly hers? In imagination, place yourself, my reader, in a similar position. Put before yourself the problem with which, at that second, I found myself face to face.
I loved Phrida, and yet had I not obtained proof positive of her clandestine visit to my friend onthat fateful night? Were her finger-prints not upon the little glass-topped specimen-table in his room?
And yet so clever, so ingenious had she been, so subtle was her woman's wit, that she had never admitted to me any knowledge of him further than a formal introduction I had once made long ago.
I had trusted her—aye, trusted her with all the open sincerity of an honourable man—for I loved her better than anything else on earth. And with what result?
With my own senses of smell and of hearing I had detected her presence on the stairs—waiting, it seemed, to visit my friend in secret after I had left.
No doubt she had been unaware of my identity as his visitor, or she would never dared to have lurked there.
As I stood with my hand tenderly upon her arm, the gaze of my well-beloved was directed to the ground. Guilt seemed written upon her white brow, for she dared not raise her eyes to mine.
"Phrida, you know that woman—you can't deny knowledge of her—can you?"
She stood like a statue, with her hands clenched, her mouth half open, her jaws fixed.
"I—I—I don't know what you mean," she faltered at last, in a hard voice quite unusual to her.
"I mean that I have a suspicion, Phrida—a horrible suspicion—that you have deceived me," I said.
"How?" she asked, with her harsh, forced laugh.
I paused. How should I tell her? How should I begin?
"You have suppressed from me certain knowledgeof which you know I ought to have been in possession for my friend Digby's sake, and——"
"Ah! Digby Kemsley again!" she cried impatiently. "You've not been the same to me since that man disappeared."
"Because you know more concerning him than you have ever admitted to me, Phrida," I said in a firm, earnest voice, grasping her by the arm and whispering into her ear. "Now, be open and frank with me—tell me the truth."
"Of what?" she faltered, raising her eyes to mine with a frightened look.
"Of what Mrs. Petre has told me."
"That woman! What has she said against me?" my love demanded with quick resentment.
"She is not your friend, in any case," I said slowly.
"My friend!" she echoed. "I should think not. She——"
And my love's little hands clenched themselves and she burst again into tears without concluding her sentence.
"I know, dearest," I said, striving to calm her, and stroking her hair from her white brow. "I tell you at once that I do not give credence to any of her foul allegations, only—well, in order to satisfy myself, I have come direct to you to hear your explanation."
"My—my explanation!" she gasped, placing her hand to her brow and bowing her head. "Ah! what explanation can I make of allegations I have never heard?" she demanded. "Surely, Teddy, you are asking too much."
I grasped her hand, and holding it in mine gazed again upon her. We were standing together near the centre of the room where the glowing fire sheda genial warmth and lit up the otherwise gloomy and solemn apartment.
Ah! how sweet she seemed to me, how dainty, how charming, how very pure. And yet? Ah! the recollection of that woman's insinuations on the previous night ate like a canker-worm into my heart. And yet how I loved the pale, agitated girl before me! Was she not all the world to me?
A long and painful silence had fallen between us, a silence only broken by the whirl of a taxi passing outside and the chiming of the long, old-fashioned clock on the stairs.
At last I summoned courage to say in a calm, low voice;
"I am not asking too much, Phrida. I am only pressing you to act with your usual honesty, and tell me the truth. Surely you can have nothing to conceal?"
"How absurd you are, Teddy!" she said in her usual voice. "What can I possibly have to conceal from you?"
"Pardon me," I said; "but you have already concealed from me certain very important facts concerning my friend Digby."
"Who has told you that? The woman Petre, I suppose," she cried in anger. "Very well, believe her, if you wish."
"But I don't believe her," I protested.
"Then why ask me for an explanation?"
"Because one is, I consider, due from you in the circumstances."
"Then you have set yourself up to be my judge, have you?" she asked, drawing herself up proudly, all traces of her tears having vanished. I saw that the attitude she had now assumed was one of defiance; therefore I knew that if I were to obtain the information I desired I must act with greatest discretion.
"No, Phrida," I answered. "I do not mistrust or misjudge you. All I ask of you is the truth. What do you know of my friend Digby Kemsley?"
"Know of him—why, nothing—except that you introduced us."
For a second I remained silent. Then with severity I remarked:
"Pardon me, but I think you rather misunderstood my question. I meant to ask whether you have ever been to his flat in Harrington Gardens?"
"Ah! I see," she cried instantly. "That woman Petre has endeavoured to set you against me, Teddy, because I love you. She has invented some cruel lie or other, just as she did in another case within my knowledge. Come," she added, "tell me out plainly what she has alleged against me?"
She was very firm and resolute now, and I saw in her face a hard, defiant expression—an expression of bitter hatred against the woman who had betrayed her.
"Well," I said; "loving you as intensely as I do, I can hardly bring myself to repeat her insinuations."
"But I demand to know them," she protested, standing erect and facing me. "I am attacked; therefore, I am within my right to know what charges the woman has brought against me."
"She has brought no direct charges," was my slow reply. "But she has suggested certain things—certain scandalous things."
"What are they?" she gasped, suddenly pale as death.
"First tell me the truth, Phrida," I cried, holding her in my arms and looking straight into those splendid eyes I admired so much. "Admit it—you knew Digby. He—he was a friend of yours?"
"A—a friend—" she gasped, half choking with emotion. "A—friend—yes."
"You knew him intimately. You visited him at his rooms unknown to me!" I went on fiercely.
"Ah!" she shrieked. "Don't torture me like this, Teddy, when I love you so deeply. You don't know—you can never know all I have suffered—and now this woman has sought to ruin and crush me!"
"Has she spoken the truth when she says that you visited Digby—at night—in secret!" I demanded, bitterly, between my teeth, still holding her, her white, hard-set face but a few inches from my own.
She drew a long, deep breath, and in her eyes was a strange half-fascinated look—a look that I had never seen in them before.
"Ah! Teddy," she gasped. "This—this is the death of all our love. I foresee only darkness and ruin before me. But I will not lie to you. No! I—I——"
Then she paused, and a shudder ran through her slim frame which I held within my grasp. "I'll tell you the truth. Yes. I—I—went to see your friend unknown to you."
"You did!" I cried hoarsely, with fierce anger possessing my soul.
"Yes, dear," she faltered in a voice so low that I could scarce catch her reply. "Yes—I—I wentthere," she faltered, "because—because he—he compelled me."
"Compelled you!" I echoed in blank dismay.
But at that instant I saw that the blackness of unconsciousness had fallen upon my love even as I held her in my embrace.
And for me, too, alas! the sun of life had ceased to shine, and the world was dead.