found myself out in the hall with Phrida. I
breathed more freely when at last I passed into the keen air and entered
the car.

"Those people are impossible, dearest," I blurted out when the car had
moved away from the door. "They are the most vulgar pair I know."

"I quite agree," replied my well-beloved, pulling the fur rug over her
knees. "But they are old friends of mother's, so I'm compelled to go and
see them sometimes."

"Ah!" I sighed. "I suppose the old draper will buy a knighthood at this
year's sale for the King's Birthday, and then his fat wife will have a
tin handle to her name."

"Really, Teddy, you're simply awful," replied my companion. "If they
heard you I wonder what they would say?"

"I don't care," I replied frankly. "I only speak the truth. The
Government sell their titles to anybody who cares to buy. Ah! I fear that
few men who really deserve honour ever get it in these days. No man can
become great unless he has the influence of money to back him. The
biggest swindler who ever walked up Threadneedle Street can buy a
peerage, always providing he is married and has no son. As old Leslie
buys his calicoes, ribbons and women's frills, so he'll buy his title. He
hasn't a son, so perhaps he'll fancy a peerage and become the Lord
Bargain of Sale."

Phrida laughed heartily at my biting sarcasm.

Truth to tell, though I was uttering bitter sentiments, my thoughts were
running in a very different direction. I was wondering how I could best
obtain the finger-prints of the woman who held my future so irrevocably
in her hands.

I had become determined to satisfy myself of my love's innocence--or--can
I write the words?--of her guilt!

And as I sat there beside her, my nostrils again became filled by that
sweet subtle perfume--the perfume of tragedy.

CHAPTER VII.

FATAL FINGERS.

Two days passed.

Those finger-prints--impressions left by a woman--upon the glass-topped
specimen table in Sir Digby's room and on the door handle, were puzzling
the police as they puzzled me. They had already been proved not to be
those of the porter's wife, the lines being lighter and more refined.

According to Edwards, after the finger-prints had been photographed,
search had been made in the archives at Scotland Yard, but no record
could be found that they were those of any person previously convicted.

Were they imprints of the hand of my well-beloved?

I held my breath each time that black and terri