"Mr. Royle, we really cannot use high words in the public street," she replied in a low tone of reproof. "I am sorry that I am not permitted to say more."

"But you shall!" I persisted. "Tell me--what do you know? Is Digby the real Sir Digby?"

"Of course he is!"

"And what are his exact relations with Phrida?"

"Ah!" she laughed. "You had better ask her yourself, Mr. Royle. She will, no doubt, tell you. Of course, she will--well, if you are to marry her.

But there, I see that you are not quite responsible for your words this evening. It is, perhaps, natural in the circ.u.mstances; therefore I will forgive you."

"Natural!" I echoed. "I should think it is natural that I should resent such dastardly allegations when made against the woman I love."

"All I repeat is--go and ask her for yourself," was the woman's quiet response as she drew herself up, and pulled her fur more closely about her throat. "I really can't be seen here talking with you in that garb,"

she added.

"But you must tell me," I persisted.

"I can tell you no more than I have done. The girl you love will tell you everything, or--at least, if you have a grain of ingenuity, as you no doubt have--you will find out everything for yourself."

"Ah! but----"

"No, not another word, please, Mr. Royle--not to-night. If after making inquiry into the matter you care to come and see me when I am back in Park Mansions, I shall be very happy to receive you. By that time, however, I hope we shall have had news of poor Digby's whereabouts."

"If I hear from him--as I expect to--how can I communicate with you?" I asked.

For a few seconds she stood wondering.

"Write to me to Park Mansions," she replied. "My letters are always forwarded."

And raising her umbrella she herself hailed a pa.s.sing taxi.

"Remember my warning," were her final words as she gave the man an address in Regent's Park, and entered the conveyance. "Go and see Phrida Shand at once and tell her what I have said."

"May I mention your name?" I asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes," she replied. "Good-night."

And a moment later I was gazing at the red back-lamp of the taxi, while soon afterwards I again caught a glimpse of the same lonely seller of shawls whom I had seen at the Tube station, trudging wearily homeward, there being no business doing at that hour of the evening.

CHAPTER XII.

PHRIDA MAKES CONFESSION.

I sat in my rooms in Albemarle Street utterly bewildered.

My meeting with the mysterious woman who wore the spray of mimosa had, instead of a.s.sisting to clear up the mystery, increased it a hundredfold.

The grave suspicions I had entertained of Phrida had been corroborated by her strangely direct insinuations and her suggestion that I should go to her and tell her plainly what had been alleged.

Therefore, after a sleepless night, I went to Cromwell Road next morning, determined to know the truth. You can well imagine my state of mind when I entered Mrs. Shand's pretty morning-room, where great bowls of daffodils lent colour to the otherwise rather dull apartment.

Phrida entered, gay, fresh, and charming, in a dark skirt and white blouse, having just risen from breakfast.

"Really, Teddy," she laughed, "you ought to be awarded a prize for early rising. I fear I'm horribly late. It's ten o'clock. But mother and I went last night to the Aldwych, and afterwards with the Baileys to supper at the Savoy. So I may be forgiven, may I not--eh?"

"Certainly, dear," I replied, placing my hand upon her shoulder. "What are you doing to-day?"

"Oh! I'm quite full up with engagements," she replied, crossing to the writing-table and consulting a porcelain writing tablet.

"I'm due at my dressmaker's at half-past eleven, then I've to call in Mount Street at half-past twelve, lunch at the Berkeley, where mother has two women to lunch with her, and a concert at Queen's Hall at three--quite a day, isn't it?" she laughed.

"Yes," I said. "You are very busy--too busy even to talk seriously with me--eh?"

"Talk seriously!" she echoed, looking me straight in the face. "What do you mean, Teddy? Why, what's the matter?"

"Oh! nothing very much, dearest," was my reply, for I was striving to remain calm, not withstanding my great anxiety and tortured mind.

"But there is," she persisted, clutching at my hand and looking eagerly into my face. "What is amiss? Tell me," she added, in low earnestness.

I was silent for a moment, and leaving her I crossed to the window and gazed out into the broad, grey thoroughfare, grim and dispiriting on that chilly January morning.

For a moment I held my breath, then, with sudden determination, I walked back to where she was standing, and placing both hands upon her shoulders, kissed her pa.s.sionately upon the lips.

"You are upset to-day, Teddy," she said, with deep concern. "What has happened? Tell me, dear."

"I--I hardly know what's happened," I replied in a low voice. "But, Phrida," I said, looking straight into her great eyes, "I want to--to ask you a question."

"A question--what?" she demanded, her cheeks paling slightly.

"Yes. I want you to tell me what you know of a Mrs. Petre, a----"

"Mrs. Petre!" she gasped, stepping back from me, her face pale as death in an instant. "That woman!"

"Yes, that woman, Phrida. Who is she--what is she?"

"Please don't ask me, Teddy," my love cried in distress, covering her pretty face with her hands and bursting suddenly into tears.

"But I must, Phrida--I must, for my own peace of mind," I said.

"Why? Do you know the woman?"

"I met her last night," I explained. "I delivered to her a note which my friend Digby had entrusted to me."

"I thought your friend had disappeared?" she said quickly.