ble suspicion filled my
mind. I tried to put them aside, but, like a nightmare, they would recur
to me hourly until I felt impelled to endeavour to satisfy myself as to
her guilt or her innocence.

I loved her. Yes, passionately and truly. Yet, somehow, I could not
prevent this ever-recurring suspicion to fill my mind. There were so many
small points to be elucidated--the jingle of the golden bangles, and
especially the perfume, which each time I entered her presence recalled
to me all the strange and unaccountable happenings of that fatal night.

Again, who was the poor, unidentified victim--the pale-faced, pretty
young woman who had visited Digby clandestinely, and gone to her death?

Up to the present the police notices circulated throughout the country
had failed to establish who she was. Yet, if she were a foreigner, as
seemed so likely, identification might be extremely difficult; indeed,
she might ever remain a mystery.

It was nearly ten o'clock at night when I called at Cromwell Road, for I
had excused myself for not coming earlier, having an object in view.

I found Phrida in the library, sweet and attractive in a pale blue gown
cut slightly _decolletee_. She and her mother had been out to dinner
somewhere in Holland Park, and had only just returned.

Mrs. Shand drew an armchair for me to the fire, and we all three sat down
to chat in the cosiness of the sombre little book-lined den. Bain, the
old butler, who had known me almost since childhood, placed the tantalus,
a syphon and glasses near my elbow, and at Phrida's invitation I poured
myself out a drink and lit a cigarette.

"Come," I said, "you will have your usual lemonade"; and at my suggestion
her mother ordered Bain to bring a syphon of that harmless beverage.

My love reached forward for one of the glasses, whereupon I took one and,
with a word of apology, declared that it was not quite clean.

"Not clean!" exclaimed Mrs. Shand quickly.

"There are a few smears upon it," I said, and adding "Excuse my
handkerchief. It is quite clean," I took the silk handkerchief I carried
with me purposely, and polished it with the air of a professional waiter.

Both Phrida and her mother laughed.

"Really, Mr. Royle, you are full of eccentricities," declared Mrs. Shand.
"You always remind me of your poor father. He was most particular."

"One cannot be too careful, or guard sufficiently against germs, you
know," I said, handling the clean glass carefully