ida
said. "I recollect him perfectly: tall, rather thin, with a pointed, grey
beard, a long, oval face, and thinnish, grey hair. A very lithe, erect
man, whose polite, elegant manner was that of a diplomat, and in whose
dark eyes was an expression of constant merriment and good humour. He
spoke with a slight accent--Scotch, isn't it?"

"Exactly. You remember him perfectly, dear. A most excellent
description," I said; "and that same description has been circulated this
morning to every police office throughout the United Kingdom, as well as
to the prefectures of police in all the European capitals. All the ports
are being watched, as it is expected he may make his way abroad."

"But what do the authorities suspect?" asked Phrida, with a serious look.

"Ah, that's just it! They haven't yet decided what to suspect."

I looked across at her and thought, though slightly more pale than usual,
she had never appeared more charming.

Sweet-faced, slim, with a soft, sibilant voice, and dainty to her
finger-tips, she did not look more than nineteen, though her age was
twenty-four. How shall I describe her save to say that her oval,
well-defined features were perfect, her dark, arched brows gave piquancy
to a countenance that was remarked wherever she went, a merry face, with
a touch of impudence in her smile--the face of an essentially London
girl.

Only daughter of my father's late partner, James Shand, we had been
friends from childhood, and our friendship had, three years ago,
blossomed into a deep and mutual affection. Born and bred in Kensington,
she cared little for country life. She loved her London, its throbbing
streets, its life and movement, its concerts, its bright restaurants,
and, most of all, its theatres--for she was an ardent playgoer.

My father, Edward Royle, was head of the firm of well-known chemical
manufacturers, Messrs. Royle and Shand, whose works were a feature of the
river landscape close to Greenwich, and whose offices were in St. Mary
Axe. He had died two years before, pre-deceasing his partner by a year.
The business--a big one, for we were the largest chemical manufacturers
in England--had been left solely in my hands. Shand's widow still lived
with Phrida in Cromwell Road, drawing from it an income of seven thousand
pounds yearly.

As for myself, I was a bachelor, aged thirty-two, and if golf be a vice I
was greatly addicted to it. I occupied a cosy set of chambers, half-way
up Albemarle St