and pouring out the
lemonade from the syphon.

Phrida took the glass from my hand, and laughing happily across its edge,
drank. Her fingers were leaving tell-tale impressions upon its surface.
And yet she was unconscious of my duplicity. Ah! yes, I hated myself for
my double dealing. And yet so filled was I now by dark and breathless
suspicion, that I found myself quite unable to resist an opportunity of
establishing proof.

I watched her as she, in all innocence, leaned back in the big saddle-bag
chair holding her glass in her hand and now and then contemplating it.
The impressions--impressions which could not lie--would be the means of
exonerating her--or of condemning her.

Those golden bangles upon her slim white wrist and that irritating
perfume held me entranced. What did she know concerning that strange
tragedy in Harrington Gardens. What, indeed, was the secret?

My chief difficulty was to remain apparently indifferent. But to do so
was indeed a task. I loved her, aye, with all my strength, and all my
soul. Yet the black cloud which had fallen upon her was one of
impenetrable mystery, and as I sat gazing upon her through the haze of my
cigarette smoke, I fell to wondering, just as I had wondered during all
those hours which had elapsed since I had scented that first whiff of
Parfait d'Amour, with which her chiffons seemed impregnated.

At last she put down her empty glass upon the bookshelf near her. Several
books had been removed, leaving a vacant space.

Mrs. Shand had already risen and bade me good-night; therefore, we were
alone. So I rose from my chair and, bending over her, kissed her fondly
upon the brow.

No. I would believe her innocent. That white hand--the soft little hand I
held in mine could never have taken a woman's life. I refused to believe
it, and yet!

Did she know more of Sir Digby Kemsley than she had admitted? Why had she
gone to his flat at that hour, lurking upon the stairs until he should be
alone, and, no doubt, in ignorance that I was his visitor?

As I bent over her, stroking her soft hair with my hand, I tried to
conjure up the scene which had taken place in Sir Digby's room--the
tragedy which had caused my friend to flee and hide himself. Surely,
something of a very terrible nature must have happened, or my
friend--impostor or not--would have remained, faced the music, and told
the truth.

I knew Digby better than most men. The police had declared him to be an
impostor;