I stood silent, utterly dumbfounded.

Were those words an admission of her guilt?

Was it by her hand, as that woman had insinuated, the unknown girl's life had been taken?

I recollected the nature of the wound, as revealed by the medical evidence, and I recalled that knife which was lying upon the table in the drawing-room above.

Why did Phrida so carefully conceal from me the exact truth concerning her friendship with the man I had trusted? What secret power did he exercise over her? And why did she fear to reveal anything to me—even though I had assured her that my confidence in her remained unshaken.

Was not guilt written upon that hard, white face?

I stood staring out of the window in blank indecision. What I had all along half feared had been proved. Between my love and the man of whom I had never had the slightest suspicion, some secret—some guilty secret—existed.

And even now, even at risk of losing my affection, she was seeking to shield him!

My blood boiled within me, and I clenched my fists as I strode angrily up and down that dark room.

All her admissions came back to me—her frantic appeal to me not to prejudge her, and her final and out-spoken decision to take her own life rather than reveal the truth.

What could it mean? What was the real solution of that strange problem of crime in which, quite unwittingly, I had become so deeply implicated?

I was passing the grate in pacing the room, as I had already done several times, when my eyes fell upon a piece of paper which had been screwed up and flung there. Curiosity prompted me to pick it out of the cinders, for it struck me that it must have been thrown there by Phrida before I had entered the room.

To my surprise I saw the moment I held it in my hand that it was a telegram. Opening it carefully I found that it was addressed to her, therefore she had no doubt cast it upon the fire when I had so suddenly entered.

I read it, and stood open-mouthed and amazed.

By it the perfidy of the woman I loved, alas! became revealed.

She had deceived me!



CHAPTER XV.

AN EFFACED IDENTITY.

The telegram was signed with the initial "D."—Digby!

The words I read were—"Have discovered T suspects. Exercise greatest care, and remember your promise. We shall meet again soon."

The message showed that it had been handed in at Brussels at one o'clock that afternoon.

Brussels! So he was hiding there. Yes, I would lose no time in crossing to the gay little Belgian capital and search him out.

Before giving him up to the police I would meet him face to face and demand the truth. I would compel him to speak.

Should I retain possession of the message? I reflected. But, on consideration, I saw that when I had left, Phrida might return to recover it. If I replaced it where I had found it she would remain in ignorance of the knowledge I had gained.

So I screwed it up again and put it back among the cinders in the grate, afterwards leaving the house.

Next morning I stepped out upon the platform of the great Gare du Nord in Brussels—a city I knew well, as I had often been there on business—and drove in a taxi along the busy, bustling Boulevard Auspach to the Grand Hotel.

In the courtyard, as I got out, the frock-coated and urbane manager welcomed me warmly, for I had frequently been his guest, and I was shown to a large room overlooking the Boulevard where I had a wash and changed.

Then descending, I called a taxi and immediately began a tour of the various hotels where I thought it most likely that the man I sought might be.

The morning was crisp and cold, with a perfect sky and brilliant sunshine, bright and cheerful indeed after the mist and gloom of January in London.

Somehow the aspect, even in winter, is always brighter across the channel than in our much maligned little island. They know not the "pea-souper" on the other side of the Straits of Dover, and the light, invigorating atmosphere is markedly apparent directly one enters France or Belgium.

The business boulevards, the Boulevarde Auspach, and the Boulevard du Nord, with their smart shops, their big cafes, and their hustling crowds, were bright and gay as my taxi sped on, first to the Metropole, in the Place de Brouckere.

The name of Kemsley was unknown there. The old concierge glanced at his book, shook his head, and elevating his shoulders, replied:

"Non, m'sieur."

Thence I went to the Palace, in front of the station, the great new hotel and one of the finest in Europe, a huge, garish place of gilt and luxury. But there I met with equal success.

Then I made the tour of the tree-lined outer boulevards, up past the Botanical Gardens and along the Rue Royale, first to the Hotel de France, then to the Europe, the Belle Vue, the Carlton in the Avenue Louise, the new Wiltscher's a few doors away, and a very noted English house from the Boulevard Waterloo, as well as a dozen other houses in various parts of the town—the Cecil in the Boulevard du Nord, the Astoria in the Rue Royale, and even one or two of the cheaper pensions—the Dufour, De Boek's, and Nettell's, but all to no purpose.

Though I spent the whole of that day making investigations I met with no success.

Though I administered judicious tips to concierge after concierge, I could not stir the memory of a single one that within the past ten days any English gentleman answering the description I gave had stayed at their establishment.

Until the day faded, and the street lamps were lit, I continued my search, my taxi-driver having entered into the spirit of my quest, and from time to time suggesting other and more obscure hotels of which I had never heard.

But the reply was the same—a regretful "Non, m'sieur."

It had, of course, occurred to me that if the fugitive was hiding from the Belgian police, who no doubt had received his description from Scotland Yard, he would most certainly assume a false name.

But I hoped by my minute description to be able to stir the memory of one or other of the dozens of uniformed hall-porters whom I interviewed. The majority of such men have a remarkably retentive memory for a face, due to long cultivation, just as that possessed by one's club hall-porter, who can at once address any of the thousand or so members by name.

I confess, however, when at five o'clock, I sat in the huge, noisy Cafe Metropole over a glass of coffee and a liqueur of cognac, I began to realise the utter hopelessness of my search.

Digby Kemsley was ever an evasive person—a past master in avoiding observation, as I well knew. It had always been a hobby of his, he had told me, of watching persons without himself being seen.

Once he had remarked to me while we had been smoking together in that well-remembered room wherein the tragedy had taken place:

"I should make a really successful detective, Royle. I've had at certain periods of my life to efface myself and watch unseen. Now I've brought it to a fine art. If ever circumstances make it imperative for me to disappear—which I hope not," he laughed, "well—nobody will ever find me, I'm positive."

These words of his now came back to me as I sat there pensively smoking, and wondering if, after all, I had better not return again to London and remain patient for the additional police evidence which would no doubt be forthcoming at the adjourned inquest in a week's time.

I thought of the clever cunning exercised by the girl whom I so dearly loved and in whose innocence I had so confidently believed, of her blank refusal to satisfy me, and alas! of her avowed determination to shield the scoundrel who had posed as my friend, and whom the police had declared to be only a vulgar impostor.

My bitter reflection maddened me.

The jingle and chatter of that noisy cafe, full to overflowing at that hour, for rain had commenced to fall outside in the boulevard, irritated me. From where I sat in the window I could see the crowds of business people, hurrying through the rain to their trams and trains—the neat-waisted little modistes, the felt-hatted young clerks, the obese and over-dressed and whiskered men from their offices on the Bourse, the hawkers crying the "Soir," and the "Derniere Heure," with strident voices, the poor girls with rusty shawls and pinched faces, selling flowers, and the gaping, idling Cookites who seem to eternally pass and re-pass the Metropole at all hours of the day and the night.

Before my eyes was there presented the whole phantasmagoria of the life of the thrifty, hard-working Bruxellois, that active, energetic race which the French have so sarcastically designated "the brave Belgians."

After a lonely dinner in the big, glaring salle-a-manger, at the Grand, I went forth again upon my quest. That the fugitive had been in Brussels on the previous day was proved by his telegram, yet evasive as he was, he might have already left. Yet I hoped he still remained in the capital, and if so he would, I anticipated, probably go to one of the music-halls or variety theatres. Therefore I set out upon another round.

I strolled eagerly through the crowded promenade of the chief music-hall of Brussels—the Pole Nord, the lounge wherein men and women were promenading, laughing, and drinking, but I saw nothing of the man of whom I was in search.

I knew that he had shaved off his beard and otherwise altered his appearance. Therefore my attention upon those about me was compelled to be most acute.

I surveyed both stalls and boxes, but amid that gay, well-dressed crowd I could discover nobody the least resembling him.

From the Pole Nord I went to the Scala, where I watched part of an amusing revue; but my search there was likewise in vain, as it was also at Olympia, the Capucines, and the Folies Bergeres, which I visited in turn. Then, at midnight, I turned my attention to the big cafes, wandering from the Bourse along the Boulevard Auspach, entering each cafe and glancing around, until at two o'clock in the morning I returned to the Grand, utterly fagged out by my long vigil of over fifteen hours.

In my room I threw off my overcoat and flung myself upon the bed in utter despair.

Until I met that man face to face I could not, I saw, learn the truth concerning my love's friendship with him.

Mrs. Petre had made foul insinuations, and now that my suspicions had been aroused that Phrida might actually be guilty of that terrible crime at Harrington Gardens, the whole attitude of my well-beloved seemed to prove that my suspicions were well grounded.

Indeed, her last unfinished sentence as she had rushed from the room seemed conclusive proof of the guilty secret by which her mind was now overburdened.

She had never dreamed that I held the slightest suspicion. It was only when she knew that the woman Petre had met me and had talked with me that she saw herself betrayed. Then, when I had spoken frankly, and told her what the woman had said, she saw that to further conceal her friendship with Digby was impossible.

Every word she had spoken, every evasive sentence, every protest that she was compelled to remain silent, recurred to me as I lay there staring blankly at the painted ceiling.

She had told me that she was unaware of the fugitive's whereabouts, and yet not half an hour before she had received a telegram from him.

Yes, Phrida—the woman I trusted and loved with such a fierce, passionate affection, had lied to me deliberately and barefacedly.

But I was on the fellow's track, and cost what it might in time, or in money, I did not intend to relinquish my search until I came face to face with him.

That night, as I tossed restlessly in bed, it occurred to me that even though he might be in Brussels, it was most probable in the circumstances that he would exercise every precaution in his movements, and knowing that the police were in search of him, would perhaps not go forth in the daytime.

Many are the Englishmen living "under a cloud" in Brussels, as well as in Paris, and there is not a Continental city of note which does not contain one or more of those who have "gone under" at home.

Seedy and down-at-heel, they lounge about the cafes and hotels frequented by English travellers. Sometimes they sit apart, pretend to sip their cup of coffee and read a newspaper, but in reality they are listening with avidity to their own language being spoken by their own people—poor, lonely, solitary exiles.

Every man who knows the by-ways of the Continent has met them often in far-off, obscure towns, where they bury themselves in the lonely wilderness of a drab back street and live high-up for the sake of fresh air and that single streak of sunshine which is the sole pleasure of their broken, blighted lives.

Yes, the more I reflected, the more apparent did it become that if the man whom Inspector Edwards had declared to be a gross impostor was still in the Belgian capital, he would most probably be in safe concealment in one or other of the cheaper suburbs.

But how could I trace him?

To go to the bureau of police and make a statement would only defeat my own ends.

No; if I intended to learn the truth I must act upon my own initiative. Official interference would only thwart my own endeavours.

I knew Digby Kemsley. He was as shrewd and cunning as any of the famous detectives, whether in real life or in fiction. Therefore, to be a match for him, I would, I already realised, be compelled to fight him with his own weapons.

I did not intend that he should escape me before he told me, with his own lips, the secret of my well-beloved.



CHAPTER XVI.

REVEALS ANOTHER ENIGMA.

"The identity of the victim has not yet been established, sir."

These words were spoken to the coroner by Inspector Edwards at the adjourned inquest held on January the twenty-second.

Few people were in court, for, until the present, the public had had no inkling as to what had occurred on that fatal night in Harrington Gardens. The first inquest had not been "covered" by any reporter, as the police had exercised considerable ingenuity in keeping the affair a secret.

But now, at the adjourned inquiry, secrecy was no longer possible, and the three reporters present were full of inquisitiveness regarding the evidence given on the previous occasion, and listened with attention while it was being read over.

Inspector Edwards, however, had dealt with them in his usually genial manner, and by the exercise of considerable diplomacy had succeeded in allaying their suspicions that there was any really good newspaper "story" in connection with it.

The medical witnesses were recalled, but neither had anything to add to the depositions they had already made. The deceased had been fatally stabbed by a very keen knife with a blade of peculiar shape. That was all.

The unknown had been buried, and all that remained in evidence was a bundle of blood-stained clothing, some articles of jewellery, a pair of boots, hat, coat, gloves, and a green leather vanity-bag.

"Endeavours had been made, sir, to trace some of the articles worn by the deceased, and also to establish the laundry marks on the underclothing," the inspector went on, "but, unfortunately, the marks have been pronounced by experts to be foreign ones, and the whole of the young lady's clothes appear to have been made abroad—in France or Belgium, it is thought."

"The laundry marks are foreign, eh?" remarked the coroner, peering at the witness through his pince-nez, and poising his pen in his hand. "Are you endeavouring to make inquiry abroad concerning them?"

"Every inquiry is being made, sir, in a dozen cities on the continent. In fact, in all the capitals."

"And the description of the deceased has been circulated?"

"Yes, sir. Photographs have been sent through all the channels in Europe. But up to the present we have met with no success," Edwards replied. "There is a suspicion because of a name upon a tab in the young girl's coat that she may be Italian. Hence the most ardent search is being made by the Italian authorities into the manner and descriptions of females lately reported as missing."

"The affair seems remarkably curious," said the coroner. "It would certainly appear that the lady who lost her life was a stranger to London."

"That is what we believe, sir," Edwards replied. Seated near him, I saw how keen and shrewd was the expression upon his face. "We have evidence that certain persons visited the flat on the night in question, but these have not yet been identified. The owner of the flat has not yet been found, he having absconded."

"Gone abroad, I suppose?"

"It would appear so, sir."

"And his description has been circulated also?" asked the coroner.

"Yes, a detailed description, together with a recent photograph," was Edwards' reply. Then he added: "We have received this at Scotland Yard, sir—an anonymous communication which may or may not throw considerable light on to the affair," and he handed a letter on blue paper to the coroner, which the latter perused curiously, afterwards passing it over to the foreman of the jury.

"Rather remarkable!" he exclaimed.

Then, when the jury had completed reading the anonymous letter, addressing them, he said:

"It is not for you, gentlemen, to regard that letter in the light of evidence, but, nevertheless, it raises a very curious and mysterious point. The writer, as you will note, is prepared to reveal the truth of the whole affair in return for a monetary reward. It is, of course, a matter to be left entirely at the discretion of the police."

I started at this statement, and gazed across the court—dull and cheerless on that cold winter's afternoon.

Who had written that anonymous letter? Who could it be who was ready to reveal the truth if paid for doing so?

Was Phrida's terrible secret known?

I held my breath, and listened to the slow, hard words of the coroner, as he again addressed some questions to the great detective.

"Yes, sir," Edwards was saying. "There is distinct evidence of the presence at the flat on the night in question of some person—a woman whose identity we have not yet been successful in establishing. We, however, have formed a theory which certainly appears to be borne out by the writer of the letter I have just handed you."

"That the unknown was struck down by the hand of a woman—eh?" asked the Coroner, looking sharply across at the Inspector, who briefly replied in the affirmative, while I sat staring straight before me, like a man in a dream.

I heard the Coroner addressing the jury in hard, business-like tones, but I know not what he said. My heart was too full to think of anything else besides the peril of the one whom I loved.

I know that the verdict returned by the jury was one of "Wilful murder." Then I went out into the fading light of that brief London day, and, seeking Edwards, walked at his side towards the busy Kensington High Street.

We had not met for several days, and he, of course, had no knowledge of my visit to Brussels. Our greeting was a cordial one, whereupon I asked him what was contained in the anonymous letter addressed to "The Yard"?

"Ah! Mr. Royle. It's very curious," he said. "The Coroner has it at this moment, or I'd show it to you. The handwriting is a woman's, and it has been posted at Colchester."

"At Colchester!" I echoed in dismay.

"Yes, why?" he asked, looking at me in surprise.

"Oh, nothing. Only—well, Colchester is a curious place for anyone to live who knows the truth about an affair in Kensington," was my reply, for fortunately I quickly recovered myself.

"Why not Colchester as well as Clapham—eh?"

"Yes, of course," I laughed. "But, tell me, what does the woman say?"

"She simply declares that she can elucidate the mystery and give us the correct clue—even bring evidence if required—as to the actual person who committed the crime, if we, on our part, will pay for the information."

"And what shall you do?" I asked eagerly.

"I don't exactly know. The letter only arrived this morning. To-morrow the Council of Seven will decide what action we take."

"Does the woman give her name?" I asked with affected carelessness.

"No. She only gives the name of 'G. Payne,' and the address as 'The G.P.O., London.' She's evidently a rather cute person."

"G. Payne"—the woman Petre without a doubt.

I recollected her telegram asking me to meet her. She had said that something had "happened," and she had urged me to see her as soon as possible. Was it because I had not replied that she had penned that anonymous letter to the police?

The letter bore the Colchester post-mark, and she, I knew, lived at Melbourne House in that town.

"I suppose you will get into communication with her," I exclaimed presently.

"Of course. Any line of action in the elucidation of the mystery is worth trying. But what I cannot quite understand is, why she requires blood-money," remarked the detective as we strolled together in the arcaded entrance to the Underground Station at High Street, Kensington. "I always look askance at such letters. We receive many of them at the Yard. Not a single murder mystery comes before us, but we receive letters from cranks and others offering to point out the guilty person."

"But may not the writers of such letters be endeavouring to fasten guilt upon perfectly innocent persons against whom they have spite?" I suggested.

"Ah! That's just it, Mr. Royle," exclaimed my companion gravely. "Yet it is so terribly difficult to discriminate, and I fear we often, in our hesitation, place aside letters, the writers of which could really give valuable information."

"But in this case, what are your natural inclinations?" I asked. "I know that you possess a curious, almost unique, intuition as to what is fact and what is fiction. What is, may I term it, your private opinion?"

He halted against the long shop-windows of Derry & Toms, and paused for several minutes.

"Well," he said at last in a deeply earnest tone, "I tell you frankly, Mr. Royle, what I believe. First, I don't think that the man Kemsley, although an impostor, was the actual assassin."

"Why?" I gasped.

"Well—I've very carefully studied the whole problem. I've looked at it from every point of view," he said. "I confess the one fact puzzles me, that this man Kemsley could live so long in London and pose as the dead Sir Digby if he were not the actual man himself, has amazed me! In his position as Sir Digby, the great engineer, he must have met in society many persons who knew him. We have evidence that he constantly moved in the best circles in Mayfair, and apparently without the slightest compunction. Yet, in contradiction, we have the remarkable fact that the real Sir Digby died in South America in very mysterious and tragic circumstances."

I saw that a problem was presented to Inspector Edwards which sorely puzzled him, as it certainly did myself.

"Well," I asked after a pause, and then with some trepidation put the question, "what do you intend doing?"

"Doing!" he echoed. "There is but one course to pursue. We must get in touch with this woman who says she knows the truth, and obtain what information we can from her. Perhaps she can reveal the identity of the woman whose fingers touched that glass-topped table in the room where the crime was committed. If so, that will tell us a great deal, Mr. Royle." Then, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tapping it, he added, "Do you know, I've been wondering of late how it is that you got those finger-prints which so exactly corresponded with the ones which we secured in the flat. How did you obtain them?"

His question non-plussed me.

"I had a suspicion," I replied in a faltering voice, "and I tried to corroborate it."

"But you have corroborated it," he declared. "Why, Mr. Royle, those prints you brought to the Yard are a most important clue. Where did you get them?"

I was silent for a moment, jostled by the crowd of passers-by.

"Well," I said with a faint smile, realising what a grave mistake I had made in inculpating my well-beloved, "I simply made some experiments as an amateur in solving the mystery."

"Yes, but those prints were the same as those we got from the flat. Whence did they come?"

"I obtained them upon my own initiative," I replied, with a forced laugh.

"But you must surely tell me, Mr. Royle," he urged quickly. "It's a most important point."

"No," I replied. "I'm not a detective, remember. I simply put to the test a suspicion I have entertained."

"Suspicion of what?"

"Whether my theory was correct or not."

"Whatever theory you hold, Mr. Royle, the truth remains the same. I truly believe," he said, looking hard at me, "namely that the unknown victim was struck down by the hand which imprinted the marks you brought to me—a woman's hand. And if I am not mistaken, sir—you know the identity of the guilty woman!"



CHAPTER XVII.

CONCERNS MRS. PETRE.

Days, weeks, passed, but I could obtain no further clue. The month of March lengthened into April, but we were as far as ever from a solution of the mystery.

Since my return from Brussels I had, of course seen Phrida many, many times, and though I had never reverted again to the painful subject, yet her manner and bearing showed only too plainly that she existed in constant dread!

Her face had become thin and haggard, with dark rings around her eyes and upon it was a wild, hunted expression, which she strove to disguise, but in vain.

She now treated me with a strange, cold indifference, so unlike her real self, while her attitude was one of constant attention and strained alertness.

The woman Petre had apparently not been approached by Scotland Yard, therefore as the days went by I became more and more anxious to see her, to speak with her—and, if necessary, to come to terms with her.

Therefore, without a word to anyone, I one evening caught the six o'clock train from Liverpool Street, and before eight was eating my dinner in the big upstairs room of The Cups Hotel, while the hall-porter was endeavouring to discover for me the whereabouts of Melbourne House.

I had nearly finished my meal when the uniformed servant entered, cap in hand, saying:

"I've found, sir, that the house you've been inquiring for is out on the road to Marks Tey, about a mile. An old lady named Miss Morgan lived there for many years, but she died last autumn, and the place has, they say, been let furnished to a lady—a Mrs. Petre. Is that the lady you are trying to find?"

"It certainly is," I replied, much gratified at the man's success. Then, placing a tip in his palm, I drank off my coffee, put on my overcoat, and descended to the taxi which he had summoned for me.

He gave directions to the driver, and soon we were whirling along the broad streets of Colchester, and out of the town on the dark, open road which led towards London. Presently we pulled up, and getting out, I found myself before a long, low, ivy-covered house standing back behind a high hedge of clipped box, which divided the small, bare front garden from the road. Lonely and completely isolated, it stood on the top of a hill with high, leafless trees behind, and on the left a thick copse. In front were wide, bare, open fields.

Opening the iron gate I walked up the gravelled path to the door and rang. In a window on the right a light showed, and as I listened I heard the tramp of a man's foot upon the oilcloth of the hall, and next moment the door was unlocked and opened.

A tall, thin-faced young man of somewhat sallow complexion confronted me. He had keen, deep-set eyes, broad forehead, and pointed chin.

"Is Mrs. Petre at home?" I inquired briefly.

In a second he looked at me as though with distrust, then apparently seeing the taxi waiting, and satisfying himself that I was a person of respectability, he replied in a refined voice:

"I really don't know, but I'll see, if you will step in?" and he ushered me into a small room at the rear of the house, a cosy but plainly-furnished little sitting-room, wherein a wood fire burned with pleasant glow.

I handed him my card and sat down to wait, in the meanwhile inspecting my surroundings with some curiosity.

Now, even as I recall that night, I cannot tell why I should have experienced such a sense of grave insecurity as I did when I sat there awaiting the woman's coming. I suppose we all of us possess in some degree that strange intuition of impending danger. It was so with me that night—just as I have on other occasions been obsessed by that curious, indescribable feeling that "something is about to happen."

There was about that house an air of mystery which caused me to hesitate in suspicion. Whether it was owing to its lonely position, to the heavy mantle of ivy which hid its walls, to the rather weird and unusual appearance of the young man who had admitted me, or to the mere fact that I was there to meet the woman who undoubtedly knew the truth concerning the tragic affair, I know not. But I recollect a distinct feeling of personal insecurity.

I knew the woman I was about to meet to be a cold, hard, unscrupulous person, who, no doubt, held my love's liberty—perhaps her life—in the hollow of her hand.

That horrifying thought had just crossed my mind when my reflections were interrupted by the door opening suddenly and there swept into the room the lady upon whom I had called.

"Ah! Mr. Royle!" she cried in warm welcome, extending her rather large hand as she stood before me, dressed quietly in black, relieved by a scarlet, artificial rose in her waistband. "So you've come at last. Ah! do you know I've wanted to meet you for days. I expected you would come to me the moment you returned from Brussels."

I started, and stood staring at her without replying. She knew I had been to Belgium. Yet, as far as I was aware, nobody knew of my visit—not even Haines.

"You certainly seem very well acquainted with my movements, Mrs. Petre," I laughed.

But she only shrugged her shoulders. Then she said:

"I suppose there was no secrecy regarding your journey, was there?"

"Not in the least," I replied. "I had business over there, as I very often have. My firm do a big business in Belgium and Holland."

She smiled incredulously.

"Did your business necessitate your visiting all the hotels and music-halls?"

"How did you know that?" I asked in quick surprise.

But she only pursed her lips, refusing to give me satisfaction. I saw that I must have been watched—perhaps by Digby himself. The only explanation I could think of was that he, with his clever cunning, had watched me, and had written to this woman, his accomplice, telling her of my search.

"Oh! don't betray the source of your information if you consider it so indiscreet," I said with sarcasm a few moments later. "I came here, Mrs. Petre, in response to your invitation. You wished to see me?"

"I did. But I fear it is now too late to avert what I had intended," was her quiet response. The door was closed, the room was silent, and we were alone.

Seated in an armchair the woman leaned back and gazed at me strangely from beneath her long, half-closed lashes, as though undecided what she should say. I instantly detected her hesitation, and said:

"You told me in your message that something unexpected had occurred. What is it? Does it concern our mutual friend, Digby?"

"Friend!" she echoed. "You call him your friend, and yet at the same time you have been in search of him, intending to betray him to the police!"

"Such was certainly not my intention," I declared firmly. "I admit that I have endeavoured to find him, but it was because I wished to speak with him."

"Ah! of course," she sneered. "That girl Shand has, perhaps, made a statement to you, and now you want to be inquisitive, eh? She's been trying to clear herself by telling you some fairy-tale or another, I suppose?"

"I repeat, Mrs. Petre," I said with anger, "I have no desire nor intention to act towards Digby in any way other than with friendliness."

"Ah! You expect me to believe that, my dear sir," she laughed, snapping her fingers airily. "No, that girl is his enemy, and I am hers."

"And that is the reason why you have sent the anonymous letter to the police!" I said in a low, hard voice, my eyes full upon her.

She started at my words.

"What letter?" she asked, in pretence of ignorance.

"The one mentioned at the adjourned inquest at Kensington," I replied. "The one in which you offer to sell the life of the woman I love!"

"So you know she is guilty—eh?" the woman asked. "She has confessed it to you—has she not?"

"No. She is innocent," I cried. "I will never believe in her guilt until it is proved."

"Then it will not be long, Mr. Royle, before you will have quite sufficient proof," she replied with a triumphant smile upon her lips.

"You are prepared to sell those proofs, I understand," I said, suddenly assuming an air of extreme gravity. "Now, I'm a business man. If you wish to dispose of this information, why not sell it to me?"

She laughed in my face.

"No, not to you, my dear sir. My business is with the police, not with the girl's lover," was her quick response.

"But the price," I said. "I will outbid the police if necessary."

"No doubt you would be only too glad of the chance of saving the girl who has so cleverly deceived you. But, without offence, Mr. Royle, I certainly think you are a fool to act as you are now acting," she added. "A foul crime of jealousy has been committed, and the assassin must pay the penalty of her crime."

"And you allege jealousy as the motive?" I gasped.

"Most certainly," she answered. Then, after a pause of a few seconds, she added—"The girl you have so foolishly trusted and in whom you still believe so implicitly, left her home in Cromwell Road in the night, as she had often done before, and walked round to Harrington Gardens in order to see Digby. There, in his rooms, she met her rival—she had suspicions and went there on purpose armed with a knife. And with it she struck the girl down, and killed her."

"It's a lie!" I cried, starting to my feet. "A foul, wicked lie!"

"But what I say can be proved."

"At a price," I said bitterly.

"As you are a business man, so I am a business woman, Mr. Royle," she replied quite calmly. "When I see an opportunity of making money, I do not hesitate to seize it."

"But if you know the truth—if this is the actual truth which at present I will not believe—then it is your duty, nay, you are bound by law to go to the police and tell them what you know."

"I shall do that, never fear," she laughed. "But first I shall try and get something for my trouble."

"And whom do you intend to bring up as witness against Miss Shand?" I asked.

"Wait and see. There will be a witness—an eye-witness, who was present, and whose evidence will be corroborated," she declared in due course with a self-satisfied air. "I have not resolved to reveal the truth without fully reviewing the situation. When the police know—as they certainly will—you will then find that I have not lied, and perhaps you will alter your opinion of the girl you now hold in such high esteem."



CHAPTER XVIII.

DISCLOSES THE TRAP.

The woman's words held me speechless.

She seemed so cold, so determined, so certain of her facts that I felt, when I came to consider what I already had proved, that she was actually telling me the ghastly truth.

And yet I loved Phrida. No. I refused to allow my suspicions to be increased by this woman who had approached the police openly and asked for payment for her information.

She was Phrida's enemy. Therefore it was my duty to treat her as such, and in a moment I had decided upon my course of action.

"So I am to take it that both Digby and yourself are antagonistic towards Phrida Shand?" I exclaimed, leaning against the round mahogany table and facing her.

She did not speak for a few seconds, then, springing to her feet, exclaimed:

"Would you excuse me for a few seconds? I forgot to give an order to my servant who is just going out."

And she bustled from the room, leaving me alone with my own confused thoughts.

Ah! The puzzling problem was maddening me. In my investigations I now found myself in a cul-de-sac from which there seemed no escape. The net, cleverly woven without a doubt, was slowly closing about my poor darling, now so pale, and anxious, and trembling.

Had she not already threatened to take her own life at first sign of suspicion being cast upon her by the police!

Was that not in itself, alas! a sign that her secret was a guilty one?

I knew not what to do, or how to act.

I suppose my hostess had been absent for about five minutes when the door suddenly re-opened, and she entered.

"When we were interrupted, Mrs. Petre," I said, as she advanced towards me, "I was asking you a plain question. Please give me a plain reply. You and Phrida Shand are enemies, are you not?"

"Well, we are not exactly friends," she laughed, "after all that has occurred. I think I told you that in London."

"I remember all that you told me," I replied. "But I want to know the true position, if—whether we are friends, or enemies? For myself, it matters not. I will be your friend with just as great a satisfaction as I will be your enemy. Now, let us understand each other. I have told you, I'm a man of business."

The woman, clever and resourceful, smiled sweetly, and in a calm voice replied:

"Really, Mr. Royle, I don't see why, after all, we should be enemies, that is, if what you tell me is the positive truth, that you owe my friend Digby no ill-will."

"I owe no man ill-will until his perfidy is proved," was my reply. "I merely went to Brussels to try and find him and request an explanation. He charged me with a mission which I discharged with the best of my ability, but which, it seems, has only brought upon me a grave calamity—the loss of the one I love. Hence I am entitled to some explanation from his own lips!"

"Which I promise you that you shall have in due course. So rest assured upon that point," she urged. "But that is in the future. We are, however, discussing the present. By the way—you'll take something to drink, won't you?"

"No, thank you," I protested.

"But you must have something. I'm sorry I have no whisky to offer you, but I have some rather decent port," and disregarding my repeated protests, she rang the bell, whereupon the young man who had admitted me—whom I now found to my surprise to be a servant—entered and bowed.

"Bring some port," his mistress ordered, and a few moments later he reappeared with a decanter and glasses upon a silver tray.

She poured me out a glass, but refused to have any herself.

"No, no," she laughed, "at my time of life port wine would only make me fat—and Heaven knows I'm growing horribly stout now. You don't know, Mr. Royle, what horror we women have of stoutness. In men it is a sign of ease and prosperity, in women it is suggestive of alcoholism and puts ten years on their ages."

Out of politeness, I raised my glass to her and drank. Her demeanour had altered, and we were now becoming friends, a fact which delighted me, for I saw I might, by the exercise of a little judicious diplomacy, act so as to secure protection for Phrida.

While we were chatting, I suddenly heard the engine of my taxi started, and the clutch put in with a jerk.

"Why!" I exclaimed, surprised. "I believe that's my taxi going away. I hope the man isn't tired of waiting!"

"No. I think it is my servant. I 'phoned for a cab for her, as I want her to take a message into Colchester," Mrs. Petre replied. Then, settling herself in the big chair, she asked:

"Now, why can't we be friends, Mr. Royle?"

"That I am only too anxious to be," I declared.

"It is only your absurd infatuation for Phrida Shand that prevents you," she said. "Ah!" she sighed. "How grossly that girl has deceived you!"

I bit my lip. My suspicions were surely bitter enough without the sore being re-opened by this woman.

Had not Phrida's admissions been a self-condemnation to which, even though loving her as fervently as I did, I could not altogether blind myself.

I did not speak. My heart was too full, and strangely enough my head seemed swimming, but certainly not on account of the wine I had drunk, for I had not swallowed more than half the glass contained.

The little room seemed to suddenly become stifling. Yet that woman with the dark eyes seemed to watch me intently as I sat there, watch me with a strange, deep, evil glance—an expression of fierce animosity which even at that moment she could not conceal.

She had openly avowed that the hand of my well-beloved had killed the unknown victim because of jealousy. Well, when I considered all the facts calmly and deliberately, her words certainly seemed to bear the impress of truth.

Phrida had confessed to me that, rather than face inquiry and condemnation she would take her own life. Was not that in itself sufficient evidence of guilt?

But no! I strove to put such thoughts behind me. My brain was awhirl, nay, even aflame, for gradually there crept over me a strange, uncanny feeling of giddiness such as I had never before experienced, a faint, sinking feeling, as though the chair was giving way beneath me.

"I don't know why, but I'm feeling rather unwell," I remarked to my hostess. Surely it could not be due to my overwrought senses and my strained anxiety for Phrida's safety.

"Oh! Perhaps it's the heat of the room," the woman replied. "This place gets unpleasantly warm at night. You'll be better in a minute or two, no doubt. I'll run and get some smelling salts. It is really terribly close in here," and, rising quickly, she left me alone.

I remember that instantly she had disappeared a red mist gathered before my eyes, and with a fearful feeling of asphyxiation I struggled violently, and fell back exhausted into my chair, while my limbs grew suddenly icy cold, though my brow was burning.

To what could it be due?

I recollect striving to think, to recall facts, to reason within myself, but in vain. My thoughts were so confused that grim, weird shadows and grotesque forms arose within my imagination. Scenes, ludicrous and tragic, wildly fantastic and yet horrible, were conjured up in my disordered brain, and with them all, pains—excruciating pains, which shot through from the sockets of my eyes to the back of my skull, inflicting upon me tortures indescribable.

I set my teeth in determination not to lose consciousness beneath the strain, and my eyes were fixed upon the wall opposite. I remember now the exact pattern of the wallpaper, a design of pale blue trellis-work with crimson rambler roses.

I suppose I must have remained in that position, sunk into a heap in the chair, for fully five minutes, though to me it seemed hours when I suddenly became conscious of the presence of persons behind me.

I tried to move—to turn and look—but found that every muscle in my body had become paralysed. I could not lift a finger, neither would my lips articulate any sound other than a gurgle when I tried to cry out. And yet I remained in a state of consciousness, half blotted out by those weird, fantastic and dreamy shapes, due apparently to the effect of that wine upon my brain.

Had I been deliberately poisoned? The startling truth flashed across my mind just as I heard a low stealthy movement behind me.

Yes. I was helpless there, in the hands of my enemies. I, wary as I believed myself to be, had fallen into a trap cunningly prepared by that clever woman who was Digby's accomplice.

I now believed all that Edwards had told me of the man's cunning and his imposture. How that he had assumed the identity of a clever and renowned man who had died so mysteriously in South America. Perhaps he had killed him—who could tell?

As these bitter thoughts regarding the man whom I had looked upon as a friend flitted through my brain, I saw to my amazement, standing boldly before me, the woman Petre with two men, one a dark-bearded, beetle-browed, middle-aged man of Hindu type—a half-caste probably—while the other was the young man who had admitted me.

The Hindu bent until his scraggy whiskers almost touched my cheek, looking straight into my eyes with keen, intent gaze, but without speaking.

I saw that the young man had carried a small deal box about eighteen inches square, which he had placed upon the round mahogany table in the centre of the room.

This table the woman pushed towards my chair until I was seated before it. But she hardly gave me a glance.

I tried to speak, to inquire the reason of such strange proceedings, but it seemed that the drug which had been given me in that wine had produced entire muscular paralysis. I could not move, neither could I speak. My brain was on fire and swimming, yet I remained perfectly conscious, horrified to find myself so utterly and entirely helpless.

The sallow-faced man, in whose black eyes was an evil, murderous look, and upon whose thin lips there played a slight, but triumphant smile, took both my arms and laid them straight upon the table.

I tried with all my power to move them, but to no purpose. As he placed them, so they remained.

Then, for the first time, the woman spoke, and addressing me, said in a hard, harsh tone:

"You are Digby's enemy, and mine, Mr. Royle. Therefore you will now see the manner in which we treat those who endeavour to thwart our ends. You have been brave, but your valour has not availed you much. The secret of Digby Kemsley is still a secret—and will ever be a secret," she added in a slow, meaning voice.

And as she uttered those words the half-bred Indian took my head in his hands and forced my body forward until my head rested upon the table between my outstretched arms.

Again I tried to raise myself, and to utter protest, but only a low gurgling escaped my parched lips. My jaws were set and I could not move them.

Ah! the situation was the strangest in which I have ever found myself in all my life.

Suddenly, while my head lay upon the polished table I saw the Hindu put a short double-reed pipe to his mouth, and next instant the room was filled with weird, shrill music, while at the same moment he unfastened the side of the little box and let down the hinged flap.

Again the native music sounded more shrill than before, while the woman and the young man-servant had retreated backward towards the door, their eyes fixed upon the mysterious box upon the table.

I, too, had my eyes upon the box.

Suddenly I caught sight of something within, and next second held my breath, realising the horrible torture that was intended.

I lay there helpless, powerless to draw back and save myself.

Again the sounds of the pipe rose and then died away slowly in a long drawn-out wail.

My eyes were fixed upon that innocent-looking little box in horror and fascination.

Ah! Something moved again within.

I saw it—saw it quite plainly.

I tried to cry out—to protest, to shout for help. But in vain.

Surely this woman's vengeance was indeed a fiendish and relentless one.

My face was not more than a foot away from the mysterious box, and when I fully realised, in my terror, what was intended, I think my brain must have given way.

I became insane!



CHAPTER XIX.

THE SEAL OF SILENCE.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. Terror and horror had driven me mad.

And surely the deadly peril in which I found myself was in itself sufficient to cause the cheek of the bravest man to pale, for from that box there slowly issued forth a large, hideous cobra, which, coiling with sinuous slowness in front of my face held its hooded head erect, ready to strike.

While the Hindu played that weird music on the pipes its head with the two beady eyes and flickering tongue, moved slowly to and fro. It was watching me and ready to deal its fatal blow.

The woman saw the perspiration standing upon my white brow, and burst out laughing, still standing at a safe distance near the door.

"Ah! Mr. Royle, you won't have much further opportunity of investigation," she exclaimed. "You have become far too inquisitive, and you constitute a danger—hence this action. I'm very sorry, but it must be so," declared the brutal, inhuman woman.

She was watching, gloating over her triumph; waiting, indeed, for my death.

Surely I was not their first victim! All had been carried out in a method which showed that the paralysing drug and the deadly reptile had been used before by this strange trio.

The music, now being played incessantly, apparently prevented the snake from darting at me, as it was, no doubt, under the hypnotic influence of its master. But I knew that the moment the music ceased it would be my last.

With frantic efforts I struggled to withdraw my head and hands from the reptile's reach, but every muscle seemed powerless. I could not budge an inch.

Again I tried to speak, to shout for help, but no word could I articulate. I was dead in all save consciousness.

"Oh, yes," laughed Mrs. Petre hoarsely; "we're just playing you a little music—to send you to sleep—to put the seal of silence upon you, Mr. Royle. And I hope you'll sleep very well to-night—very well—as no doubt you will!" and she gave vent to a loud peal of harsh laughter.

Then, for a moment she hesitated, until suddenly she cried to the Hindu:

"Enough!"

The music ceased instantly, and the snake, whose hooded head had been swaying to and fro slowly, suddenly shot up erect.

The spell of the music was broken, and I knew my doom was sealed.

Those small, brilliant eyes were fastened upon mine, staring straight at me, the head moving very slowly, while those three brutes actually watched my agony of terror, and exchanged smiles as they waited for the reptile to strike its fatal blow.

In an instant its fangs would, I knew, be in my face, and into my blood would be injected that deadly venom which must inevitably prove fatal.

Yes, I had been entrapped, and they held the honours in the game. After my death Phrida would be denounced, accused, and convicted as an assassin. Because, perhaps, I might be a witness in her favour, or even assist her to escape arrest, this woman had taken the drastic step of closing my lips for ever.

But was it with Digby's knowledge? Had he ever been her accomplice in similar deeds to this?

Suddenly I recollected with a start what Edwards had told me—that the real Sir Digby Kemsley, an invalid, had died of snake-bite in mysterious circumstances, in Peru; and that his friend, a somewhat shady Englishman named Cane, had been suspected of placing the reptile near him, owing to the shouts of terror of the doomed man being overheard by a Peruvian man-servant.

Was it possible that the man whom I had known as Digby was actually Cane?

The method of the snake was the same as that practised at Huacho!

These, and other thoughts, flashed across my brain in an instant, for I knew that the agony of a fearful death would be quickly upon me.

I tried to utter a curse upon those three brutes who stood looking on without raising a hand to save me, but still I could not speak.

Suddenly, something black shot across my startled eyes. The reptile had darted.

The horror of that moment held me transfixed.

I felt a sharp sting upon my left cheek, and next instant, petrified by a terror indescribable, I lost consciousness.

What happened afterwards I have no idea. I can only surmise.

How long I remained senseless I cannot tell. All I am aware of is that when I returned to a knowledge of things about me I had a feeling that my limbs were benumbed and cramped. Against my head was a cold, slimy wall, and my body was lying in water.

For a time, dazed as I was, I could not distinguish my position. My thoughts were all confused; all seemed pitch darkness, and the silence was complete save for the slow trickling of water somewhere near my head.

I must have lain there a full hour, slowly gathering my senses. The back of my head was very sore, for it seemed as though I had received a heavy blow, while my elbows and knees seemed cut and bruised.

In the close darkness I tried to discover where I was, but my brain was swimming with an excruciating pain in the top of my skull.

Slowly, very slowly, recollections of the past came back to me—remembrance of that terrible, final half-hour.

Yes, Joy! I was still alive; the loathsome reptile's fang had not produced death. It may have bitten some object and evacuated its venom just prior to biting me. That was the theory which occurred to me, and I believe it to be the correct one.

I could raise my hand, too. I was no longer paralysed. I could speak. I shouted, but my voice seemed deadened and stifled.

On feeling my head I found that I had a long scalp-wound, upon which the blood was congealed. My clothes were rent, and as I groped about I quickly found that my prison was a circular wall of stone, wet and slimy, about four feet across, and that I was half reclining in water with soft, yielding mud beneath me, while the air seemed close and foul.

The roof above me seemed high, for my voice appeared to ascend very far. I looked above me and high up, so high that I could only just distinguish it was a tiny ray of light—the light of day.

With frantic fingers I felt those circular walls, thick with the encrustations and slime of ages. Then all of a sudden the truth flashed upon me. My enemies, believing me dead, had thrown me down a well!

I shouted and shouted, yelled again and again. But my voice only echoed high up, and no one came to my assistance.

My legs, immersed as they were in icy-cold water, were cramped and benumbed, so that I had no feeling in them, while my hands were wet and cold, and my head hot as fire.

As far as I could judge in the darkness, the well must have been fully eighty feet or so deep, and after I had been flung headlong down it the wooden trap-door had been re-closed. It was through the chink between the two flaps that I could see the blessed light of day.

I shouted again, yelling with all my might: "Help! Help!" in the hope that somebody in the vicinity might hear me and investigate.

I was struggling in order to shift into a more comfortable position, and in doing so my feet sank deeper into the mud at the bottom of the well—the accumulation of many years, no doubt.

Two perils faced me—starvation, or the rising of the water: for if it should rain above, the water percolating through the earth would cause it to rise in the well and overwhelm me. By the dampness of the wall I could feel that it was not long since the water was much higher than my head, as I now stood upright.

Would assistance come?

My heart sank within me when I thought of the possibility that I had been precipitated into the well in the garden of Melbourne House, in which case I could certainly not hope for succour.

Again I put out my hands, frantically groping about me, when something I touched in the darkness caused me to withdraw my hand with a start.

Cautiously I felt again. My eager fingers touched it, for it seemed to be floating on the surface of the water. It was cold, round, and long—the body of a snake!

I drew my hand away. Its contact thrilled me.

The cobra had been killed and flung in after me! In that case the precious trio had, without a doubt, fled.

Realisation of the utter hopelessness of the situation sent a cold shudder through me. I had miraculously escaped death by the snake's fangs, and was I now to die of starvation deep in that narrow well?

Again and again I shouted with all my might, straining my eyes to that narrow chink which showed so far above. Would assistance never come? I felt faint and hungry, while my wounds gave me considerable pain, and my head throbbed so that I felt it would burst at any moment.

I found a large stone in the mud, and with it struck hard against the wall. But the sound was not such as might attract the attention of anybody who happened to be near the vicinity of the well. Therefore I shouted and shouted again until my voice grew hoarse, and I was compelled to desist on account of my exhaustion.

For fully another half-hour I was compelled to remain in impatience and anxiety in order to recover my voice and strength for, weak as I was, the exertion had almost proved too much for me. So I stood there with my back to the slimy wall, water reaching beyond my knees, waiting and hoping against hope.

At last I shouted again, as loudly as before, but, alas! only the weird echo came back to me in the silence of that deeply-sunk shaft. I felt stifled, but, fortunately for me, the air was not foul.

Yes, my assassins had hidden me, together with the repulsive instrument of their crime, in that disused well, confident that no one would descend to investigate and discover my remains. How many persons, I wonder, are yearly thrown down wells where the water is known to be impure, or where the existence of the well itself is a secret to all but the assassin?

I saw it all now. My taxi-man must have been paid and dismissed by that thin-faced young man, yet how cleverly the woman had evaded my question, and how glib her explanation of her servant going into the town in a taxi.

When she had risen from her chair and left me, it was, no doubt, to swiftly arrange how my death should be encompassed.

Surely that isolated, ivy-covered house was a house of grim shadows—nay, a house of death—for I certainly was not the first person who had been foully done to death within its walls.

As I waited, trying to possess myself with patience, and hoping against hope that I might still be rescued from my living tomb, the little streak of light grew brighter high above, as though the wintry sun was shining.

I strained my ears to catch any sound beyond the slow trickling of the water from the spring, but, alas! could distinguish nothing.

Suddenly, however, I heard a dull report above, followed quickly by a second, and then another in the distance, and another. At first I listened much puzzled; but next moment I realised the truth.

There was a shooting-party in the vicinity!



CHAPTER XX.

FROM THE TOMB.

Again I shouted—yelled aloud with all my might. I placed my hands to my mouth, making a trumpet of them, and shouted upwards:

"Help! For God's sake! Help! I'm down here—dying! Help!—Help!"

A dozen times I yelled my appeal, but with the same negative result. Whoever had fired in the vicinity was either too far away, or too occupied with his sport to hear me.

I heard another shot fired—more distant than the rest. Then my heart sank within me—the party were receding.

I don't know how long I waited—perhaps another hour—when I thought I would try again. Therefore I recommenced my shouts for assistance, yelling frantically towards the high-up opening.

Suddenly the streak of light became obscured, and dust and gravel fell upon me, the latter striking my head with great force from such a height.

I heard a noise above—a footstep upon the wooden flap of the well. My heart gave a bound.

"Help!" I yelled. "Open the well! I'm down here—dying. Save me! Fetch assistance!"

The feet above moved, and a moment later I saw above me a round disc of daylight and a head—a girl's head—silhouetted within it.

"Who's there?" she asked in a timid, half-frightened voice.

"It's me!" I cried. "Get me out of this! I'm dying. Get me a rope or something, quickly!"

"Who are you?" asked the girl, still frightened at her discovery.

"I'm a man who's been thrown down here, and I can't get out. Get somebody to help me, I beg of you!"

"All right!" she replied. "There's some men, shooting here. I'll run and tell them."

And her face disappeared from the disc of daylight.

At last! Help was forthcoming, and I breathed more freely.

I suppose about five minutes must have elapsed before I saw above me the heads of two men in golf-caps, peering over the edge of the well.

"Hulloa!" cried one in a refined voice, "what are you doing down there?"

"Doing!" I echoed, "you should come down and see!" I said with some sarcasm. "But, I say! Send me down a rope, will you? I'm a prisoner here."

"Have you been thrown in there?" asked the voice. "This lady says you have."

"Yes, I have. I'll tell you a strange story when you get me out."

"All right!" exclaimed the other. "Hold on! We'll go over to the farm and get a rope. Why, I was here half-an-hour ago, and never dreamt you were down there. Hold on!"

And the two faces disappeared, their places being taken by the silhouette of the girl.

"I say!" I cried. "Where am I? What do they call this place?"

"Well, this is one of the fields of Coppin's Farm, just outside Lexden Park."

"Do you know Melbourne House?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. Miss Morgan's. She's dead," replied the girl's voice from above. "It's out on the high road—close by."

"Is this well in the middle of a field, then?" I asked.

"In the corner. Some old, half-ruined cottages stood here till a couple of years ago, when they were pulled down."

"And this was the well belonging to them?"

"I suppose so," she replied, and a few minutes later I heard voices and saw several heads peering down at me, while now and then gravel fell upon my unprotected head, causing me to put my hands up to protect it.

"I say!" cried the man's voice who had first addressed me, "We're sending down a rope. Can you fasten it round you, and then we'll haul you up? I expect you're in a pretty state, aren't you?"

"Yes; I'm not very presentable, I fear," I laughed.

Then down came a stout farmer's rope, several lengths of which were knotted together after some delay, until its end dangled before me.

"I hope you've joined it all right," I cried. "I don't want to drop down!"

"No, it's all right!" one of the men—evidently a labourer—declared. "You needn't fear, mister."

I made a knot in the end, then, placing it around both my thighs, made a slip knot and clung to the rope above. This took me some minutes. Then, when all was ready, I gave the signal to haul.

"Slowly!" I shouted, for I was swinging from side to side of the well, bruising my elbows and knees. "Haul slower! I'm getting smashed to pieces!"

They heeded me, and with care I was gradually drawn up to the blessed light of day—a light which, for a few minutes, nearly blinded me, so exhausted and dazed was I.

Naturally I was beset by a hundred queries as to how I came to be imprisoned in such a place.

But I sat down upon the ground, a strange, begrimed and muddy figure, no doubt, gazing about me for a few moments unable to speak.

I was in the corner of a bare, brown field, with a high hedgerow close by. Around were the foundations of demolished cottages, and I was seated upon a heap of brick-rubbish and plaster.

The two who were dressed in rough, shooting kit I took to be military men, while three others were farm-hands, and the girl—a tall, rather good-looking open-air girl, was dressed in a short, tweed skirt, well-cut, a thick jacket, a soft felt hat, and heavy, serviceable boots. No second glance was needed to show that, although so roughly dressed, she was undoubtedly a lady.

One of the men called her Maisie, and later I knew that her name was Maisie Morrice, that she was his sister, who had been walking with the "guns."

My presence down the well certainly needed explanation, and as they had rescued me, it was necessary to satisfy their natural curiosity.

"I had a curious adventure here last night," I told them, after pausing to take breath. "I came from London to see a lady living at Melbourne House. A lady named Petre—but I was given some drugged wine, and—well, when I came to I found myself down there. That's all."

"A very unpleasant experience, I should say," remarked the elder of the two sportsmen, a tall, grey-moustached man, as he surveyed me. "I suppose you'll go back to Melbourne House and get even with the lady? I would!"

"Melbourne House!" echoed the other man. "Why, Maisie, that's where old Miss Morgan lived, and it's been taken by some woman with an Indian servant, hasn't it?"

"Yes," replied the girl. "She's been there a month or two, but quite a mystery. Nobody has called on her. Mother wouldn't let me."

"Apparently she's not a very desirable acquaintance," remarked her brother grimly.

"I want to go there," I said feebly, trying to rise.

"You seem to have hurt your head pretty badly," remarked the elder sportsman. "I suppose you'd better go into Colchester and see the police—eh?"

"I'll drive him in, sir," volunteered one of the men, whom I took to be the farmer.

"Yes, Mr. Cuppin," exclaimed the girl. "Get your trap and drive this gentleman to the doctor and the police."

"Thank you," I replied. "But I don't want the people at Melbourne House to know that I'm alive. They believe me dead, and it will be a pretty surprise for them when I return, after seeing the doctor. So I ask you all to remain silent about this affair—at least for an hour or so. Will you?"

They all agreed to do so, and, being supported by two of the men, I made my way across the field to the farm; and ten minutes later was driving into Colchester in the farmer's dog-cart.

At the "Cups" my appearance caused some sensation, but, ascending to my room, I quickly washed, changed my ruined suit, and made myself presentable, and then went to see an elderly and rather fussy doctor, who put on his most serious professional air, and who was probably the most renowned medical man in the town. The provincial medico, when he becomes a consultant, nearly always becomes pompous and egotistical, and in his own estimation is the only reliable man out of Harley Street.

The man I visited was one of the usual type, a man of civic honours, with the aspirations of a mayoralty, I surmised. I think he believed that I had injured my head while in a state of intoxication, so I did not undeceive him, and allowed his assistant to bathe and bandage my wound and also the bite upon my cheek, while the farmer waited outside for me.

When at last I emerged, I hesitated.

Should I go to the police and tell them what had occurred? Or should I return alone to Melbourne House, and by my presence thwart whatever sinister plans might be in progress.

If I went to the police I would be forced to explain much that I desired, at least for the present, to keep secret. And, after all, the local police could not render me much assistance. I might give the woman and her accomplices in charge for attempted murder, but would such course help in the solution of the Harrington Gardens affair?

After a few moments' reflection I decided to drive straight to the house of shadows and demand an explanation of the dastardly attempt upon me.

A quarter of an hour later Mr. Cuppin pulled up near the long, ivy-covered house, and, alighting, I made my way within the iron gate and up the gravelled path to the front door, where I rang.

I listened attentively, and heard someone moving.

Yes, the house was not empty, as I had half feared.

A moment later a neat maid-servant opened the door, and regarded me with some surprise.

"Is Mrs. Petre at home?" I inquired.

"No, sir, she isn't," replied the girl with a strong East Anglian accent.

"When will she be in?" I asked.

"I really don't know, sir," she said. "She hasn't left word where she's gone."

"Is anyone else at home?"

"No, sir."

"How long have you been with Mrs. Petre?" I asked, adding, in an apologetic tone, "I hope I'm not too inquisitive?"

"I've been here about two months—ever since she took the house."

"Don't you think your mistress a rather curious person?" I asked, slipping half-a-sovereign into her hand. She regarded the coin, and then looked at me with a smile of surprise and satisfaction.

"I—I hardly know what you mean, sir," she faltered.

"Well, I'll be quite frank with you," I said. "I'm anxious to know something about what company she keeps here. Last night, for instance, a gentleman called in a taxi. Did you see him?"

"No, sir," she answered. "Mistress sent me out on an errand to the other side of the town, and when I came back just before half-past eleven I found the front door ajar, and everybody gone. And nobody's been back here since."

After disposing of my body, then, the precious trio had fled.

I knew that Phrida must now be in hourly peril of arrest—for that woman would, now that she believed me dead, lose not an instant in making a damning statement to the police regarding what had occurred on that night in Harrington Gardens.



CHAPTER XXI.

RECORDS A STRANGE STATEMENT.

"Will you permit me to come inside a moment?" I asked the girl. "I want you to tell me one or two things, if you will."

At first she hesitated, but having surveyed me critically and finding, I suppose, that I was not a tramp she opened the door wider and admitted me to the room wherein her mistress had entertained me on the previous night.

I glanced quickly around. Yes, nothing had been altered. There was the chair in which I had sat, and the round, mahogany table upon which my head had laid so helplessly while the reptile, charmed by the Hindu's music, had sat erect with swaying head.

Ah! as that terrible scene again arose before my eyes I stood horrified. The girl noticed my demeanour, and looked askance at me.

"Does your mistress have many visitors?" I asked her. "To tell you the truth, I'm making these confidential inquiries on behalf of an insurance company in London. So you can be perfectly open with me. Mrs. Petre will never know that you have spoken."

"Well, sir," replied the dark-eyed maid, after a pause, during which time she twisted her dainty little apron in her hand, "I suppose I really ought not to say anything, but the fact is mistress acts very curiously sometimes. Besides, I don't like Ali."

"You mean the Indian?"

"Yes. He's too crafty and cunning," she replied. "Sometimes in the middle of the night I wake up and hear Ali, shut up in his room, playing on his flute—such horrible music. And on such occasions the mistress and Horton, the man, are usually with him—listening to his concert, I suppose."

"On those occasions, have there been guests in the house?" I asked quickly.

"Once, I think about a fortnight ago, a gentleman had called earlier in the evening. But I did not see him."

"Did you see him next morning?"

"Oh, no; he did not stay the night."

"But on this particular occasion, how did you know that Mrs. Petre and Horton were in the room with him?"

"Because I listened from the top of the stairs, and could hear voices. The gentleman was in there too, I believe, listening to the noise of Ali's pipes."

Had the stranger fallen a victim to the serpent, I wondered?

Who could he have been, and what was his fate?

"Has your mistress and her two servants left you suddenly like this before?" I inquired.

"Never, sir. I can't make it out. They seem to have gone out with the gentleman who called—and evidently they left all of a hurry."

"Why?"

"Because when I got back I found that my mistress had pulled out the first coat and hat she could find, and had not taken even a handbag. Besides, if she knew she was to be absent she would have left me a note." And she added in a tone of resentment: "It isn't fair to leave me by myself in a lonely house like this!"

"No, it isn't," I agreed. "But, tell me, does your mistress have many callers?"

"Very few. She has had a visitor lately—a gentleman. He stayed a few days, and then left suddenly."

"Young or old?"

"Elderly, clean-shaven, and grey hair. She used to call him Digby."

"Digby!" I echoed. "When was he here? Tell me quickly!"

"Oh, about four days ago, I think. Yes—he went away last Sunday night."

"Tell me all about him," I urged her. "He's a friend of mine."

"Oh, then perhaps I ought not to say anything," said the girl a little confused.

"On the contrary, you will be doing me the very greatest service if you tell me all that you know concerning him," I declared. "Don't think that anything you say will annoy me, for it won't. He was my friend, but he served me a very evil trick."

"Well, sir," she replied, "he arrived here very late one night, and my mistress sat with him in the drawing-room nearly all night talking to him. I crept down to try and hear what was going on, but they were speaking so low, almost whispering, so that I could catch only a few words."

"What did you hear?" I inquired breathlessly.

"Well, from what I could gather the gentleman was in some grave danger—something to do with a girl. Mistress seemed very excited and talked about another girl, which she called Freda, or something like that, and then the gentleman mentioned somebody named Royle, whereon mistress seemed to fly into a passion. I heard her say distinctly, 'You are a fool, Digby! If you're not very careful you'll give the game away.' Then he said, 'If the truth comes out, she will suffer, not me.'"

"Whom did you infer he meant by she?" I asked.

"Ah, sir, that's impossible to say," was her response. "Well, they were alone there for hours. He seemed to be begging her to tell him something, but she steadily refused. And every time he mentioned the name of Royle she became angry and excited. Once I heard her say, 'As long as you keep carefully out of the way, you need not fear anything. Nobody—not even the girl—suspects the truth. So I don't see that you need have the slightest apprehension. But mind, you're going to play the straight game with me, Digby, or, by heaven! it will be the worse for you!'"

"Then she threatened him?" I remarked.

"Yes. She seemed very determined and spoke in a low, hard voice. Of course, I could only catch a few disjointed words, and out of them I tried to make sense. But I overheard sufficient to know that the visitor was in a state of great agitation and fear."

"Did he go out much?"

"All the time he was here I never knew him to go further than the garden," said the maid, who seemed to be unusually intelligent.

"What about Ali?"

"Ali was his constant companion. When they were together they spoke in some foreign language."

A sudden thought flashed across my mind.

Could Ali be a Peruvian Indian and not a Hindu? Was he the accomplice of the mysterious Englishman named Cane—the man suspected of causing the death of Sir Digby Kemsley?

What this girl was revealing was certainly amazing.

"You are quite sure that this man she called Digby left the neighbourhood last Sunday?" I asked her.

"Quite. I overheard him speaking with the mistress late on Saturday night. He said, 'By this time to-morrow I shall be back in Brussels.' And I know he went there, for next day I posted a letter to Brussels."

"To him?" I cried. "What was the address?"

"The name was Bryant, and it was addressed Poste Restante, Brussels. I remember it, because I carefully made a note of it, as the whole affair seemed so extraordinary."

"But this man she called Digby. Was he well-dressed?" I inquired.

"Oh, no—not at all. He seemed poor and shabby. He only had with him a little handbag, but I believe he came from a considerable distance, probably from abroad, expressly to see her."

"Then you think he is in Brussels now?"

"Well, I posted the letter on Monday night. To-day is Wednesday," she said.

I reflected. My first impulse was to go straight to Brussels and send a message to Mr. Bryant at the Poste Restante—a message that would trap him into an appointment with me.

But in face of Phrida's present peril could I possibly leave London?

I was at the parting of the ways. To hesitate might be to lose trace of the man who had proved such a false friend, while, by crossing to Brussels again, I would be leaving Phrida to her fate.

"You heard no other mention of the person named Royle?" I asked her after a brief pause, during which I placed a second half-sovereign in her hand.

She reflected for a moment, her eyes cast down upon the carpet, as we stood together in that sombre little room of horrors.

"Well, yes," she replied thoughtfully. "One afternoon when I was taking tea into the drawing-room where they were sitting together I heard mistress say, 'I don't like that man Royle at all. He means mischief—more especially as he loves the girl.' The gentleman only laughed and said, 'Have no fear on that score. He knows nothing, and is not likely to know, unless you tell him.' Then mistress said, 'I've been a fool, perhaps, but when we met I told him one or two things—sufficient to cause him to think.' Then the gentleman stood up angrily and cried out in quite a loud voice: 'What! you fool! You've actually told him—you've allowed your infernal tongue to wag and let out the truth!' But she said that she had not told all the truth, and started abusing him—so much so that he left the room and went out into the garden, where, a few minutes later, I saw him talking excitedly to Ali. But when the two men talked I could, of course, understand nothing," added the girl.

"Then your mistress declared that she didn't like the man Royle, eh?"

"Yes; she seemed to fear him—fear that he knew too much about some business or other," replied the maid. "And to tell you quite frankly, sir, after watching the mistress and her visitor very narrowly for a couple of days I came to the conclusion that the gentleman was hiding—that perhaps the police were after him."

"Why?" I inquired in a casual tone. "What made you think that?"

"I hardly know. Perhaps from the scraps of conversation I overheard, perhaps from his cunning, secret manner—not but what he was always nice to me, and gave me something when he left."

"You didn't hear any other names of persons mentioned?" I asked. "Try and think, as all that you tell me is of the greatest importance to me."

The girl stood silent, while I paced up and down that room in which, not many hours before, I had endured that awful mental torture. She drew her hand across her brow, trying to recall.

"Yes, there was another name," she admitted at last, "but I can't at the moment recall it."

"Ah, do!" I implored her. "Try and recall it. I am in no hurry to leave."

Again the dark-eyed maid in the dainty apron was silent—both hands upon her brow, as she had turned from me and was striving to remember.

"It was some foreign name—a woman's name," she said.

I recollected the dead girl was believed to have been a foreigner!

Suddenly she cried—

"Ah, I remember! The name was Mary Brack."

"Mary Brack!" I repeated.

"Yes. Of course I don't know how it's spelt."

"Well, if it were a foreign name it would probably be Marie B-r-a-c-q—if you are sure you've pronounced it right."

"Oh, yes. I'm quite sure. Mistress called her 'poor girl!' so I can only suppose that something must have happened to her."

I held my breath at her words.

Yes, without a doubt I had secured a clue to the identity of the girl who lost her life at Harrington Gardens.

Her name, in all probability, was Marie Bracq!



CHAPTER XXII.

"MARIE BRACQ!"

Marie Bracq! The name rang in my ears in the express all the way from Colchester to Liverpool Street.

Just before six o'clock I alighted from a taxi in Scotland Yard, and, ascending in the lift, soon found myself sitting with Inspector Edwards.

At that moment I deemed it judicious to tell him nothing regarding my night adventure in the country, except to say:

"Well, I've had a strange experience—the strangest any man could have, because I have dared to investigate on my own account the mystery of Harrington Gardens."

"Oh! tell me about it, Mr. Royle," he urged, leaning back in his chair before the littered writing-table.

"There's nothing much to tell," was my reply. "I'll describe it all some day. At present there's no time to waste. I believe I am correct in saying that the name of the murdered girl is Marie Bracq."

Edwards looked me straight in the face. "That's not an English name, is it?" he said.

"No, Belgian, I should say."

"Belgian? Yes, most probably," he said. "A rather uncommon name, and one which ought not to be difficult to trace. How did you find this out?"

"Oh, it's a long story, Mr. Edwards," I said. "But I honestly believe that at last we are on the scent. Cannot you discover whether any girl of that name is missing?"

"Of course. I'll wire to the Brussels police at once. Perhaps it will be well to ask the Prefect of Police in Paris if they have any person of that name reported missing," he said, and, ringing a bell, a clerk appeared almost instantly with a writing-pad and pencil.

"Wire to Brussels and Paris and ask if they have any person named Marie Bracq—be careful of the spelling—missing. If so, we will send them over a photo."

"Yes, sir," the man replied, and disappeared.

"Well," I asked casually, when we were alone, "have you traced the tailor who made the dead girl's costume?"

"Not yet. The Italian police are making every inquiry."

"And what have you decided regarding that letter offering to give information?"

"Nothing," was his prompt reply. "And if this information you have obtained as to the identity of the deceased proves correct, we shall do nothing. It will be far more satisfactory to work out the problem for ourselves, rather than risk being misled by somebody who has an axe to grind."

"Ah! I'm pleased that you view the matter in that light," I said, much relieved. "I feel confident that I have gained the true name of the victim."

"But how did you manage it, Mr. Royle?" he asked, much interested.

I, however, refused to satisfy his curiosity.

"You certainly seem to know more about the affair than we do," he remarked with a smile.

"Well, was I not a friend of the man who is now a fugitive?" I remarked.

"Ah, of course! And depend upon it, Mr. Royle, when this affair is cleared up, we shall find that your friend was a man of very curious character," he said, pursing his lips. "Inquiries have shown that many mysteries concerning him remain to be explained."

For a moment I did not speak. Then I asked:

"Is anything known concerning a woman friend of his named Petre?"

"Petre?" he echoed. "No, not that I'm aware of. But it seemed that he was essentially what might be called a ladies' man."

"I know that. He used to delight in entertaining his lady friends."

"But who is this woman Petre whom you've mentioned?" he inquired with some curiosity.

"The woman who is ready to give you information for a consideration," I replied.

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I am acquainted with her. I was with her last night," was my quick response. "Her intention is to condemn a perfectly innocent woman."

"Whom?" he asked sharply. "The woman who lost that green horn comb at the flat?"

I held my breath.

"No, Edwards," I answered, "That question is unfair. As a gentleman, I cannot mention a lady's name. If she chooses to do so that's another matter. But if she does—as from motives of jealousy she easily may do—please do not take any action without first consulting me. Ere long I shall have a strange, almost incredible, story to put before you."

"Why not now?" he asked, instantly interested.

"Because I have not yet substantiated all my facts," was my reply.

"Cannot I assist you? Why keep me in the dark?" he protested.

"I'm afraid you can render me no other assistance except to hesitate to accept the allegations of that woman Petre," I replied.

"Well, we shall wait until she approaches us again," he said.

"This I feel certain she will do," I exclaimed. "But if you see her, make no mention whatever of me—you understand? She believes me to be dead, and therefore not likely to disprove her allegations."

"Dead!" he echoed. "Really, Mr. Royle, all this sounds most interesting."

"It is," I declared. "I believe I am now upon the verge of a very remarkable discovery—that ere long we shall know the details of that crime in South Kensington."

"Well, if you do succeed in elucidating the mystery you will accomplish a marvellous feat," said the great detective, placing his hands together and looking at me across his table. "I confess that I'm completely baffled. That friend of yours who called himself Kemsley has disappeared as completely as though the ground had opened and swallowed him."

"Ah, Edwards, London's a big place," I laughed, "and your men are really not very astute."

"Why not?"

"Because the man you want called at my rooms in Albemarle Street only a few days ago."

"What?" he cried, staring at me surprised.

"Yes, I was unfortunately out, but he left a message with my man that he would let me know his address later."

"Amazing impudence!" cried my friend. "He called in order to show his utter defiance of the police, I should think."

"No. My belief is that he wished to tell me something," I said. "Anyhow, he will either return or send his address."

"I very much doubt it. He's a clever rogue, but, like all men of his elusiveness and cunning, he never takes undue chances. No, Mr. Royle, depend upon it, he'll never visit you again."

"But I may be able to find him. Who knows?"

The detective moved his papers aside, and with a sigh admitted:

"Yes, you may have luck, to be sure."

Then, after some further conversation, he looked at the piece of sticking plaster on my head and remarked:

"I see you've had a knock. How did you manage it?"

I made an excuse that in bending before my own fireplace I had struck it on the corner of the mantelshelf. Afterwards I suddenly said:

"You recollect those facts you told me regarding the alleged death of the real Kemsley in Peru, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Well, they've interested me deeply. I'd so much like to know any further details."

Edwards reflected a moment, recalling the report.

"Well," he said, taking from one of the drawers in his table a voluminous official file of papers. "There really isn't very much more than what you already know. The Consul's report is a very full one, and contains a quantity of depositions taken on the spot—mostly evidence of Peruvians, in which little credence can, perhaps, be placed. Of course," he added, "the suspected man Cane seems to have been a very bad lot. He was at one time manager of a rubber plantation belonging to a Portuguese company, and some very queer stories were current regarding him."

"What kind of stories?" I asked.

"Oh, his outrageous cruelty to the natives when they did not collect sufficient rubber. He used, they said, to burn the native villages and massacre the inhabitants without the slightest compunction. He was known by the natives as 'The Red Englishman.' They were terrified by him. His name, it seems, was Herbert Cane, and so bad became his reputation that he was dismissed by the company after an inquiry by a commission sent from Lisbon, and drifted into Argentina, sinking lower and lower in the social scale."

Then, after referring to several closely-written pages of foolscap, each one bearing the blue embossed stamp of the British Consulate in Lima, he went on:

"Inquiries showed that for a few months the man Cane was in Monte Video, endeavouring to obtain a railway concession for a German group of financiers, but his reputation became noised abroad and he found it better to leave that city. Afterwards he seems to have met Sir Digby and to have become his bosom friend."

"And what were the exact circumstances of Sir Digby's death?" I asked anxiously.

"Ah! they are veiled in mystery," was the detective's response, turning again to the official report and depositions of witnesses. "As I think I told you, Sir Digby had met with an accident and injured his spine. Cane, whose acquaintance he made, brought him down to Lima, and a couple of months later, under the doctor's advice, removed him to a bungalow at Huacho. Here they lived with a couple of Peruvian men-servants, named Senos and Luis. Cane seemed devoted to his friend, leading the life of a quiet, studious, refined man—very different to his wild life on the rubber plantation. One morning, however, on a servant entering Sir Digby's room, he found him dead, and an examination showed that he had been bitten in the arm by a poisonous snake. There were signs of a struggle, showing the poor fellow's agony before he died. Cane, entering shortly afterwards, was distracted with grief, and telegraphed himself to the British Consul at Lima. And, according to custom in that country, that same evening the unfortunate man was buried."

"Without any inquiry?" I asked.

"Yes. At the time, remember, there was no suspicion. A good many people die annually in Peru of snake-bite," Edwards replied, again referring to the file of papers before him. "It seems, however, that three days later, the second Peruvian servant—a man known as Senos—declared that during the night of the tragic affair he had heard his master suddenly yell with terror and cry out 'You blackguard, Cane, you hell-fiend; take the thing away. Ah! God! You—why, you've killed me!'"

"Yes," I said. "But was this told to Cane?"

"Cane saw the man and strenuously denied his allegation. He, indeed, went to the local Commissary of Police and lodged a complaint against the man Senos for falsely accusing him, saying that he had done so out of spite, because a few days before he had had occasion to reprimand him for inattention to his duties. Further, Cane brought up a man living five miles from Huacho who swore that the accused man was at his bungalow on that night, arriving at nine o'clock. He drank so heavily that he could not get home, so he remained there the night, returning at eight o'clock next morning."

"And the police officials believed him—eh?" I asked.

"Yes. But next day he left Huacho, expressing a determination to go to Lima and make a statement to the Consul there. But he never arrived at the capital, and he has never been seen since."

"Then a grave suspicion rests upon him?" I remarked, reflecting upon my startling adventure of the previous night.

"Certainly. But the curious thing is that no attempt seems to have been made by the police authorities in Lima to trace the man. They allowed him to disappear, and took no notice of the affair, even when the British Consul reported it. I fancy police methods must be very lax ones there," he added.