"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 it not 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 s.e.x, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances.

"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 a.s.suan."

"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 longer _chic_," she declared. "German women in blouses predominate; and the really smart world has forsaken the Rooms for Cairo, Heliopolis, and a.s.suan. 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 mutual friend, 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sumed quite a paternal att.i.tude, for he was nothing if not a ladies' man.

She seemed very anxious to know in what circ.u.mstances 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 thoughts reverting 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 hoa.r.s.ely 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.