Sir Digby seems to have
held a midnight reception of persons of mysterious character, and with
tragic result."

"I feel sure he is no assassin," I cried.

"It may have been a drama of jealousy--who knows?" said Edwards, standing
erect near the window and gazing across at me. "Your friend, in any case,
did not care to remain and explain what happened. A girl--an unknown
girl--was struck down and killed."

"By whom, do you think?"

"Ah! Mr. Royle, the identity of the assassin is what we are endeavouring
to discover," he replied gravely. "We must first find this man who has so
successfully posed as Sir Digby Kemsley. He is a clever and elusive
scoundrel, without a doubt. But his portrait is already circulated both
here and on the Continent. The ports are all being watched, while I have
five of the best men I can get engaged on persistent inquiry. He'll try
to get abroad, no doubt. No doubt, also, he has a banking account
somewhere, and through that we shall eventually trace him. Every man
entrusts his banker with his address. He has to, in order to obtain
money."

"Unless he draws his money out in cash and then goes to a tourist agency
and gets a letter of credit."

"Ah, yes, that's often done," my friend admitted. "The tourist agencies
are of greatest use to thieves and forgers. They take stolen notes,
change them into foreign money, and before the numbers can be circulated
are off across the Channel with their booty. If we look for stolen notes
we are nearly certain to find them in the hands of a tourist agency or a
money-changer."

"Then you anticipate that you may find my friend Digby through his
bankers?"

"Perhaps," was his vague answer. "But as he is your friend, Mr. Royle, I
perhaps ought not to tell you of the channels of information we are
trying," he added, with a dry laugh.

"Oh, I assure you I'm entirely ignorant of his whereabouts," I said. "If
I knew, I should certainly advise him to come and see you."

"Ah! you believe in his innocence, I see?"

"I most certainly do!"

"Well,--we shall see--we shall see," he said in that pessimistic tone
which he so often adopted.

"What are you doing about those letters--that letter which mentions the
fountain?" I asked.

"Nothing. I've dismissed those as private correspondence regarding some
love episode of the long ago," he replied. "They form no clue, and are
not worth following."

At that moment the constable re-entered bearing the photographs.