I mean that you
will not misjudge her."

"I certainly will not."

"Your hand upon it?"

I put forth my hand and, gripping his warmly, gave him my word of honour.

"I hope you will never regret this, Royle," he said in an earnest tone.

"We are friends," I remarked simply.

"And I trust, Royle, you will never regret the responsibility which you
have accepted on my behalf," he said in a deep, hard voice--the voice of
a desperate man. "Remember to treat my successor exactly as you have
treated me. Be his best friend, as he will be yours. You will be
astonished, amazed, mystified, no doubt, at the events which must, alas!
inevitably occur. But it is not my fault, Royle, believe me," he declared
with solemn emphasis. "It is, alas! my misfortune!"

CHAPTER II.

THE SCENT.

After giving me the letter, and receiving my assurance that it would be
safely delivered, Sir Digby's spirits seemed somewhat to revive.

He chatted in his old, good-humoured style, drank a whisky and soda, and,
just before one o'clock, let me out, urging me to descend the stairs
noiselessly lest the hall-porter should know that he had had a visitor.

Time after time I had questioned him regarding his strange reference to
his successor, but to all my queries he was entirely dumb. He had, I
recollected, never been the same since his return from a flying visit to
Egypt.

"The future will, no doubt, astound you, but I know, Royle, that you are
a man of honour and of your word, and that you will keep your promise at
all hazards," was all he would reply.

The secrecy with which I had entered and left caused me considerable
curiosity. Kemsley was one of those free, bluff, open-hearted,
open-handed, men. He was never secretive, never elusive. I could only
account for his curious, mystifying actions by the fact that the
reputation of a woman was at stake--that he was acting for her
protection.

And I was to meet that woman face to face in eight days' time!

As I walked towards Gloucester Road Station--where I hoped to find a
taxi--all was silence. At that hour the streets of South Kensington are
as deserted as a graveyard, and as I bent towards the cutting wind from
the east, I wondered who could be the mysterious woman who had broken up
my dear friend's future plans. Yet he bore her no malice. Some men's
temperaments are really curious.

Beneath a street-lamp I paused and looked at the superscription upon the
envelope. It ran: