"I--I've been so horribly busy. Had to
be at the works each day."

"But you might have been over in the evening," she responded in a tone of
complaint. "You remember you promised to take me to the St. James's last
night, and I expected you."

"Oh, dearest, I'm so sorry," I said. "But I've been awfully worried, you
know. Do forgive me!"

"Yes, I know!" she answered. "Well, I'll forgive you if you'll run over
now and take me to tea at the Leslies. I've ordered the car for four
o'clock. Will that suit you?"

The Leslies! They were snobbish folk with whom I had but little in
common. Yet what could I do but agree?

And then my well-beloved rang off.

When I got down to Cromwell Road just before four o'clock, the darkness
had not lifted.

My feelings as I passed along the big, old-fashioned hall and up the
thickly-carpeted stairs to the drawing-room were mixed ones of doubt,
and yet of deep affection.

Ah, I loved Phrida--loved her better than my own life--and yet----?

Fresh in my memory was the doctor's evidence that the crime in Harrington
Gardens had been committed with a thin, triangular knife--a knife such as
that I had often seen lying upon the old-fashioned, walnut what-not in
the corner of the room I was just about to enter. I had known it lying in
the same place for years.

Was it still there?

Purposely, because I felt that it could no longer be there, I had
refrained from calling upon my love, and now, when I paused and turned
the handle of the drawing-room door, I hardly dared to cast my eyes upon
that antiquated piece of furniture.

Phrida, who was sitting with her hat and coat already on, jumped up gaily
to meet me.

"Oh, you really are prompt, Teddy!" she cried with a flush of pleasure.

Then, as I bent over her mother's hand, the latter said--

"You're quite a stranger, Mr. Royle. I expect you have been very upset
over the curious disappearance of your friend. We've searched the papers
every day, but could find nothing whatever about it."

Phrida had turned towards the fire, her pretty head bent as she buttoned
her glove.

"No," I replied. "Up to the present the newspapers are in complete
ignorance of the affair. But no doubt they'll learn all about it before
long."

Then, crossing the room to pick up a magazine lying upon a chair, I
halted against the old walnut what-not.

Yes, the mediaeval poignard was still lying there, just as I had always
seen it!

Had it been used, and afte