The Looker-On

CONTENTS

THE LOOKER-ON

"OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT"

"And what about the girl?"

"It's a most mysterious affair—a complete mystery!" I answered.

"And I suppose you'll keep it so for a couple of days longer, eh?"

"Of course. I've worked it up for all it's worth in to-night's 'special.' Seen it?"

"Yes. A first-class story. What's the real truth?"

"Mystery—with a capital M, my dear fellow. Even Whitlock, at Scotland Yard, is utterly in the dark."

"He tells you so."

"He is. He and I are pals. He often tells me the truth first, and then tells me the picturesque lie for the paper."

"You're frank, Keene, if nothing else."

"Frank! Well, it's the truth," I declared, lighting a fresh cigarette. "You recollect the Pimlico mystery? Well, Whitlock told me the truth from the first, but we kept up the sensation for four days—until the arrest."

"And you will do the same in this case, I suppose?" remarked my friend Julian Little, with a light laugh. "By Jove! you, the Murder-Monger, have a much better chance of doing good work than I have."

"But you are special correspondent, travelling the world over, and sending startling telegrams that are signed; while I'm a mere reporter, whose special duty it is to work up any likely story of mystery or crime," I protested.

"Your work is a lot more interesting than mine," replied the great special correspondent, the man whose name was known the world over, and who had been through every campaign of recent years, from the bombardment of Alexandria to the fall of Port Arthur. "Wherever I am—even when on a political inquiry—I have a hidden ogre in the shape of a censor who strikes out all the best sentences from my telegrams and turns the sense of a message to just the opposite to what I intended. Very often I don't recognise my own stuff in the Herald. You, however, are a freelance, living here in the civilisation and luxury of London life and——"

"And at the beck and call of old Marvin day and night on that confounded telephone," I interrupted. "He hawked me out of bed at half-past three this morning, the snappy old fossil!"

Little laughed.

"You should just have a taste of my life for six months," he said. "You fellows fancy it's a grand thing to be a 'special,' travelling all over the world and hobnobbing with all sorts of well-known people. That's the side of it which people know. But there's the reverse of the picture, in long, tiresome journeys to out-of-the-way holes where there are no hotels and no telegraphs, hostile authorities who hate the Press, suppress every message, or mislead one by putting forward official lies. Besides, there's always an element of personal danger in wars, or even in revolts. Take the Russian rising, for instance. I had a jolly narrow squeak one afternoon at a barricade in Warsaw. No, I'd rather be the 'Murder-Monger,' as old Marvin calls you."

"Well," I said, "I'd be quite content to try your life for a year, old chap. But that will never be. I can't do such vivid descriptive work as you can. I'm a mere reporter, and shall, I suppose, always remain so."

"Why?" asked the rather thin man reclining in the armchair before the fire. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"And if I remember right, you were with Hogg up in Manchester and in Glasgow, weren't you?"

I nodded.

"And you know as well as I do, Victor," he went on, "that at the office the chief acknowledges you to be the smartest man on the staff. That's why they put you on special work. Old Marvin was only talking of you the other day."

"Blackguarding me, I suppose? All sub-editors jeer at their reporters. And a sub-editor's sarcasm can be a very bitter one."

"Not at all. He was praising your work highly."

"H'm! That's funny," I said thoughtfully. "He probably wouldn't, if he knew the truth."

"Of your love for his daughter Daisy, eh?" Little said. "Do you know, Victor, I've been thinking about you a lot lately."

"Because you've been at home a whole fortnight at a stretch. The first long stay you've done in London for quite a couple of years."

"True. I don't see much of town—or of this happy home of ours," he exclaimed, smiling, and glancing round the large, old-fashioned sitting-room of the chambers in Gray's Inn which we jointly occupied. "But it wasn't that. To tell you the truth, I've been thinking about Daisy Marvin."

"Well—what about her! You've heard, I suppose, that she's getting on in her profession famously? Last week she was at the Holborn, and yesterday she signed an engagement at the Tivoli. Her new song, 'The Motor Maid,' is really very catchy."

"Catchy! Yes, my dear boy; that's the very word. She'll catch you—if she hasn't caught you already."

"Oh, I know!" I exclaimed, impatiently, for Little was for ever warning me against the undesirability of marrying the daughter of James Marvin—News Editor of the Evening Herald—who, having gone on the variety stage, was already well on her way to becoming a "star." "You're not fond of Daisy."

"She's very clever, I admit. I saw her at the Palace six weeks ago, just before I went up to Norway. But you know my motto, Victor: 'Don't marry.'"

"You're such a confirmed bachelor, my dear Little," I declared, laughing. "Yet it isn't quite fair to the other sex, is it?"

"Well, look at me; What could I do with a wife?" he asked, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. "I shouldn't see her half a dozen times in a twelvemonth. And certainly she couldn't travel with me at the pace I'm often compelled to move."

"But all men are not like you," I argued.

"Nor like you, Keene. You are young. You have your way to make in the profession, therefore take the advice of an old hand—a man who has seen more of the world than most men—and don't let the dainty Daisy fascinate you, as she does her music-hall audiences."

"Oh, hang it, Julian!" I cried. "Let's talk of something else."

"We were talking of something else," he said. "Of this curious affair over at Barnes that you've worked up so well that you've set all London talking. It is, as you say, a first-class story."

And the renowned special correspondent of the great newspaper, the London Daily Herald, carefully selected a fresh cigar, cut off the end, and contemplated it with the eye of a connoisseur.

Julian Little was one of the world's famous men; famous on account of his vivid descriptions of every sort of public function and of every sort of fighting. Long years of travel, of hardship, and of knocking about in odd remote corners of the earth had rendered him a cosmopolitan to the very backbone. Besides being a newspaper correspondent he had written a couple of novels which had achieved success, while his pleasant personality had rendered him popular at the British Embassies and Legations in the various capitals.

"Little of the Herald" was known to every Consul from Stockholm to Constantinople, while he was an especial favourite with Ambassadors and Ministers because it was known that, unlike so many correspondents, he never betrayed a confidence, and he often wired a lie to London when the exigencies of British diplomacy required it. Many an Ambassador had "inspired" his messages, and with more than one crowned head he was persona grata.

About forty-five, tall, rather thin, with fair hair, and moustache just turning grey, his was a pleasant face, though hard and weather-beaten, with wrinkled brow and lines which showed plainly the hard life he so often led. His blue eyes betrayed the merry twinkle of genuine bonhomie, his features were somewhat aquiline and shrewd, while in his cravat he wore a pin in the form of a Royal crown and cipher—a present from a reigning emperor. Merry and easy-going, he sat there in dark-blue clothes—for he had been down to the office, and had therefore not dressed for dinner—he was the picture of the perfect cosmopolitan man of the world, whose range of acquaintances in various countries was, perhaps, unequalled.

Yet, like most other men, he had his skeleton in his cupboard. From his careless manner, his apparent recklessness, and his irresponsible good-humour no one would even suspect that, though he had risen to the very head of his profession and his income was an ambassadorial one, he was world-weary and heartsick. In the days long ago, when he had been a reporter like myself, there had been an unfortunate incident which had ever since clouded his life. I knew his secret vaguely, but not the exact facts. Like so many other men who are famous, he was embittered against the world, and his popularity was but a hollow mockery.

Julian was exclusively on the staff of the morning edition of the Herald, that newspaper of great power and enormous circulation, while I was employed upon the evening edition. Both journals emanated from the same palatial offices, just off Fleet Street, and both had been founded by the same journalistic genius, who had built up an enormous fortune out of his newspaper enterprises.

On the Daily Herald expense was never considered where it became a question of obtaining authentic and interesting news. Little often travelled half round the world on an errand which proved quite fruitless, and was his own master to go hither and thither in search of intelligence to interest the British public at home.

Readers of the paper were often astonished at the rapidity with which he seemed to move. One day a telegram, signed by him, would be dated from St Petersburg, two days later from Budapest, and still two days later from some outlandish place in Asia Minor or Greece. Or, again, he would suddenly start a series of articles from Tokio or San Francisco, or commence to describe doings on the Rand.

Because of this I envied him. Since I had left Cheltenham College—for a University man is of but little use on the Press nowadays—I had graduated, step by step, upon provincial papers, commencing by reporting country benches and ending by a seat in the gallery of the House of Commons. But I hated mere speech-taking, so I commenced to specialise, and my position on the Evening Herald—at a very decent salary, I might add—was to keep my eye upon and investigate the various London mysteries that cropped up from time to time.

Thus, in the great office with its enormous staff of specialists and its private barrister to advise upon legal points, and more especially the law of libel, I had earned the nickname of "The Murder-Monger."

I had known Julian Little from childhood. He was the son of old Sir Halliday Little, K.C.B., a retired Ambassador, who had served the country at half a dozen European Courts, and whose family seat was Winholt Hall, in Suffolk, my father being vicar of that parish.

It was, therefore, not surprising that when at last I had the good fortune to receive an appointment on the Herald by Julian's influence, I should share his rooms in Gray's Inn. He was away so much, he declared, that if I lived there I would prevent them from becoming musty.

They were quaint, old-fashioned apartments overlooking the green square and the long black trees where the rooks cawed, rooms that he had modernised and furnished with taste combined with comfort. The room in which we were sitting that chilly autumn night was carpeted with moss-green and filled with Chippendale furniture well in keeping with the old Adams ceiling and mantelpiece. Around were well-filled bookcases—two of which were my own—and upon the side table a number of Julian's souvenirs, big autographed portraits of reigning Sovereigns, Cabinet Ministers, and men and women of note in various parts of the world, who were his personal friends. Many of those photographs bore inscriptions penned by Royal and Imperial hands—inscriptions which showed in what esteem the great correspondent was held.

On a nail beside the fireplace hung a well-worn leather revolver-belt, with the weapon buttoned in its case, his constant companion on his many campaigns, while in the big glass case on the wall opposite were a quantity of odds and ends of old jewellery he had picked up in his travels. The Pirot hearthrug of beautiful Oriental colouring he had brought from Servia, the heavy curtains before the window he had purchased in the bazaar in Bagdad, the pearl inlaid coffee-table whereon stood our drinks had been given him by his friend Tewfik Pasha, the Ottoman Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the fine diamond ring upon his finger was a souvenir from an Imperial Princess.

Position such as this would have turned the head of many a man. But he was good-natured, unassuming and modest to a degree, always ready to lend a helping hand to a youngster in the same profession, while his hand was constantly in his pocket to assist those elderly Pressmen who, in these modern days when competition is so keen, find themselves crowded out. Fleet Street, alas! contains many human wrecks and pitiable tragedies—men who are still brilliant and active yet who, merely because they are getting on in years, have been forced to resign in favour of beardless youths.

Time was when experience was a necessary qualification, but to-day smartness is required even at the risk of irresponsibility, and elderly men are cast forth to become "liners," and to end their days in the bars of the back alleys of Fleet Street. The people who run great newspapers are not philanthropists; their motto is, "Get on, or get out," and in some offices so precarious are men's positions that he who is an editor to-day may find himself next week at the bottom rung of the ladder.

Ah yes! the world of modern journalism is a queer and turbulent world indeed—one that is a closed book to the public, but one that contains much romance. The public buys its morning or evening paper, reads it, and casts it aside without a thought of the strange and often adventurous lives led by the men who have written what they read. They know Julian Little because he is a great man and always signs what he writes. But a man like myself, who whets their appetite for mystery, and whom they only know as "an Evening Herald representative," is unknown and remains ever so, their faithful but anonymous servant.

And yet I suppose I have nothing to grumble at. In my own line I am acknowledged to be a master. In more than one mysterious case my own personal inquiries have resulted in information which I have, in confidence, imparted to Scotland Yard, and in one celebrated affair the culprit was arrested upon my information, tried, found guilty and hanged at Gloucester Jail.

No man, however, is contented with his lot, and I was comparing his life with my own as we smoked together, prior to turning in.

"Well, my dear Victor," my friend laughed, "there isn't much difference, after all. You look after sensations at home, while I look after them abroad."

"You deal with wars and political conspiracies while my sphere lies among thieves or jealous husbands."

"But your work is surely much more interesting than mine!" he declared. "This Barnes affair for instance. I didn't read all the facts. What is the problem?"

"Well—in a few words it's this," I said. "Beyond Hammersmith Bridge, going towards Barnes, is a wide main thoroughfare called Bridge Road. The houses are all large, old-fashioned ones, each standing in its own garden. Once, before the advent of the motor 'bus, the road was a very pleasant suburban thoroughfare within easy distance of the City, but during the past year or two, owing to the vibration caused by passing motors, a great many of these houses have been untenanted.

"One of them, larger than most of the others, standing back some distance from the road with a gravelled drive in front, has been empty for about twelve months. It belongs, it appears, to an eccentric old lady who, rather than accept a lower rent, preferred to allow the place to remain empty. The day before yesterday, at four o'clock in the morning, a police-constable named Horton, on the beat, saw that the rusty padlock on the front gates had been unlocked, and that the latter were slightly ajar.

"This aroused his curiosity, for he had noticed that the lock was upon the gate when he had gone on duty a few hours previously. So he entered and tried the doors front and back. Both were, however, locked. All seemed secure and he was about to leave the neglected garden when he thought he detected a faint glimmer of light through the closed venetian blinds in one of the back rooms. This surprised him, for he knew that the house had been empty for a full year. He tried the door again, but without avail. The conservatory door was also locked. He then tried the windows and discovered one on the ground floor unlatched; so, opening it, he entered."

"And what did he find?" asked Little, much interested, as he knocked the ash from his cigar.

"He found—well, something that forms one of the most complete and most astonishing mysteries that ever puzzled the London police," I replied. "Listen, and I'll explain the affair, which is certainly more peculiar than any I've ever before investigated."

CONCERNS THE CURIOUS AFFAIR AT BARNES

"Was it still dark?" asked Little, whose interest in the affair seemed rather unusual, for he always set his face against sensational journalism, and often raised his voice against my too lurid descriptions in the evening edition of the Herald.

"Day was just breaking," I went on. "The constable opened the window and, entering the empty house, walked along a short passage to where he saw a light shining beneath the door. He pushed it open, and a sight met his eyes which astonished him. The room, a small one, was comfortably furnished. The only illumination, however, was a child's night-light burning under a little yellow glass dome upon the table, and this was scarcely sufficient to reveal the farther corners of the room. Along one side was an old horsehair couch with a sheet, blanket, and eider-down quilt upon it, showing that the usurping occupant made it both living and sleeping room, while opposite was an easy-chair, and a small table upon which were a quantity of new books and the remains of some food. To first appearances it was the room of a caretaker, and the constable was about to retire, grumbling to himself that he had not been informed that the place was inhabited, when he was startled to hear, in a corner of the room, a sharp intermittent clicking. Opening his bull's-eye he threw the light upon the dark corner, where there was revealed something that was certainly unusual—a small deal table with a telegraph instrument screwed down to it. And as he looked the instrument clicked away some message which he, of course, could not understand."

"A telegraph instrument!" cried Julian, in quick surprise. "That doesn't appear in to-night's 'special.'"

"No," I replied, smiling. "I'm keeping a few facts over till to-morrow. There were reasons why the presence of the instrument should not at present be mentioned. Whitlock asked me to say nothing about it. I got the whole story exclusive."

"A real first-class 'scoop,'" declared Little, in journalistic slang.

"Yes. Not bad, was it? Whitlock rang me up on the 'phone at nine yesterday morning, and I went at once to Barnes and saw the house."

"But the girl?"

"Ah! that's just it. Horton, the constable, was standing watching the clicking instrument, ticking some mysterious message to that lonely, unoccupied house, when of a sudden his eyes caught sight of something on the floor, close by the table. He turned his lantern upon it, and saw that it was a young girl about twenty, fully dressed, lying prostrate where she had fallen. The face was very beautiful, but very pale. He bent and touched it. It was icy cold. She was stone-dead! Horrified at the discovery, he turned to go out for assistance, when he saw, standing in the doorway, pale and startled, another woman, very good-looking, and about two years older than her dead companion. She——"

"That isn't in the 'special,' either," Little remarked.

"No; I held it all back until to-day, and the remainder I shall give to-morrow," I answered. "The whole affair is so absolutely extraordinary in every detail. Let me finish. Well, Horton, face to face with the woman, asked how it was that the girl was dead. The new-comer started, looked at the body, then at the constable, but made no response. Trembling from head to foot she stood there, her face livid, her jaws set, her eyes glaring at the officer, as though staring into eternity. Twice the constable repeated his question. 'I—I know nothing!' she stammered at last. 'Then I shall be compelled to trouble you to come to the station with me,' was Horton's reply, for the whole circumstances warranted, in his opinion, the detention of this woman, whose attitude showed guilt."

"But he had not ascertained that the girl had died by foul means," interrupted the special correspondent.

"He surmised it. For an ordinary constable Horton was above the average intelligence," I asserted. "He put many inquiries to the woman, but she would vouchsafe no reply. He is convinced, however, from the fact that she had her hat on, that she followed him into the house—probably through the same window as that by which he had entered."

"In that case, why did he arrest her?"

"Because of her guilty attitude," I answered. "Wait until you hear all, and then judge whether or not the constable was justified in his action. They stood together in the room, beside the prostrate body of the girl, the instrument still clicking on, the woman staring at the lifeless form, her countenance white to the lips. 'Who is this girl?' he demanded of her again. 'I—I don't know,' was the woman's reply. Therefore, finding that he could obtain no information, he compelled her to accompany him to the door, unlocked it, and brought her out into Bridge Road, where, after calling assistance with his whistle, he took her to the police-station. There the inspector endeavoured to obtain from her her name and address and the name of the dead woman, but without avail. She steadily declined to utter one single word, even though he threatened to detain her. Therefore he had her placed in the cells, while he himself went round to the empty house with the divisional surgeon to examine the body. When he returned he went to the cell to further question the woman."

"And what statement did she make?"

"None. She was dead—committed suicide."

"Suicide!" he gasped, staring at me. "What? She's dead! Dead?"

"Yes. She had swallowed prussic acid, and so carried her secret to the grave."

"By Jove! Extraordinary—most extraordinary!" exclaimed Julian, tossing his cigar away and rising to stretch his long legs. "Then the theory is—what?"

"Well, there are a good many," I replied. "When the doctor came to examine the poor girl they found she'd been shot through the heart. She had no hat or jacket on, and the inference—because a pair of woman's boots, a pink chiffon scarf, and a cycling skirt were found in a cupboard in another room—is that she had lived all alone in that house for some considerable time and with some mysterious purpose."

"Connected with that telegraph instrument, I should think," remarked Little, who now seemed to evince the utmost interest in the affair.

"Yes. That instrument is a very mysterious factor," I said. "I was with Whitlock and three other men from Scotland Yard when they searched the premises. They had with them a telegraph inspector from the Post Office, and he traced a wire cunningly concealed, passing out of the window, along the wall of the back garden, and up an adjoining house to where run overhead several of the trunk lines from London to the south of England. One of these—the Portsmouth line—was tapped by that wire by a very ingenious contrivance, so arranged that it would escape the eye of any linesman on the lookout for 'faults,' and in a manner that it might be disconnected at will. Whitlock is pretty cute. He wouldn't let me publish anything about this, and he's put on a Post Office telegraphist night and day, in the hope that some message will come through that may give a clue to the motive of the strange affair."

"Then the theory is that the girl herself was a telegraph clerk?"

"Yes; or, at anyrate, she could read all messages which passed between Portsmouth and London whenever she switched on her communication."

"Did you see the dead girl?"

"Yes—at the mortuary. She was very beautiful, with long fair hair and a perfect complexion. Myself, I don't think she was a clerk, but a lady. She's refined, with soft white hands, and her dress, though a plain blouse and skirt, was expensive and well made."

"Anything which may lead to identification?" asked Julian Little, in a changed voice, turning from me. It struck me that since he had risen from his chair he had grown strangely uneasy.

"Nothing. Her only ornament is a ring with two small diamonds and an emerald—one of quite an ordinary pattern—while none of her clothes bear either laundry-marks or initials."

"And the woman who committed suicide rather than answer questions?" he asked, his face still turned from me. "What of her?"

"The same—only from her clothing the laundry-marks have been recently cut; and there are other things—such as the cutting away of a waistbelt from her bodice, which no doubt bore the dressmaker's name—which show that she intended to conceal her identity if arrested."

Little gave vent to a sigh of relief, I thought. Yet next instant I laughed at my foolishness. It was mere fanciful suspicion. Before he had turned, his face, usually so full of careless merriment, had undergone a change, and was white and drawn and haggard. Now, as he faced me again, it had resumed its normal appearance.

"Then both women are complete mysteries?"

"Yes. They lie side by side at the mortuary, their lips sealed by death."

"And what's Whitlock's opinion?" he asked, with an eagerness he endeavoured in vain to suppress.

"He has none. He's utterly confounded."

"The tapping of the wire is, I take it, the chief point. When the motive for that is discovered, the truth of the affair will possibly be exposed."

I shook my head.

"The message which Horton watched has been discovered, from the duplicates in the Central Telegraph Office, to be one of no importance—a mere commercial message from the Southampton office of one of the steam-ship companies regarding the sailing of a ship and her number of passengers. Indeed, all day yesterday one of Whitlock's assistants was engaged in examining the duplicates of messages over that particular line, but he has, up to the present, discovered nothing suspicious. That is why he thinks it is yet to come."

"And as you've published a portion of the affair in the 'special' to-night the sender of that expected message will probably not give himself away—eh?"

"It may have been a conspiracy against someone entirely unconscious of the tapped wire at Barnes," I argued.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "But do you anticipate the truth ever being discovered?"

"Who knows?" I exclaimed. "Certainly the features of the affair are most extraordinary. Whitlock, Gunton, Meyer, and a whole crowd from Scotland Yard have been investigating to-day. I spent the day down there with them, and we lunched all together at the Red Lion. By all it's regarded as an absolute and complete enigma. The motive must have been a very strong one to induce a girl to live in an empty house all alone, watching that telegraph instrument."

"But did nobody enter the house?"

"A clerk of the landlady's agent was there about nine months ago," I answered. "After that the eccentric old lady refused to let the place and was travelling abroad, so the agent did not bother further. For fully nine months it has not been entered, so far as is known, except by the girl now found dead. Another feature is that the lock on the chain around the gates—which had always been found in its place by the police—had been so arranged that it opened by pressure at the side, not requiring any key, and could be locked by simply closing it. The interior mechanism of the lock had been taken out and another substituted."

"And how long is the girl supposed to have lived there?"

"At least for four months is the general opinion."

"She must have had a pretty dismal time of it," he remarked thoughtfully.

"That's just what Whitlock says. How did she get food? No neighbours ever saw her go in or out, therefore she must have done so at night. But the shops would then be all closed, therefore someone must have brought her supplies. That she lived there is proved by the cheap enamelled cooking utensils in the kitchen. The gas was not cut off, so she used the gas stove."

"Well, the other papers will be on it pretty busily in the morning, no doubt," he remarked somewhat uneasily. His sudden nervousness seemed quite unaccountable.

"The 'mornings' are on it now, of course. But they'll learn nothing. I've taken jolly good care to keep the story all to myself," I declared, with a journalist's pardonable pride of exclusive information.

Scarcely had the words fallen from my lips when there was a loud double knock at our outer door, and on opening it I found my friend John Whitlock, inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, standing upon the mat.

"Come in, old chap!" I cried, greeting him warmly, and ushering him into our sitting-room. He had, no doubt, some fresh information for me.

As Whitlock entered Julian Little rose, and the pair faced each other as I introduced them.

Upon Whitlock's ruddy countenance was an expression of keen inquiry, while Little's face instantly blanched to the lips as he learned the identity of the modestly-dressed man in the dark blue overcoat with velvet collar, who had called upon us so unexpectedly.

He turned quickly away to the writing-table, in order to hide his confusion and gain time to recover himself, while Whitlock, fixing his dark eyes upon mine with meaning glance, took a cigar from the box I handed him.

"I expect you'll want to talk, so I'll leave you together," Little said, in a hard, changed voice, when, a few moments later, holding his breath and turning, he again faced the famous detective.

"No, Mr Little," responded our visitor, in clear, distinct tones. "Please don't leave us, I beg of you. What I have to say may be said openly, before you."

The man addressed, glancing for an instant into Whitlock's hard, serious face, sank into his armchair, inert, staring, breathless.

Then, for the first time, I became convinced that Julian, my closest friend, knew more than he chose to admit concerning that amazing affair at Barnes, where a woman had calmly and deliberately gone to her death rather than reveal her identity.

Never was guilt more plainly written upon a man's face than upon his.

I held my breath, amazed and wondering.

What was the truth?

IN THE GLARE OF PUBLICITY

"I was passing this way and thought I'd accept your kind invitation, Mr Keene," Whitlock said. "You've so often asked me to look in."

And I saw that his gaze was fixed upon the man seated in the armchair.

"Delighted, I'm sure," I said, pouring out a drink and pulling forward a chair for him. He would not take off his overcoat, for he declared that he must be going in a few minutes.

He was about forty-eight, dark-haired, with a mobile, pock-marked face, broad-shouldered and muscular—a man who had risen from the rank of constable in the T Division of the Metropolitan Police, to be one of the most renowned officers of the Criminal Investigation Department.

We had been friendly for several years, and he had on one occasion told me the story of his career; how when he was a constable he one night entered a coal-cellar beneath the pavement in Chiswick and captured an armed burglar, who fired at him twice with a revolver, and how, by dint of his watchfulness and ingenuity, he had received promotion and transfer to Scotland Yard.

The public know John Whitlock well by repute. His name figures in the papers in connection with most murder mysteries that occur in London. A dozen or so assassins have received their well-merited punishment on the scaffold as the result of his energy, untiring inquiries, and tenacious ingenuity. There were many men at "the Yard" in higher positions, but not one was a better officer than he. For three years or so I had known him intimately, and often met him in that cosy little bar in Parliament Street, where he and his fellow-officers congregate every evening about seven to have a friendly drink before setting forth upon nocturnal vigils in various parts of the Metropolis. Sometimes I had been his guest at his modest little flat at Battersea, where he lived so happily with his wife, but he had never before honoured me with a visit, though I had often invited him.

In many of the celebrated cases of modern times he had figured. It was he who followed Charles Spencer, the well-known promoter of bogus companies, half over the world and arrested him in Vancouver; he who solved the mystery of the Leytonstone murder and the remarkable Greatorex forgery, recovering the greater part of the proceeds from a house out at Harlesden. Readers of the newspapers will recollect the recent Parsons case, where a woman's body was found in a trunk in the cloak-room at Paddington Station, and how the culprit was cleverly detected and arrested by him. They will also remember the seizure of bombs at a house off Tottenham Court Road, and how the maker of them, a Russian revolutionist, took one of them in his hand and threatened him that, if arrested, he would dash it down and blow the whole place to atoms. Yet, in face of death, he had rushed forward and secured his man, whose extradition had been applied for by the Government of the Czar. For his personal bravery the emperor had sent him a fine gold watch with an inscription, and this he carried always, but without a chain. He one day told me, with a grim smile, that if he wore an albert he would probably not have the watch another week, such queer company did he often keep.

Such, then, was the man who flung himself into my chair, lit his cigar, and smiled across at the world-famous correspondent, who sat pale and nervous in his presence.

"I've seen the Herald to-night," he said to me, when he had got his cigar well under way. "You haven't given them too much, eh? I suppose you'll publish the rest to-morrow? And when you do, by Jove! it'll cause a sensation, won't it?"

"No doubt," I said. "I've just been explaining the facts to Mr Little. We were talking of it when you came in."

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" remarked Whitlock, turning to Julian with affected carelessness.

"Absolutely amazing," he declared. "Have you discovered anything further?"

"Nothing of real importance," was the response.

"Then it is still a complete mystery?"

"Absolutely."

Julian Little was palpably relieved at Whitlock's confession of ignorance; while the latter was, I could see, equally astute in placing him off his guard. He had not failed to notice his nervousness when introduced.

"Keene has been telling me the details which he has not yet published—the telegraph instrument, and the woman who committed suicide after arrest," remarked the famous correspondent. "It certainly looks as though there has been some gigantic conspiracy in progress."

"Yes," replied Whitlock, rubbing his smooth chin with his hand and raising his glass to his lips, his keen eyes on the other's face. "We hope to discover it. But, with both women dead, it will be a difficult matter, I fear."

"But there must have been others connected with the affair," argued Little.

"Of course. That's what we shall discover later on," he answered. "A woman never tapped that wire, depend upon it."

"But the two women must have quarrelled, and the one shot the other," Little suggested.

Whitlock was silent. He advanced no theory upon that point.

"Isn't that your opinion?" Julian went on.

"Well, to tell the truth, I haven't formed any opinion yet," answered the man from Scotland Yard, who, turning to me, said: "The real reason why I called, Mr Keene, was because I thought you'd like to be down at the house to-morrow. I shall be there at nine-thirty to make some further investigations, if you'd care to come."

"I'd be delighted," I said eagerly. "I'll meet you at the house."

"All right. But," he added, "I think it would be as well not to publish anything further—until I see you. Publicity may negative all our efforts in this affair."

"Then I'd better hold back all the additional facts, you really think?" I said, somewhat disappointed, and fearing lest one of the rival journals might, by bribing an indiscreet constable, get hold of intelligence which, up to the present, was entirely my own.

"Yes; it will be best."

"Inquiries are still being made?" asked Julian, rather anxiously.

"Of course. In such a case as this we don't let the grass grow beneath our feet," Whitlock said. "And if my suspicions are realised the truth will create a profound sensation."

"In what manner?" asked Little, with a start.

The other shrugged his shoulders, answering—

"At present I can say nothing."

"Ah!" laughed Little, uneasily. "You people are like ambassadors, always mysterious."

"Secrecy is highly necessary in my profession," declared the officer, "just as necessary, indeed, as it is in diplomacy. We are not fond of making statements to the Press. Our friend here," he added, indicating me, "is, however, usually in our confidence."

Then Whitlock expressed pleasure at meeting a man so popular and famous as my fellow-tenant of those rooms, declaring that he often read his articles in the Daily Herald, and had long desired to make his acquaintance. Their conversation then turned upon travel, adventure, and the Boer Campaign—through the whole of which Julian had been—until at last the detective rose, shook our hands, and left, promising to meet me at Barnes at half-past nine in the morning.

Why he intended to further investigate that dismal empty house, I could not guess. Yet the fact that he had invited me to be present showed that he held some fresh theory and anticipated interesting developments.

"I don't like that man," declared Julian, when I returned to the sitting-room. "There's something false and egotistical about him that arouses my instinctive dislike."

I recollected his surprise and fear when I had introduced him, and, suspicious at his declaration, said—

"My dear Julian, he's one of the best fellows in the world. Police officers are supposed to have neither heart nor conscience, but he has both. When down the East End together I've seen him myself give money to known thieves who have been starving."

"I don't care. I don't like the fellow," Little repeated, causing my wonder to increase. "He'd play you false if ever he had the chance."

"Well, we'll agree to differ," I laughed lightly. "He's done me many a good turn. Why, half the 'scoops' I've made for the past two years are due to information he's given me in secret."

"And you've paid him accordingly, I suppose?" he remarked with a covert sneer.

"Oh, he's received odd cheques now and then from Jennings, the cashier," I admitted.

"Well, that's all the same. He wouldn't help you if he were not paid for it. He knows full well that the Herald scale of payment is higher than that of any other paper in London."

"Yes. But he's also my friend," I declared.

"Friend be hanged!" he cried. "It's past midnight. Let's go to bed, Keene."

And so we parted.

But through that night I slept very little. My mind was full of the strange and incomprehensible affair. I could not put away from myself Julian's palpable fear when he met Whitlock, nor the latter's curious attitude towards him. That the whole situation was one of doubt and suspicion was apparent. My own opinion was that Whitlock had called especially to meet Julian Little, and that the appointment for the morrow was a mere excuse.

Yet, after all, what connection could my friend possibly have with this mysterious affair?

The more I calmly reflected and argued with myself, the more puzzled I became. I had anticipated launching upon the public the remainder of the sensational story in the first edition on the morrow, but Whitlock had prohibited this—prohibited it for some distinct purpose—a purpose which he had refused to state.

Hour after hour I lay, listening to the chiming church clocks of London as they counted the long night, and trying to form some theory regarding the tragic affair which had so entirely possessed me.

Before my vision arose those two dead but beautiful faces, as they lay cold and still, side by side, in the silent chamber of death; the one, the younger and more beautiful, foully murdered, the other with her secret safely concealed for ever.

Upon the white, lifeless countenance of the former was a cold, hard look, as though she had seen and recognised the assassin whose hand had fired the fatal shot, while upon the other's face the white curled lip smiled defiance at all the world.

In the dull grey of the damp dawn those two dead faces haunted me. If I tried to sleep I saw them. Sometimes they seemed to open their eyes and gaze out at me. The murdered girl with the fair, child-like hair seemed in my imagination to appeal to me mutely for protection, as though urging me to assist in bringing the assassin to justice. Yet was not the assassin that black-haired woman with the white face and curled lip—the woman who, when arrested, had met death without flinching?

I had assisted the police in investigating dozens of murder mysteries, and had looked upon many a victim, but never had a dead face held me in such strange, almost magnetic attraction as that of the unknown telegraphist; never had the details of a mystery puzzled me to such a tantalising point, and never had I been filled with such a strange feeling of suspicion and dread as on that long and memorable night.

The feeling was as though I had become suddenly overshadowed by some mysterious evil—some sinister influence which threatened, at any moment, to bear me down and engulf me in a vortex of disaster.

An obsession was upon me that was irresistible. The shadow of a great crime had suddenly darkened my life.

CONTAINS SOME SURPRISES

"You see the ingenuity of the whole affair," Whitlock remarked, pointing to the plain deal table in the barely-furnished room wherein we stood together next morning—the room in which the mysterious tragedy had been enacted. "This instrument was fitted up by one who was certainly an expert telegraph engineer. The transmitter, which bears a number, as you see, has been discovered by the Post Office to be one stolen about twelve months ago from the bag of a linesman while he was eating his dinner in an inn at Lyndhurst, in the New Forest."

"Could it have been arranged for the purpose of betting or Stock Exchange frauds?" I queried, standing beside the dark stain upon the floor which showed so gruesomely in the morning light.

"No; certainly not. I've abandoned that theory. Let's go over the house again."

Before following him I glanced around the room, every detail of which was already familiar to me. It was not large, and had probably been used as a study when the place was tenanted, for along the faded walls were black marks showing where bookcases had stood. Upon the centre of the floor was an old bit of ragged Brussels carpet probably to deaden the sound of footsteps. The chairs were old and rickety; while the old sofa, which had been used as a bed, was worn and frayed. In the centre of the couch was a deep cavity, showing that somebody had used it for months. The blanket was a dark army one and the eider-down quilt, once covered with dark green satin, was almost brown with age. Everything had been left as it was found, but during the whole of the previous day experts from Scotland Yard had been dusting the half-filled tumbler with a pale greenish chalk and photographing the finger-prints upon it; also taking prints from the door-plate and other polished surfaces in various parts of the room and the house.

The remains of some cold ham and bread—the unfortunate victim's supper—were still upon the plate, and her half-consumed lager beer showed that she had been probably interrupted in her meal by a passing message.

In the grey light of that autumn morning the room looked a dismal and mysterious dwelling-place. The door stood open, and as we conversed our voices echoed weirdly through the untenanted, neglected house.

Whitlock stood in the centre of the room, gazing thoughtfully around him. Every nook and corner of the place had been searched, in order to find some copied message, or something to give a clue to its late occupant. But all in vain. Discovery was apparently constantly dreaded, and everything which might lead to identification had been, from time to time, destroyed in the grate.

Upon the table were a number of books, new novels of the lighter kind—which showed the poor girl's taste for fiction—as well as some weekly papers, and a half-knitted cravat of dark blue silk.

Who could the beautiful girl be who had passed her days in such loneliness and secrecy? And with what motive?

My eye caught that tell-tale stain upon the unwashed floor-boards and I drew back in horror. I saw her startled face, for it was now haunting me continually.

I tried, time after time, to put its memory away from me but without avail. It appealed to me for vengeance.

Whitlock's voice roused me to a sense of my surroundings.

"Come, Mr Keene," he said. "Let's take another look round."

Together we went out into the big square hall, where the wide, old-fashioned stairs ran up to the first floor. It was a roomy old place, built a century ago with old-fashioned comfort and solidity. On each side of the hall were rooms—drawing-room, dining-room, morning-room and the study which we had just left. One after the other we entered.

The drawing-room, a big apartment with two deep bay windows, had once been decorated in white and gold, but the white was now grey and the gilt sadly tarnished. The ceiling showed that it had been a handsome room in the early Victorian days, but the cheap paper was now smoke-grimed and faded. The dark sage-green walls of the dining-room showed square marks where paintings had once hung, and the morning-room must, when tenanted, have been a pleasant apartment. But the neighbourhood had, in the last ten years, sadly deteriorated, and motor traction, with its attendant noise and dust, had rendered those hitherto comfortable "detached residences" practically uninhabitable by anyone with nerves.

Tenants who still remained in that thoroughfare were subjected to a miniature earthquake every two minutes, and small objects, pictures, ornaments and the like, were thrown down constantly and broken.

The rooms were entirely empty. In the drawing-room an old newspaper had been flung into the fireplace. Whitlock, picking it up, found that it was dated four months back, this going to prove that the mysterious tenant had occupied her room for that period, if not longer.

"But tell me, Whitlock," I asked, as we stood together, bending over the old news-sheet. "Your inquiries seem to show that you don't believe the woman who committed suicide was the assassin."

"No," he responded promptly. "You're quite right, Mr Keene. I have other suspicions."

"Of what?" I asked, recollecting Julian Little's strange attitude.

"Of this strange affair," he replied, with that delightful vagueness which he was so fond of assuming.

"Then why did the other woman take her life instead of facing the magistrate?"

"Who can tell? Women are mostly strange, hysterical creatures. She had a motive, of course; but it may have been a most remote one."

"And it may have been very closely connected with the cause of the tragedy."

"It may," he admitted. "But," he went on, "I somehow feel that there should be some clue to the affair remaining in this place. A man was connected with it, without a doubt, but he is a mystery and at present undiscovered."

As we stood there a loud metallic clicking reached our ears from the adjoining room. It sounded through the empty house, and next moment we heard the sound of flying footsteps ascending the kitchen stairs.

"Hark!" shouted Whitlock, "there's the telegraph!" but the words were scarcely out of his mouth before the male clerk from the Post Office was at the little deal table listening to the ticking of the instrument.

Another moment and we were also at his side.

He was scribbling the message upon a piece of paper, while we looked over his shoulder in eagerness.

But it was nothing. An ordinary message from a husband in Portsmouth to his wife in Leeds, telling of his safe arrival.

So we turned away in disappointment, and ascended the stairs to the first floor, entering a room where, in a cupboard, the victim's skirt, blouse, hat and other clothing were still hanging.

"Now," exclaimed Whitlock, taking down the skirt from its peg and holding it out, "there's an interesting point here. Last night I got a costumier to examine these things, and he has declared that they belonged to neither of the two dead women. The measurements are quite different to the clothes they were wearing. Therefore there arises a new query: To whom do they belong?"

I handled the garments myself. This fresh fact was indeed puzzling.

A dozen Pressmen I knew, having learnt of the tragedy through my account in the Evening Herald of the previous night, were now haunting the neighbourhood, but at Whitlock's order all information was being refused by the police. As I looked from the window of the empty room I saw two of my journalistic rivals, both of them reporters of evening papers, standing together on the opposite pavement.

Passing into the back bedroom, I noticed in the empty grate the unsmoked half of a cigarette, and picked it up. Eagerly Whitlock examined it, and after minute scrutiny said—

"This was smoked not earlier than a week ago, and it proves two things. First, that a man was in the habit of coming here, and, secondly, that he had a connoisseur's taste for cigarettes, because—look!—printed in blue on the paper, don't you see, is the trade-mark of a Greek temple and some lettering in Greek. Greek cigarettes are not smoked in London, therefore he is probably a traveller."

A traveller! I recollected all that had passed in our chambers on the previous night. Only a month before Julian Little had been in Athens, interviewing the Greek Minister of Foreign Affairs regarding the Macedonian troubles! I looked again at the unsmoked portion of the cigarette, but it was unlike any I had seen before.

"We may find that this Greek firm have an agent in London, and perhaps trace the person to whom the cigarettes are supplied," remarked Whitlock, carefully placing it in an old envelope he took from his pocket.

The vague suspicion upon my friend Julian was increasing. But suspicion of what? Surely not of the murder of the girl with the angel face, now lying cold and still in the mortuary?

And yet had not the constable distinctly stated that the girl's face was cold when he discovered her. Therefore the crime must have been committed at least an hour, or perhaps longer, before its discovery.

Of Julian's movements on that night I had no idea. I had been sent down to Grimsby upon another matter, and had only arrived at King's Cross at five that morning. At half-past, when I entered our chambers, he was sleeping soundly in his room.

Surely he was the very last person to suspect of having any hand in that mysterious and dastardly crime! Yet had not guilt been written plainly upon his face?

Following Whitlock, I passed from room to room. He was in search of any cupboard or cavity in which other belongings of the illegal occupant might be concealed. For fully an hour we made diligent investigation, leaving no hole or corner undisturbed. Suddenly, when in the servants' quarters at the top of the house, in a room with a sloping ceiling, my friend the inspector, while tapping the wall with his fist, produced a hollow sound, and next moment we saw that a door flush with the wall, being papered over, had escaped detection on the previous day.

So well had the wall-paper concealed the door that one might enter the room a hundred times without noticing it. The window was small, and the place consequently badly lighted, while the door apparently gave access to a large space beneath the sloping roof.

But it was locked, and the key was missing. His curiosity aroused, Whitlock descended to the garden, where he discovered a piece of old iron—a rusty, bent poker, I think—and, returning quickly, broke the lock and opened the door.

Beyond was darkness, and the low roof sloped to the floor as we had conjectured. Whitlock, striking a match, stepped within.

"Halloa!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What's this?" And he raised from the floor a small, cheap, brown leather suit-case, apparently quite new, and brought it out into the centre of the empty room.

It was locked, but in a few moments the brass fastening yielded to the leverage of the piece of iron and the lid flew open, disclosing a tangled mass of green telegraph-tape bearing messages, which was evidently being, for some unknown purpose, preserved. Being in the Morse alphabet neither of us could read it, but Whitlock, after satisfying himself that nothing else remained in the cupboard, took the great bundle of paper-tape in his arms to carry it down to the Post Office clerk below.

As he lifted it from the suit-case, however, my eye caught an object which, perhaps fortunately, he did not see—an object which caused me to hold my breath in sheer amazement, but which, next instant, I snatched up in my hand and held concealed.

It was inconceivable, incredible! My brain was awhirl.

Last night Julian Little had, I recollected, warned me vaguely against Daisy Marvin, the twenty-year-old daughter of James Marvin, news editor of the Evening Herald, and my chief. He knew that we loved each other; that though she had adopted the variety stage as a profession, I adored her. Her photographs on post-cards were in every shop window, and great posters of her in her huge stage hat and dancing skirt stared at Londoners from hoardings everywhere.

Both her talent and her beauty were acknowledged. Her father being a journalist and her father's friends being journalists, she always received favourable "notices" in the Press, and managers knew well that if she were in their bill their "shows" would not be ignored. A line of news is worth a good deal as an advertisement, therefore Daisy—my own sweet-faced Daisy, whom I loved so well—was on her way to become chief among the "stars," with a salary of from £100 to £200 a week. There is great affinity between journalism and the stage, yet old Marvin had always openly expressed himself against Daisy marrying a Pressman—being ambitious enough to hope that her face and talent might attract some scion of a noble house. Therefore our love was a secret one, and I had often to resort to all sorts of ruses in order to meet her and talk with her alone.

But the little object I had just discovered, and the secret of which I kept to myself, caused me an agony of doubt, of wonder, of fear.

The revelation staggered me.

What I had found was my own portrait—the one I had given her a year ago! It was circular, about the size of a penny, enclosed in a small gold rim and attached to a fine golden chain. She wore it always beneath her dress, and she had many times told me that it never left her, save when she was compelled to discard it in her stage décolleté.

Why was it there, in that empty house of mystery?

Had both she and Julian Little some connection with the astounding affair?

I slipped the little trinket into my jacket pocket, and followed Whitlock downstairs like a man in a dream.

"Look!" he exclaimed, holding out the armful of tape to the telegraph clerk, who was seated near the instrument, idling over the morning newspaper. "I wish you'd just see what this is all about."

The man rose, but as he did so the instrument clicked again, and, quickly reseating himself at the table, he commenced to scribble the passing message.

"Good heavens!" he gasped, glancing up at us in utter surprise an instant later. "Listen! This is most extraordinary! There's some mystery here. What can it mean?"

REPEATS A MESSAGE TO PLYMOUTH

A journalist's life is full of surprises.

I stood staring at the clicking telegraph instrument, Whitlock at my side equally eager.

We both saw that each word ticked out caused the postal clerk increased surprise.

The mysterious message held him in amazement.

It was a long one, but at last ceased with two or three spasmodic clicks.

"Well," he remarked, turning to us with the paper whereon he had hurriedly scribbled the words, "this is curious, to say the least, Mr Whitlock."

"What is it? Read it," the inspector urged.

"It's a Press message—from somebody in London who apparently knows more than we do of this affair. Listen: 'To Western Evening Express, Plymouth.—The police, searching the house at Barnes this morning, where a woman was found mysteriously murdered, made several curious discoveries. In the room where the dead girl was found was a secret telegraph instrument, and it further appears that a second woman was discovered in the house, who, being placed under arrest on suspicion, shortly afterwards committed suicide in the police cell——'"

"Why, who's that from?" I exclaimed in amazement, interrupting. "Only Little and myself know those facts, and I haven't yet published them!"

Whitlock's ruddy face grew serious and thoughtful.

"Listen to the remainder of the message," the clerk said. "It runs: 'This morning Inspector Whitlock, on making further examination of the empty house, found a half-smoked cigarette of unusual brand, which may lead to a clue, while upstairs in a cupboard, the door of which was cleverly concealed in the wall, was found a suit-case, containing a quantity of telegraph tape and the small portrait of a gentleman——'"

"What can this mean?" gasped Whitlock. "Why, we haven't been outside the place! How could it be known in London, unless—unless you telegraphed it?" he added, looking at the telegraphist straight in the face.

"Well, I haven't sent a single word over the wire," the clerk replied. "Besides, the message came through before I knew that you had found this bunch of tape. Is it also true about the man's portrait?"

For a moment I hesitated.

"Yes," I replied. "Here it is. I found it at the bottom of the box."

Whitlock took it eagerly in his hand.

"Why, Mr Keene!" he gasped, staring at me. "It's you—you!"

"I know it is," I said blankly.

"But how came it here?" he asked. "What do you know about this?" and he indicated the little trinket.

"I only know that it's my photograph," I said.

"Why should it be found here?" he inquired. "You saw the bodies of the two women yesterday. Did you identify either of them?"

"I have never seen either of them before in my life."

"Is it not quite within the range of possibility that some friend—or enemy—of yours might have placed this little picture in the suit-case purposely?"

"And then telegraphed the fact of its discovery to an evening paper," I added. "Well, I don't know what to think."

"Mr Keene," he said very seriously, "this mystery is increasing hourly. It seems to me that somebody, who is your friend, knows a good deal about the truth."

Did he allude to Julian Little, I wondered, recollecting all that had occurred on the previous night.

"But that isn't all," the telegraph clerk went on. "The message proceeds as follows: 'On further investigation, the police were led to search in the old-fashioned garden at the rear of the house, and at the foot of a big yew tree they unearthed a tin box. This, on being opened, was found to contain several articles which, it is hoped, may serve as a clue by which the mystery can be elucidated. The police are very reticent regarding the affair, but we are in a position to state that among the objects found in the tin box were a string of child's beads of pale blue porcelain, a small gold watch, and several papers of curious character. The inquest upon the two girls will be held this afternoon.—Central News.'"

"The Central News!" I gasped. "How could they possibly know these facts?"

"That's just it, Mr Keene. There's a big mystery here somewhere," Whitlock declared. "What about the box at the foot of the yew tree? Is there a yew tree here?"

"Yes. Look yonder," replied the telegraph clerk, pointing out of the window to a big, spreading tree near the bottom of the great, old-fashioned, but neglected garden.

"By Jove, there is!" exclaimed the police officer. "But how the dickens can the Central News know more than we do? They've actually circulated a discovery before we've made it."

"An invention, perhaps?" I suggested.

"No, that can't be, because all the other facts are absolutely true," he pointed out. "They even reported the discovery of this little portrait, which you very naturally concealed."

"I wonder who sent the message to the C.N.?" I ventured, using the initials of the telegraph agency as every Pressman does. The P.A. means, in Press parlance, the Press Association; the C.N., the Central News, while the "Exchange" is brief for intelligence received through the medium of the Exchange Telegraph Company.

"Well, at anyrate, we must make a search at the spot they indicate," Whitlock said. "It's quite clear to me that somebody knows all about it, while we are completely in the dark. If it were not that two women have lost their lives, I should begin to think that the whole thing had been arranged as a journalistic 'scoop.'"

I laughed, recollecting many bogus "mysteries" that I had known. One had been cleverly "brought off" near Sheffield a couple of years before, when two journalists killed a dog on the railway-line, and, carrying away the body a long distance, buried it. The police, of course, believed that a foul murder had been committed, and it was not until after a week of all sorts of weird theories cleverly worked up by the enterprising Pressmen and telegraphed broadcast all over the country, that an analysis of the blood proved it to be of canine origin. Such journalistic "mysteries" are not at all uncommon.

"But this isn't a fake!" I cried. "It can't be. The girl was found here in this room—shot dead."

"Well, I can't for the life of me see, Mr Keene, how your friends of the Central News can possibly know facts about an affair of which we are in ignorance. Not a soul has been in the house to-day except our three selves. But," he added, "we'll go and see what we can find at the spot in the garden. I wonder if there's a spade about. Let's go and look."

"You go. I'll go across to the doctor's opposite, ring up the Central News, and ask them about their account."

"Yes, do," he said.

So I went out to where I saw that a telephone wire ran into a doctor's house, rang, presented my card, and asked permission to use the telephone, which was at once accorded to me.

In a few moments I was on to the news editor of the Central News in New Bridge Street, Blackfriars.

He was a man named Burton, whom I knew intimately, often meeting him at the Savage Club.

"Halloa! How are you, Keene, old chap?" he asked. "Anything you want?"

"Yes. I want to know about that account of yours of the Barnes mystery," I said. "Where did you get it from?"

"Barnes mystery?" he responded. "I haven't seen anything of it personally. Hold on a moment; I'll ask round."

For two or three minutes I held the receiver at my ear in expectation, until at last Burton asked—

"Halloa! Are you there, Keene?"

"Yes."

"We haven't sent anything out this morning about the Barnes mystery. Nothing fresh has come in. You must have made a mistake. It isn't from us, old chap."

"But the message addressed to the Western Evening Express is signed by your agency," I said. "Are you quite certain?"

"Hold on again," he urged; "I'll make quite sure."

Then a few moments later he continued—

"I've asked the telegraph operator. Nothing whatever concerning the Barnes affair has gone out from us since 11.58 last night. We've got two men down at Barnes, but they can't get anything. They report that the police will not say a word. We shall get something from the inquest this afternoon. Are you lunching at the Savage?"

"No; I don't think so to-day," was my reply, and with a word of farewell I rang off and crossed the road to meet Whitlock in the garden. He had borrowed a spade and a pick from some men mending the main road a little distance away, and was half-way down the garden towards the spot indicated in the mysterious telegram.

"The message was a forged one," I said. "The Central News has sent out nothing to-day."

He halted and looked straight at me.

"Forged!" he echoed. "In that case let us ask over the wire where the message was handed in and by whom."

He turned on his heel, re-entered the house, and gave instructions to the telegraphist to make the inquiry of the Central Telegraph Office.

Within a few minutes the answer came back that it had been handed in at the office in Southampton Street, Strand, and that it was typed upon the usual forms for Press telegrams. The name of the sender was given as "Cooper—Central News"—a fictitious name, of course.

I saw that Whitlock's best energies in the near future were to be devoted to discovering the sender of the telegram.

"It's a very funny affair, Mr Keene," he declared. "Evidently the man who sent the telegram was a journalist."

I agreed, and my mind wandered at once to the suspicion upon Julian Little.

"But what I cannot see is why your portrait should be found here," he went on, as we walked together down the garden. "Perhaps this mysterious box which the passing message says we are to find will explain something."

The garden was larger than that of the other houses, secluded by high walls of time-mellowed brick, mostly covered by ivy. Such a garden, with big trees, level lawn, and quiet walks flanked by high box hedges, was difficult to find so near London nowadays. But when the house was built, in the days of George III., ground was not nearly so valuable as it now is, and the Malls at Hammersmith and Chiswick were fashionable residential centres.

Till fifty years ago the garden had been four or five times larger than it now was, but encroaching builders had purchased parts of it, until now it was a mere apology for its former self—weedy, overgrown, its gravelled walks full of rank nettles and grass, and its old stone fountain moss-grown and broken; yet one or two fine trees remained, among them the big yew, fully three centuries old, beneath which the mysterious message declared that we had discovered a tin box.

We approached it in wonder and excitement. All around the root of the tree was a tangle of weeds that had not been disturbed for years. Of late, previous tenants had done nothing to keep up the garden, nobody caring to spend money upon it. Here everything grew wild and untrained.

We both searched round the root of the tree, but saw nothing to indicate the spot where any box had been recently buried.

"The only way," I suggested, "is to dig a trench right round the root."

"Yes," my friend assented. "You take the pick and I'll take the shovel. But, by Jove! it looks as if it might be a long job. I'll get Sergeant Henson with another spade." And so saying Whitlock went to the front gate, where the detective was on duty with a colleague, and very soon he joined us. All three of us took off our coats, and quickly we were working away in search of the box which the mysterious message had declared that we had actually discovered.

While with my pick I dug up the thick layer of turf and weed-roots, the others dug down into the earth in search of the promised find. A full hour we worked on in a circle around the huge roots, but without result. All three of us became uncommonly thirsty over our efforts, therefore we sent Henson for three bottles of lager beer, and, having refreshed ourselves, resumed our work of excavation. The huge twisted roots of the yew puzzled us considerably, for we constantly struck them.

From eleven o'clock till nearly two we worked hard in eager expectancy, and had excavated a wide trench about two feet deep when of a sudden, as I struck my pick into the ground, I brought up a big piece of turf that had evidently been cut out square and carefully replaced.

I pointed this out to my companions, who at once worked with a will, and, digging to the depth of about two feet, Henson suddenly struck something with his spade.

"Hark!" he cried. "That's tin!" And he again struck down, producing a dull, metallic thud.

Quickly we all worked to clear away the earth, when at last there was brought to light what was prophesied we should find—a square tin biscuit-box. The paper covering was nearly all decayed and the whole thing was badly rusted, but, placing our treasure on the ground, we quickly prised open the lid, which had apparently been rendered air-tight by sealing-wax, now nearly wholly perished by the damp.

And then we eagerly peered within.

AROUSES SOME SUSPICIONS

Within the rusted tin, lying on top of a piece of old newspaper, was a lady's small gold watch, of cheap pattern, which had stopped at half-past seven. The face was gilt, but blackened in one corner by damp or age. The bevelled glass was cracked across, and as I turned it over in my hand I saw that the engraving at the edges was nearly worn off.

Carefully Whitlock drew out the pieces of old newspaper—dated nearly two years before—and presently discovered a string of pale blue beads such as children wear—beads of turquoise-blue porcelain just as described in the mysterious message to the Plymouth newspaper!

I held them in my hand, and pointed out to Whitlock that they had been rethreaded upon shoemaker's waxed thread, and that the ring-clasp was of gold and certainly did not belong to the necklet.

Whitlock, however, was searching for the papers which the mysterious telegram declared were there. With care he withdrew the pieces of torn newspaper with which the box was packed one after the other, examining each piece to see if any mark were upon it, until, in the bottom of the box, he came to two folded papers.

Eagerly he took them out, while Sergeant Henson and I stood peering over his shoulder.

The first he unfolded was a single sheet of blue foolscap whereon was drawn a curious triangular diagram, apparently some plan, but of what was entirely enigmatical. It seemed to be a rough plan of an estate, in the top angle of which was a cross marked in red, as though to indicate a spot. Without explanation, however, it was entirely inexplicable.

A second paper, a white one, was a half-sheet of note-paper on which were written several lines in German in a fine feminine hand. The ink was violet, slightly run by the damp.

"I can't read this, Mr Keene; can you?" Whitlock asked.

I took the letter in my hand and found it was written from the Hôtel du Nord, Cologne, but without a date.

"H'm!" ejaculated Whitlock, dubiously. "That's a rather curious letter, isn't it? I wonder who Carl and Erna are? Germans evidently."

"A pair of undesirable aliens, no doubt," I remarked with a smile.

Whitlock took the letter again in his hand and examined the writing minutely. Then he put his hand into the tin and brought forth a third document which caused us a thrill of excitement as the detective unfolded it, for it proved to be nothing else than a birth certificate.

It was the registrar's record that at Mina Road, Old Kent Road, in the Parish of St George the Martyr, Southwark, Francis Douglas, son of Henry Charles Drayton and Caroline, his wife, was born on the 22nd day of October, 1876, the birth being registered two days later. The certificate was a copy of the register, given and signed by the registrar on that day.

"Now this may really lead us to something," Whitlock said. "We must discover the gentleman in question—this Mr Francis Drayton, who is now about thirty years of age. He may be able to identify one or other of the two dead women."

"It seems very much as though that mysterious telegram was sent to Plymouth to be published in order to place us on the scent of this box and its contents," I said.

"Yes. But the person who sent the wire and forged the name of the Central News evidently knows all about it. We must also find him, Mr Keene."

The mystery became hourly more tangled. The discovery of this box with its curious miscellaneous contents was utterly beyond explication. The fact that a piece of the turf had been cut out to enable the tin to be concealed was apparent. I examined it carefully, and judged that the concealment must have taken place several months before. But how could its presence there be known to the sender of the fictitious telegram if he himself had not been present, or, at anyrate, had not been told of its existence?

The publication in Plymouth of the premature intelligence of the result of the police search was with some distinct motive without a doubt.

Whitlock stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and blankly regarded the empty tin.

"This is a complete puzzle, Mr Keene," he declared. Then, glancing at his watch, he added, "By Jove! I'm due at the inquest. Coming?"

I assented readily, and, leaving Henson to take charge of the rusty tin and its strange contents, I put on my coat, and together we went out into Bridge Road, walking along to the Red Lion, that hotel which stands at the bottom of the long wide road, at the angle where Rock Lane runs to Barnes Common.

As we approached, a small crowd of idlers had, we saw, congregated outside—the public who could not obtain admission to the upstairs room, where the coroner was holding his inquiry.

The constable at the foot of the stairs saluted us, and on entering we found that the twelve jurymen, mostly local tradesmen, had viewed the bodies of the two women, and the coroner, a short, bald-headed man, was taking the evidence of P.C. Horton, who caused considerable sensation when he described the sudden appearance of the living woman in the doorway, and her subsequent strangeness of manner and refusal to give any account of herself.

The Press-table was filled to overflowing by my confrères, Raymond, one of my fellow-reporters, "covering" the inquest for the Evening Herald. He saw me and nodded.

The evidence was then taken of the inspector who detained the second woman, and who told how he questioned her, then went to the house, and afterwards discovered the stubborn prisoner dead in her cell.

Not a word was said about the telegraph instrument, for the police had resolved to keep that fact a secret.

Indeed, Whitlock's evidence, after that of the divisional surgeon, was purposely vague and unconvincing. When called, he said in his quick, professional way of giving evidence—

"John Whitlock, inspector, Criminal Investigation Department. The inquiries in this case are in my hands. The identity of the two deceased women is not yet proved. The murdered woman had evidently lived alone in the empty house for some months, but for what reason is not yet established. To give further evidence at this juncture might negative my efforts, therefore I would ask that the inquiry be adjourned."

"Any question to ask the inspector?" inquired the coroner of the jury.

The foreman, a fat little grocer, whispered something to his neighbour, and then exclaimed—

"I would like to ask the inspector if, in his opinion, the woman who committed suicide was the assassin?"

"I'm afraid, sir," interrupted the coroner, "that is a question which cannot be put to the police. You—the jury—have to return your own verdict when you have heard the whole of the evidence. At the present stage of the inquiry we have only the facts of the tragedy before us. I propose to adjourn until this day week to allow the police to make further inquiry."

This was therefore done, and the Court rose. Then the room, hitherto so breathlessly silent, became a babel of tongues as everyone discussed the extraordinary story that had been told. For once, the newspapers had omitted all the sensational points, but already, Press telegrams were flashing over the wires to Fleet Street, and in half an hour the world would be given a report of the inquiry verbatim.

Only myself, Whitlock and his assistant, however, knew of the discoveries we had made.

I accompanied him back to Scotland Yard, and sat in his room while he methodically proceeded with his inquiries. First he sent a wire to the Plymouth police ordering inquiry to be made of the editor of the Evening Express as to the real origin of the telegram sent to him from London. Secondly he sent out an inquiry regarding the watch, the number upon which he carefully copied. The small photograph of myself was lying upon the table.

"And as for this," he said, looking at me, "what am I to do about it?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Please leave that to me."

"Have you any suspicion? I mean, do you suspect any enemy of yours?" he asked.

"Not in the least. I am just as puzzled as you are."

For a moment he did not speak. His eyes were down cast upon his blotting-pad.

"Very well, Mr Keene," he answered. "You were frank and produced it; therefore I leave that point in your hands. Only I beg of you to leave no stone unturned to clear up the mystery of it being found in that house."

I promised him faithfully to do my best.

The twilight was just creeping on when, letting myself into our chambers with my latchkey, I walked into the sitting-room, and there found a note on the table. At a glance I saw it was from Julian Little, and tore it open.

Enclosed was a letter, sealed with black wax, and addressed, "Miss Daisy Marvin."

I stood staring at it in the grey, uncertain light. The wax had been impressed by the curious old engraved cornelian which he always wore upon his finger.

Julian Little had gone! He always went and came suddenly, for it was part of his profession as special correspondent to move rapidly from place to place. Yet he generally had a day's notice from the office.

Switching on the electric light, I crossed to my writing-table and rang up Wakeley, news editor of the Daily Herald—the shrewd, fair, rather bald-headed and pleasant man who was accredited as being one of the smartest journalists in all London, if not the very smartest.

In a few moments I was talking with him.

"I don't know," he said, in answer to my question. "Little seemed so very anxious to go this morning that I've let him go. For my own part, I think it's a wild-goose chase. There's been trouble in the Balkans ever since I wrote in copy-books!"

"So he's really gone upon his own initiative?"

"Entirely."

I wished him good evening and rang off.

Had Julian Little actually fled? It seemed very much as though he had.

Just as I turned away from the telephone a ring came at the outer door, and on opening it I drew back with a cry of welcome surprise, for standing before me was my dainty little love, Daisy.

"I didn't expect to find you at home, Victor!" she laughed, entering at my invitation, with a quick swish of her skirts. "I've just been to the office to see dad, and he asked me, as I was passing this way, to leave this note for you."

And she gave me the letter from my chief.

As she entered the green-carpeted sitting-room—not without some trepidation, be it said, for it was only the second time she had been there—I saw that she wore a well-cut, black tailor-made dress, and that her chestnut hair, so profuse and universally admired on the stage, was tightly bound beneath a neat black-and-white toque. Features and complexion were alike perfect, from the arched, well-marked brows to the Cupid's bow upon the full red lips, while the great eyes, so clear and luminous, looked out upon me full of the light of true affection. Ah, how sweet was our passionate and mutually devoted love!

She carried none of her stage exaggerations into her every-day life. Her cheeks were as soft, fresh, and child-like as though rouge had never been applied to them. Unlike the artistes whom one meets in Maiden Lane, Strand, or York Road, Lambeth, she was always neat and unassuming; so quietly dressed, indeed, that no one would believe she could ever assume that gay abandon of the variety stage, and sing and dance with that smart up-to-dateness that had rendered her already—though only just out of her teens—a music-hall favourite.

She raised her soft, sweet lips to mine, and with my arm pressed tightly about her slim waist I bent and kissed her fondly; for that meeting was both unexpected and delightful.

"Julian has gone to-day to Servia," I explained, noticing that she glanced apprehensively at the door. "He has left this for you," and, taking the letter from the table, I gave it to her.

She tore it open, read eagerly through the scribbled lines, and then, crushing the note in her gloved hand, stood staring at me, white as death.

In an instant her whole attitude had been transformed.

Pale to the lips, she stood clutching at the edge of the table and swaying forward, her eyes full of an expression of fear and horror.

Upon her some mysterious blow had fallen.

I stood there regarding her—breathless, amazed, confounded.

IS MAINLY ABOUT DAISY MARVIN

"What's wrong?" I asked my well-beloved.

"Oh, nothing—nothing," she hastened to assure me, quickly replacing Julian's letter in the envelope.

"But there is," I exclaimed; "I'm sure there is!" Her blanched face told me plainly that some sudden blow had fallen upon her. She was staring at me blankly, as though utterly dazed by what she had read.

"How very foolish of you, Victor!" she cried, bracing herself up with an effort, and trying to laugh. Her attempt to remain calm was but a sorry one.

"Look here, Daisy," I said quite frankly, "why don't you tell me the truth? Surely I, of all men, ought to be allowed to know?"

"To know!" she echoed, glancing wildly around the room. "Yes—yes, of course. You are jealous that Julian should write to me, bidding me farewell—eh?"

"Well, his sudden departure certainly seems to have somewhat upset you," I remarked a trifle coldly, noticing that she had already placed the crushed letter within the breast of her blouse, for, woman-like, she had no dress-pocket.

"It was rather unexpected," she admitted lamely. "But, Victor," she added, "you surely are not jealous of such a confirmed bachelor as Julian? Only the other day we were discussing him at home, and dad declared that he was quite a woman-hater."

"Yes," I answered, "I believe he is. Yet is it not strange that he should write you a letter of farewell?"

"If there was anything in it that you should not see he would never have confided it to your keeping, would he?"

"Then I may read the letter?"

"I hardly think that is quite a fair request," she exclaimed resentfully. "You love me, Victor—and surely you can trust me?"

"Yes," I replied, with just a slight hesitation. The effect of Little's letter upon her had sorely puzzled me. He had left London suddenly, and at his own request. Fled across Europe, in fact.

Why?

Was it some startling truth confessed in that hurried note that had caused her that sudden and breathless surprise? Indeed, the expression upon her face as she read those lines was more of horror than of mere amazement.

"You are not quite certain of me, Victor," she said slowly, looking straight into my eyes and laying her gloved hand upon mine. "Come, admit it."

"I love you, Daisy," I answered. "I repeat every word that I told you the other Sunday evening when I rowed you up to Hampton. You remember?"

Her handsome countenance grew serious in an instant, and she nodded at the recollection of my declaration of passionate affection and of our mutual pledges.

"Then why do you ask to see Julian's letter?" she said half reproachfully. "Remember, he is an old friend of dad's."

"And of yours."

"Yes. I have known him almost ever since I knew myself. When I was a little child he used to swing me on Sunday afternoons in our garden at Dulwich."

"And he confides in you sometimes?"

"Sometimes—but very rarely. This is one of the occasions."

"I can't think why he's gone out to Servia. There is no political trouble apparent there."

"He's gone, I suppose, because with him, like some other men of genius, constant travel is part of their existence. They cannot live without incessant change," she laughed.

"Perhaps you are right, darling," I said. Then, after a pause, I drew her to me, and, kissing her white brow tenderly, added, "Forgive me; I know I had no right to ask to see that letter. But——"

"But you are just a trifle jealous—eh, Victor?" she laughed, with twinkling, mischievous eyes. "Now, confess!"

"Well, darling," I said, pressing her to me again, and placing my lips passionately to hers, "I suppose I must."

"Then it's very wrong of you," she declared, lifting her finger in mock reproof. "Jealousy leads to anger, and lots of bad things. My own boy must not be jealous if he means to marry an artiste."

"Means to marry!" I cried. "Why, of course I do. You are my own—my own sweet little love—all my own—are you not?" And I placed my arm about her neck, so that her splendid head fell upon my shoulder.

"Your own? Of course, dearest," she replied in a soft voice, scarce above a whisper, while in her eyes showed the love-light—that light impossible to feign, that tells a man so plainly when he is beloved.

For a long time we stood together in silence, locked in each other's arms, our hearts beating in unison. And our love was all the sweeter because it was in secret. I knew full well that my people would hold up their hands in pious horror at the bare thought of my love for a stage-woman; while if old Marvin, my chief, discovered it, my services on the staff of the Evening Herald would very quickly be dispensed with. But I loved her fondly—aye, loved her with the whole strength of my being. And for that very reason I was jealous that she should receive a letter from another.

"It must be very dull and lonely for you here, Victor, when Julian is away," she said at last, crossing to the table whereon stood Little's collection of autographed photographs of his Royal and diplomatic friends.

"Oh, not very. I have my work, as you know, and it keeps me well occupied."

"And in the evening you go to the halls to see and applaud me—eh?" she laughed, holding aside her skirts daintily, and making a tour of inspection of the room.

"I suppose you'll say that's Julian's property?" she exclaimed, pointing to a cabinet photograph of a pretty girl upon the mantelshelf, and laughing.

"Well, as it happens, it is his. The portrait of some girl he met in Vienna—daughter of the Roumanian Minister, I think."

Then, as a further breach of the convenances, she seated herself, allowed me to light a cigarette for her, and gazed across at me through the smoke-clouds from her pretty lips.

Why, I wondered, had she discarded that little portrait of myself that she had so constantly worn beneath her dress? I longed to ask her. Yet to do so would mean explanations which at present I was somewhat averse to making.

I recollected Little's uneasiness when introduced to Whitlock, the detective's curious manner, the discovery of the small portrait, Little's flight, and the effect produced upon Daisy by his letter. All was suspicious—distinctly suspicious. Was it possible that my love possessed any knowledge of the remarkable affair at Barnes—the affair of which the whole details were in the possession of some person active but unknown?

I stood regarding her in wonder. How sweet, almost child-like, was her face; how clear and bright her eyes! How smart and chic she was, from the point of her patent-leather shoe to the crown of her neat toque!

My profession as journalist took me into every phase of life. Sometimes I was bidden to dinners, bazaars, receptions, and social functions, where were assembled the prettiest women of that strange little world where the convenances are set at nought—Society. At others I found myself hobnobbing with the respectable working classes, or chatting in obscure bars with touts and thieves.

Surely no man knows so much of the world, or sees so much of the varied sides of human nature, as he who writes for the Press. The reporter obtains the entrée everywhere, often to places from which the public are strictly excluded; consequently, even when still a young man, he possesses a knowledge of the world that eclipses that of other men in their dotage.

In London I rubbed shoulders with hundreds of pretty women—often with the women whose portraits appeared in the illustrated Press; but none were, in my eyes, half so beautiful or possessed half the grace of my news editor's daughter, Daisy Marvin.

Mrs Marvin had been an actress of some note in the old Gaiety days, hence it was but natural that her daughter should develop stage inclinations. When she was ten she could dance well, and at seventeen she was already playing in a "combination" on tour, in order to obtain that perfection of song and dance that was to secure for her the plaudits of a London audience.

For my own part, I hated the thought that she should have adopted the variety stage as a profession, and my secret desire was that when we married she should at once retire. This, however, I had never told her, for I knew full well how devoted she was to her art, and how she loved the excitement of her evening "turn."

She had many admirers, but what pretty girl on the music-hall stage has not? They were in all walks of life—from the humble City clerk with his briar pipe on Saturday nights to the white-waistcoated young clubman who sent her bouquets and cards. But old Annie Axford, an elderly woman who had been her nurse and was now a widow, went about with her everywhere, acted as her dresser always, and kept a very careful eye upon everything. Mrs Marvin seldom, if ever, accompanied her daughter. She left her to old "Annie" entirely, and she certainly could not have been in safer hands.

"Well," she said at last, as she threw away the end of her cigarette and leaned back, looking at me through half-closed eyes, "I suppose I must go. Have you been out all day, as usual?"

"Yes," I replied. "I've been doing that mystery at Barnes."

"What's that?" she asked, as though quite ignorant of the facts.

"What, haven't you heard of it! Not seen the paper?"

"I don't often read the papers, as you know, Victor. Tell me about it. Is it very mysterious?"

"Glance at it yourself," I said, handing her a copy of the "special" in which was a report of the inquest.

She looked at it, pretending to be interested but, watching her eyes, I saw that she was not reading. That proved to me that her ignorance of the affair was feigned. But why?

What would I not have given to know the contents of Julian's letter?

I rose and crossed the room in order to get a better view of her features. Suddenly the expression upon them entirely changed. In an instant she grew interested, and read eagerly a portion of the evidence; but which portion I was unable to determine.

Her mouth was open. She was staring fixedly at the paper. Whatever she had discovered had evidently caused her the utmost surprise and consternation.

It was as though some suspicion she had held had been suddenly confirmed.

"It's a curious affair," I said in a careless manner, returning to my chair; "isn't it?"

"Extraordinary!" she ejaculated, mechanically allowing the paper to fall upon her lap. "Most extraordinary!" and she fixed her eyes upon me with a strange look that told me her thoughts were very far away.

"There are other facts not yet published which will increase the mystery very considerably," I said. "I have been with Whitlock, of Scotland Yard, all day, making inquiries. We dug up a box from the garden."

"A box! And what did you find?"

"Several things of interest to the police," I responded. And then I told her of the existence of the tapped telegraph wire.

I longed to tell her of the discovery of the little portrait I had given her, but to refer to it at that juncture was, I saw, unwise.

She rose and placed the paper upon the table, then, in a hard, strained voice, said—

"I must really go, Victor. Annie will be waiting for me at Charing Cross. We shall go and have something to eat, and then to the music-hall. I'm on at nine-forty."

"I may look in for half an hour," I said. "That is, if I'm free. I have yet to 'phone to your father at home. But you'll let me see you into a cab."

She pulled on the glove she had removed in order to smoke, and then I placed my arm tenderly about her slim waist and kissed her fondly.

"You are mine, darling," I said earnestly; "truly mine, are you not?"

"Why, of course, Victor," she replied, looking up into my face with frank, wide-open eyes. In her countenance I saw a look of sweet and devoted affection, and I laughed at my suspicions.

They were really too absurd, I reassured myself. I loved her, and was, I suppose, jealous. Every word and every gesture aroused deep suspicion within me, but how could I doubt her?

Her red lips met mine with the fierce passion of perfect love. Gladly would I have driven with her to Charing Cross, where the faithful old servant awaited her, but to do that might, we both agreed, arouse Annie's curiosity.

Her visit to my rooms was not exactly what her parents would have tolerated, for old Marvin had expressly told her to deliver the letter to the porter.

Therefore I descended the stairs behind my dainty little love, walked out with her into Holborn, and put her into a cab.

She waved me adieu with her white-gloved hand, and, turning, I retraced my steps, little dreaming, alas! into what a slough of Mystery and Despair I had already drifted, or of the black storm that had gathered ready to burst and overwhelm me.

SHOWS THE PULSE OF THE WORLD

Jealousy is the hydra of calamities, the seven-fold death; and things are only worth what one makes them worth.

Women have always some idea kept in the background. What, I wondered, was Daisy's?

I telephoned to Marvin at home, and received instructions to keep an engagement at Hampstead—a meeting upon a question in which the Evening Herald had taken great interest. Then I lit a pipe and sat for a long time pondering, thinking of the man who at that moment was in the wagon-lit of the Orient Express, speeding eastward across Europe.

I read the report of the inquest carefully, trying to discover what it was which had so suddenly caused a change in the manner of my well-beloved. But I could discern nothing. True, the story of the mysterious second woman was told for the first time, with the account of how she had committed suicide. Yet somehow I did not think it was that which had caused her such consternation and amazement.

My brain was awhirl. The problem was inscrutable.

I went down to the Savage Club, and in the big picture-hung, tobacco-mellowed room, half of which is devoted to smoking and half to eating, I ate my dinner at a table with two friends, journalists on rival newspapers. One was Day, a reporter on the Morning Post, and the other Melville, of the Globe. Both had "done" the inquest at Barnes that afternoon, and knowing that I had been with Whitlock were anxious to hear the latest. But I was close and said nothing. Whitlock knew that I could keep a secret, and for that very reason allowed me to be present at so many confidential inquiries and investigations.

From eight till nine I sat in a public hall at Hampstead, and at nine-thirty took my stall at the Oxford Music Hall, waiting for the appearance of my well-beloved.

The place was packed in every part and thick with tobacco smoke. Not a seat in the house was unoccupied, and had I not obtained a stall by telephone I should have been compelled to stand in the lounge.

At last a troupe of clever acrobats concluded their "turn," and Daisy's number appeared in illuminated figures at the side of the proscenium.

Then the curtain went up, and, as the slim, sweet-faced girl came dancing on in her smart white motor-coat, cap, and veil, she was greeted by a hearty round of applause, which showed in what public favour she was held.

Next moment, when the orchestra struck up, she began to sing "The Motor Maid," the song that had already taken all London by storm, and which was being whistled, hummed, and played upon the barrel-organs everywhere. The whole audience quickly took up the tuneful chorus, which began—

The song received a loud encore, and in response she reappeared in a most becoming dress of black chiffon, the short dancing-skirt and bodice narrowly edged with pale pink, while the corsage was covered with silver sequins.

The orchestra struck up, and she executed a dance so full of wild abandon that the packed audience applauded over and over again, until she concluded with a final high kick, made her bow, and disappeared as the heavy plush curtains fell together again.

I hung about the stage door to catch sight of her, fearing to approach her because of old Annie. Then, after seeing her and the faithful old servant get into a cab and drive off, I returned along Oxford Street to my chambers.

James Marvin was, like most news editors and sub-editors in London, a Scotsman. When I entered the large, well-lighted sub-editors' room of the Evening Herald next morning he had already been there since half-past seven, seated at his table, littered with piles of telegraph tape pasted upon slips of "copy-paper," and "flimsies," or sheets of oiled paper, carbon duplicates of news that had been sent round to all the other London evening papers.

There he was, busily reading, flinging some upon the floor and tossing others into the basket before him.

He was a red-moustached, bald-headed man of fifty, rather short, and when at work always sat in his shirt-sleeves, both summer and winter. He wore gold pince-nez, and he was acknowledged by every journalist in London to be—next to Wakeley, of the Daily Herald—the smartest news editor in the kingdom.

He had a keen eye for journalistic sensations and "scoops" both day and night. A perfect demon for work, he kept the noses of the whole staff to the grindstone, obtaining every ounce of force our bodies and brains possessed. If a man became slow or even a trifle elderly, out he went. Only the smartest of men were required on the up-to-date Evening Herald, with all its American methods and ingenious competitions.

"Late, Keene!" old Marvin snapped as I entered. "I marked you in the book for an engagement in the City an hour ago. Oh, you needn't trouble now. Franks has gone. Well," he went on, without glancing up at me, his big blue crayon slashing out a lot of penny-a-liners' verbiage from the piece of "flimsy" before him, "and what about that meeting at Hampstead? Worth anything?"

"Nothing," I replied.

"Let's see! You're doing the Barnes mystery? Anything fresh?"

"There's a bit just come in from the C.N.," remarked Hubbard, a consumptive-looking, yellow-haired youth, who had recently been promoted to the rank of an assistant sub-editor, and who was seated at a table behind which stood a row of seven telegraph tapes, all of which were clicking together, unrolling yards upon yards of news printed upon the narrow paper ribbons.

I crossed to his table to ascertain what fresh intelligence the Central News had circulated.

In the room were five other large writing-tables and five other big waste-paper baskets, besides that of the news editor, Marvin. At each sat the assistants, all engaged in the same work of rapidly scanning the various telegrams and reports, and deciding which was of sufficient interest to publish in the paper. On most newspapers nowadays the person known to the public as "The Editor" is merely a figure-head who arranges the subjects of the leading articles and directs the general policy of the journal. It is the news editor who "gets up" the paper, and upon whose shoulders the whole burden of responsibility falls.

Thus the bald-headed Scot, surrounded by his tape instruments, his telephones, his private wire to the City office—over which come the Stock Exchange quotations—and his five assistants, held his finger upon the pulse of the world.

That office never slept. Those clicking tapes went on night and day. An occurrence in San Francisco would reach the office within twenty-five minutes, while the paper with the winner of the University boat-race had been actually printing twenty seconds after the successful crew had passed the winning-post at Mortlake. On great occasions, too, an instrument which, covered by a small wooden box, was screwed to a little table in the corner would be used—the cable instrument direct from the New York office.

In the collection of news for the Evening Herald no expense was ever spared. It was the unceasing hustle of which the staff complained. Each reporter was bound to have the telephone in his private house, and old Marvin—known in the office as "Joyous Jimmy"—would ring them up constantly in the middle of the night, when some new idea for a "scoop" or a good story occurred to him.

The popular legend was that he never slept. One thing is certain—that long hours never fatigued him, and that he was the first man in the office in the morning and the last to leave.

The Daily Herald building was a perfect hive of industry, and, indeed, one of the sights of London: the big square block of offices, with its central courtyard whence the bundles of papers from the machine-rooms poured out into the vans, motor cars, and motor cycles; the six floors of small rooms housing the editorial staff of twenty different publications in addition to the morning and evening Herald. To the staff the place was known as the "rabbit-warren," for it consisted of hundreds of different departments, the top floor of which was given over to the Evening Herald. Below were the library, reference-room, tape-rooms, and news editor's department of one of the world's greatest and most influential journals, the Daily Herald, but these rooms being insufficient at night, their staff overflowed into ours from 9 p.m. till about 4 a.m. Therefore our rooms were never left and our tapes ticked out their messages year in year out—Sundays and week-days, incessant and never-ending.

Into that big square apartment with its large skylight was concentrated the whole news of the world day by day, hour by hour—nay, moment by moment.

The message which the consumptive youth handed to me proved to be a piece of column tape from the Central News instrument, which stated that, according to the Western Evening Express, at Plymouth, Inspector Whitlock had, on the previous day, made certain discoveries at the empty house in Barnes where the young girl had been found murdered. The report was practically the forged telegram which Whitlock and myself had read during its transmission on the previous day. There was, however, no mention of the source of information, even though it be so true, and evidently in the first place supplied by one well acquainted with the truth.

I wondered whether Whitlock's inquiries as to the sender of the mysterious message had been fraught with any result.

"Well," asked Marvin, still without looking up from his blotting-pad, "anything fresh in that Barnes affair? Shall we make it a feature to-day?"

"No," I replied. "I'm looking after it again this morning, but there won't be anything fresh for a day or two. The police know a lot of things, but don't want them made public."

He raised his head and peered forth at me through his gold-rimmed glasses—looked at me rather curiously, I thought.

"Do you know any of these things?" he asked.

"Well—some of them," I replied. "Indeed, there's something here which I suppose the other papers will give," and I handed him the piece of tape.

"H'm!" he grunted. "Is this true?"

I responded in the affirmative.

"And you knew it yesterday? Why didn't you send it up to us?" he asked, glaring at me. "We could have made it the feature of the 'special.'"

"Because—well, because Whitlock wouldn't allow it," I replied, resolved to keep the secret of the message and its mysterious authorship to myself.

"Whitlock be hanged!" he snarled. "When you get hold of a good thing publish it, and make an excuse afterwards. A Pressman who keeps his news to himself isn't any good nowadays. The Herald's a live paper, and doesn't want to get its London news from Plymouth."

"But I——"

"What's the good of excuses?" he snapped, in his high-pitched voice. "You knew a good thing and didn't publish it. If the Chief gets to hear of it there'll be a row. You're not smart, Keene. I once thought you'd make a good crime investigator, but in this case—a real first-class sensation—you've failed miserably. What's the good of pottering about with Whitlock if you don't let us know what he's discovered?"

"But I managed to keep everything back from the other papers and agencies," I protested.

"And gave us nothing ourselves!" he laughed, with a sneer. "That's what you call up-to-date journalism? Why, when I was down at Bath thirty years ago we could do better than that—or we'd have got the sack."

"The confidence Whitlock reposes in me is based upon the fact that I've never abused it."

"Rot! A 'scoop' like that was worth a couple of hundred pounds, or more, to the paper. And you could easily have put it right with him afterwards. Good heavens! If you're going to be so infernally scrupulous about other people's feelings you'd better throw up journalism and go in for the church. It would suit you better," he declared, with a dry laugh. "But," he added, "let's see whether you can't make a bit of 'copy' to-day. You're getting like Julian Little, and won't write a line unless absolutely necessary."

"I don't want to give the subs unnecessary work," I replied, laughing, with an endeavour to treat his grumbling with humour.

"Well, just give 'em a little bit of exercise to-day," he said. "What's this about the police finding a small portrait of a gentleman, for instance? Just go and see Whitlock and induce him—pay him if you like—to let you have the loan of it, and we'll publish it in to-night's special."

"It might negative the efforts of the police."

"Negative them! Why, my dear Keene, some reader or other may identify the original and thus greatly assist them. Go along to Scotland Yard at once, use your best influence with Whitlock, and give him my compliments. Just get him to lend it to you for half an hour, and take it along to Park's studio. He'd take a copy of it. That will be a real good 'scoop' if we publish it to-night."

And he resumed his work with his blue pencil, while I stood staring at him without replying.

The expression upon his countenance as he had spoken had been very curious, almost as though he was actually aware of the amazing truth concerning the portrait.

He wished to publish it in that night's "special"!

BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE HERALD

I was seated on the edge of a table in the reporters' room—a place wherein were rows of dusty old books and a number of ink-stained tables, whereat reporters deciphered their "notes" and wrote their "copy." Upon the begrimed, colour-washed walls were stuck quantities of newspaper cuttings, dirty and yellow with tobacco-smoke, caricatures from the illustrated Press, war-maps, and other pictorial memos which one or other of the reporting staff desired to preserve. Over the fireplace someone had pasted a religious text.

In that room men came and went. Some entered without a word, scribbled half a dozen lines, flung the slip of paper, with his name written at the top, into the basket—which would later on find its way to the sub-editors—and left. Others sat busily writing with stubby pencils, while still others, mostly clean-shaven youths, lit cigarettes, gossiped, and congratulated themselves that they were "marked" in the diary for some unimportant function, a society bazaar, a company meeting, or a foundation-stone, which would set them free before four in the afternoon.

With one of these, Boyd by name, a typical Pressman of the modern school, I was chatting, waiting to see Macdonald, the chief reporter. The latter came at last, a tall, thin-faced, black-haired, rather sallow Scotsman of forty-five, in silk hat, frock-coat, and seedy umbrella, without which he was never known to go forth even on the brightest day. Besides being chief reporter of the Evening Herald, he was chief of the staff in the "gallery" of the House of Commons. Then, after concluding his work for the Herald at 6.30 in the evening, he remained in the "House," reporting its proceedings for the Exchange Telegraph Company, supplying that service of news which one reads in clubs and hotels. In the House he was known as the "tape-worm," because he supplied the "tape" with news.

His manner was deliberate, his peculiarities many. A keen politician and a clever journalist, he possessed a sense of dry humour and a fund of quotation which rendered him a character in modern journalism. His mind was a perfect dictionary of popular quotations in all sorts of languages, and no matter what the occasion or topic of conversation, "Mac," as we called him, always had a proverb or an apt quotation from some dead-and-gone writer ready at hand.

This fount of quotation constantly overflowed into his reports, and the sub-editors were constantly on the alert with blue pencil to cut out such portions of what they irreverently termed "old Mac's gas." Some went as far as to say that he had committed Bartlett's and Benham's collections of quotations to memory; while among the staff it was a well-known fact that one of old Mac's idiosyncrasies was to take a shorthand note of everything he witnessed. Indeed, somebody once found in the reporters' room a slip of paper on which he had noted in shorthand every movement and trick of a troupe of acrobats performing at the Empire.

"Well, Keene," he exclaimed, with his broad Scotch accent, as he entered and glanced around at the several tables occupied by the men under him, "what's the premium on murder this morning—eh?"

A laugh went round at this, for, as "The Murder-Monger," I was constantly the butt of Mac's ready wit.

"Oh, we're dealing in sudden deaths to-day," I retorted. "Three of 'em have just come up on the tape within ten minutes."

He had walked to his table, and was looking down the list of engagements for that day written in the diary.

"Well," he went on, "we want some good story or other to-day. Things are uncommonly quiet in London."

"Perhaps Marvin will get a decent Reuter or two later on—an earthquake in Japan or a scrap in Central America, with a few hundreds killed."

"Or a railway disaster in the States—train wrecked and burned—English passengers—and that sort of thing," I added. "Always good enough for the contents bill."

"Yes. There's nothing much in London to-day—not even a divorce case worth half a dozen lines," Mac said, with a sigh, hanging up his silk hat on the peg.

"There ought to be something fresh to be got out of that Barnes affair," a man remarked from the other corner of the room without looking up from his blotting-pad.

"Ah, yes!" said Mac. "You're doing that, Keene, of course. How's it going? Any arrest likely?"

"Not yet. Police entirely in the dark."

"But you'll do half a column of the latest details," Mac said. "Work the story up for all it's worth. Give a few of your first-class patent-leather theories as to the crime, or rub up an interview with somebody."

"But there's nothing further to say at present," I remarked.

"Nothing further?" he cried. "Why, my dear Keene, the thing's good enough for another week. It's a real sensation. You must get the photographs of the murdered girl and of the other woman. Committed suicide in the police-cell, didn't she! If it were me, I should work up a story that she committed suicide because her life was threatened—victim of a secret society. Anything about continental secret societies always goes down with the public. Hint that she's a princess, a duchess, or some foreign notability, and that the government are taking steps to suppress the real facts. Oh, my dear Keene, there's lots in that. If I were doing it I'd startle London for the next six days," he added.

"With lies!" I remarked, laughing.

"Well, the truth would not be nearly so interesting," old Mac said, for he was entirely unscrupulous when it came to telling a good "story." Many a good mystery had he worked up from nothing. A bogus mystery generally lasts about three days, because rival journals make inquiry and discredit the exaggerated report.

In all journalistic "stories" the exhumation report is undoubtedly the most telling. Unfortunately it cannot be often worked, but when it is it never fails to attract. Hint at foul play and the exhumation of a body, and you will have the world on the tenter-hooks of excitement. Never does a suspicion of poison crop up without its attendant journalistic prediction that the body of somebody else is to be exhumed.

I once worked this "wheeze" so entirely successfully that the Home Office, believing that there was something in my theory, actually ordered the body of a woman to be exhumed and the stomach analysed for poison. This was done, but no poison was discovered, and, in consequence, the Herald very narrowly escaped paying heavy damages for libel. Indeed, the man whom I had alleged to be a murderer entered an action, but for some reason, to this day quite unaccountable, suddenly dropped it.

While talking with Mac, a boy in an Eton suit entered with a message from Sir Henry Neave, the founder and proprietor of the Herald, asking me to go at once to his room, an order which I immediately obeyed.

Sir Henry, known to all the staff as "the Chief," was as unapproachable as the Prime Minister himself.

Through the office of a smart and handsome lady secretary, thence through the apartment of the private secretary, admittance was gained to a large, long, luxurious room with cosy easy-chairs, couches and writing-tables, which had no semblance to a business office. Big silver bowls—presents from the staff—were filled with fresh flowers; upon the thick carpet one's footsteps fell noiselessly, and everywhere was displayed an artistic taste which was sufficient index to the character of the man who, above all others, was the most successful journalist the world had ever known.

About Sir Henry Neave there was nothing of the blatant millionaire. Though enormous wealth had come to him since the days, not so long ago, when he was a humble working journalist in Fleet Street; though he possessed a fine house in Park Lane, a big place in the country, one at the seaside, and a pretty villa on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, yet his great success had never spoilt him.

The whole staff loved him. To them he was as one of themselves. He would shout and condemn in unmeasured terms, and criticise the "get-up" of one or other of his many journals with unequalled sarcasm. Yet next moment he would say cheerily, "That's all—that's all I have to say. Go away, my boy, and do better."

And the culprit would smile and go away, and do his level best in the future.

As I opened the door I saw him lying back in his big saddle-bag chair near the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and reading some proofs. Fair-haired, clean-shaven and aged about thirty-five, his was a countenance full of strong character and determination, a face which once seen would never be forgotten—undeniably a face of genius.

In his dress he was nothing of a fop. Devoted to motoring, and one of its pioneers in England, he spent all his spare time on one or other of his fine cars, and invariably wore a tweed suit and a soft tennis collar.

"Ah, Keene!" he exclaimed, in his quick, impetuous way. "Let me see. Why did I send for you? Oh, I know!" he went on, looking up at me and dropping the proofs on the floor at his side. "Of late, Keene, I've been watching you. You've done a lot of real good work on the 'Evening,' and I've resolved to give you a better chance. Do you know French?"

"I was at school in Rouen for three years."

"Good. Well, I've decided to put you on the Daily Herald, and give you a chance abroad as special correspondent. I spoke to Wakeley last night, and he thinks you can begin by doing some of the smaller things on the Continent. Little will show you your way about at first. You can consult Wakeley about your salary. Remember, we only want first-class stories, and where those are concerned you need never spare expense. I look upon you, Keene, as a coming man. Don't disappoint me. Go, my boy, and do your best."

His words had caused my heart to leap. I was to become a special correspondent and sign my articles in the Daily Herald! The post was one of the plums of the journalistic profession.

"I can only promise you, Sir Henry, that I shall always have the interests of the paper at heart. On the 'Evening' I've always done my best, and shall certainly spare no effort to perform my duty in my new post."

"I know that—I know that! Go to Wakeley, tell him that you are in future on the staff of special correspondents. Tell him from me to send you out on the next short trip. That's all," and he ended abruptly with dismissal, as was his usual habit.

He was a man of remarkably quick decision. He never hesitated. Without a moment's reflection he would decide matters involving the expenditure of thousands, and would order a new paper to appear, or stop a non-paying one, at a moment's notice.

The staff within that great building, with its hundreds of different departments, was the best that had ever been gathered together to run newspapers and periodicals. The gigantic organisation was unique, while the huge printing-works, that swallowed up hundreds of miles of paper daily, were the most up-to-date in all the world. And all was due to his careful forethought and his knowledge of what the public really required.

So many newspapers throughout the country did he control that he could make or mar a Cabinet, while his political power was courted by the Prime Minister himself, and his influence was such that he often privately received "inspired" information from the highest quarters.

And yet with all this power and wealth Sir Henry Neave was just the same as when, as Harry Neave, he had been glad enough to report police-court cases and accept the princely sum of seven-and-sixpence. Though a bad enemy, he never forgot his friends of old days, and the life of many a broken-down Pressman was made happier and brighter by the secret charity that came from his pocket.

Sir Henry had always been my friend. I had done my best, and the reward he had given me was the greatest in his power. It would raise me from mere murder-mongering to the highest rank in journalism—that of special correspondent.

In future I was to become the cosmopolitan and constant traveller, and my signed telegrams would be read the world over.

And with these thoughts I ascended in the lift to tell old Marvin that I was no longer connected with the Evening Herald, and to send a line in secret to Daisy acquainting her with my sudden good fortune.

A new vista of life spread itself out before me.

SHOWS A TIGHT CORNER

Much to Whitlock's annoyance and chagrin, the whole of the "Evenings," the Herald excepted—reproduced the intelligence received by the Plymouth paper regarding his discoveries at the empty house at Barnes.

At half-past five that evening I was seated in his room at Scotland Yard, listening to his outspoken denunciation of the Press.

"If we could only discover who was the author of that confounded telegram!" he exclaimed at last, with a sigh. "Depend upon it that the man who sent the wire knows all about the tragedy and is implicated in it. He has given out the details with some ulterior object, but what it is I can't, for the life of me, make out."

"Is it with the object of shielding somebody whom you may later on suspect?" I queried.

"I think not. Why, for instance, should he put us on the track of that box?"

"In order to implicate innocent persons," I suggested.

"Maybe—maybe," he exclaimed, in his quick, decisive way. "Nothing can be learned regarding the message down at Plymouth. The editor of the Evening Express accepted and printed the news, believing it, of course, to have emanated from the Central News Agency."

"And the contents of the box?"

"Well, as regards the birth certificate, we've already discovered something. It appears that from 1872 to 1881, at the house in Mina Road, Old Kent Road, there lived a man named Drayton and his wife. Drayton, who worked at the Bricklayers' Arms goods station, was killed by a light engine. His widow, with her boy, Francis Douglas, then about five years of age, took furnished rooms with an old lady in Albany Road, and lived there until about three years ago. At that time young Drayton was a smartly-dressed young fellow, whose profession or business was something of a mystery. His hours were very irregular, and by the neighbours it was believed that he lived by betting or gambling."

"And where did they move to? He supported his mother, I presume?"

"Yes. But it seems that this Francis fell deeply in love with a pretty young girl still in her teens. For a year before they moved away he used to meet her in secret, and it was their habit to stroll together of an evening about the dark roads of Camberwell and Lewisham. She never once went to her lover's house, and my informant, the next-door neighbour, tells me that she was an exceedingly pretty and lady-like girl. She attracted attention as being about to throw herself away upon this somewhat erratic and reckless young fellow."

"And you haven't traced his present whereabouts?"

"Not yet. They left Albany Road quite suddenly about three years ago, old Mrs Drayton telling the neighbours that her son had business in America and that she was to accompany him. A few months after their departure the landlady died and the furniture was sold, so of Francis Douglas Drayton all traces are lost."

"But you are still making inquiries?"

"I've had four men at work hard ever since yesterday. At present we have found no record of Drayton's marriage," he said. "My idea is, if possible, to discover his wife's friends—if he has married—and find out from them where he is at present. But the registers at Somerset House have been searched in vain."

I recollected the old gold watch, the string of child's blue beads, and—ah, yes!—my own picture!

"And the letter from Erna to Carl?"

Whitlock pulled a wry face.

"Difficult—very difficult to discover anything regarding that. No envelope, no date, and no surnames. Hundreds of Ernas have stayed at the Nord in Cologne. And I wonder how many thousand Carls there are in that city! No, my dear Keene. On the German side we shall discover nothing. It is here, in London, that the clue will be found." Then, looking me straight in the face with his dark, serious eyes, he added, "To tell the truth, that little portrait of yourself puzzles me very much. I never cease thinking about it."

"Neither do I, Whitlock."

"Have you any idea how it came there?"

"None whatsoever."

"The portrait was originally a love-token, of course," he said. "I know, Keene, that you will pardon me prying like this into your private affairs, but, as you see, it is imperative. And we are such good friends that you know I mean no offence."

I hesitated for a few moments, not knowing what to reply.

"It was a love-token, as you surmise."

"And have you any objection to me knowing the identity of the lady?"

"Yes, Whitlock. I think that is a rather unfair question—at least at present," I said. "I thought you had left the solution of that point to me?"

"So I have. But—well, I confess that my curiosity is much aroused by this most inexplicable feature of the case," he said, leaning both his elbows upon the small writing-table whereat he was seated.

"I have promised to do my utmost to discover by what means, and with what motive, the portrait was placed where I found it," I declared. "Therefore, would it not be as well to allow me to continue my inquiry undisturbed?"

"Most certainly, Keene. I really meant no insinuations. My curiosity is but natural, I think you'll admit."

"Perhaps you suspect me?" I laughed.

"No, I don't," he answered, in a hard voice, as he rose from the table and went to the telephone at the opposite wall. "I suspect somebody else."

"Who?" I gasped. Did he, I wondered, refer to Julian Little?

"At present that must be my own affair," was his answer. "This case bristles with extraordinary features, each one more curious and more puzzling than its predecessors. The utter absence of motive all round affords us nothing tangible to work upon, while the fact that there is one person in the background aware of the whole circumstances, and prompting us in our inquiries, makes the affair a—well, an uncanny one, to say the least."

"Could it be this man Drayton himself who forged the name of the Central News?" I hazarded.

"Hardly. I'm inclined to think that the farther we endeavour to penetrate this mystery the more complete will become the puzzle. In all my twenty-five years in the police I've never had a case so chock-full of riddles as this. If I knew to whom you'd given the little portrait it would assist me immensely," he added.

"I could hardly betray a lady and bring suspicion upon her of being an accessory, especially when it may be a lady for whom I entertain affection," I said.

"You must love her, or you wouldn't give her your portrait to wear," he said, smiling at my rather lame excuse.

"And for that very reason I refuse to, at present, tell you her name, my dear Whitlock."

"Well, all I hope is that at the adjourned inquest they'll return a verdict," he remarked, for, like all detectives, he disliked the public inquiry, fearing always lest some fact should be given in evidence which might put the culprit upon his guard. Many a murderer has escaped justice through injudicious evidence being given at an inquest. For that very reason he was now roundly abusing the Press for republishing that report from Plymouth.

"Why, in Heaven's name, haven't you editor-people a little more discretion?" he cried, having answered the telephone. "They surely must know that to publish such a report will hamper me!"

"How were they to know?" I asked. "The facts might have been actually gathered by a reporter of the Central News."

"Yes," he said, after a moment's reflection, "you're right. But I wonder, now that the first forged message has been so successful, whether this mysterious journalist—evidently no amateur—will venture another telegram?"

"I wonder. But certainly he won't dare to send to Plymouth again."

"I don't know—I rather think he will. But I fancy the Plymouth editor will not print the intelligence, now that he knows through us that the other message was not genuine. I have asked him, if he receives anything, to re-telegraph it to me here at once."

"By Jove!" I said, "I'd dearly love to know who it is who is so fully aware of everything at that weird empty house over at Barnes."

"So should I. He could identify both the dead girls, no doubt. Hasn't it struck you that to send such a message to Plymouth he must be a professional journalist?"

"Yes," I said rather hoarsely, for his words showed me plainly that he more than ever suspected Julian.

Little was certainly in London when that message was despatched. He had been Daisy's friend from girlhood. I recollected her start of surprise when she had discovered something in the report of the inquest. But what that something was I could form no idea.

I told my friend of my good fortune in being transferred to the staff of special correspondents of the Daily Herald, whereupon he said, in a tone of regret—

"Then you'll be deserting us soon, I suppose, and travel incessantly on the Continent?"

"I expect so. But though, of course, the advancement is gratifying, my heart is entirely in my present work."

"Just as your friend Mr Little's heart is always across the Channel—eh? By the way, when does he leave again?"

"He left yesterday—for Servia."

"Left yesterday?" he echoed, glancing at me sharply. "He went off suddenly, then?"

"As he always does. When I got back last night I found a note he had left for me. He's gone to Belgrade."

Whitlock took up a pen and twisted it between his fingers.

"And when will he be back?"

"That's quite uncertain. He predicts some political trouble, I think."

Whitlock was thoughtful. His suspicion of Julian was very marked. Julian was my friend, and I confess that I resented Whitlock's manner. All my present success as a journalist I owed to Julian Little, and I felt certain that it was he who had carried out a promise made long ago and had spoken on my behalf to the Chief.

I was about to go, when the detective-inspector said—

"I do urge upon you, Keene, to try at once and solve the mystery of that little portrait of yourself."

This I promised him, explaining that, though I was no longer connected with the Evening Herald, I should continue to "do" the Barnes mystery for the morning paper while awaiting orders to go abroad. Then I gripped the great detective's hand, and strolled back to my lonely chambers in Gray's Inn.

As I went along the Embankment and up Norfolk Street to Chancery Lane I reflected that, at any moment, I was now liable to be sent abroad to any spot between Ostend and Ekaterinburg, or from Archangel to Villa San Giovanni, and for an indefinite period.

Wakeley, the brilliant journalist, who, as news editor of the Daily Herald, had brought that journal up to its present greatness; the man to whom the public owed all the exclusive intelligence, daily "scoops," and interesting "stories" with which the paper was filled; the man whose name had never appeared once in the journal, and who was therefore unknown, had, when I had seen him that morning, congratulated me heartily.

"Now, Keene," he had said, "you have the chance which thousands of other men will never get. Look at Little! His name is a household word. Yours will become the same if you are shrewd, exercise forethought, and give us good, sound stories that can't be contradicted by Reuter. I'll send you away very soon, so keep your traps ready packed always. But while you're waiting you might keep on the Barnes affair. Start on that to-morrow for us. Let's see; what's your telephone number?"

And he had taken it down in a book at his elbow and dismissed me with a final, "Well, good luck to your future, Keene."

My future! What was it to be? Would that I had been able to open the closed book and see all that was in store for me! Had I been able to do this, how differently I would have acted! I should have been forearmed against my enemies and enabled to combat them with their own weapons.

I entered my chambers and dressed prior to going down to the Savage to dine among kindred spirits. I intended to afterwards go as usual to the Oxford and watch my dainty little love do her "turn."

I had just sat down to write a letter when the telephone rang. It was old Marvin, who had returned home.

"I say, Keene," he said, "I suppose you've succeeded in getting the loan of that portrait from Whitlock? We must publish it to-morrow morning. Now, even if you are on the 'Daily,' you must let us have that. Don't give it to Wakeley, remember, because it was I who suggested the 'scoop.'"

I reflected for a moment. How could I give my own portrait for publication in connection with such a tragedy?

"Are you there?" he continued.

"Yes."

"You heard what I said. Have you got the portrait?"

I hesitated.

"Yes," I answered.

"Then send it along to Jalland, at the office, at once, and say from me that the block must be ready at 7.30 in the morning. Good-night."

And next instant he rang off.

What was I to do? How should I act?

Marvin wanted a picture to publish.

I crossed the room to a small chest of drawers in which I kept a quantity of old papers, newspaper-cuttings, and other odds and ends. From there I took out a carte-de-visite of a young reporter named Bingham, who had come to London about a year ago from Birmingham, and who had soon afterwards died of consumption.

I held it in my hand. Poor fellow! He and I had been the best of friends.

What harm could result if the Evening Herald published it? At any rate, it would puzzle the man who forged that curious telegram to Plymouth.

The mere fact of mystifying him appealed to me and decided me.

So, with a scribbled note to Jalland, I placed it in an envelope and despatched it by boy-messenger.

It was an ingenious fraud upon the public, I admit, but its results were destined to be stranger indeed than even I had imagined.

THE PRESS AND THE PUBLIC

Poor Bingham's portrait appeared in the Evening Herald next day as a copy of the photograph found under such curious circumstances in the empty house at Barnes.

The "scoop" was an exclusive one, and readers of the Herald in every part of London cudgelled their brains in trying to recollect if they had ever seen the original.

Beneath the picture were the words, "The portrait which the police are endeavouring to identify."

All that morning I was busy writing in my chambers until, about one o'clock, the telephone rang, and I found that it was Whitlock, who was at the public call-office at Feltham, in Middlesex.

"I say, Keene," he said, "I've just bought the Evening Herald at the station here. I notice the most excellent portrait!"

I held my breath. What could I say?

"I—well—I thought——"

"Of course," he interrupted. "Quite right. It's just what we want. Its publication will puzzle the people who are trying to puzzle us."

"I'm glad if you think so," I said. "Anything fresh?"

"Nothing particularly—or, at least, nothing tangible. But," he added, "by the way, have you heard anything of Mr Little?"

Little! Always Little! He suspected him strongly.

"Nothing," I replied. "He ought to arrive in Belgrade to-morrow, or the next day."

"When you hear from him, let me know at once, won't you?"

I promised.

"I may be in the Gambrinus, in Regent Street, to-night about nine. If you're in the vicinity you might, perhaps, look in. It isn't an appointment, you know."

"Very well," I said, and he then wished me good-bye and rang off. He was evidently down at Feltham, in pursuance of his inquiries.

Hardly had I settled down to my writing when the 'phone rang again, and a message came from Marvin that he wished to see me at the office immediately. In obedience to the summons I presently entered the big news editor's room of the Evening Herald, where the tapes were whirring and clicking, and the five grave-faced "subs"—as they are called in Press parlance—were busy reading and preparing the piles of telegrams and flimsies arriving every moment from all parts of the world. Two of them were so busy that they had their chops and glasses of ale at their side, lunching and working at the same time. The most busy time on the "Evening" was from one to four in the afternoon, before the "special" went to press.

"Joyous Jimmy," as we called him, was seated in his shirt-sleeves in the midst of all the noise and litter, a big briar-pipe in his mouth and the remains of his lunch at his elbow.

At the moment when I entered he was uttering a string of unqualified imprecations upon a small, trembling printer's imp who had delivered a message wrongly to the foreman. Six tape instruments were clicking in chorus, while two telephones were calling, and a boy was repeating something about stocks and shares which was coming over the 'phone from the City editor. To the unaccustomed, that room was a perfect pandemonium. Indeed, how the sub-editors worked in those nerve-shattering surroundings was always a marvel to the uninitiated.

"And where's Keene, I wonder?" Marvin was saying, in the same breath in which he had abused the boy. "Gone on another of those vain, wild-goose chases of his—or else still in bed, I suppose! Franks, just wake him up again on the 'phone. Tell him I want him here—at once. When I say at once, I don't mean in half an hour. Tell him that."

"You needn't," I laughed across to Franks, who was that day assisting in the sub-editing; "I'm here."

The red-moustached, bald-headed Scot turned at sound of my voice, bristling up in a moment.

"Well, young man?" he asked, looking me up and down. "And a fine laughing-stock you've made of this precious rag to-day!"

"I don't follow you," I said.

"Follow me? Well, I should think your own common-sense—if you have any—ought to tell you?" he snarled. "Look! What do you call that?" and he pointed to the portrait in the front page of the paper.

"Well—it's a picture."

"Yes. And you've played a pretty neat game with us to-day. That portrait which you've sent in as the one found down at Barnes is a fraud—and you know it!"

In an instant it occurred to me how curiously anxious he had been to publish the picture. How could he possibly know the truth?

"Well," I said, with rather offended dignity, "you're pretty outspoken."

"Outspoken!" he cried. "And who, pray, gets the blame if things go wrong? Who has to go and face the Chief, and hear all his nasty criticism? Why, only yesterday he declared that the whole staff of the paper were only fit to run a weekly in the country. I'm sick of the whole bag of tricks!"

"Well, you needn't blackguard me—I've done my best," I protested.

"I hope you'll do better as a special on the 'Morning' than you've done with me. That's all I've got to say," was his sneering rejoinder. "Boy, take this tray away, and say it's the worst chop I've ever had. Yes," he said, replying to one of his assistants, who inquired how much space they should give to a speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer at the Mansion House. "There's a lot too much gas about the Colonies. A 'stick' is quite enough. Has any of that Bellamy divorce come in? When it does, give it a column. It's worth that—and a few good cross-heads, remember. We'll make it a feature, and put it on the bill."

Then, having delivered himself of these hasty instructions, a youth appeared with a proof of the contents-bill, which he held up for Marvin's inspection.

"Bah!" he cried, with withering sarcasm. "Does Beavan call that a bill? I call it a tombstone—set like an epitaph! Take the thing back, and tell him to set it again." The boy grinned and disappeared with the message.

"And as for this portrait," he went on, turning again to me, "I've taken the thing out."

He saw my look of surprise.

"Do you know that an hour ago it was recognised?" he went on.

"Recognised—identified!"

"Yes; by the man's brother, who came up here to complain."

"Of what?"

"That we were publishing the portrait of his dead brother, who was a young Pressman. He came up from Birmingham, and was on some small financial rag in the City, it seems."

This was a contretemps which I certainly had not expected. I never knew, indeed, that poor Bingham had a brother. At least, he had never told me of his existence.

"A Pressman!" I ejaculated, in pretence that I was still in ignorance.

"Yes. And you palmed it off upon us as the one which Whitlock found over at Barnes," he said frankly, removing his pipe from his lips, and looking straight into my face. "I hope you'll not play this kind of game now you're on the 'Morning,' or Wakeley will soon shunt you, you can rely on that."

"Well," I said, angry at his manner towards me before his assistants, "if you don't believe me, just ask Whitlock. He's certain to be in at Scotland Yard about seven to make his report."

"Then you actually declare that the portrait is the one which he found?"

"I make no statement; please ask Whitlock," I replied sharply. "Merely because the portrait is identified by the man's brother, you charge me with attempting to perpetrate an absolute fraud on the paper!"

And I turned upon my heel in anger.

"I do charge you, Keene!" he shouted. "You and Whitlock have, I suppose, arranged it together. He doesn't wish the real photograph published—eh?" he asked, in a curious tone, a tone which seemed to imply that he was aware of much more than he would admit.

But I made no reply, and, leaving the room, banged the door after me.

As I did so I ran into the arms of old Macdonald, nearly knocking him over.

"Hey, hey, mon!" he exclaimed, in his broad Highland accent. "You're a wee bit angered-like, it seems. Remember what Publius Syrus says: 'Miserrima est fortuna quæ inimico caret.'"

"Oh, dry up, old chap!" I cried. "I'm in no mood for philosophy."

"Philosophy! Has not Cicero said: 'Oh, philosophy! guide of life, explorer of virtue, expeller of vice,'" he exclaimed.

"You're a marvel at quotations—a perambulating dictionary!" I declared.

"Then, with Plautus, in his Bacchides, I would say, mon, 'Your flattery is so much bird-lime.'" He laughed and passed on, chuckling at his own aptness of quotation.

It was true, as the eccentric old reporter—one of the most dry-as-dust fossils in the whole Press-world—had only remarked to me on the previous day, that our short span of life forbids us to spin out hope to any length. Soon enough night will be upon us, and the fabled Shades and the shadowy Plutonian home. And then?

I strolled down the long corridor of the office, deep in thought. Somehow, old Marvin's manner had struck me as distinctly suspicious. Why, I could not tell. There was something peculiar in the manner in which he looked at me which aroused my strong suspicion that he knew the truth of my own picture having been found in that empty house at Barnes. But how could he possibly know?

True, I had originally given the little trinket to Daisy as a love-token, but I knew full well that she was extremely careful never to let old Annie see it. Only a fortnight ago, while we were lunching together at Dieudonne's, she had told me how very careful she always was of it, in order that her old servant should not discover our secret.

I had queried whether it would not be wiser to take Annie into our confidence, in order that I might meet my love more often and get a few minutes with her each night when she left the halls. But she would not hear of this. Annie would certainly tell her mother, and unpleasantness would thus be caused.

A wild and entirely foolish theory occurred to me as I descended the stairs to the editorial rooms of the Daily Herald. Was it possible that old Marvin himself had got hold of the little miniature, and knew of it being concealed with that bundle of telegraph-tape? If so, with what motive had it been placed there? But such a suggestion was utterly improbable, and I dismissed it. I did not like Marvin—I never liked him. He was a nigger-driver of the very worst sort, and would dismiss any member of the reporting staff at a moment's notice. It was because of this dislike, I think, that I held him in suspicion.

Wakeley, who had just come on duty, was seated in his room looking through his correspondence and dictating replies to the female typist. His hours were from two in the afternoon till one in the morning, with a couple of hours' interval at dinner-time. Full of discretion, clever, up-to-date, and energetic, with a marvellous grasp of what the public wanted, he was acknowledged to be among the first journalists in the kingdom, if not the very first.

He controlled the great staff of correspondents, numbering hundreds, scattered all over the world, gave orders for special articles, decided upon what should appear in the paper, and held under his control the most powerful journalistic organ in the world.

"Halloa, Keene!" exclaimed the merry-faced, middle-aged man as I entered. "Want a job? You might cross to Lille to-night. There's rioting among the miners there, and it might be worth a column of descriptive. Ring up Paris, and Abbot will tell you all about it."

"Well, I'm doing the Barnes affair," I said. "Don't you think I'd better finish it?"

"Oh, yes; I forgot. Of course, you'd better stay in town a few days longer and finish that story. Whitlock is a friend of yours, and you get exclusive facts from him," he said. "By the way, Marvin has made a fool of the 'Evening,' it seems. Been and published the picture of a young Pressman as a bit of police evidence! We've been rung up twice about it this morning," and he laughed at the idea of immaculate Marvin getting called down to hear some of the Chief's biting sarcasms. "I only hope some of our rivals won't get hold of the truth. If they do they're sure to start their old wheeze, and expose what they call the methods of the Evening Herald. I wonder who sent in the photograph and hoaxed old 'Joyous Jimmy'—eh?"

I was silent. What could I reply?

IS EVEN MORE MYSTERIOUS

When, about nine that evening, I entered the Gambrinus Hall, that German brasserie in Regent Street, the place was nearly filled with men and a sprinkling of women, some drinking beer and others eating German dishes. Above the dark-panelled wainscotting were many trophies of the chase, while the whole interior was essentially Teuton in character. It was one of the principal rendezvous of the German colony in London, for there one could obtain genuine Bavarian beer, and lager brewed in Pilsen itself.

It was one of Whitlock's haunts at evening. There are certain places in that vicinity upon which Scotland Yard keeps an open eye each night, not because they are in the least ill-conducted, but because into certain very comfortable beer-halls around Leicester Square there often drop men who are "wanted." Indeed, it is a well-known fact to the Criminal Investigation Department that any escaping foreigner arriving in London will, sooner or later, make his way there, and thus fall under the active surveillance of the detectives nightly on duty.

So cleverly is the eye of the police kept upon all who enter that the public never suspect. It is only perhaps when some old thief or criminal, who, believing himself quite safe, has dropped in for a drink and to hear the music, suddenly looks up to recognise, in alarm, a detective seated at the next table, probably one of a merry party of both sexes. Without the fair sex, indeed, the police would often fail, and many a dangerous criminal has been arrested half an hour after the sign or word given by some well-dressed, good-looking girl who, ascending the steps, has disappeared into the jostling night crowd in the vicinity of the Empire.

Whitlock was never on duty about those places. He left it to the younger men. When a man "wanted" was found, he was informed, and then came upon the scene to direct the future movements of the watchers.

The habitués of the Gambrinus were not of the same class, of course, as those of certain other establishments close by, and as I entered I saw Whitlock seated with a gentlemanly-looking man in a blue serge suit, over in a far corner, smoking and calmly playing dominoes.

"Evening, Keene!" he exclaimed, as I approached. "You know my friend—don't you?"

I smiled in recognition, greeted him, and took a seat at his side. Whitlock had not pronounced the other's name, for he was Detective-Inspector Kennedy, a well-known officer.

Beer was brought for me, and I watched their game.

"We shan't be very long," Whitlock replied, deeply interested, for dominoes were his chief recreation. I myself often played with him when we had nothing better to do.

"Anything special?" I whispered, surprised that they should both be there together.

He made a movement with his eyebrows which at once put me upon my guard. I lit a cigarette, and, while pretending to be deeply immersed in their game, glanced around at the dozens of men and women at the tables.

Presently, while Kennedy was shuffling the dominoes, Whitlock leant towards me, whispering—

"We have something on. Your name is Hammond, and you are clerk in a coal merchant's at Cardiff. My name is Hopkinson—understand?"

"Yes," I answered excitedly. "Upon whom are you keeping observation?"

"Don't look. But at the third table on your right is an ugly little old man, reading the Globe. He'll be joined, we expect, by another man presently. Remember, don't take any notice of them. I shan't look in the old man's direction any more. You can watch and give me word." And he commenced another game, apparently absorbed in it.

That Whitlock should have Kennedy with him showed that they were engaged upon some important case. Why, too, had he invited me to meet him there?

"Has this anything to do with the Barnes affair?" I whispered, as soon as I got a chance.

"We hardly know yet. Just remain quiet. I want to see the old man's friend."

Presently, after I had idled a few moments over an evening paper, I, with pretended disinterestedness, obtained a good look at the old fellow. About sixty, with sharp, thin features, a short white beard and moustache, his keen dark eyes searched hither and thither, while every few moments he turned towards the door, in eager expectation of the arrival of his friend. Well-dressed in frock-coat and buff waistcoat, he wore a silk hat slightly tilted, which gave him a jaunty, reckless appearance. But he was very short of stature, and though I could not see plainly because he was seated, I believed that he was a little deformed.

On his finger as he smoked glittered a fine diamond, and the drink before him—a small glass of that Danzig liqueur with tiny particles of gold floating in it—showed him to be an epicure. Another man, a stranger to him, was seated at the same table—a young City man who had called in for a rapid drink en passant.

Who, I wondered, was the old man?

There was certainly nothing about his exterior to suggest the criminal. In my life I had met thousands of quiet old men such as he. The only feature about his appearance was the unusual keenness and brightness of his eyes, and the sporting manner in which he wore his hat. Yet that abomination of dress, the silk hat, getting askew by accident, will impart, even to a Wesleyan preacher, the air of the man-about-town.

In the position in which I was sitting the old man did not notice me. I tried to imagine what profession he could be, and put him down at last as some successful tradesman—a jeweller, perhaps, on account of that very fine diamond. That he was a bit of a dandy was evidenced by the way in which he carefully dusted some tobacco-ash from his vest with a dark-green silk handkerchief. The deliberate and careful manner in which he selected a fresh cigar from his case also showed his habit of smoking only the best of weeds.

My two friends were too immersed in their game to take any notice—or, at least, pretended to be so.

"I fancy he's not coming, old chap," Kennedy remarked, speaking into his dark beard, as he bent to pick up one of the dominoes that had fallen.

"The old man is fidgeting," I said; "keeps looking up at the clock."

"Oh, he'll come," declared Whitlock; "keep the game up."

And so the clicking dominoes were again shuffled, while I sat in wonder as to what connection this old man could have with those two dead women at Barnes, and trying to speculate as to what was about to happen.

Time went slowly on. Customers came and went, but we still remained. The clock showed half-past ten. I had intended to look in at the Oxford as usual to see Daisy do her "turn," but she had already been on, and was no doubt well on her way home.

Hour by hour, as I thought of the woman whom I loved so devotedly, I could not help the recollection of that little miniature arising within me. Its connection with all those extraordinary discoveries in that empty house was utterly inscrutable. Could it have been stolen from her? Or had she lost it and feared to tell me, lest I might believe that she treated my love-token with carelessness? The latter solution was, to me, the most probable. She might have left it in one or other of the dressing-rooms in rushing from hall to hall, as she sometimes had to do when she had two, or even three, engagements nightly. Often she appeared at the Canterbury in Westminster Bridge Road, the Palace of Varieties at Hammersmith, and the Holborn on the same night, and this, of course, meant a great rush in a hired brougham from one hall to the other in order to get "booked in" at the proper time by the stage-managers.

What more probable than that my dainty little love should have lost it, and that the finder had, for some purpose at present unknown, concealed it where I had discovered it?

Yes. I decided that on the morrow I would approach her, and get her to tell me the truth. To exist in this uncertainty further was quite useless. I saw that the point had sorely puzzled Whitlock, and it should therefore be at once cleared up.

"I'm afraid he's changed his mind," Kennedy remarked to his colleague, beneath his breath. "It's getting on for eleven, and we can't sit here much longer without arousing the old man's suspicion."

"The manager knows who I am," Whitlock answered. "I daresay he's wondering why we're here so long."

"The old man won't stay much longer," I remarked. "He's just taken a telegram from his pocket and read it as though to reassure himself of the appointment."

"That means he'll wait another ten minutes," Whitlock said.

"Are you going to introduce me?" I inquired presently, recollecting what he had said about my name.

"We may. I don't yet know. Till the other man comes I can't decide how I shall act."

"Do you intend making an arrest?" I asked, excited at the prospect of a dramatic scene.

"Arrest! Well, not here—at anyrate," was my friend's response. "We generally like to do things quietly when we can, you know," he added, with a significant smile.

"What's the old chap's name?"

"He's got half a dozen, hasn't he?" Kennedy asked of his colleague.

"Quite. He's a crook—and a pretty clever one; though he don't look it."

"By Jove, yes," remarked Kennedy, still speaking into his beard, pretending to contemplate his hand of dominoes before playing. "He's worked one or two very smart games in his time, hasn't he?"

"Yes; and a pretty tough customer into the bargain," added Whitlock. "I wonder if our other friend will come? I'm tired. I left home at six this morning."

"I was at the office at half-past eight," said Kennedy.

The manager of the restaurant passed to and fro, but gave no sign of recognition to Whitlock. He never spoke to him unless the inspector spoke first. A detective-sergeant whom I knew well by sight entered and called for some beer, but, noticing his two superiors, drank, rose, and departed without even a nod of acknowledgment.

Whitlock and Kennedy were evidently playing a cunning game, while the well-dressed old man, apparently anxious over the non-arrival of his friend, was utterly unconscious of the surveillance upon him.

It was getting late. Eleven o'clock had struck, and the place was now filling rapidly with people from the theatres and music-halls in the vicinity, whose habit it was to go there for a snack prior to taking the motor 'buses and tubes to the suburbs. Still the old man remained, calmly smoking a cigar and gazing upon the life and bustle about him.

The diamond on his thin, bony finger attracted me, and each time he removed his cigar from his lips it shone with a thousand brilliant hues. It was an ill-gotten jewel without a doubt.

At a quarter past eleven the old man's patience was, I saw, exhausted. He had read a number of evening papers, looked at several foreign illustrated journals, and had a number of drinks, yet his friend had not put in an appearance.

His whole demeanour was that of a man who feared a contretemps. He kept his keen eyes ever upon the entrance from Regent Street, with brows somewhat knit, half of disappointment, half of dread.

I was bending, watching the play of my two companions when a sudden movement of the old man attracted my attention.

He had raised his hand and risen, while upon his grey countenance spread a bright look of recognition.

I glanced eagerly towards the doorway. Whitlock raised his eyes at the same moment.

Open-mouthed and speechless I sat there, utterly astounded. Was I dreaming?

I recognised in an instant that this vigil of Whitlock's was in connection with the Barnes affair, but the matter had now assumed a phase utterly and entirely mysterious.

I watched the old man greet the new-comer. I was utterly dumbfounded, breathless and mystified, for I had, in that brief moment, made an amazing and startling discovery—one that was so strange as to be utterly incredible—one that staggered belief.

IS A REVELATION

The contretemps was certainly a most startling one. I could not believe my own eyes.

There, through the doorway of the crowded restaurant, entered a tall, dark-haired, rather handsome young man in crush-hat and black overcoat, with a white muffler around his neck, while at his side walked a woman—a woman in dark skirt, a cream jacket, and neat dark-blue hat—a woman who was none other than my well-beloved!

Yes. The man for whom the detectives were so anxiously watching was accompanied by Daisy Marvin!

So excited was I at the sudden recognition that I half rose from my chair. Next instant, however, I sank back again into the obscurity of the crowd, hoping not to be recognised. I intended to watch in silence. She was, I saw, playing me false.

If she could, after the theatre, escape from old Annie and meet this young club-lounger, then why had she always told me that to see me was impossible? She had cruelly deceived me, but I had fortunately discovered her perfidy.

Jealousy is the injured lover's torment. In a moment my heart became filled with fierce resentment. There was the woman whom I had believed to be mine, and mine only, laughing gaily with that stage-door idler—the man for whom Whitlock and Kennedy were in wait.

The new-comers found a seat against the wall in the farther corner of the place beneath a balcony, where they were joined by the old man who had been awaiting them so long. Then the two men spoke earnestly together in serious conference, while the detectives, muttering in an undertone, continued their game.

The instant the new-comer had appeared Whitlock had whispered, "Be careful! he may know us by sight," and then bent, his elbow on the table, his hand to his forehead, as though thoughtfully contemplating his dominoes.

"Who's the girl with him, I wonder?" asked Kennedy, lifting his shrewd eyes and watching keenly.

"Don't know. Never saw her before," was Whitlock's response. "Rather good-looking and ladylike, isn't she?"

What would the man at my side think if he knew the truth regarding the locket? Who, I wondered, was this man who was her companion? What did they want with him, and why had they waited so patiently for his coming? How, indeed, did they know that he would come there?

"Who is that man?" I whispered, when the pair had seated themselves.

"Merely a gentleman in whom we have some little interest just now."

"In regard to the Barnes affair?"

"Well—yes."

It was indeed fortunate that Whitlock was at that moment absorbed in his game, or my countenance would, no doubt, have betrayed me.

Daisy's little miniature of myself being found upon those empty premises connected her in some way with the mysterious affair; yet the two officers seated with me were in ignorance of it. They little dreamed that the tiny portrait had been the property of that sweet-faced, graceful girl who was now leaning her elbows on the table and smiling as she chatted with her good-looking cavalier.

Both my companions were interested as to who she might be. They discussed her, while I, filled with mad jealousy and anger, kept my own counsel. Seated in such a position that she could not see my face, yet from time to time I managed to glance back at her, and watch the manner in which she treated her mysterious and suspicious companion.

Whitlock's patience had been rewarded, and he sat playing on, contented that at least he would ere long discover more about the man he had been expecting for so long. He was a marvellously painstaking officer, and to his inexhaustible patience his success was mainly due. Only by its exercise had he been able to recover the whole of Lady Dumbarton's valuable jewels, which, stolen at King's Cross Station, he dug up from the sands five miles from Ostend nearly three years after the theft. Besides, was it not he who had recovered the celebrated "Madonna" of Titian, which, cut from its frame in a Park Lane mansion by burglars, he was able to take from a hayloft outside a Warwickshire village two and a half years later? Contrary to the method of many officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, he never hurried. He waited and watched, for by that, he always declared, he was able to obtain more knowledge than if he acted precipitately and made an arrest.

Thousands of pounds' worth of valuable stolen property is lost yearly by injudicious arrests. The thieves, growing alarmed, destroy their haul—often getting rid of it by throwing it into rivers or into the sea; whereas, by careful inquiry and clever observation, the place where the property is secreted until a safe opportunity is presented for turning it into money can often be discovered.

What was Whitlock's present game? Why did he not tell me the name of Daisy's companion?

Again I approached the subject, whereupon he replied—

"Of his real name I have only a suspicion. If that is correct, he is the man we are looking for—the man whose birth-certificate we found in such curious circumstances."

"You mean Drayton!" I gasped.

He nodded slightly in the affirmative.

"Marvellous!" I gasped. Here already he had discovered the man, and knew that his habit was to come to that café.

"It's only a suspicion, remember," he went on; "that's why we are keeping observation upon him—or, rather, we shall when he leaves here."

The conference between the two men was hurried, and appeared to be in secret from Daisy. She took up a paper and glanced through it while they were in confidential conclave. Then, with a few final impressive words, the old man rose, raised his hat to my well-beloved, and walked out.

Whitlock made no attempt to follow, and by that it was evident that he was in possession of all the facts concerning the old man that were of any importance.

Ten minutes passed.

The man under suspicion was bending to his companion, talking earnestly. Where could be the faithful Annie, the woman who never let Daisy out of her sight after she had finished her work at the theatre? That my beloved should be going about London with a well-dressed stranger at that hour was to me perfectly incredible.

Smartly attired, he possessed the air of the man-about-town, while she on her part was speaking with him confidentially. How I wished I could overhear that conversation!

The finding of the little portrait secreted in that empty upstairs room had connected Daisy Marvin with the remarkable affair at Barnes in a manner which was beyond solution. The discovery that my sweetheart was a friend of this man whom the police were watching had utterly dumbfounded me.

In the café there were two doors, one leading out into Regent Street and the other into Glasshouse Street. At Whitlock's suggestion we rose and passed out by the last-mentioned exit, in order not to be seen by the pair now in such close consultation.

Outside, Whitlock and I passed round by the Café Monico into Regent Street, in order to watch the pair if they should emerge that way, while Kennedy remained idling near the door in Glasshouse Street.

"Who is that man?" I repeated, as I stood with Whitlock on the edge of the opposite pavement, for I had no desire that Daisy should recognise me.

"I believe him to be the man Drayton, though at present I am not certain," was my friend's reply. "If he is, then the affair assumes a very much stranger aspect than even it does at present."

"How?"

"Well, because this man is known. There's something very curious about him. If he turns out to be Drayton, then we've tumbled upon one of the most extraordinary cases of modern times."

His words held me breathless.

"Then you yourself believe him to be Drayton?" I inquired anxiously.

"I have no opinion," he said, correcting me. "Others have, and believe him to be Drayton."

"And if he turns out to be Drayton?"

Whitlock pursed his lips and looked mysterious.

"Well, then we shall have to consider how to act. This man is, at anyrate, a slippery customer, and I daresay has a revolver on him at this moment. I wonder who the girl is? Not one of his crowd, evidently."

"Crowd?" I echoed. "Are there others?"

"Probably," he answered. "We want to find out something about this interesting person. When he comes out I shall follow him."

"May I come?" I begged, for I wanted to see where Daisy intended going.

Whitlock hesitated.

"Yes," he replied at last. "Providing you promise to drop out when I tell you. We must run no risk of recognition, remember, for this is a serious inquiry—a very serious one."

"I'll promise to be discreet."

"Then let us follow them separately. It will be best."

That was just what I wanted, and scarcely had we finished speaking when the door swung open and Daisy and her companion emerged. In an instant I left Whitlock's side and turned away, so as not to meet them. Another moment and I saw that they had mingled with the crowd of foot-passengers going towards Leicester Square, therefore I followed quickly.

The man suspected to be the Francis Douglas Drayton—the man whose birth-certificate was in possession of the police—had linked his hand in Daisy's arm and was piloting her through the crowd of homeward-bound pleasure-seekers.

Whitlock, walking in the same direction, was not far from me as we passed the entrance to the Pavilion, when of a sudden a dirty, unkempt man, with a contents-bill and a bundle of papers in his hand, pushed forward, and walking beside him cried—

"'Ere y'are, sir! 'Erald, sir! Latest news, sir!"

I recognised the man. Whitlock, without pausing, indicated the pair he was following, whereupon the fellow disappeared instantly into the crowd. He was a policeman's "nose"—one of hundreds in London who give the police information, and assist them in a variety of ways of which the public never dream. The "nose" had been put on the watch, and Whitlock knew that, wherever the man and his lady friend might go, the humble seller of evening papers would keep a very watchful eye upon them.

What he had told me about the man Drayton had greatly interested me. If this man were actually the person suspected, then he was of bad character and in no way fitted to be the companion of Daisy. With eager, jealous eyes I watched them in anger and in wonder. What could it mean?

Whitlock had suspected two persons—Julian Little and this unknown young man of leisure. Utterly unconscious that they were being so closely followed, the pair walked on past Wardour Street, along the north side of Leicester Square, past the Empire—now closed and dark—and on through Cranbourn Street, where, at the corner of Charing Cross Road, the man halted as though in expectation of meeting somebody.

He glanced up and down. From across the way the unkempt man hawking his papers was watching, while Whitlock had fallen back some distance.

I could see that Daisy was very anxious to leave him and get home, but on his part he was persuading her to remain, apparently assuring her that the man expected would arrive in a few moments.

At that midnight hour there was still plenty of life and movement, as there always is in that quarter of London. The corner was not too well lighted, now that the Hippodrome doors were closed, therefore there was but little risk that Daisy would detect my presence there.

She was, I felt, in the hands of unscrupulous persons, and it was well that I was there to protect her. Indeed, it required all my self-possession to restrain myself from going boldly up to the man suspected to be Drayton, and demanding what business he had with the sweet-faced woman whose heart was mine.

To act thus, however, would ruin all Whitlock's plans. The present inquiry was both important and difficult, for the mystery at Barnes must, at all hazards, be cleared up. The affair had got upon my nerves, and I was as keenly interested in every detail as was the renowned police-officer himself.

Daisy, at her companion's urgent request, remained idling up and down near the Hippodrome for about five minutes, when from the direction of Long Acre there hurried a short, grey-bearded, shabbily-dressed little man, who had the appearance of a foreigner.

I now saw the keen forethought of Whitlock in employing the services of one of his unofficial agents.

The two men met, swiftly exchanging some quick words, for the old man was breathless, and I saw also that he was slightly deformed.

Then Daisy was introduced to the sinister-looking, little old man by her companion. His profuse manner in greeting her confirmed my suspicion that he was a foreigner. The manner in which he raised his shabby hat showed me that he was probably Italian.

He was, however, in great haste. His words to his friend were quick and to the point. Both consulted their watches, as though making an appointment to meet later; then, raising his hat again, the queer little old fellow stepped into a hansom and, giving the man an address, drove rapidly away.

CONCERNS THE STRANGER

Hardly had the stranger left the kerb when another crawling hansom was stopped a little distance off, and a man sprang in and drove after the first vehicle.

For an instant I saw his face and recognised it. It was Kennedy, who, finding the pair had left the café, had hurried on, finally overtaking us. He had seen that observation must be kept upon the queer little old man and his identity established.

Daisy, as soon as the old man had left, turned along Charing Cross Road towards the station, where it was so often her habit to meet old Annie prior to proceeding home. Her companion, however, seemed to have suddenly grown very excited over something which the old man had so swiftly related. He seemed to be speaking angrily, assuming a threatening manner, not towards her, but towards some person not present.

Little did he dream that the breathless old fellow was being closely followed in his rapid flight westward, or that he himself was being watched by three keen pairs of eyes.

A second vendor of evening papers approached the first, but, receiving a sign, slunk away. He knew that his fellow-hawker had "got a job on," for, looking across, he at once recognised Inspector Whitlock. The public little guess how much information of great value to the police those paper-men and cab touts pick up, or how clever they are in discovering secrets and putting the authorities upon the right track. Whenever I walked in the West End with Whitlock at night—and it was often—there were frequently hasty words whispered in the dark in passing by dirty, forbidding, ruffianly-looking men who were acting as his "eyes" and "ears" in various matters.

Truly the West End is a strange and complex world of pleasure and crime, poverty and wealth, delight and despair; the concentration of all the vices but few of the virtues of our modern Babylon; the greatest, most extravagant, and at the same time most poverty-stricken city the world has ever seen.

Whitlock sauntered on, narrowly watching Daisy, and still wondering who she might be.

How would he act, I reflected, when he knew the truth, as he must ere long.

The pair strolled to the corner of Trafalgar Square, halting in front of St Martin's Church. As I watched, I saw that the young man was speaking earnestly with her, his hand linked again in her arm. What he was saying had evidently created a great impression upon her, for she stood staring before her as though utterly dazed.

Suddenly her mind seemed made up, and her companion hailing a cab, she entered, and they drove away along Pall Mall.

"We must follow," Whitlock said, quickly; "but it is difficult now there's so very little traffic." He signed to the news-vendor to leave us, and calling a cab, which at that moment approached, we entered and followed.

Whither was this man taking my well-beloved? What was the object of this midnight adventure? I sat back in the vehicle watching in anger the two red lights of the cab in front.

Up St James's Street, along Piccadilly and Knightsbridge we went, towards Kensington. She was going in the opposite direction to her own home—she who had so cleverly and so cruelly deceived me!

Fortunate it was, perhaps, that Whitlock was with me, or I would have faced the pair boldly long before, and demanded of her an explanation on the spot.

And yet, as I reflected, I could not disguise that there was about her manner something which showed her to have fallen completely beneath that man's influence. She was acting involuntarily. Old Annie was most probably waiting for her somewhere, and waiting in apprehension. To travel about in a cab at night with a stranger was certainly not like Daisy Marvin. But was he such a stranger? Was not this man, so strongly suspected by the police, her secret lover?

That last hour had been a complete revelation to me. Daisy, so full of wild abandon in her stage-dancing, so piquante, chic, and full of fun before the footlights, was, in her private life, an entirely different girl, modest, sweet, and full of a girlish charm that was as indescribable as it was delightful. Had I been told that she loved another I would never have believed it. But I had seen with my own eyes, and even now, at that moment, was following them to an unknown destination.

"I'd like to know who the girl is," Whitlock remarked presently to me. "If the man is the same that I believe him to be, then the whole affair assumes the form of a problem a hundred times more complicated than before."

"How?"

"That man, though not old, has had a past—a remarkable past."

"Of crime?"

"Well—not exactly. Rather of mystery."

"But is not the finding of that birth-certificate very extraordinary?" I asked, quickly reviewing in my own mind all the curious features of the astounding affair.

"Very. I can't, for the life of me, explain—first, why it was concealed there, and, secondly, why the sender of the anonymous telegram should wish to direct our attention to the spot."

"Motives of revenge, perhaps."

"That certainly seems more than likely—revenge upon the person named Drayton."

"The man in front of us?"

"It may be him—or it may not."

"And if he should turn out to be another man?" I suggested.

Whitlock shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course, I may be mistaken. But in any case we shall know definitely to-morrow."

"How?"

"Wait, and I will show you in due course. I wonder," he added, "who that old man was? Kennedy will, I hope, have something to tell us in the morning. The old chap gave our friend in front some information, and was apparently in a tremendous hurry to get out of the way. Kennedy won't leave him till he's found out who and what he is, depend upon it."

The cab we were following had already passed Kensington Church, and was now on its way along the broad, deserted Phillimore Terrace, going still westward towards Addison Road. Whitlock had given directions to our man to keep a respectable distance behind, in order that the pair should not suspect us of following.

"They seem to be going a long way!" I remarked, impatient to ascertain their destination.

"Yes. There's some trickery in progress—that's my firm opinion. And I tell you what, Keene; I don't think that girl is the kind of companion for Francis Drayton. She seems far too genteel, modest and ladylike."

I agreed, and perhaps my hot words aroused wonder within him. But he only remarked—

"If that girl knew as much as I know, she wouldn't be seen about with him, that's very certain."

"Can't you tell me more, Whitlock?" I urged. "You've been speaking in enigmas all the evening."

"It's judicious to do so sometimes," he answered, turning his face towards mine in the darkness. The tone of his voice struck me as curious. He was, I knew, thinking of that small portrait of myself. Little did he dream that the picture was the one I had given to the girl travelling in the cab before us.

Along the Hammersmith Road we went, down Bridge Road, and across the bridge.

"I wonder whether they are daring enough to go to the house at Barnes!" exclaimed Whitlock, as we crossed the suspension-bridge.

It seemed very much as though the house of mystery was actually their destination. Our expectations were soon afterwards realised, when about half-way along Castelnau the cab before us pulled up and the pair descended. The suspected man must have paid well, for the driver without protest, turned his horse round and came in our direction.

We had already stopped and Whitlock, ordering our man to return to the foot of the bridge and there wait, walked straight into the front garden of the house before which we had pulled up, I, of course, following. It was a ruse of his in order that if the man or the woman glanced back they would not detect us.

If, indeed, they had noticed us it would seem as though we had alighted before our own door.

My companion informed me that he had withdrawn the telegraph clerk, and that the house was tenantless, as before.

As we watched, we saw the stranger fumbling at the padlock upon the gate—a lock which the police had placed upon it—and while the girl stood eagerly watching up and down the road, in case someone might approach, he succeeded in opening it, probably with a false key.

From where we stood we could plainly see them standing together, as she covered his suspicious movements. The long, broad road was deserted, and the silence unbroken, save for the distant footfall of a constable.

Quickly, however, the pair opened the gate and slipped within the garden, while a few moments later the constable passed by, all unconscious of what was in progress.

What could possibly induce Daisy to visit that house? She knew quite well by the papers of the strange happenings there. Was it only her woman's curiosity that led her to accompany her companion on that midnight visit, or were they there for some entirely different purpose?

Had she been there before? That was the great question exercising my mind at that moment. When I recollected how my portrait had been concealed in that upstairs cupboard my heart sank within me. I remembered, too, her surprise when she had read the report of the inquest upon the two unfortunate women. In that report she had discovered something—what it was I knew not—which had caused her the greatest apprehension. Was she, therefore, cognisant of the real facts? To me it seemed very much as though she knew much more about the affair than she had admitted.

She had disappeared within, together with her companion.

"They have to get the door unlocked yet," Whitlock whispered to me, after the constable had passed. "We'll give them a little time longer. Then we'll just watch and ascertain the reason of this visit."

As I stood there I could hear my own heart beating, so excited was I. What were we about to discover? What link was there which connected the woman I so dearly loved and adored with that most amazing and motiveless crime and suicide?

Daisy was alone in that empty house with the man whom Whitlock had himself declared was unfitted to be her friend! I could hardly restrain myself from dashing forth to her protection. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell the truth to the man standing so patiently at my side. Yet on reflection, I saw that any word from me might be misconstrued into a shadow of guilt which would fall upon her unblemished reputation. No; silence was best—for my sake, as well as for hers.

For ten minutes or so we remained in that garden, hidden in the dark shadows. To me, those anxious moments seemed hours, until at last Whitlock motioned to me, and we crept as quietly as we could along the pavement to the big iron gate, which I now knew so well.

Pushing it open, we slipped in, walking over the grass to avoid our feet making a noise upon the gravel, and, in the deep shadow of the bushes, approached along the side of the house to its rear.

Suddenly, just as we reached it, a sound broke upon our ears, causing both of us to halt and hold our breath.

The sound came from within that dark, silent house of mystery—a woman's shrill, piercing scream.

I listened again. The cry for help was from the lips of my own love—my own sweet Daisy!

For a second I stood there petrified.

THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

I made a movement to dash forward and enter the house to the rescue of my well-beloved, but Whitlock placed a quick, firm hand upon my arm whispering—

"Wait—we may discover something further!" and he drew me back into the shadow.

"But——"

My words were cut short by the sound of movement within. We were close to the back entrance to the house, a short flight of steps leading from the old-fashioned garden into one of the rooms.

I listened for the cry of distress to be repeated, but there was no further scream.

"I wonder what is happening?" I gasped eagerly to the man at my side.

"Hark!" he cried. "Listen!"

I could hear voices within—voices in serious and deliberate conversation. I held my breath, with ears strained to catch the words. But all was an indistinct mumbling. As I stood there, inactive and apprehensive, my impulse was to rush forward and face the pair.

Of a sudden, without warning, the door opened, and they both came down the steps, the man closing the door noiselessly behind him. Surely their visit there was a bold step, having in view the fact that the police had, until the previous day, remained in possession of the premises. It almost seemed as though they had some inside knowledge of the action of the authorities.

"You are convinced now, are you not?" asked the man, as he came down the steps behind my sweetheart.

"How can I doubt further?" she said hoarsely, evidently much impressed by something she had either seen or heard in that house of shadows.

"You disbelieved me when I told you the truth. But you've now seen with your own eyes," he remarked in a gruff, off-hand way.

"Please do not mention it further," she urged as she passed close by us, fortunately without detecting our presence, for we were standing back in the darkness beneath the high wall. "It is as terrible as it is incomprehensible. I never dreamed that!"

"And you still believe in—in him, eh?" he sneered.

I pricked up my ears at mention of myself.

"I will not disbelieve until I have proof to the contrary," was her bold response.

"But you surely have had that to-night?" he said.

What proof was there, I wondered. Was there a plot against myself?

She made no answer, but walked to the gate, the well-dressed young stranger following closely at her heels.

We wondered where they were going, for they had dismissed their cab, and conveyances at that late hour there were none.

I could see that Whitlock's wish was to enter the house and ascertain what had caused the young lady such fright. The incident had struck us both as utterly mysterious and incomprehensible. Yet, on the other hand, he was anxious to ascertain the destination of the pair.

At the gate the man hesitated for a second, and then turned in the direction of Hammersmith Bridge.

"Good!" remarked Whitlock. "I gave the cabman instructions, and told him who I was. Finding the cab there, they will most probably take it; therefore the man will report to me at the Yard in the morning. I'll watch—you remain here."

He left my side and, passing along to the front gate, disappeared.

Alone in the dark garden, where, beneath that great old tree to my left, we had dug up the box containing those curiously-preserved articles, I stood calmly reviewing the occurrences of that eventful night.

Was it possible that Daisy—my own Daisy—could be out until that late hour without serious inquiry on the part of "Joyous Jimmy" and his wife? Her companion had spoken of some man sneeringly, and his remarks in themselves showed some serious conspiracy against me—a conspiracy formed, perhaps, by himself. What, I wondered, could be its nature? True, her little keepsake had been concealed in that upstairs cupboard, but, on the other hand, had not that man's birth-certificate, buried in the garden, been recovered by means of the forged telegram of the Central News?

I glanced up at the great old-fashioned house, which, in the silence of that night-hour, seemed so full of forbidding shadows. Truly it was a house of mystery and of tragedy.

By whose hand had its lonely but beautiful occupant fallen? At whose instigation had that second woman killed herself rather than face inquiry?

My thoughts wandered far away to Julian Little, my old and trusted friend. What could he know of the affair? If innocent of it, then why had he fled beyond the Danube?

Could we only discover who had despatched that extraordinary Press message to Plymouth, then we should certainly understand its motive. Whitlock had promised that next morning would establish or deny the identity of Daisy's companion with the man whose birth-certificate we recovered in such remarkable circumstances. But how? After all, why was my friend so anxious about Little if he did not suspect him?

Standing there in silence, awaiting Whitlock's return, I reviewed the whole of those amazing circumstances, and the more I reflected upon them the more hopeless became the solution of the astounding problem.

In my profession as journalist—or "murder-monger," as I was known in the office of the Evening Herald—I had assisted the police in investigating many strange and apparently motiveless crimes. Yet none had presented such incomprehensible features as this affair; none were so full of clues that seemed to lead nowhere.

Was this visit the first Daisy had paid to the house? On calm reflection I concluded that it was not. I recollected how, without sign of fear, she had boldly accompanied her companion there, and how, in descending the steps, she had, without hesitation, taken the pathway leading to the front entrance. Her every movement was now photographed upon my memory, while her shriek of terror still rang in my ears.

That cry! Why had she uttered it? Certain it was that she was in no way afraid of her companion. Therefore, she had undoubtedly seen something within that house which had utterly unnerved her. But what? Aye, that was the question!

Standing there in the damp darkness of the night I awaited Whitlock's return. Then we might, perchance, discover the cause of that loud shriek from those lips that had so often met mine in fond and passionate caress.

Was she playing me false? I put it to you. Place yourself in my position—and answer if you can!

It seemed as though Whitlock would never return, and I began wondering whether the pair had not found another cab, and under necessity my friend had been compelled to follow them.

The silence of the night was suddenly broken by the slow tread of the constable returning along the pavement. Fortunately Whitlock—always full of forethought—had closed the gate behind him, so the man in uniform passed on without noticing that the padlock and chain had been removed.

A motor car came along, its whirr being heard a considerable distance away, and its head-light shedding a bright streak of brilliance upon the road quite a long time before its approach. Then, with a flash, it went by, and the beat of its engines was quickly lost in the distance.

Still I waited, though full of impatience. That inactivity was galling. I wanted to enter the house and ascertain what had so terrified my well-beloved.

At last Whitlock's dark, burly figure appeared in the gateway, and he exclaimed in a low voice—

"It's all right, Keene. They've taken our cab! We shall know more in the morning."

Daisy—my own sweet love, whom I had believed so true to me—had driven away with that dressed-up young club-lounger, who seemed for an unaccountable reason to hold some occult influence over her! Whither had they gone?

I bit my lip in the darkness. To-morrow I should know—but not until then. And to-morrow was a long time.

"Come along," exclaimed Whitlock, in his cheery, bustling manner. "I have a bit of candle in my pocket. Seldom go out at night without it, you know!" he laughed. "Let's have a peep inside and see if we can find out the reason of the girl's scream. That strikes me as peculiar—very peculiar. Do you know, Keene," he added, "I'm not quite sure that I'm not mistaken, after all."

"In what?"

"In believing that that man is really Drayton."

"But you said you will know in the morning."

"Yes. I shall know positively," was his reply. "I leave little to luck, as you know. I generally look ahead, and have done so in this case."

"How?"

"Never mind how. If you come to my office at noon to-morrow I will be able to tell you definitely whether my surmise was correct, or whether, after all, I'm on the wrong track."

"Which at this moment you think you are—eh?"

"Well, I fear that I've formed a wrong conclusion, that's all."

"Why?"

"Because that girl loves the fellow. If he were actually Drayton, there are reasons why she would not do so."

"I don't understand you."

"No. I expect you don't. You see, you are not in possession of very many of the facts."

"No. But I want to be. All that I know constitutes a complicated and amazing enigma, which the more I try to solve the more difficult it becomes."

Whitlock laughed lightly.

"You're a good journalist, Keene; but you'd never be a good detective. You take things far too seriously."

Little did he dream that we were discussing the woman who was all in all to me.

I had never known love until I met her, and I had foolishly flattered myself that she was only mine. But now, in the discovery of her double-dealing, my brain was aflame. I saw how heartlessly she had misled and deceived me; and now discerned how, in order to meet this man, she had always declared to me that I must never come near the stage-doors after her performance.

You who have once been undeceived, and whose tender love has been tossed recklessly aside in favour of that of another, know what I mean when I say that the madness of jealousy was upon me. You who have never experienced it can never know what torments I suffered in those moments.

Whitlock noticed the strangeness of my manner, I think, for he said—

"Come along. Let's have a glance around inside."

Together we ascended the steps, and when he had lit his piece of candle-end, which he always kept in a little tin box, we passed on through the dark passage, until we reached the room where the tragedy had so recently occurred, and there we lit the gas.

Nothing, as far as we could discern, had been disturbed. All remained exactly as we had left it, except that three empty lager bottles stood upon the table, having been bought by the telegraph clerk who, until the previous day, had been there on duty. But he had been withdrawn, and a surveillance placed upon the telegrams on that line received or despatched at the chief office in London.

From room to room we proceeded, Whitlock holding the candle aloft, but we could discern nothing unusual. The place was exactly as we had left it.

Presently, returning to the room where the telegraph instrument still remained, my companion walked to the table and pointed out that a quantity of tape had come out. Upon it were dashes which we could not read.

"I wonder if that man could decipher any of this?" he said. "I wonder, too, if there is any message here the text of which we ought to know?"

"There may be," I said, at once adopting his suggestion.

"Then we'll have it all read," he decided, and, tearing off the tape, he twisted up the many yards of paper ribbon and wrapped it in an old newspaper that lay upon the table.

And with the packet in his hand we together left that house of grim shadows.

WHAT THE TAPE REVEALED

Walking to Hammersmith Broadway we found a cab and drove to the Herald building off Fleet Street, where I knew that one or other of our telegraph clerks could read that tangle of tape.

By day Fleet Street and its vicinity lies in a lethargic state. True, there is the bustle of business and the roar of traffic, but the great newspaper offices are mostly deserted. The "case-rooms" are empty, the editorial offices given over to junior clerks, and the only movement in the machine rooms is the "taking-in" of those big reels of paper, each about five miles in length, which about three o'clock in the morning will be swallowed into those gigantic, roaring machines which print, cut, paste, fold, count, and deliver automatically—marvels, indeed, of man's inventive genius. By day the night-workers sleep soundly in their suburban homes, and only when the business offices close, and men rush home eastward to Ludgate Hill Station, or westward along the Strand, arrive that great army of men who constitute the Press of London—editors in their motor-broughams down to humble printers' imps—to prepare the newspaper for to-morrow's breakfast-table.

It is then that Fleet Street, Bouverie Street, Whitefriars, and Salisbury Square begin to palpitate with life. The white electric lights shine brightly, the silent streets are wakened by the quick tread of messengers from Reuter's, the "P.A.," the "C.N.," and commissionaires from the Post Office. Telegraph tapes and telephones are at work incessantly; "comps." in those big, well-lighted buildings are hard at it setting "ads."; the linotype composing machines click on, casting in lead each separate line for the paper; the machine-rooms are oiling up, the stereo foundries are busy with the "early plates," and the newsrooms are agog with the mass of late intelligence which crowds out the news accepted by the "subs" earlier in the day. The feature decided upon an hour ago for to-morrow's paper is now rejected for half a column of something far more sensational; while such is the state of the public mind that the news editor knows that a motor 'bus accident in the Strand is worth more space than an earthquake in Japan or a revolution in South America.

A strange, fevered, hustling world indeed is our Press-world of London at two o'clock in the morning.

Everyone, from editor to machinist, has his eye upon the clock—the hands of which are every minute moved by electricity from Greenwich Observatory, for there are trains to catch, and the paper must go "to bed" at the exact moment. Otherwise there will be trouble.

Two o'clock at the Daily Herald meant frantic haste in every department, for an edition—for the West of England—went to press at 2.28. Upon that very second the levers of those enormous machines must be pulled, and with a bound and a deafening roar those great presses, almost human in their work, would belch forth the Herald printed, folded, counted, and packed up in bundles ready for the special train awaiting them at Paddington.

Editor and leader-writer have done their work. The latter, sitting at home in his study in North London, received at seven o'clock his order by telephone as to what subject he should write upon. At half-past nine a boy brought the "copy" down, and at eleven the leader-writer, a youngish, clean-shaven man, came himself, read his proof, made some dry remarks upon the political situation in general, and went back home in a cab. He had finished his duty. But the news department was still frantically busy. Telephones were going and tapes were clicking as merrily as though it were mid-day, and above all Wakeley in his shirt-sleeves, in charge of the whole of that gigantic organisation, now and then opened the sluice-gates of a vocabulary unprintable in the Herald.

There were assuredly no drones in that busy hive. The lift was running as though it were noon, the long corridors of the huge building were thronged by youths rushing hither and thither, and even the usually quiet library—that big room filled to overflowing with books of reference of all sorts, and in all languages—was now occupied by one or two subordinates, busily looking up dates, or verifying facts.

Whitlock had never seen the Herald going to press, and was astounded when, on passing along one of the corridors, he was nearly knocked over by a boy who dashed headlong out of a room, and sped downstairs with a sheet of "copy" in his hand.

Together we passed to another and somewhat quieter part of the building, where we entered a small room in which sat four telegraph clerks at their ever-clicking instruments. One of them, Knight by name, a young, fair-haired man, who sat in the corner receiving messages over the Post Office wire, was, I knew, due to go off duty. Therefore, approaching him, I introduced my companion, explaining that we wanted the messages read.

Five minutes later he glanced at the clock, tapped his key for the last time, and, placing the small wooden cover over the instrument to protect it from dust or injury, rose and stretched himself.

"We'll go into the next room, Mr Keene," he said. "It's quieter there."

So all three of us entered a room which, by day, was one of the offices of the circulation department, and Whitlock, undoing the bundle of tape, placed the tangle before him.

"This is a Post Office wire," Knight remarked, as soon as he saw it. "The London-Plymouth Trunk Line;" and seated at a table he began deftly to unravel the mass of narrow paper.

At last he found the beginning, and read to us rapidly, one after the other, messages sent by the public to Portsmouth, Bournemouth, Exeter, Plymouth and other places. Most of them showed the strenuous life the world leads to-day. The first struck a tragic note. It had been handed in at Beccles, in Suffolk, at 4.18, and, directed to a man at an hotel in Plymouth, read: "Your wife dying—asking to see you. Come immediately." And the next was from a bookmaker to a noble lord, saying: "Put you twenty on Lallie has won—8 to 1." Diverse, curious, sometimes humorous, often tragic, the fair-haired young man read message after message that had been flashed to the West between the hours of four o'clock on the previous afternoon and one o'clock that morning.

We stood listening, as, with monotonous voice, he read out the sharp, decisive words that had been ticked over the wire. There was nothing which gave us any insight into the reason for that woman's horrified scream. And yet she must have either seen or heard something to cause her alarm. From her manner towards him, as they left the house, it was quite clear that he had not attacked her, as I had at first supposed.

The reading of all those messages occupied a long time. Of a sudden, as we stood leaning against the table, there was a roar beneath the building, and the whole place began to vibrate as though a miniature earthquake were occurring. The Western edition of the Daily Herald had started printing. Those huge and complicated machines in the big, well-lit rooms in the basement one after another began their deafening roar as they took mile after mile of paper into their insatiable maws, and poured forth in a continuous stream bundles of papers ready for the special express at Paddington waiting to receive and carry them to the furthermost rural villages of Dorset, Devon, and Cornwall.

The telegraph clerk instinctively glanced at the electric clock upon the wall. The time was 2.29. The edition was one minute late, which would mean inquiry and censure in the morning.

Continuing, he repeated message after message on a variety of subjects. Never until that moment did it occur to me how full of curiosity and interest the work of a telegraph clerk must be. Abuse, endearment, doubt, fear, courage, good advice and reassurance followed each other, the senders being of all classes, from men and women of title to the humble labourer.

Yards upon yards of the tape were occupied by a long Press message, the condensed report of a speech by a Cabinet Minister that evening at Glasgow sent by the P.A. (Press Association) to the most important morning paper in the West, the Western Morning News, at Plymouth. A glance at the beginning and the end was sufficient to show its purport. Then followed a mass of Stock Exchange closing prices, the premium on gold from South America, and the report of a fatal motor car accident in the North of Ireland. Foreign intelligence of Reuter's "special service," a Laffan or two, and several interesting items from the Central News correspondent in St Petersburg followed each other closely, for in the evening, between seven and midnight, when the public messages are few, the Press practically monopolise the telegraphs at their reduced rate of a hundred words for one shilling.

We were nearing the end of the tangled ribbon, when suddenly both Whitlock and I pricked up our ears at Knight's monotonous words, which were as follows—

"To Western Morning News, Plymouth, from P.A., London.—Barnes Mystery. Though the police are naturally very reticent in regard to their discoveries at the house in Barnes, where an unknown girl was discovered murdered the other night, and where her companion, after arrest, committed suicide in the police-cell, nevertheless a representative of the Press Association has been able to gather certain additional facts. It appears that Inspector Whitlock, of the Criminal Investigation Department, who is assisted by Inspector Kennedy and other officers, has to-day been making inquiries in the neighbourhood of Feltham, Middlesex, the result being that a clue has been obtained to the perpetrator of the deed, and in the course of a few hours his arrest will undoubtedly take place.

"Facts now established by the police show the matter to contain some very astounding and puzzling features. This morning the London Evening Herald published what purported to be the portrait discovered by Inspector Whitlock in the empty house, but this picture was recognised by a relative of the man in question, and was withdrawn from publication immediately the editor discovered that he had been imposed upon. The police are in active search of a man named Francis Douglas Drayton, but information reaching the Press Association shows that the person in question went to Lima in the early part of last year and died there in May last. At the resumed inquest the evidence will no doubt reveal a very remarkable and sensational story; for the identity of the murdered girl was to-day established by the police, but it is believed that they will endeavour to keep it a secret for some unknown, but undoubtedly very good, reason. The Home Office have been communicated with, and the secrecy is to be preserved at their instigation.

"The case will, in the course of a few days, be found to be full of sensational developments. The police are in possession of the story of the unfortunate girl, which is most romantic, tragic, and mysterious; but it is doubtful whether public curiosity will be satisfied either at the adjourned inquest or at the trial of the alleged assassin. The actual reason of the suicide of the second woman is still a mystery, but from certain papers discovered at a house in Woburn Square, Bloomsbury, the truth has been surmised.

"We may add with all reserve that the person whose arrest is only a matter of a few hours is a certain clever young London journalist, well known in Fleet Street, who, it is alleged, was the lover of the murdered girl."

"Great heavens!" I gasped breathlessly, turning to Whitlock. "Why, that means myself!"

"Apparently so," he replied in a dry, mechanical tone.

"But this is scandalous—libellous!" I cried, furiously. "Wait a moment; I'll see if Wakeley has it in the Herald." And I dashed along to the news editor's room.

"No. Nothing has come in to-night from the P.A. about the Barnes affair," was his reply, after he had asked his assistants, who were still busy with further "copy" for the late edition of the paper, which would go to press in an hour's time.

Then the telegram had not been sent round to the London Press! In a few moments I was on the 'phone, speaking with the night editor of the Press Association, who after a pause while he inquired, answered—

"No, we've sent out nothing for the last twelve hours about that case."

I met Whitlock in the corridor and told him.

"Then that message emanates from the same hand as the previous one to Plymouth," he said. "But why Plymouth, and why connect you with the affair?"

I made no reply; I was too dumbfounded.

I now recognised the reason of Daisy's scream. Her companion, who evidently knew the telegraphic signs, had read to her the latter portion of the message, in which I was not only charged with the crime, but with being the lover of the murdered girl!

Whitlock stood before me, thoughtful and hesitating.

"There's some truth in those details," he remarked; "that's why the affair is so mysterious. The statement that Drayton went to Lima, for instance, is true, but that he is dead is not yet established. If there is one grain of truth in the message there may be another. I must search in Woburn Square. That fact is, no doubt, given in order to place us upon the track of the identity of the woman who took her own life. But with what motive are you denounced, Keene?" he added, looking me straight in the face.

"How can I tell?" I asked. "The mystery becomes greater every hour!"

CONTAINS MRS DAVIS'S STORY

The mystery was increasing.

Whitlock decided that no further action could be taken at that hour of the morning, and that we must wait for daylight.

By this time the whole of the gigantic machinery in the basement of the Daily Herald building was roaring, while the street outside was blocked by carts and waggons being rapidly loaded up with great bundles of papers and driven rapidly away to Paddington. Shouting men and boys ran hither and thither, packing away the bundles into vans, and thus the morning paper for the West of England was being despatched from Fleet Street to far-off breakfast-tables in rural Devon and Cornwall.

Wakeley, in his shirt-sleeves, came hurrying along the corridor with a late and important tape telegram in his hand. "Good-night, Keene," he cried. "I suppose you'll be off abroad soon? I'd quite forgotten that you'd been transferred to us. I'll give you something to do near home before very long."

Even while we were speaking the roar of machinery had suddenly stopped. Before he had left his chair he had telephoned the order to the machine-room to stop the presses, and the men on the "plates" were making ready for a "stop-press"—the few lines of type set in a box in the curved stereotype-plate.

"Anything startling?" I asked him.

"Only sudden death of an M.P.—vacancy in a Lancashire borough," was his quick reply, and he hurried on, again wishing us "good-night."

For a few moments I looked in at the quiet reference library, now deserted, and then, as we descended in the lift, the machines suddenly began to roar again, pouring out their great bundles of papers containing the very latest "stop-press" intelligence.

Soon after three o'clock I entered my silent chambers and switched on the light. At that hour, not even a cat was stirring in Gray's Inn. I was not sleepy, for all the excitement of the night had kept me wide awake. Therefore, I flung myself into my pet armchair, and took a cigarette from the box.

As I lit it my eyes caught sight of an unusual brand upon it, and next second I recognised that it was Greek—identical with the remains of that cigarette which we had found in the empty grate at Barnes! It was evidently one of Julian Little's, which, perhaps found by the old woman who "did" for us, had been placed in my own box.

I extinguished it, and, holding it between my fingers, pondered deeply.

I remembered quite well how Julian, at half an hour's notice, had left for Athens to interview the Greek Minister of Foreign Affairs upon the question of the Greek bands in Macedonia, and his attitude towards the Sublime Porte, and I also recollected his remark about having brought back some very special cigarettes which were made only in Patras. But he was a great connoisseur of cigarettes, and was always bringing back weird brands from out-of-the-way places on the Continent. Therefore, at the time, I had not thought of trying one.

But this discovery now caused me much suspicion, especially as he had, at his own request, left so suddenly for Servia, yet Whitlock's energies seemed to be directed in quite another direction—towards that mysterious man who had accompanied Daisy to the empty house at Barnes, the man whose identity he had expressed confidence of establishing in a few hours.

Like many another mystery of the giant heart of London, the public were only aware of a few of the facts. The remainder—the details of the tantalising puzzle—were withheld from them by the police for obvious reasons. The public often read in the newspapers the three or four lines of dry, matter-of-fact evidence given by a detective at the Old Bailey or the Sessions, but are in total ignorance of all the excitement, all the patient inquiry, and all the romance that lies behind that bald but convicting statement.

Until the grey dawn showed between the window-sash and the blind I sat there, calmly reviewing the amazing situation, and reflecting upon the attitude of my beloved towards the man suspected to be Francis Drayton.

Was that man her lover?

That was the great and all-important question which occupied my whole soul. I loved Daisy Marvin—yes, loved her with that whole-hearted and devoted affection which constitutes a passion. True, we were latter-day Bohemians, both of us—she an actress and I a journalist. Both her mother and father, actress and journalist themselves, were Bohemians. They had indulged Daisy ever since she had been a child, and though they allowed her to follow her inborn penchant for the stage, they did not altogether view it with satisfaction.

Mrs Marvin had once openly condemned it before me. She knew the disappointments, the pitfalls, and temptations of professional life too well, she had said. The variety stage was an over-crowded profession, too, and yet huge salaries were paid to those with real talent, many popular comedians earning as much as Cabinet Ministers. Managers were ever in search of something fresh, but, alas! seldom found it. When they did, however, they paid well. Daisy, because of her dainty chic, her refined voice and her graceful dancing, was already a popular favourite, earning a very respectable income, which her father regularly banked for her. So quickly had she sprung into notoriety, and so high already was her standing in the profession, that "Joyful Jimmy's" suggestion that she should retire from the stage had been met with a negative by his wife. Yet, truth to tell, both were secretly delighted with Daisy's success—the mother that she should have a daughter so popular in her own profession, and the father because he foresaw the possibility of her marrying some wealthy young aristocrat.

Other girls had done so, he argued; why should not she?

Therefore every man who cast eyes upon the dainty Daisy was promptly warned off by old Annie, and my love and I in secret had smiled at "Joyful Jimmy's" complete ignorance of the situation.

But there were many facts which now puzzled me beyond measure.

How was it possible that Daisy could be out till three o'clock in the morning without inquiry on the part of her parents? Where was the faithful Annie? Was it possible that she was enabled to take the woman into her confidence when she wished to meet her secret lover? If so, why did she not meet me? I saw that I had been all along deceived by her soft kisses and whispered declarations of affection—that, while she had declared it impossible to meet me, she had nevertheless been constantly in the company of that man whom Whitlock had so openly condemned.

Her confidential manner towards him was, in itself, sufficient to convince me of the bitter truth.

And why, too, had she gone willingly to that house of tragedy in Barnes, if she were not in some way or other implicated or connected with it?

Again, why, on reading that curious message on the tape, should she have uttered that scream of dismay? Yes, the whole affair had now assumed proportions that were hourly growing more extraordinary and more inscrutable.

Already it was dawn—a chilly, grey, dispiriting morning. Beside myself with grief at the discovery of the perfidy of the woman I loved so dearly and devotedly, I had risen, and was pacing the sitting-room, when for the first time my eyes caught sight of a note addressed to me, lying on my blotting-pad.

Old Mrs Davis must have come in after I had gone out on the previous evening, and, finding it lying on the floor of our tiny hall, placed it there for me.

The envelope was a pale-blue one, and the superscription in Daisy's handwriting.

Tearing it open, I found a few lines hurriedly scribbled in pencil, telling me that on the morrow she would be at four o'clock at a certain seat in Kensington Gardens where we had met secretly on several previous occasions.

Were those final words meant in earnest, or were they merely feigned? Again and again I read them in wonder and disbelief, recollecting how deeply in earnest she had spoken to her companion, and how on one occasion, as they bent to each other over that table in the Gambrinus, he had held her slim gloved wrist with all the tenderness of a lover.

And she had looked straight into the fellow's eyes and smiled!

Was she "my own"? That was the question.

I placed her note in my pocket, with the satisfaction that very soon I should be afforded an opportunity of ascertaining the truth.

As money is nowadays a form of religious worship, so a saint is a man with a past, and a sinner a gentleman with a future. Daisy's companion was, I felt convinced, one of the last-named fraternity. I longed for afternoon to come, so that I could see and speak with her, without, of course, betraying the fact that I had watched them.

Old Mrs Davis entered at seven by means of her latchkey, and was surprised to find that I had not been to bed.

"May I come in, sir?" inquired her rasping voice from the hall, and on permission being given she entered, a short, grey-haired old body in a shawl once black, but now green with age, and a mourning bonnet in the same stage of decay. For eighteen years she had "done for" several gentlemen in chambers in the same building, and was a clean, homely old person who was everlastingly talking of her Emmie, who, "thank God! had married well—one of the best and kindest-hearted gentlemen in the world. 'E lived in these 'ere rooms for two years, an' now they have a beautiful place over in Ireland."

I fully expected her to impart to me the latest news concerning the immaculate Emmie, whom I had never seen, but to my surprise she said—

"Oh, sir, I 'ad such a orful fright 'ere larst night."

"A fright?" I laughed. "Well, I expect it takes a bit to frighten you, Mrs Davis! They say the staircase is haunted, don't they?"

"Yes, sir; that's just it," she replied. "As the story goes, there wor a young gentleman down below about a 'underd years ago, a-studyin' the law. 'E'd come up from Norfolk, where 'e'd fallen in love with the daughter of a squire. She, devoted to 'im, followed 'im up to town, and was one evening in 'is rooms when an old man, who was jealous of 'er, shot 'er. She died in 'er lover's arms—like they do in the plays wot used to be on at the Adelphi. An' ever since then, they say, 'er ghost 'ornts these 'ere stairs. It seems she wor comin' out o' the door o' the chambers when the murderer, standin' up in the dark, shot 'er. 'E was 'ung, an' serve 'im right, says I. The young lady was devoted to 'er lover, or she wouldn't ha' come up to London and forsaken 'er friends."

"But you've never seen this interesting young lady?" I suggested.

"Never. I fancy it's all a fairy tale, like those you reads of in the papers. They calls 'em serial stories. I always read it in my Sunday paper, but it usually leaves off just in an interestin' part, and then I 'ave to wait a week for the next. But, as I was sayin', I 'ad a fright last night. It gave me such a turn that I 'ad to go out into 'Oborn an' 'ave a nip of gin afterwards—a thing I never do, sir, as you know."

The old lady liked her little drop as well as anyone—a fact proved by our whisky mysteriously disappearing. Yet, like all her class, she usually made declamatory protest that she was a total abstainer.

"Yes, sir, an' do you know what it was?" she went on. "Well, I came up 'ere about nine o'clock to shut the windows because there was a shower. I 'ad my old 'ouse boots on, wot don't make any noise, an' when I turned the corner o' the staircase I saw, to my astonishment, two gentlemen bent down to this 'ere door a-tryin' to open it. They were burglars, sir!"

"Burglars!" I echoed. "What did you do?"

"I screamed out, of course, but before you could say 'knife' they'd both bolted down the stairs an' out quicker than they'd come. They left this 'ere in the lock," and from beneath her shawl she produced a skeleton key, which she handed to me.

"I thought, sir," she went on, "as 'ow you'd like to tell the perlice about it. If I 'adn't 'a' come up in the very nick o' time they'd certainly 'ave been in 'ere."

"What kind of men were they?" I inquired.

"One was a low-lookin' fellow, an' the other was a gentleman—in an evenin' 'at—one o' those crush-up ones like yours. 'E 'ad on a black overcoat an' a white muffler round 'is neck. Quite the gentleman, I can tell you."

I was silent.

"Had he a little dark moustache?" I inquired.

"Yes; 'e 'ad, sir. 'E was about twenty-five to thirty, I should say."

Her curious story caused me to reflect and wonder.

The description was exactly that of Daisy's mysterious companion!

IN WHICH WE MAKE A DISCOVERY

I had had my breakfast and a tub, and was just glancing through the Daily Herald when Whitlock entered, looking as fresh and rosy as though he had had an excellent night's rest.

"Do you know, Keene," he said, standing upon the hearthrug and facing me, "the puzzle has grown even more complicated."

"How?" I gasped.

"Well, you'll remember in that extraordinary telegram, alleged to emanate from the Press Association and addressed to the Western Morning News, at Plymouth last night, it was stated that we had discovered some papers in a house in Woburn Square? Well, Kennedy reports that that little old hunchback, after calling at several places last night, went to a certain house in Woburn Square, the door of which he opened with a latchkey. He remained there till 5.30, when he left Euston for Birmingham."

"I wonder whether the object of that mysterious telegram is to put us on the scent, as the first one undoubtedly was?" I suggested.

"Well," he said hesitatingly, "there was some mention in it of a young London journalist—eh?" and he looked at me curiously.

"I know—I know!" I answered. "I believe, Whitlock, that the anonymous author of those Press messages owes me a grudge."

"So it seems; yet he is certainly in possession of the secret history of the crime. I've put a watch upon the house in question, and I'm just going up there. You can come, too, if you like."

I required no second invitation. Over the 'phone I told old Marvin at the Evening Herald that I was still on the Barnes affair, and we both went forth together along Theobald's Road up Southampton Row and across Russell Square. At the corner of Upper Montague Street, a plain-clothes officer, a youngish man dressed as a mechanic, approached my companion, saying—

"All quiet, sir. Nobody's been to the place. It's furnished, but untenanted, I hear. My information, from the milkman and others, shows that a lady and gentleman took the place furnished about four months ago, but the other day they both suddenly left, owing a lot of small accounts to tradesmen around. The milkman is particularly sore about a debt of four and threepence."

"Any more?" asked Whitlock, in that sharp tone habitual to him.

"Only that the tenant of the house was not a hunchback, as Mr Kennedy believed, but quite a young man. The woman, too, was also young."

"And nobody knows where they are gone? What about letters?"

"The postman says that their name was Elkington. They had only one or two letters, and since their departure there have been none. The landlord lives in Ireland, and, as far as I can gather, has no agent in London."

"But the little old fellow had a key."

"Probably left with him by Mr Elkington. He may have left some pets there—cats or canaries—that want feeding," suggested the detective.

"Which is the house?" asked Whitlock.

"Just along on the left, sir. The one with the light green railings. It's been recently done up."

"Very well. Remain on duty, but don't attract attention. I'll arrange for your relief. I shall try and get in with a key, so just keep an open eye and let us know if there are any too curious neighbours about."

"Very well, sir," the man responded; and as we parted he crossed the road, affecting to be going in the opposite direction.

The house differed but little from the general run of those old-fashioned residences in the squares about Bloomsbury; three storeys, a deep basement, with railings in front, and a big hall door, newly painted dark green, with brass knocker-handle and letter-box.

The state of the front steps betrayed that the house was tenantless, for upon them lay wisps of straw and bits of paper, blown there by the wind. From his pocket Whitlock produced a bunch of skeleton-keys, and having carefully examined the lock he inserted one after another in an endeavour to raise the wards.

"It's fortunate it isn't a very complicated latch," he remarked to me. Nor did it prove so, for at the fourth attempt the door opened easily, and we found ourselves within a wide, old-fashioned hall, well and solidly furnished.

From without, save perhaps the state of the steps, there was nothing to show that the place was unoccupied. The blinds were not down, though lace curtains covered the windows of both the dining-room, on a level with the street, and the drawing-room above.

"This is, no doubt, the place mentioned in the anonymous telegram," Whitlock remarked, looking around. Then, as we entered the dining-room, and saw the several fine paintings on the walls, the bronzes upon the high marble mantelshelf, and the plate—a trifle tarnished—on the sideboard, he added: "And it seems to belong to somebody who's very well off."

"Yes. But the Elkingtons only rented it, remember," I remarked, adding, as the matter flashed across my mind, "have you yet established whether the man whom we followed to Barnes last night was actually Drayton?"

"No, not yet. I hope, however, to know for certain this afternoon. Let us now take a look round the place."

From room to room we passed. Behind the dining-room was a small and rather cosy little study, the book-shelves of which I noticed were filled mostly with works of science and travel, evidently the collection of a cultured man. Set in the window was a big writing-table, while upon the floor was a thick Turkey carpet.

Upstairs were two drawing-rooms thrown into one, solidly and comfortably furnished. In the cabinets I noted some rare old china and one or two pieces of antique silver of considerable value. Some of the furniture, too, was genuine Louis XIV., yet about the room was something chilly and repellent. The windows being closed, the place bore a musty odour.

There was a smaller sitting-room—a boudoir, evidently—on the same floor, while above the apartments were all bedrooms, each being furnished with taste combined with comfort. There was nothing cheap or common about the place. The beds were all comparatively new, the linen of the very finest quality, the carpets soft and new, and the decorations of each apartment very tasteful.

"Well," remarked Whitlock, with a laugh, as we stood in the dining-room again, "I wonder where those papers are which we are supposed to have found?"

"I wonder," I echoed. "But doesn't it strike you that the person who sent that telegram last night would, expecting you to come here, also watch the house?"

"By Jove, Keene, I never thought of that!" he cried. "It seems very possible that he would. I wonder whether he's watching now—whether he saw us come in here?"

"He most likely has, I believe," was my reply.

Whitlock went carefully to the window and looked up and down. Only the plain-clothes man, together with a nursemaid wheeling a perambulator were in sight.

"In any case," my companion remarked, "he'd keep out of the way. But we must search this place at once."

The keen eye of the detective outside had caught sight of Whitlock at the window. My companion beckoned him, and he came across and entered the door, which the inspector opened.

"We're going to look through this house, Snow," Whitlock remarked. "There may be certain papers hidden away here."

"If the little old hunchback hasn't taken them away," said the subordinate officer.

"He may have done that, of course," Whitlock remarked, "but we must satisfy ourselves. We'll start with the dining-room."

With a thoroughness acquired by long practice in the art of searching, the two officers, whom I also assisted, opened every drawer and examined every nook and corner of the room. Even the edges of the square of carpet they turned up, but our search was futile. We found nothing.

The study behind seemed a more likely place. Entering there, Whitlock and I turned our attention at once to the drawers of the writing-table, while Snow commenced to rout out the cupboards beneath the bookcases.

The drawers, which we took separately and investigated, had evidently been cleared by the landlord prior to letting the house, for all we found were letters and papers which showed the occupant, Mr Edward Elkington, to have had rather extensive dealings in American and Canadian railway bonds and stocks, such as Grand Trunk First and Second Preference and Atchison Adjustment Mortgage Bonds, as well as Mexican Government Five per Cents, and Japanese Four per Cents, 1921.

My limited knowledge of the Money Market told me that his investments were not ill-advised ones, while Whitlock, as he read the letters, noted on a slip of paper the name and address of the broker who was his correspondent.

There were also quantities of letters relating to betting transactions with firms in Holland, as well as big bunches of newspaper-cuttings relating to new inventions, new mines, and new industrial enterprises. To me, it seemed as though the absent Elkington was a speculator on a pretty large scale.

"From these letters, this man Elkington seems to have had his fingers in a good many financial pies," remarked Whitlock, as, seated at the table, he read letter after letter. Now and again Snow brought forth the various objects he discovered, but nothing threw any light upon the mystery, though the correspondence of Mr Edward Elkington was, in parts, highly interesting and threw considerable light upon his present occupation, if not upon his past.

Some of the letters were addressed to the Hôtel Beau Site at Cannes, showing that he and his wife had spent the previous winter on the Riviera.

We turned the library practically inside out, but found no papers as reported in the mysterious message to Plymouth. One letter was curious—a letter in a woman's handwriting, and dated from the Birnam Hotel, at Dunkeld, in the Highlands. It had reference to some debt of honour of the writer, and begging time in which to pay. Both Whitlock and myself were of opinion that it was in reference to a gambling debt, probably at bridge.

Of letters to Mrs Elkington there were but few, mostly from tradesmen asking for settlement of their accounts.

Upstairs in the boudoir we found a few odd letters of hers, but they told us very little beyond the fact that she possessed an intimate lady friend who signed herself Amy, and who wrote from Bailey's Hotel. One or two of these letters, which my friend handed to me for my opinion, were curiously vague, and evidently possessed a meaning which was not that shown upon the face of them.

One had reference to a supper at the Savoy at which somebody named "Charlie" was present. "I have an idea," wrote the lady, "that Charlie suspects something. If he does, then it would be best to throw up the whole affair, at least for another year. We cannot afford to risk failure, as you know, my dear. So I leave it to you to ascertain how much the man really knows."

"That's rather curious," I remarked, handing it back to Whitlock. "I wonder who the lady is? The letter is dated, as you see, about a month ago."

"Yes, it's a little suspicious, certainly," replied the inspector. "I can't see to what it refers."

"Neither do I. But we might discover if any lady is staying at Bailey's whose Christian name is Amy—eh?"

"Ah!" remarked Whitlock, doubtfully. "I daresay during the past month there have been lots of Amys. Besides, married women seldom register their Christian names at hotels."

"But she may be unmarried."

"No," he replied decisively; "that isn't the letter of a girl."

Snow was foraging about the room, taking an eager delight in examining everything, when, addressing his superior, he suddenly exclaimed—

"Is this anything, sir?"

I looked up quickly in his direction.

He had something in his hand—something the sight of which held us both rigid in amazement.

I stood aghast. Whitlock and I looked at each other in blank silence.

Neither of us uttered a word.

IN WHICH ANOTHER DISCOVERY IS MADE

The man Snow held up before our eyes a cabinet photograph which he had found in the drawer of an old-fashioned oak bureau.

No second glance was required by either Whitlock or myself to recognise it as a portrait of a person we had both seen.

It was the picture of a beautiful girl in a slightly dêcolleté dinner bodice—the unknown girl who had been so brutally murdered at Barnes!

Whitlock took it and examined it intently. Gazing upon it, I saw that it had been taken by a well-known photographer in Bond Street—a sepia print mounted upon a large grey card. There was a number pencilled upon the back which would, no doubt, result in the name of the unknown girl being discovered.

Had the object of the sender of that forged Press message been to direct our attention to that portrait?

The face was one with merry, laughing eyes, quite charming, but, alas! different, indeed, to the cold, grey, expressionless countenance I had seen when the attendant of the mortuary-chamber had reverently displaced the white shroud that covered it.

"You recognise her?" asked Whitlock, looking at me curiously.

"Of course," I said. "To mistake is impossible."

"We shall now discover something," he said in a tone of confidence. "At least we shall know her name—which will be something towards the solution of the problem."

"Yes; but does it not strike you as curious that our identification of the victim is predicted in the mysterious Press message?" I remarked.

"That message was sent with an ulterior motive, depend upon it," my friend replied. "Remember that there was an imputation against yourself. By whom?"

"Ah! that's a point we have yet to clear up," I said. "As far as I know, I have no enemy capable of placing upon me suspicion of having murdered a woman."

"And an uncommonly pretty woman into the bargain," Whitlock added, his eyes still upon the photograph. "We must lose no time in making inquiries of the photographer."

"I suppose she could not have been Mrs Elkington?" I suggested. "Remember, husband and wife only left this house quite a short time ago."

"About a fortnight, I think," said Snow. "Nobody seems to know exactly when they went."

"I don't think that," Whitlock remarked. "She hadn't any wedding-ring when found. She may be a friend of these Elkingtons. If so, they probably know something about the affair. At anyrate, we'll see." Then, turning to Snow, he added: "You'd better turn out the whole of that bureau. There may be something further there."

The man continued his work of investigation quietly and methodically, while we both stood aside watching.

"The whole thing is utterly amazing," Whitlock declared. "One would almost think that it is the murderer himself who, putting us upon the right scent, is at the same time cleverly implicating persons who've had nothing to do with the matter."

"Well, my dear fellow," I exclaimed, "I hope you don't think that I've had anything to do with it!"

"Of course not," he replied frankly. "But what I can't discern is the motive why you should be condemned. There are points which are conclusive against yourself, you know."

"Which points? You mean what was stated in the message last night?"

"That—and others."

"What others?"

"Well—we needn't go into them, need we, Keene?" he said. "You have an enemy—a bitter enemy—that's very certain."

"Yes; and, what's more, he's a secret enemy," I declared angrily. "If I knew who it was I could fight him with his own weapons. As it is, I'm in the dark—completely in the dark!"

"You won't always be so," he said encouragingly. "This photograph will shed some light upon the affair, without a doubt."

Whitlock was in ignorance of my love for Daisy—the woman we had watched on the previous night. Surely she could not be my secret enemy.

Day by day the mystery was now increasing. From the first moment I had gone down to Barnes to investigate, until the present, not a glimmer of light had been shed upon the astounding affair. We certainly had made several very curious discoveries, but where had they led us? Into a cul-de-sac always! Whoever had engineered those two Press messages had done so with great tact and cleverness. Besides, he was aware of much more of the truth than we were. We were groping in a maze of mystery, and he, secure in his anonymity, seemed to hold us in the hollow of his unscrupulous hand.

For over an hour we searched that house high and low, rummaging in all likely corners where any papers might be concealed, but found nothing. The mention of papers in that mysterious Press message had evidently been made in order to induce us to search and find the portrait of the victim.

That the recent tenants of that house were well-off was patent on every hand. Some of the correspondence we found was couched in a language that, no doubt, had a double meaning, but whether it concerned some great plot or not we could not determine.

Snow hunted about like a fox-terrier. Some of the things he had brought to light were of interest and also puzzling, but there was nothing save the portrait which really led us further towards a solution of the problem.

"I wonder why the Elkingtons have suddenly left?" I queried.

"We shall perhaps discover that later on," Whitlock said, after giving some directions to Snow. "The chief point which puzzles me at the moment is the reason why the little old hunchback comes here in secret. There is some object in it. But what? He certainly does not come here to see anyone."

"To see after the place, I suppose," was my remark.

"But isn't it a rather unusual hour to come?" my companion queried. "It seems as though he has no wish that the neighbours should be aware of his visits, so he comes when all is quiet and goes away before people are awake."

"One bed has been recently slept in, sir," Snow said. "Second-floor back."

"Not by our deformed friend, I think," answered his superior.

Upon the mantelshelf between two bronzes was one of those clocks which, beneath glass shades, go for a year with once winding. Its pendulum was still revolving, and its face showed that it was near eleven. I was in time to catch the first edition of the Evening Herald.

"Look here, Whitlock," I said, a moment later. "I'd very much like to publish the fact that the photograph has been found."

"You can if you like, Keene," he surprised me by replying. "Only no word must be said of how or where it has been discovered. You can merely say that exclusive information reaching the Herald makes it plain that the police are in possession of a photograph of the dead woman which will lead to her identification."

"And may I not add that the portrait came into the hands of the police in a mysterious manner? Such a statement adds a flavour to the information, you know," I laughed. "The Herald public love a spice of mystery."

"I know they do," he said, also smiling. "Well, if you like, say what you suggest. Only, no more, remember—not a word more without first consulting me. Perhaps the publication of this bare fact will induce our unknown friend who telegraphs news to the west of England to let out a little more."

"Right!" I exclaimed. "There's a telephone, I noticed, in the study. Excuse me a moment."

From the study table I took up the receiver, and in a few moments was talking with "Joyful Jimmy."

"Where are you, Keene? I've been ringing up your chambers for an hour and got no answer. I want you to go down to Beckton Gasworks at once—a strike on there," he snapped in his querulous voice.

"I can't. I'm on the Barnes mystery," was my reply.

"Oh, hang the Barnes mystery! What's the use of pottering about it any further? It's quite dead now."

"No, it isn't. I've got some good stuff this morning. Will you take it down?"

"Hold the line. I'll get one of the subs."

"But I can't go to Beckton. You really must send somebody else," I protested.

The response was a grunt of dissatisfaction. The Marvin grunt was well known in the office of the Evening Herald. Then a moment later the voice of one of the sub-editors was heard, and to him I dictated what was to appear in the next edition of the paper—a message very similar to the one Whitlock had suggested.

"There seems something very extraordinary about that case," remarked the sub-editor, after I had finished. "The P.A. have just sent out a warning on their tape not to accept any of their messages regarding the affair without first making inquiry. It seems that somebody has been forging Press messages into the country. At least, that's what we hear."

"Yes," I said, "I know all about it. Somebody sent a sensational yarn down to Plymouth and signed it 'P.A.'"

"A joke—eh?"

"Yes, I suppose so," was my careless answer. "Good-bye."

And I rang off.

Half an hour later we all three left the house quietly, without attracting attention. Snow turned sharply to the left, having orders to continue to keep watch upon the place while I walked with Whitlock into Russell Square.

At the corner by the railings stood an old newsman with a bundle of Evening Heralds under his arm; while attached to the railings themselves was a contents-bill, bearing in big letters, "Barnes Mystery: Extraordinary Discovery!"

"They haven't been long about it," my friend remarked, as he passed. "But there—you people down at the Herald are the greatest hustlers in London. We believe in smartness of action at Scotland Yard, but I must confess we can't hold a candle to you."

"Not when the Press report things before they've actually happened," I remarked, laughing.

"No; you're right. Those telegrams are really most weird and extraordinary. I confess I can't make them out at all."

"Nor anybody else," I said. "If we could only publish that in the Herald we should create a first-class sensation."

"Ah! you journalists are for ever looking out for opportunities to give the public spasms," he laughed. "But our object is always to do things as quietly and unobtrusively as ever we can. We don't believe in sensation, Keene."

"But we do. The Evening Herald wouldn't have any circulation at all if it were not that it gave the day's stories picturesquely."

"With embroidery," he added.

"Well—sometimes," I admitted.

"Ah!" he said, "we can't afford to deal in fictions, as you can. A contradiction next day does you no harm. With us a contradiction might mean an action against us for damages for false arrest. Let's take that cab down to the photographer and hear what he has to say."

THE PHOTOGRAPHER TELLS HIS STORY

A quarter of an hour later we alighted in Bond Street and entered the photographer's in question. The young lady called down the manager—a tall, slim young man, with fuzzy hair trimmed to look artistic, and a big black flowing cravat.

Whitlock briefly explained that he was an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department and was engaged upon an important case, though he did not refer to its nature.

"I have here," he went on, "a photograph which has been discovered. I would be glad if you will kindly let me know under what circumstances it was taken by you, and, further—what is perhaps more important—the name of the original."

The young man in frock-coat looked at the pencilled reference number, and answered—

"I don't think that will be very difficult. If you don't mind waiting a few minutes I'll look it up."

So while he disappeared to consult his books we made a tour of the place, inspecting the various specimens of poses, styles, enlargements and miniatures displayed for the attraction of the women who come there in their best frocks to have their counterfeit presentments transferred to paper.

A photographer's shop is always amusing. The various expressions upon the faces of the sitters—the straight, demure look upon the countenance of the débutante, the saucy laugh of the professional actress, the self-satisfied smirk upon the matronly mother, and the seductive grin upon the hag of sixty trying to look sixteen—always afford the philosopher food for reflection. Many women, indeed, owe much to their photographer. A first-class artist can "flatter" an ugly woman till she peers out at you a perfect beauty. Actresses know that, and never fail to take advantage of it.

The young man in frock-coat returned in about five minutes, carrying a big and rather shabby ledger, saying—

"I see from the entry that the picture was taken in September last year. The sitter came with a gentleman who apparently gave the name of Frederick Stonor, and his address Kazan House, South Cliff, Scarborough. The dozen sepia prints were paid for at the time, and were sent by post to Scarborough seven days later."

"Then the lady's name was not given?" Whitlock remarked disappointedly.

"No. Sometimes when a gentleman pays for the prints the lady's name is not given," the young man said, smiling. "It was so in this case."

He was, no doubt, wondering why Scotland Yard was taking such an unusual interest in the lady in question.

"Who took the picture?"

"I did myself," was the reply. "I recollect the lady quite well."

"And the man?"

"He was stout and middle-aged. I quite remember remarking within myself that the pair did not seem to be on very good terms."

At this Whitlock pricked up his ears.

"What caused you to suspect this?"

"From her inert, careless manner she seemed as though she were entirely under his influence, and did his bidding under compulsion. I was much struck by this, because when I posed her before the camera she moved mechanically, and sighed as though there rested upon her a great weight of sorrow."

"She struck you as a lady or—or a business girl?"

"A lady—most decidedly. She spoke as one."

"And the man Stonor?"

"He was in a lower station, evidently, than herself. Rather overdressed, I thought. He wore a silk hat and frock-coat, but was not at all at home in them."

"You could recognise him again?"

"Anywhere. He had coarse features and fat hands."

"She had no wedding ring?" asked the inspector.

"She wore gloves."

"Then you have no idea of her name?"

"He called her some pet name, but it was a foreign one, which I could not distinctly catch. What, however, riveted the sitting in question upon my mind was her utter disregard for everything—the state of her hair, her dress, pose, style of portrait—everything. It seemed as though he had compelled her to come and have her picture taken. Besides, there was another fact which was curious."

"And what was that?" inquired my friend, eagerly.

"Well, about a month ago a tall, consumptive-looking man, rather shabbily dressed, brought in the number of this same photograph and asked me to make a print, saying that he was prepared to pay for it. I, of course, refused. We never sell copies of ladies' portraits without the sitter's permission, or unless it is our copyright."

"Did he say why he wanted one?"

"He explained that the lady had died, and that he wished for a photograph as souvenir."

"And that was a month ago?" my companion exclaimed.

"Yes."

Whitlock and I exchanged glances. Again was an event declared to have taken place before it had really happened!

"What kind of person was he—young or old?"

"About thirty, sandy-haired and cadaverous-looking. When he entered here I took him to be a cadger, so shabby were his clothes; yet he offered me half a guinea for a print."

"Curious."

"Yes; I thought so at the time. His appearance recalled the incident of the taking of the portrait to my memory. And now, when you come from Scotland Yard, it makes the affair quite mysterious. Do you suspect her? Has she done anything wrong?" he inquired, itching to know the real reason of the inquiries.

"Oh, no, not in the least," Whitlock declared. "I am simply making some inquiries into the friends of certain persons—confidential inquiries. You well understand. I would willingly tell you the whole matter, but, at present, any mention of it might defeat the ends of justice."

"Of course," said the young man, nodding his head slowly, "I quite understand. I would help you further if it lay in my power. But I, unfortunately, have no knowledge of the young lady's name. And now, I suppose, she is dead. Is that so?"

"Yes, she is dead," answered Whitlock, telling the truth.

"If you found the man at Scarborough, then you might learn her name."

"Yes. I think that must be the direction of our next inquiries," my companion said, and, thanking the photographer's manager, we went out together into the life and movement of Bond Street.

"It's a pity we can't establish the poor girl's identity," he said, when we were outside. Then, glancing at his watch, he remarked that he was due at Scotland Yard.

"And what about Scarborough?" I inquired. "If you are going down I'd like to come with you."

"With pleasure. I shall go to-night. There's a train from King's Cross a little after six which would land us down there before midnight. There's a restaurant-car. Look up the exact time in the 'A B C,' and meet me at the station. Good-bye for the present."

And next moment he was in a hansom going towards Piccadilly.

I ran down to the office, lunched at the Savage, and punctually at the hour appointed by Daisy approached the well-known seat in Kensington Gardens which had so often been our trysting-place.

Entering from Kensington Gore by Queen's Gate, I turned to the right and afterwards to the left, behind the Albert Memorial. There is a narrow and unfrequented path which leads out into the wider way towards the Serpentine, and as I walked, for it yet wanted five minutes to four, the sky was grey and the chill wind caused a faint rustle in the leaves above, precursory of rain. The afternoon was a dull, dispiriting one, in keeping with my own feeling of insecurity and mystery.

There was no one in the vicinity, therefore I cast myself upon the seat, lit a cigarette, and waited. Behind me sounded the distant whirr of the motor 'buses and the warning horns of private cars. Before me, away beyond the limits of the gardens, arose the low roar of the traffic in Bayswater.

A dilatory, grey-cloaked nursemaid wheeling a perambulator passed me by, but there was no other sign of life upon that quiet, unfrequented path so near the fevered heart of London. In these vibrating days of noise, hustle, and the motor 'bus, the quiet spots in our Metropolis are indeed few; but, fortunately, Kensington Gardens still retains its old-world rural charm, the ancient trees still bud and blossom and spread their shade, and the early spring flowers still put forth their carpet of colour and fade again ere they become soiled by the smuts of the myriad chimneys.

Around me, as I sat beneath the huge beech, the leaves, were already beginning to flutter lightly to the ground as each windy gust caused the great boughs to wave. The murky sky was slowly darkening, and all around seemed sad and gloomy—that dull greyness that is, alas! too often apparent at the close of the London day.

Reflecting deeply as I sat there, I suddenly saw my well-beloved appear round the bend in the path, and rose quickly to meet her. She looked neat in a pale brown gown trimmed with white, a black hat, and a veil which only served to heighten her sweet beauty. Her attire never possessed that note of loudness usually inseparable from the variety artiste, but, on the contrary, there was an air of modesty and a display of taste which made her own natural refinement apparent. Though on the stage she possessed all the wild abandon of the French chanteuse, yet in private life she was quiet and retiring and unassuming.

"Daisy!" I cried, gladly taking her little, white gloved hand.

"Victor! I'm so glad you were able to meet me," she said. Her voice seemed unusual. In an instant I recollected all those extraordinary events of the past night.

In her dark eyes was a look which puzzled me, a hard glance which I had never seen there before. What could it mean?

"You know, dearest," I said, "that when in London I always put everything aside in order to be with you for a few moments—don't you?"

"Yes; I suppose you do," was her rather inert response, as we walked to the seat.

As we sat together I took her hand and raised it reverently to my lips. Our eyes met in silence. Neither of us spoke.

Why did she take the precaution to meet me in secret when she went with that young, well-dressed clubman openly to the Gambrinus, and travelled about with him in cabs after midnight?

I was the first to speak.

"I'm sorry, dearest, I couldn't come to see you do your turn last night, but I was busy. I had to be down at the office."

"Perhaps it was as well," she said. "Annie may grow suspicious if she sees you about too often." Her reply was certainly a cold one. She, of course, never dreamed that I had been watching all her movements.

"But why should we fear Annie?" I protested. "My love for you, my darling, is surely an honourable one. Your father knows me well, and——"

"And he would never let us marry, I'm afraid, Victor," she interrupted.

"Why?"

"Because——" and then she hesitated. It seemed to be on the tip of her tongue to tell me something, but on reflection she appeared to be resolved to remain silent.

"Because—well, for what reason?" I asked, looking straight into her beautiful eyes through the veil.

But her perfect countenance was sphinx-like.

"I—I don't exactly know," she faltered, in a voice which told me that she was not speaking the truth.

"He has said something about me—something to my detriment—eh? Come, tell me the truth, Daisy," I urged in all seriousness.

"He admires you in your profession, Victor, but I have reason for anticipating that he would never consent to my marriage with you."

"Why?"

"Because he is always declaring that journalism is a profession far too precarious. A doctor or a barrister gains experience by age and progresses in prosperity; but a journalist, he says, as he grows older goes down the ladder. Only young men are wanted nowadays, and the elder Pressmen are cast aside as sucked oranges."

"By some papers only. There are, happily, other honourable journals which still retain the men who have been faithful in a life-long service," I said.

"Yes, the old-fashioned and therefore decaying papers," was her answer. "No. Your profession is like my own. When we are young we are popular, but with the first sign of age we are no longer wanted. In both Press and Stage life youth and energy are required."

"And your father has been saying these things—eh?" I asked. "Then he suspects, perhaps?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I believe he does," she replied, glancing again into my eyes. "Do you remember when you came to our house the other Sunday evening?"

"Yes. But I am sure I took no undue notice of you," I declared.

"It was injudicious," she said. "You should have declined his invitation, for how could we be in the same room without unconsciously betraying our affection? As it was, my father chaffed me after you had left."

"What did he say?" I asked anxiously.

"He told me that he was certain you were fond of me, and warned me to have nothing whatever to do with you."

"Why?"

"He pointed out that with my popularity and my talent, as he calls it, I could make a rich marriage."

"Rich marriage!" I cried. "Do you think, my darling, that wealth will buy you domestic happiness? Have you not, among your own friends, girls who have married for money—and have soon repented very bitterly? I have."

"I know! I know!" she exclaimed quickly. "But—well—I ought not to have told you what I have, Victor. It will cause you to be bad friends with my father."

"Not at all. I'm no longer on the Evening Herald, and shall in future see but little of him. Besides, if I know that you still love me, Daisy, why need I care for his attempt to prejudice me in your eyes?"

Her eyes were downcast. She was thoughtfully tracing a line upon the gravel with the ferrule of her umbrella.

She made no response.

"Speak!" I said, taking her hand in mine. "Tell me, darling, whether you really do love me still, or—or whether——"

I could not conclude the sentence, for the hateful vision of that man in black overcoat and crush-hat—the man suspected to be Francis Drayton!—arose before my eyes.

I felt her hand trembling in mine. She dare not raise her eyes.

For some moments I remained, still holding her hand in mine, and trying to fathom her thoughts. I loved her with a pure and passionate affection; my heart, my very soul, was hers. And yet the discovery of the previous night had frozen my very being.

Slowly, yet firmly, she withdrew her hand from mine, her breast heaving and falling. I saw in her attitude an intention to evade my question.

"Will you not tell me the truth, Daisy?" I asked in a low, earnest voice. "If you love another, why not acknowledge it?"

At last she found tongue, and, turning to me as she braced herself for an effort, she said—

"Before I answer your questions, Victor, first answer one which I have come here to-day to put to you. Answer 'Yes' or 'No.'"

"Well," I said, amazed at the extraordinary demeanour of the woman to whom I was so utterly devoted; "I am all attention. What is your question?"

Again there was silence.

At last she spoke, very slowly and distinctly.

And her words revealed to me a ghastly truth.

REVEALS THE GULF

As I did not reply she repeated her question.

"Do you know the reason Mr Little has left London, Victor?" she asked.

Her eyes were fixed upon me calmly and seriously. Her glance was one of strange suspicion. In her beautiful countenance was a look which I had never seen before. She had bent and, through her veil, was gazing straight into my eyes.

"The reason?" I faltered. "How should I know? He goes and comes so often without explaining any reason."

"H'm!"

It was all she responded, but it signified much doubt and suspicion. What story, I wondered, had that young fop in dress-clothes been telling her?

"And what can Julian Little's absence from London concern your love for me?" I asked, again taking her hand. But once more she withdrew it, slowly but very firmly.

"You are changed, Daisy," I said in a low tone of reproach. "Why?"

"Changed!" she cried, suddenly awakened to the fact that I had noticed her unusual demeanour. "Changed! Why, I'm sure I'm not! How?"

"Because I ask you a simple little question, and you refuse to reply."

"You silly boy," she exclaimed. But her laugh was hollow and unreal. I saw that her mind was overshadowed; that she held some secret which she intended to withhold from me.

It was upon the tip of my tongue to mention the man who had accompanied her on the previous night, but I refrained. I did not wish that she should know that I had spied upon her. Hitherto I had trusted her implicitly, never dreaming that she would play me false; that she denied me the pleasure of meeting her at night in order to accept the companionship of another man.

"Why am I silly?" I asked earnestly. "I love you, Daisy. You surely know that?"

"Of course I do," she replied. "You have told me so."

"And do you not believe it?" I cried, opening my eyes widely at her strange inertness.

She paused before replying.

"Well—I suppose I must," she said, with a slight sigh.

"I don't follow you at all," I said quite frankly. "I love you, Daisy, truly and devotedly; while you have yourself many times told me that you reciprocate my affection. Yet when I ask you to repeat those words that are so reassuring to me, those words of love from your own lips, you first ask me the reason Julian has left London. You know quite well that Julian, as special correspondent, comes and goes at a moment's notice. Sometimes, even at his dinner, he is interrupted by Wakeley on the 'phone, receives orders, and a quarter of an hour afterwards he is in a cab on his way to the railway station. Because we have chambers together it is no reason why he should share with me his confidences. Indeed, I know very little, I can assure you. He's by nature very close about his own affairs."

Daisy again fixed her fine eyes straight upon mine. Her look was one of disbelief and suspicion.

"Then you tell me you are unaware why Julian has gone to Servia?"

"Nothing more than that he received some information predicting a disturbance in Belgrade," I replied.

"No; I mean his private reason?"

"Certainly not."

"You are quite certain that his journey has nothing to do with yourself? I mean that it does not concern your own future?" she said slowly, still looking at me fixedly.

"I really don't understand you, darling," I said.

She smiled and nodded her head slightly, expressive of disbelief.

"You appear to think, dearest, that I'm trying to deceive you about something," I cried. "But I swear I am not. I cannot see why you are asking these extraordinary questions. What have they to do with our mutual love?"

"Much," she replied in a low voice—and I saw how changed was her manner.

"But, Daisy," I exclaimed, bending to her, "tell me what has happened! Why are you like this? It is surely not like you?"

All the mysterious details of that extraordinary tragedy flashed through my mind in an instant. Was it possible that the well-dressed young club-lounger was her lover after all? Was it possible that there was some foul plot against me and my own happiness? Fortunately, Whitlock disbelieved the amazing and anonymous allegation that a young journalist—myself, it was plainly hinted—was guilty of the crime. But did it not seem more than possible that the plot, whatever it was, had for its object my separation from this sweet-faced, dainty girl to whom I was so deeply devoted?

I looked into her beautiful countenance in silence. What could I say? Pause for a moment and reflect what you would have said in such curiously delicate circumstances.

"You affect not to understand me, Victor," she said in a low, cold voice.

"All I can understand," I said in a tone of reproach, "is that you are tired of me; that, perhaps, you have found someone whom you can love better than myself—someone who has taken my place in your heart," I added pointedly, watching her face the while. I saw that she bit her lip, while her cheeks went a trifle paler, and I felt that I had spoken the truth.

She gave vent to a hollow laugh.

"How ridiculous!" she cried. "Then you accuse me, Victor, of deceiving you?"

"I accuse you of nothing, dearest," was my quick response. "I am only expressing surprise at your extraordinary attitude." Would that I could speak to her openly, but I dare not, for it would have betrayed the fact of my watchfulness upon her on the previous night.

Was it possible that the man who had accompanied her was really Drayton? If so, what connection had he with that house of grim shadow in Barnes?

"It is of your attitude I complain," Daisy said reproachfully. "I ask you a simple question to which you will not reply."

"No," I protested. "I asked you whether your love for me was the same, but you refuse to answer. You ask me a question regarding Julian Little instead. Come," I said, taking her hand again, "don't let us quarrel, darling. You know how very sincere is my affection for you; that without you my life is a perfect blank. Thoughts of you and of our future happiness stir me to do my best in my profession. They call me a rising man—but why? Because I struggle and strive for your dear sake. Will you not tell me once again that you are the same to me as ever?" I whispered, bending earnestly to her.

I felt a slight shudder run through her. Her little hand trembled within my own. Her lips quivered. She tried to speak, but it seemed as though, in that great struggle going on within her, she wished to explain to me something, and yet could not bring herself to do so.

She was silent.

Never before had she failed to respond to my declaration of love, and until the past night I had reposed every confidence in her. Though living in that wild, restless world of the variety song and dance, a world full of temptations and pitfalls for the unwary, yet she was sweet, innocent, and pure, a womanly woman possessing all the grace, modesty, and tenderness of her sex. But her adventure of that night had caused me a storm of indignation, and a dark cloud of suspicion overshadowed my whole being.

Was she playing me false?

I repeated my words, but she made no response. Her face was pale to the lips; her whole attitude was that of a woman seeking to control herself, determined not to speak out the truth.

"If you refuse to reply, Daisy, what am I to think?" I asked in a tone of deep regret.

She was sitting rigid and motionless. For nearly five minutes she did not utter a word, but sat staring straight before her.

"Why were you so deeply interested in my friend Little?" I asked. "Come, do tell me, dearest, and let us end all this."

"I—I want to know the truth," she stammered.

"About what?"

"About Mr Little's sudden journey to Servia."

"But I've told you everything I know," I declared. "He left a note for me saying that he had gone."

"Why?"

"The secret reason of his journey—if there be any secret one, dearest—is known to himself alone. I had no idea of his intention to leave. Indeed, only on the previous night I heard him speaking over the 'phone to the Chief regarding a journey to Canada, to 'do' a conference in Quebec."

"Tell me the truth, Victor," she said, turning again to me. "Are you in utter ignorance of the real motive of his sudden departure?"

"Of course!" I exclaimed in surprise. "I've already told you everything I know about it."

"But you've not referred to the—the mystery," she said, in a low, hard voice.

"Mystery! What mystery?"

"You know well enough to what I refer," she said, her face changing. "And you know well enough that Julian Little has gone to Belgrade in your interests. And—and yet you dare to repeat your love for me!"

I half rose from the seat, then sank back again, utterly staggered by her words. Julian gone to Servia in my interests! What could she mean?

"I really don't understand you, Daisy," was all I could reply.

"Because you do not wish to do so," was her cold response.

Well did I recollect Whitlock's attitude towards my friend on the night of his call at Gray's Inn. Had not that fact been puzzling me to distraction? Why had Julian left so suddenly, and why was Whitlock so very anxious daily for news of him if there was not some suspicion upon him?

No. That man suspected to be Drayton had made some false accusation against me, without a doubt. Had those forged Press messages actually emanated from him? At anyrate, his identity with Francis Drayton would, ere long, be established or negatived, and it was equally certain that neither he nor Daisy dreamed that they had been watched and followed on the previous night.

"You mistake me, Daisy," I said at last, when I had sufficiently recovered from my surprise. "To my knowledge Julian Little has no interests to serve on my behalf in his sudden journey. I can therefore only surmise that you have been given information which is false and baseless. You appear to be making some mysterious allegation against myself and Little. Why not be frank and tell me what it is, so that, if false, I can refute it? This," I went on, "is surely not like your old self, dearest. Put yourself for a moment in my place, charged with some mysterious misdemeanour by the very woman whom I love better than my own life, and——"

"Let us leave love out of the question at present, Victor," she said, interrupting. "We are dealing with facts."

"And is not my strong affection for you a fact, Daisy?" I protested. "Have we not been happy in each other's love all these months? Have we not often sat upon this very seat, careless of all other things in the world; have we not lived for each other alone, heedless of all around; and yet," I added with deep reproach, "you call me here this afternoon to tell me that we need not mention our affection."

"Because you refuse to clear up the mystery which has surrounded you."

"But as far as I know there is no mystery! I love no other woman, and my movements are all open and well known."

She smiled with a slight cynicism. Was it possible that she had grown jealous. If so, of whom? Of late I had not been out in society much, and had hardly spoken to any other woman. Her whole attitude was sphinx-like.

Slowly she rose, saying, "There is no use for me to remain. Let us part."

"Part! You mean to leave me, Daisy!" I cried, in dismay, "because of this—because——Well, I suppose," I added, half choked with emotion—"I suppose you have found another love—you, my own dearest love! This is heartless, cruel. I never dreamed that you, my own dear heart, would treat me thus."

"Good-bye," she said, very coldly, putting forth her hand. "I can never trust a man farther who attempts to deceive me as you have done."

"Deceive you!" I cried. "Why, before Heaven! I've never attempted to do such a thing! Who has cast this veil of mystery about me? An enemy—perhaps a man who loves you and has become my rival. But if he has stolen your love he shall reckon with me," I added in anger.

"Good-bye, Victor," was all she said, for next instant she turned, and I stood watching her receding figure in the falling dusk, too astounded to follow; so utterly astonished that I was powerless.

The sudden blow had stunned me. A mystery had fallen upon me—me! But what was it? Why did she refuse to tell me, and thus allow me no opportunity of clearing myself of any suspicion?

But she had turned the bend in the path, and the sun of my life had set for ever.

THE DOUBLE LIFE

How long I stood there I cannot tell.

Once I was on the point of rushing after her and demanding to know the truth concerning that young stranger of the previous night: the man who had apparently brought some false charge against me. But I restrained myself, for I saw that the meeting had been arranged purposely to break off our secret engagement.

Such an issue as this I had never dreamed. So implicitly had I trusted her that it had never, for one moment, crossed my mind that she could play me false. But now, as I stood there in the falling London dusk, the distant roar of traffic sounding away behind the trees, a feeling of utter loneliness fell upon me; that soul-killing loneliness that the broken-hearted can feel even in the midst of the hurry and bustle of our great Metropolis.

She was a stage-woman—a variety artiste. All that I had read regarding such people crowded up in my mind; how their enemies said, for a woman to make sufficient to live upon was an utter impossibility if she still wished to retain her self-respect. I remembered the denunciation of my late brother-journalist, Clement Scott, whom I so often used to meet, and who said, "No woman can succeed on the stage without sacrificing her honour." I recollected what a storm of abuse was hurled upon him because he had dared to state this opinion, and it now became forced upon me how the public—the respectable suburban audiences who go to the theatres and music-halls—close their eyes to what is so palpably placed before them. Until that moment of my bitter awakening, I, like all the others, had closed my eyes and endeavoured to believe the stage an eminently respectable profession. Yet the truth did not admit of argument. To-day, with the decadence of the legitimate drama, and the rapid advancement of variety shows and so-called musical comedy, our stages are not trodden by actresses or singers, but in many cases by women who flaunt their meretricious charms with impunity and parade the stage for the advancement of their own ends. Perhaps my views were embittered by the thought of my beloved's conduct to me.

Had not Daisy deceived me all along? Had I not been fooled by her pretty speeches and her feigned modesty? Was it possible for a young girl like her, with beautiful countenance, pretty hair, and good figure, to have made such rapid strides legitimately in a profession already over-crowded? Before my eyes arose a vision of her as I so often saw her, a vision of neat silk stocking, dainty lingerie, low-cut black bodice trimmed with carnations and glittering with silver spangles, as she danced and sang before her hundreds of admirers. Her illuminated number appearing always caused an outburst of applause, for she was already a popular favourite, whose face laughed at you from the big boards outside the hall whereat she was appearing, and whose song, "The Motor Maid," was being whistled by every errand-boy and being played by every barrel-organ in the suburbs.

Yet, recollecting all that I had seen, heard, and read regarding the stage, of which, as a journalist, I possessed inside knowledge, how could I help in the present circumstances regarding her with suspicion?

I had been fooled. She had carried the joke to a point where it could not be carried further. The well-dressed young club-lounger of the previous night—the man with whom she had sat in the Gambrinus, laughing and talking so merrily—was, I felt convinced, her lover.

I clenched my hands, and an angry imprecation escaped my lips. I hated that man, for he was my most bitter enemy. He had stolen her from me.

"No!" I cried aloud, still standing at the spot where my love had left me. "No! I will not think ill of her. I have no proof. I love her, and while I love her I will not allow this horrible suspicion to enter my heart. I have believed her to be pure and honourable, believed that she was the exception to all other women, and I will still retain my good opinion of her. These thoughts shall not cause me to prejudge her. It would be cruel and unjust to thus condemn the woman I love so devotedly. All this to-day is a misunderstanding—a misunderstanding caused by some infernal plot formed by my secret enemy. She did love me, I am confident of that. And she shall return to me when I have discovered the truth of this extraordinary conspiracy to place suspicion upon me of that mysterious crime."

I paused, glancing in the direction she had taken. I was alone; no one had passed.

"No, Daisy!" I cried bitterly, aloud. "Though to-day you have forsaken me in favour of that man, you little dream who or what he is. You are his victim, like myself, and it is my duty, not to denounce you as worthless, but to save you—yes, my own love, to save you!"

And, fully resolved, I turned upon my heel and walked back to Knightsbridge.

Recollecting my appointment with Whitlock, I hailed a hansom and drove straight to King's Cross, where, upon the departure platform, I found him walking up and down with Inspector Kennedy, giving him certain instructions. The latter was dressed in a smart suit of grey tweed, while my friend wore a dark brown overcoat and bowler hat.

"Halloa, Keene!" he cried, when he saw me. "Coming up with me, as you promised? I'm going to Scarborough by this train," indicating the one standing at the platform.

"Well——" I hesitated, for I had brought nothing.

"Oh, do come up. I've got a seat in the diner for you. We shall change into the back of the train at Doncaster."

I again hesitated.

"Hurry up and get a ticket. Look! there's only three minutes," he said, glancing at the clock.

And so, almost before I knew where I was, I found myself in the dining-car, with the train slowly moving out of the station on its journey North.

We had a small table to ourselves, therefore we could talk.

"Have you discovered whether the man last night was really Drayton?" I asked in eagerness.

He smiled, and placing his hand in his breast-pocket produced several letters and papers.

One of them was a large white printed form upon which were impressed ten finger-marks; the identification paper of a criminal from among the many thousand records kept at Scotland Yard. A second paper, smaller and something like a large-sized photograph, he placed beside it.

"Well?" I asked, looking at them both.

"The four fingers and thumb of the right hand are identical," he said triumphantly. "I was right, you see, after all."

"Then he is actually Francis Drayton!" I gasped, feeling that my revenge was near at hand.

"The finger-prints never lie, Keene."

"But how did you get these?" I inquired, indicating the photograph.

"Quite easily," he laughed. "Last night the man drank at a West End bar, you'll remember. I simply gave orders that the glass was to be taken away carefully and left untouched until I sent for it. Three hours later at the Yard they dusted it over with some of our green chalk which they find useful, and out came the tell-tale marks which are photographed there!"

"By Jove!" I exclaimed; "then there's even a danger of identification in going to get a drink?"

"Yes," he laughed. "Men who want to avoid recognition should wear gloves. Had Drayton worn his gloves we should have been puzzled. But, as it is, all is plain sailing."

"All plain sailing!" I echoed. "Then you have a clue?"

"Well—not exactly," was his rather dubious answer. "We must first establish the identity of the murdered woman."

"And of the suicide."

"The second will be easy when we discover the first. I'm hoping to get at something to-morrow morning in Scarborough. We shan't be there till half-past eleven. We'll stay at the Grand. Ever been there before?"

"Once," I answered, longing to take him into my confidence and tell him of the interview I had had that afternoon. "But how does the identification of Drayton affect the affair? Who is he?"

"The establishment of Drayton's identity puts an altogether new phase on the affair," he said. "Until this afternoon I believed that certain surmises I held were correct, but now I find them entirely wrong. We were following an entirely different line."

"And the present is the correct one?"

"I believe it to be. If we meet with success up in Scarborough, we ought by this time to-morrow to know the names of both women and the reason for the assassination."

"And also why the girl lived there alone with the telegraph instrument?" I added.

"Yes. That's one of the most mysterious points in the whole case. But we ought, if we persevere, to be able to clear it up." And as he replaced the papers he had shown me, I saw that he had with him the photograph we had discovered in Woburn Square.

"But tell me about Drayton. He interests me very much," I said. "Of what offence was he convicted?"

"His last was a sentence for forgery. He is, it seems, clever with his pen."

"He looks a very gentlemanly young man," I remarked.

"Quite the swell, I admit. Belongs to a good club in Piccadilly—under another name," Whitlock remarked. "It would astound and horrify the members of some good West-End clubs if they only knew how many of their fellow-members are shady characters who have adopted names which they did not receive at their baptism. I could point out at least a dozen men who have 'done time' and who now mix in the most select circles, their friends never dreaming that they report themselves periodically at some obscure police-station."

"Yes, the world of London is a strangely complex one," I admitted. "There must be many black sheep in even the most select clubs. The successful criminal can easily afford forty guineas entrance fee, and there are many men who will stand his sponsors for a monetary consideration. A good name, can, nowadays, as easily be purchased as a pound of cheese, and the biggest scandal in the Press to-day is entirely forgotten next week. But this man Drayton," I added, "tell me more about him."

"You seem very much interested in the fellow," was Whitlock's reply, as he went on eating his dinner. "He was released on licence from Parkhurst on July 11th last year, and for the past eight months has failed to report himself until three days ago, when he walked into the police-station at Staines, and gave his address at a cottage in Feltham, a few miles away. He stated that he had been abroad, and asked the inspector on duty to place the matter before the Commissioner of Police in order that his excuse might be accepted. Otherwise he is liable to be arrested and sent back to complete his term."

"And has he really been abroad?"

"I believe so—to Peru. But of that I'm not absolutely certain."

"Why to Peru? What has he been doing out there? Didn't you say that it was believed that Drayton had died in Lima."

"Yes; that's a fact that is extremely puzzling. He went out there with some motive, and, judging from his present means—for he has money, no doubt—his journey turned out a very profitable one. So profitable, indeed, that he told the inspector at Staines that he had decided to lead an honest life in future. But," Whitlock went on, "you remember the girl who was with him last night, don't you?"

"Yes," I said eagerly. "What about her?"

"Well," he replied, "I've found out one or two very curious facts concerning her. She's on the music-halls, it seems. But if all is true that I have learnt to-day, then I believe she knows more about the affair at Barnes than anybody else."

"What!" I gasped. "Do you believe that she committed the crime?"

"I believe nothing, until I have proof," was the officer's calm reply. "But the mystery concerning her and the double life she leads is—well, it is, to put it plainly, one of the most remarkable and extraordinary stories of duplicity and cunning that I've ever heard."

IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH

"Double life!" I gasped. "Tell me all about her—all that you know!"

But next instant I saw how, by my anxiety, I was betraying myself, and recognised how injudicious were my words.

"I only know what I've been told," replied Whitlock, glancing with surprise across at me. "She was Daisy Marvin, the music-hall favourite. You've surely seen her at the Oxford, Pavilion, and other places?"

"Yes, of course. But what have you heard about her?" I demanded. "I've always understood that she was a very quiet, respectable girl."

"Not very many of them about on the music-hall stage, I fancy," laughed my companion. "I wouldn't care to have a sister of mine in the profession. I'd rather see her dead first."

"But you can't condemn a whole community because there are a few black sheep in it," I protested.

"Well, my own profession has taken me a lot into the music-hall crowd, and shown me a good deal of the undercurrents there, Keene. If you doubt me go to the corner of York Road, Lambeth, any Monday morning. Go and speak with any of them there waiting for engagements, and ask them their opinion of their own women, and——"

"Yes, yes," I said; "but what is this extraordinary story, regarding Daisy Marvin?"

"Well, first and foremost, she's on very good terms with Drayton."

"You mean that he is her lover?" I remarked, a frenzy of jealousy convulsing me.

"How can we say that? We know nothing except what we saw with our own eyes last night."

"And from that what did you gather!"

"That he was very fond of her."

"And that his love was reciprocated?"

"Yes."

"And your informant—what does he allege against her!" I went on, eager to learn the depths of the perfidy of the woman who had so cruelly deceived me.

"Several curious things. The truth we shall probably learn up in Scarborough to-morrow."

"But are you of opinion that this variety artiste is in any way implicated in the tragedy at Barnes?"

"I repeat, I have no opinion—at present."

"Then I put it in another way. Are your inquiries directed towards such a theory?"

"Well, yes; but, remember, my mind is perfectly open. This curious story concerning a pretty woman does not prejudice me against her in the least. She may be the cat's-paw of Drayton, which seems to me most likely."

"His victim—eh?"

"In all probability. All women are more or less weak—especially in the hands of a good-looking young fellow of Drayton's stamp."

"But surely this is monstrous!" I cried, at risk of causing him further surprise. "She is very popular, and extremely good-looking, isn't she?"

"One of the prettiest girls on the London stage, without a doubt," he admitted. "But you know as well as I do, that it is frequently a woman's misfortune to be beautiful. Many a pretty woman has, before now, wished that Mother Nature had given her a different shape, for plainness and a poor figure save the fair sex from many unpleasantnesses."

"But, if we know the truth, cannot we save her from this man?" I suggested, bending deeply in earnestness across the narrow table of the dining-car.

"We don't know the truth yet," was my companion's reply; "we only surmise it. Therefore how can we act? What can we do in the girl's interests at present? Besides, it is evident, from her attitude last night, that she loves the fellow."

"You think so?" I asked hoarsely.

"Think so? Why, of course."

Little did Whitlock dream how deeply his words sank into my wounded heart, or what a storm of jealousy was raging within me; the fierce hatred of this criminal who held my own Daisy as wax between his hands. He should suffer. I swore within myself that he should. My love had been stolen, and I would punish him relentlessly for the theft. My whole life in future I would devote to my revenge.

"You said something about a double life that she is leading. Tell me about it."

"I'm not in possession of the details. It has merely been hinted to me—hinted in such a manner as to predict that I should discover something concerning her that would amaze me."

"Deceit and duplicity were hinted at, I suppose?"

He nodded.

"The term 'a double life' was used by my informant. That is all I know. We may discover something more up in Scarborough," Whitlock went on. "As far as I can see, there are certain points which we may elucidate up there."

"But I can't understand it," I said.

"Neither can I, Keene."

"Are you convinced that Drayton is the girl's lover? Has anyone told you so, I mean?"

"Well, not exactly in plain words."

"It's been hinted at?"

He nodded; a mysterious smile playing about his lips.

"Yes," he answered, after a brief pause, "a good deal has been hinted at—a good deal that is mysterious and unaccountable. The lady is, I admit, very pretty, but if all that is whispered is true, the pair are pretty well matched."

"What?" I cried, amazed. "Then she is not his victim?"

"To a certain degree I think she is. But what I mean is that she is not the very modest and unassuming little person she pretends to be."

"Yes; but tell me how, Whitlock. You make all sorts of veiled hints, but give me no real facts."

"Because I don't know any more facts than you yourself. But," he added, "you seem uncommonly interested in her. Smitten by her pretty face, eh, Keene?" he laughed.

"I am interested in her, and for a very good reason," was my bold reply. "If she is really Daisy Marvin, then she's the daughter of my late chief, the news editor of the Evening Herald."

"The dickens she is!" cried Whitlock, opening his eyes widely. "I didn't know that. Then, if she's his daughter, she would, of course, know some of the technique of journalism."

"I believe she does. I've heard, indeed, that she's reported concerts and social functions for the Herald sometimes."

My companion grew thoughtful. I wondered if the current of his reflections ran in the same course as my own, for at that moment it suddenly occurred to me whether Daisy herself was not author of those mysterious Press messages that had placed us in possession of those curious but enigmatical facts. As the daughter of a journalist she would know the manner in which to write Press telegrams; the forms to use; and the language in which to couch them. If so, why had she cast suspicion upon me—why had she screamed when in that house at Barnes?

I recollected her strange questions and her evident misgiving when we had been together that afternoon in Kensington Gardens. And Whitlock's informant, whoever he was, hinted at her double life, whatever that meant!

"To me, Keene," my companion was saying, "it seems very remarkable that, if the young lady lives at home with her father and mother, as it appears, she should be able to make nocturnal visits as she did last night. Her movements entirely bear out what I have been told concerning her."

"What have you been told?" I demanded eagerly, anxious to ascertain the exact allegation.

"No," was his reply, "I never repeat any criticism of a woman's reputation before I have proof. Words lightly said can never be recalled, you know, and when a woman's honour is at stake care should always be exercised before it is besmirched."

"Then there is an allegation of dishonour," I said, in a hoarse voice. Ah! that awakening was to me the cruellest blow in all my life. In those past few hours all my belief in a woman's love, truth and honour had been shattered. I had struggled not to prejudge her; I had tried to regard her as the victim of that well-dressed young man who was a criminal, as a woman to be shielded and rescued from him. But Whitlock's declarations had sown further seed of suspicion within my heart, and had caused a fierce passion of hatred against Drayton to arise within me. Torn by the agony of jealousy I sat there as the train rushed northward, listening to my companion, who went on, unaware that he was discussing the woman whom I had loved better than my life.

"Yes," he said, "I somehow feel convinced that we shall discover some very remarkable evidence up in Scarborough, and that we shall find the young variety artiste not quite so innocent as she feigns to be." Then, after a pause, he asked, as though a sudden thought had occurred to him, "Do you happen to know whether she knew your friend, Julian Little?"

"Why?"

"Well—I'd like to know."

"They may have been acquainted," I replied vaguely. "Of course Little knows lots of people with whom I'm acquainted."

Whitlock grunted in dissatisfaction. What, I wondered, what could be at the back of his mind, for he had lapsed into silence. The cloth was removed from the table, and he took up the evening paper and became immersed in it. Huntingdon, Peterborough, and Essendine were passed as we rushed northward towards Grantham, our first stop.

My companion had lit a cigar, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying it, lolling back in the corner, idly reading the day's news. I furtively watched his countenance, but saw no look of anxiety upon it. Yes, Whitlock could be perfectly sphinx-like whenever he chose. To that very fact he attributed much of his success in the elucidation of mysterious crimes.

I, too, took up a paper; but only in pretence of reading. My mind was too torn by conflicting emotions to be able to centre itself upon what I read. I was reflecting deeply upon those extraordinary hints of his regarding what he had described as "the double life" of my well-beloved. What could that mean? What was the true extent of the perfidy of the woman whom I had loved to call my own—the woman whose sweet voice had been as music to my ear; whose soft touch had thrilled me; whose passionate glance I had mistaken for the true love-light? I had to imagine what could be the truth; Whitlock had refused to satisfy my curiosity. I knew well how careful he always was never to say evil of a woman until he had proof of it, whether she were a lady, or a girl of the people.

It was a trait of his character that I had hitherto admired. But now, when it touched my own future, I felt offended. He ought, I argued within myself, to tell me outright and frankly all that had been told him concerning Daisy.

I looked around the car. Near me sat a man and a woman—both young, both good-looking. I saw how happy they were. Why was I not the same?

I watched the girl, saw her smiling across the table at her companion, and noted how sweet and trusting was her face. Faugh! I turned away. Women were all the same. They laughed and smiled, and kissed and whispered, but behind were only deceit, treachery, and—a double life! My own existence had in those past few hours become soured and warped. I had loved—loved with all the power of my being; loved with a strong sense of right and duty; loved as an honest man should love the woman he intends to make his wife.

And what had been my repayment? Deceit and cold dismissal. The favours had been thrown to a man who was a criminal.

Yes; I would stand and denounce him. I, who now knew the truth, would, even at the risk of incurring Whitlock's displeasure, face them both and expose to her the naked, hideous truth.

The train rushed on, and I tried to analyse calmly and without prejudice my own mind. Such analysis was difficult. I either believed in the purity of my lost love, or I did not.

In the circumstances, what could I believe?

What would you have believed?

SOME DISCOVERIES IN SCARBOROUGH

We had breakfast next morning in that big room of the Grand Hotel at Scarborough that overlooks the bay.

Though I was myself an early riser, Whitlock had been up and out a long time before me. Most probably he had been to have a chat with the Chief Constable of the town, in order to learn something of the tenants of Kazan House. But when he returned he made no remark save—

"Tired last night—eh, Keene? I've been for a stroll along the Esplanade. Quite nice this morning," and he looked out upon the sunlit sea, the green Castle Hill, and the much-talked-of Marine Drive. Scarborough, without any exaggeration, can be called the Queen of English watering-places. Once, in the days when our fathers were courting, it was the mode to go to Scarborough and parade on its "Spaw," but, alas! nowadays, when there are so many other attractive places, and when Cook's take the curious "abroad" cheaper than they can live at home, even beautiful Scarborough, like so many of our lovely coast towns, is far too much neglected by the wealthiest of English holiday-makers.

Breakfast finished, I walked up Huntriss Row with my companion, who wanted to send telegrams. One of them was, I noticed, in cipher, and addressed to Scotland Yard. Then we returned, crossed the Spa Bridge, and ascended to the South Cliff, the select and aristocratic part of the town, whence splendid views are afforded of the old town, harbour, and the ruined stronghold upon the grass-grown promontory.

The morning was delightful, with bright sun and little wind, and as we passed along the sea-front, with long terraces of big, substantially-built houses, our eyes were eagerly in search of Kazan House. Its discovery did not entail very much difficulty, but we were both much disappointed to note upon the door a small board in black and gold, bearing the word "Apartments."

It was a boarding-house, as were nearly all the others in the same terrace. Its position was a delightful one, for right before it, sloping between the Esplanade and the sea, lay the beautiful Belvedere Gardens, with their pineries and roseries, which every visitor knows as one of the finest shore-gardens in all the kingdom, private property, and therefore closed to the public, save in the rose season, when their benevolent owner threw them open in aid of various charities. On such occasions thousands upon thousands availed themselves of the opportunity of wandering in those cleverly-devised walks, and admiring the glorious views of sea and cliff that show through the canopies of foliage, in the direction of Filey.

"It's a boarding-house, as I expected," remarked Whitlock, disappointedly, as we strolled past. "Mr Frederick Stonor may have been only a visitor to this place, after all. At any rate, let's see," and he suddenly turned back again, entered the gate, went up the short walk of the tiny strip of front garden and touched the electric bell.

A maid with dark, fluffy hair appeared, whereupon my friend inquired if there were any rooms to let.

"If you step in, sir," replied the girl, with a Yorkshire accent, "I'll call my mistress."

So we entered the small hall and waited until there appeared a middle-aged, rather pleasant-faced woman, who wore a severe black stuff gown, and whose dark hair, parted in the centre, was brushed down flat.

We repeated our inquiry, and were shown up to the first floor, where we found a large, airy sitting-room and two well-furnished bedrooms. Whitlock, acting as spokesman, expressed himself as perfectly satisfied with both the accommodation and the terms demanded, while the landlady, growing chatty, as landladies usually do when they exhibit their best demeanour towards fresh arrivals, told us that her name was Pennington, and that she was a widow.

Whitlock did not press any inquiries, but said that we would take the rooms, and that our traps were on their way from London and would arrive on the morrow. We would return to the Grand, pay our bill, and come back there in an hour's time.

And so we became tenants of furnished rooms in Kazan House, South Cliff, Scarborough.

"We shall have to remain here at least one day, if not two," my friend remarked, as we walked back in the direction of the town.

"Then, if I must stay, I'll be compelled to wire to the office," I said.

"Better wire now. I have an idea that we shall learn something here," he answered. "I was half inclined to make inquiries of the man Stonor; but, after all, it's better to let the questions come naturally, otherwise Mrs Pennington may not be communicative."

At noon, therefore, we were installed in our new abode, and standing together at the sitting-room window we obtained a wide view of the charming garden of the Belvedere. Two young ladies in white dresses were wandering in the rosery, plucking bunches of flowers, while the owner, a well-preserved, elderly gentleman, was giving directions to his gardeners. Beyond the gardens lay the sunlit sea, blue and unruffled.

Luncheon was served very shortly afterwards, and following it reappeared Mrs Pennington to express, in her fussy manner, a hope that we were satisfied.

This gave Whitlock his opportunity. He began by hinting that if we were comfortable we should probably spend the winter with her—knowing well what winter lodgers mean to the keepers of seaside boarding-houses. By such remarks as these he ingratiated himself with her, and then began to remark about the beauties of the private garden opposite.

"Yes," she replied. "They belong to the landlord of this house. He's a most courtly and charming gentleman, and allows his tenants to go in and walk about on Sundays. I hear, however, that some people have abused the privilege and have actually carried away great bunches of his roses."

"Such privileges are always abused," I remarked.

"You're quite right, sir," declared Mrs Pennington. "It's a shame, and it makes it bad for others."

"The two young ladies I saw just now are his daughters, I suppose?"

"No, sir. His granddaughters. Both very charming girls. They have a German lady as companion. Has she been out there this morning? She's generally out very early, getting flowers for the table—often before I'm up."

"I shall see her presently, I expect," was my reply.

Then she fell to gossiping about her neighbours and referring to the kindheartedness and generosity of the gentleman to whom the terrace belonged, and who lived in the big stone house at the end, whence a subterranean passage running beneath the Esplanade gave communication with the extensive cliff gardens.

At last Whitlock seized his opportunity and remarked in a casual way—

"I met a little time ago a man named Stonor, who lived somewhere along here. He told me what a charming view could be obtained from the Esplanade."

"Stonor, sir!" Mrs Pennington echoed. "Was it Frederick Stonor?"

"Yes. His name was Frederick—a rather stout, middle-aged man."

"Well, funnily enough, sir, he's my brother."

"Your brother!" exclaimed Whitlock, as we both pricked up our ears.

"Yes, sir. He's been away in York for a week, but he returns to-morrow. So you know him. Only fancy! He will be pleased to find you are our guests."

"Then he rents this house in conjunction with you?" my companion asked.

"Yes, sir."

"He didn't tell me whether he was married or not."

"No, he isn't. In fact," she laughed, "he is a most confirmed bachelor."

"It was about last September, I think, when I met him in London."

"Yes. He went to town last September—so he did."

"There was a young lady with him—if I remember aright."

"A young lady?" replied Stonor's sister, with some surprise. "That's news to me. He went up to see about realising some property which my father left to us three years ago. Are you not mistaken? Fred said nothing to me about any young lady."

"No; I remember quite distinctly. On the second occasion we met—in Piccadilly one afternoon—he had a very pretty young lady with him."

"Then I must ask him when he returns to-morrow," she laughed, good-humouredly. "He has few secrets from me."

"He's been with you here a long time, I suppose?" Whitlock remarked, cleverly changing the topic of conversation.

"Ever since my husband died, five years ago. But," she added, rather thoughtfully, "what you've just told me regarding him being about with a young lady rather worries me."

"Perhaps he's thinking of marrying at last," I laughed.

"I should hope he won't be such a fool!" she declared.

"Well, Mrs Pennington, of course, all I have said you will regard as confidential," Whitlock said. "Had I not believed that you were aware of the young lady's existence I should never have mentioned her. As it is, I think it would be better if you said nothing when he returns. He would only be annoyed with me."

"Of course, sir, if you wish it, I will say nothing," she replied. "But when he returns perhaps you can find out for me who the lady was. I'm very anxious, you know; for if he marries he will most certainly leave here, and I should then lose his help and support, which means very much to me. You can well understand my anxiety."

"I do. Say nothing about the matter, Mrs Pennington, and leave all to me."

When she had closed the door and descended the stairs, my friend turned to me and said hastily—

"I've made an infernal blunder—one that can't be recalled. I'm a fool!"

"Why?"

"Because I said that Stonor knew me. We can't meet him now, or our game will be given away. We must leave early to-morrow morning, but before we go we'll try and learn, if possible, something more. Now that we've promised to help her to fathom her brother's secret she'll tell us all she knows."

"Yes," I said, admitting his remarkable tact and cunning. "You've acted splendidly."

"I got through all right—except that short-sighted statement that I can't now wriggle out of. The moment her brother returns she'll tell him that a friend of his is upstairs. He'll come up, and, finding a perfect stranger, will at once become suspicious. No, Keene; we shall have to leave suddenly early to-morrow morning. There's a train to York a little after nine."

"But before that we ought to have another chat with Mrs Pennington," I suggested. "It's very evident that she don't want her brother to marry."

"We'll go out for a stroll, and try and have a chat with her after tea," he decided.

So, taking our hats, we went out, wandering along the cliffs to Cayton Bay, meeting hardly a soul. Then, on our return, about half-past five, we had tea and sat at the open window, lazily smoking and discussing the curious events of the past few days.

About half-past six we told the fluffy-haired maid to ask Mrs Pennington to kindly step up, and when she entered Whitlock pretended to give her orders regarding what we preferred for breakfast.

She at once began to gossip about all kinds of topics, until with subtle cleverness my companion turned the conversation again to her brother.

"No. He's not often up in London," she said. "But he frequently goes away for two or three days at a time, and he never tells me where he's been to. In fact, this last couple of years he has been very erratic in his movements. He has a good many friends in various parts of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, and often goes to visit them. But he's always very close regarding his movements—so much so that I've often wondered whether there wasn't some attraction somewhere of which he was keeping me in ignorance."

"Ah! I see," Whitlock laughed. "Then his habit was to go away to unknown destinations?"

"Yes. Once he told me he'd been in Darlington, staying with his cousin for three days, but I afterwards found out that he hadn't been there at all. When I told him he became very much annoyed, and told me in future to mind my own business."

Whitlock shot a meaning glance in my direction.

"And I suppose you didn't make any further remarks?"

"No. But I've been pondering a good deal of late."

"Well, Mrs Pennington," Whitlock said, "I wonder whether, in these circumstances, you can keep a secret? Remember, I am his friend, and I don't wish anything repeated to him."

"I certainly won't repeat anything," the woman assured him. "I'd very much like to know who the lady was with whom you say he was walking about London."

"Then this is her photograph," Whitlock said, producing it suddenly from his breast-pocket. "Do you recognise her?"

Mrs Pennington's countenance went deathly pale as her eager eyes fell upon the picture we had discovered in Woburn Square. I saw that she held her breath, utterly dumbfounded.

That she recognised the portrait was in an instant evident.

But next moment she had recovered herself.

"It's a lie!" she cried, glaring at my friend. "He was never with her! Impossible!"

ONE FACT IS MADE CLEAR

Mrs Pennington's emphatic declaration was, to say the least, curious.

Whitlock looked calmly into her face and smiled.

The woman had, without a doubt, recognised the portrait of the victim at Barnes. Her sudden resentment at the suggestion that her brother had been in her company in London was, in itself, very suspicious that she knew some ugly fact which she intended to conceal.

Was she privy to the cruel assassination of that defenceless girl whose dead face ever haunted me?

"What makes you so positive that your brother, Mr Stonor, was never in her company?" Whitlock asked, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets unconcernedly.

"Positive! Well, I am positive that he'd never walk about with that woman," she declared, with an air of extraordinary resentment. Those last words showed us plainly that she was the dead woman's bitter enemy.

"Why not with her as well as any other woman?" he queried. "Besides, it's an uncommonly pretty face!"

"There are reasons, sir, why my brother Fred would never meet her," she replied in a quiet, changed voice.

"But he was with her, Mrs Pennington. He took her to the photographer's and paid for that very portrait you have in your hand."

"How do you know that?"

"The photographer told me so himself. The copies were sent here, to this house."

"And who are you, that you appear to know so much?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"As I have already told you, I'm a friend of your brother's—and I hope a very sincere friend."

"Well," she declared, "I don't believe he was ever with that girl in London. There's some mistake, evidently. The photographer has misled you."

"I think not. He described your brother—rather stout and middle-aged."

"I can't believe it—no! I won't believe it!"

What my friend had told her certainly seemed to have wrought a great change in her. I watched her face. It was that of a woman filled with a deadly fear. Though struggling to conceal the misgivings that had arisen within her, she could not refrain from those emphatic denials which in themselves had, I saw, aroused Whitlock's interest.

"I have merely told you the truth," my companion said. "This morning you expressed a wish to ascertain the identity of the lady with whom he was in London, and for that reason I have ventured to show you her portrait."

"But when I happen to know that that woman is the last in the world whom he would meet—and more especially in secret—it is not surprising that I refuse to believe you."

"And why is he so antagonistic towards her? Why should they not meet?"

"There are strong reasons—private reasons," was her answer, her eyes cast upon the ground.

"Ah! I see—I understand," Whitlock remarked tactfully. "They quarrelled—eh?"

"Er—well—I—I really don't know," was Mrs Pennington's lame answer. "I only know that, for certain private reasons, he would never willingly meet Louise Lorimer."

Whitlock smiled in gratification. The woman had unwittingly told us exactly what we wanted to know—the name of the unfortunate girl who had been found murdered in the empty house at Barnes.

"You seem to possess some secret knowledge regarding this Miss Lorimer," he suggested, hoping that her hatred of the girl would lead her to tell us something more.

"I only know what I've been told."

"Then you don't know her personally?"

"No. But why are you so inquisitive regarding her?" she asked. By her manner I saw that she was lying. Her denial of all knowledge of the dead girl was certainly not the truth. Her attitude was that of a sister shielding her brother.

"I'm not unduly inquisitive, am I?" asked Whitlock. "This morning you practically took me into your confidence because I am a friend of your brother's. If your brother secretly meets Miss Lorimer in London, then——"

"But he does not. He'd never do that," she declared, interrupting.

"But I repeat what I have already said," my companion remarked quietly.

"I, too, happen to know that Miss Lorimer is acquainted with your brother, Mrs Pennington," I remarked.

"He was acquainted with her, I admit—but not now."

Her reply struck me as somewhat peculiar. Was she admitting secret knowledge of the girl's death?

"Because they quarrelled," laughed Whitlock, carelessly. "Many men and women quarrel and make it up again."

"Their quarrel could never be made up."

"How long ago, then, did the difference arise?" asked Whitlock, for in this he scented a distinct clue.

"About two years."

"Well, it seems as though their differences were settled, and they have become good friends again without telling you about it," he said. "Your suspicions of him contemplating marriage were evidently well founded."

"Marriage!—with that hussy?—absurd!" she exclaimed. "Let's talk of something else," and we could both see that she was very eager to change the topic of conversation.

Whitlock's object, however, was to obtain some further facts concerning the dead woman. That Mrs Pennington could furnish some very valuable information was undoubted, but it was equally certain that she would say nothing for fear of implicating her brother. Of what? Ah! that was the problem.

"Well," Whitlock said, after we had been chatting for some time upon other topics, "I'm sorry, Mrs Pennington, if I've caused you any unpleasant thoughts by referring to your brother's knowledge of Miss Lorimer; but, of course, when I mentioned it, I was quite unaware of the state of affairs."

"Oh, sir, no apology is needed, I'm sure," the woman declared. "I—I'm only thinking what a curious coincidence it is that you should come here and then turn out to be one of Fred's friends."

"Yes; it is curious. What time do you expect him to-morrow? I'm longing to see him."

"At four-thirty, I think."

"Ah, and then we'll have a good long chat. You'll find him a first-class fellow," Whitlock added, addressing me. Then turning again to Mrs Pennington, he said, with a laugh, "I suppose it isn't likely he's gone to see Miss Lorimer now—eh?"

"Certainly not," she replied promptly. "He never goes to London now—or at least very seldom."

"Then he isn't up in town?"

"No. He's been staying with some friends near Burton-on-Trent, and to-day he's at Darlington."

By no manner of ingenious questioning could he induce her to say anything further regarding Louise Lorimer. But we knew we were at last upon the right trail. We had established the identity of the dead woman, and, what was more, we knew who was her enemy—two facts of the very utmost importance.

After Mrs Pennington had gone Whitlock raised his finger, commanding silence. He was suspicious that she might be listening outside on the landing. So he walked to the window and remarked upon the beautiful evening.

"I must write a letter or two," he added. "Afterwards we'll go for a stroll."

Then he lit a cigar and sat in thoughtful silence, while I took up a paper and glanced through it.

Suddenly we heard a slight creaking of the boards outside the door. Whitlock was not mistaken. An eavesdropper was creeping away!

We were undecided how to act. Whitlock seemed inclined to leave early in the morning, so as not to meet the man Stonor, although, of course, surveillance would be kept upon him.

For half an hour he fidgeted about the room; then, suddenly saying that he must go out and find a telephone, asked me to remain there till his return.

When he had gone, and I sat alone in silence, I again thought I heard someone moving very stealthily outside the door. A floor-board creaked, just as it had done half an hour before.

This Mrs Pennington and her brother were mysterious. Of that there was no doubt. They were aware of something concerning the fate of the pretty Louise Lorimer. Her denials in themselves condemned her. Still, while we had been in Scarborough we had made important progress. We had, at least, learnt the name of the victim. Why, I wondered, had the second woman committed suicide? Was she the actual murderess? Whitlock was convinced that she was not.

Evening had crept on, the blinds had been lowered, and the gas lit by the fluffy-haired housemaid. But I still sat there, smoking and thinking of Daisy. Every hard, cruel word of hers rang in my ears—those words of dismissal—because of what? Because of the seeds of suspicion that had been sown within her heart.

What was that "double life" of hers at which Whitlock had hinted? What could it possibly be? Again, who had been his informant against her?

As a journalist I had vainly believed myself well acquainted with life's seamy side, but here was I the victim of a plot, the ramifications of which seemed spread on every hand.

What could I do? How could I act? Daisy had returned to the arms of her lover—the criminal Drayton. She believed in him and doubted me. I had been as wax in her hands ever since the first time I had known her, for I loved her with a great, all-sacrificing devotion. Surely she had not been deceiving me from the very first? No. I could never believe that; I refused to believe it. Those love glances of hers were not feigned. She had loved me until this man with the shady past—this man who was my deadliest enemy—had come between us.

The little clock upon the mantelshelf chimed the hour, and the maid entered to lay the cloth for dinner. The meal was subsequently brought up, but Whitlock did not return. He was probably awaiting an answer to a telephonic message to Scotland Yard, perhaps, for assistance, as we should no doubt want to leave somebody to keep a watchful eye upon the movements of the man Stonor.

Another half hour went by, and being hungry I ate my dinner alone. Then, having finished and lit a cigar, I became anxious regarding my friend. What, I wondered, had happened? He had particularly asked me to await him there, so I could not go in search of him. He might, I reflected, have had an object in keeping me there, for he was one of those men who are full of tactful forethought in any emergency.

I pulled up the blind and looked out upon the moonlit bay. The night was glorious, but the Esplanade was deserted save for a few loving couples strolling upon the promenade before the house. From the left, below the cliff, came up the distant strains of the band at the Spa, while a prominent feature in the night landscape was the many illuminated windows of the Grand Hotel standing boldly forth and dominating the town.

I must have remained there fully half an hour, watching for his coming, when of a sudden I espied his figure moving swiftly on the opposite side of the road. When level with the house, he crossed straight over, let himself in with the latchkey Mrs Pennington had given him, and ascended to where I stood.

As he entered he lifted a warning finger.

"So sorry I'm late," he began; "but I couldn't get what I wanted in the town. I tried a dozen shops."

Then, when the door was closed, he looked straight at me, and said in a low voice, scarce above a whisper—

"This woman has warned him."

"How?"

"She's sent him a wire. I expected she would, so I went to the post-office and waited for it."

"Then you've read her telegram?"

"Of course, and stopped it going through for an hour. I had some difficulty with the postmaster, who refused at first to be convinced of my identity till I showed him my card. She took the wire down to Huntriss Row herself. Afraid to trust it to the servant. Besides, she's lied to us. He's at the Hotel Russell."

"The Russell! Why, that's close to the house in Woburn Square!"

"Exactly. I've 'phoned to Kennedy to keep him under observation."

"What has she said in her wire?"

"Told him that we've been making awkward inquiries, that his acquaintance with Louise is known, and urging him not to return here. He'll bolt, most probably, but not far without Kennedy after him."

"And are we now on the right track?"

"Yes, Keene. I really believe we are," was his answer as he selected a cigar and bit off the end. "We'll tell them to clear these things away. I don't want any dinner."

THE MYSTERIOUS MR STONOR

About half-past ten o'clock Whitlock, who appeared uncommonly restless, announced his intention of going out for another stroll along the promenade. The night was bright and glorious, therefore I accompanied him, and we turned our faces towards the myriad lights of the town lying in its valley.

Crossing the Spa Bridge we were quickly in the vicinity of the Grand Hotel, when he suddenly said he wished to call at the post-office again.

In Huntriss Row he left me for a few moments.

"We've had bad luck," he said, on rejoining me. "The telegram has been returned not delivered, as the addressee has left the hotel."

"And we don't know where he may have gone to."

"He's probably on his way here," my friend said. "And now we have to decide whether to leave, or whether to wait and face him."

"In either case his sister will tell him of her suspicions," I remarked.

"That's the dickens of it. I was a confounded fool to say that I knew him. I ought to have started the matter in another way," he declared, as we strolled slowly along together by the way we had come. At that hour there were very few people about, for Scarborough retires to bed early.

"Suppose we remain till he comes home—what will happen?" I queried.

"Both of them are in deadly fear, and he'll clear out again as soon as ever she warns him."

"In fear of what?"

"Ah, that's the question!" he laughed. "That's what we must find out in the course of the next few days."

"Well, if he bolts you can have him watched. He would have bolted just the same had he got his sister's telegram."

"Certainly; but it isn't wise that he should see me yet. I may have to watch him myself," Whitlock pointed out. "If I only had a man here I'd disappear to-night, and leave him to meet Stonor and watch where he bolts to. At all hazards he must not know me yet. I've blundered badly, and must try and recover lost ground."

"In that case why shouldn't you leave Kazan House, and I'll remain?" I suggested. "You can keep watch at the railway station for our appearance."

"No. If you'll wait here I'll disappear until you follow him and ascertain his hiding-place. Then I can appear on the scene and you can return to London. I'll go and see your people at the office to-morrow and explain your absence, if you like."

"Very well," I agreed.

"Then I shan't come into that house any more. Here's the key of my bag. You can abandon it when you go away, for you'll be off so suddenly you won't be able to pay Mrs Pennington her bill. Make an excuse for me to-morrow morning. Tell what lie you like. You've always said you'd like to do a bit of inquiry work, Keene, and now's your chance."

"I'm delighted," I said, not without some excitement. "Rest assured that I'll act with promptness and discretion, and wire to you as soon as I have anything to report."

He gave me certain injunctions, and then, at the foot of the Valley Bridge, we parted, and he turned back into the town, leaving me in charge of the inquiry into one of the most sensational and important London mysteries of the past half-century.

I walked back along the deserted Esplanade to Kazan House, wondering whether the man Stonor was already on his way from London. He had left the Hotel Russell, which seemed as though he had started on the homeward journey. Whitlock had told me that there was a train due in from London about half-past eleven.

He might come by that.

So, entering the house, I sat alone listening for an arrival. Midnight struck, and I heard Mrs Pennington turning out the gas in the hall and bolting the front door. It was evident that she did not expect her brother that night.

Before I could get to sleep I lay for hours deeply reflecting. It was nearly a year ago since Louise Lorimer had had her photograph taken in Bond Street. But with what object did Mrs Pennington persist in those denials?

Was this man, whose existence we had discovered in such curious circumstances, the actual assassin? Somehow, notwithstanding all the varied suspicions of the past few days, I became convinced that it was actually Stonor who had killed the woman. Had not his sister declared to us that the pair were enemies? Had she not asserted that they would never, in the future, be upon friendly terms? Without doubt, that man had evidently an object in getting rid of the girl.

But who was his enemy? Whose hand had written that curious Press message which had caused us to go to Woburn Square and find the dead woman's portrait? That it had been done by an enemy was certain. Yet how could the person in question have surmised that we should discover Stonor's existence? Mrs Pennington was filled with fear regarding her brother's safety, and had secretly warned him. Therefore she must be in possession of knowledge of his guilt.

The telegraph notice of non-delivery had not been sent to her. Whitlock had delayed it until the morning, therefore the woman had gone to her room in the full belief that her brother, having received word from her, would disappear.

A thousand regrets concerning Daisy arose within me. Her last words rang ever in my ears. Loving her as fondly as I did, I somehow refused to believe those allegations against her. The world is cruel to every woman, and the pure and virtuous are for ever suffering equally with their erring sisters. Women are the bitterest enemies towards their own sex, for gossip, lightly said, easily ruins the reputation of the most honest and upright, and whispers about defenceless women pass swiftly from mouth to mouth. A man will always seek to conceal a woman's shortcomings, while a woman invariably endeavours to expose them.

It was a woman who was Daisy's enemy, and who had told Whitlock that extraordinary story of what he had referred to as a "double life." Of that I was convinced. Some woman, jealous, perhaps, of my love's good looks, was seeking to ruin her. Who was she? I wondered. I resolved to discover her identity and learn the truth with my own ears. It was the only way.

Before my eyes, as I lay with the gas turned low and my ears strained to catch every sound, arose a hateful vision—the face of the young man I had first seen in the Gambrinus, Francis Drayton. They said he was her lover. What proof had I of that? A very plain one, surely. She had forsaken me.

I clenched my hands in anger as I realised the ghastly truth. I was the victim of that man. But he should, I determined, answer to me for any wrong that he might have done to her. Daisy had been mine, and she still should be. I loved her, and I still believed as I had always believed—that she was pure and good.

How long I slept I do not know. I dozed many times, until at last I found the sun shining in from across the sea, and rose. When I sat down to my breakfast alone it was just nine. Five minutes previously Mrs Pennington had entered the room fussily, and I had explained my friend's absence. He had gone to York on urgent business, and would be back in the evening. He was a civil engineer, I casually explained, and had gone to York concerning the plans for a new bridge which the corporation were proposing to build.

In this she became much interested. It puzzled her, for she no doubt entertained some suspicion of my friend's real calling. Then, when I had ordered luncheon, she left the room.

For an hour I idled over the paper, sitting near the window, whence I had a view along the Esplanade in the direction of the town. Every cab that passed caused my heart to beat quickly. A number of people were taking their morning stroll along the cliff, for the day was perfect and the sea unusually blue for the Yorkshire coast. I longed to be able to go for a stroll myself, but was prevented by the fact that Stonor might return at any moment.

In ignorance that her warning had not reached her brother, Mrs Pennington, believing him safe, had grown quite calm again. But it was a waiting game. I had, of course, no certainty that he would come, beyond the woman's expectation expressed on the previous night. That expectation was that he would arrive in the evening, while it was as yet the forenoon.

Impatient to be active, I waited in all the morning, seated nearly the whole time at the same point of vantage, whence I could see without being seen.

The day wore on. I had lunched, and was seated in the armchair with a cigarette when I heard the clip-clap of a horse's hoofs upon the asphalt outside, and springing up I saw a station-fly stop before the door. From it descended a man whom I saw in a moment was the person I expected.

A trifle stout, aged about forty-five, with small moustache turning grey, round-faced, and with ruddy cheeks, he wore a well-cut blue serge suit and a felt hat. The cabman carried his kit-bag inside the hall, and receiving his fare drove away.

All this happened within a few moments, and in the brief few seconds from the instant of alighting until he entered the house I was able to obtain a good look at his rather bloated features.

His reappearance had, no doubt, entirely upset his sister. My first object was not to be seen. As soon as she told him her suspicions he would endeavour to get sight of me. Therefore, I saw that if the surveillance was to be conducted successfully I must make myself scarce before he had time to see me. With that object I placed one or two of my possessions in my pockets, slipped on my coat, took my hat, and went down the stairs as noiselessly as I could until I gained the front door, out of which I walked straight, taking great care that anyone who might be at the lower windows would not be able to get a glimpse of my features.

I walked straight along the Esplanade, crossed by the Spa Bridge, and went up through the town to the station. There I left my overcoat, and going forth again to an outfitter's shop in Westborough, I purchased a light grey coat and a brown hat, which I assumed, telling the shopman to send my own coat to London. Therefore, save for my dark tweed trousers, my appearance was changed from what it was when I had left Kazan House.

Then I went back to the station, feeling convinced that sooner or later Stonor would return there in order to get away at once. As he had not seen my face I would be able to watch and learn his destination.

There was no train to York for another hour and a half, so, feeling sure that he would make for York, as from there he could get rapidly anywhere, I idled in the refreshment-bar. Indeed, I hung about the place for hours, spending a very weary time. The longer Stonor remained at his sister's house the more remarkable would my absence be regarded. Though I might have to wait there many hours, I nevertheless had the satisfaction of knowing that the fugitive must leave that station sooner or later.

The sunset faded and evening was creeping on, when, soon after half past five, I saw a porter come upon the platform carrying a bag I recognised, and behind him Stonor himself. At the moment I was looking at some books upon the stall, but I saw that the man glanced furtively up and down, as though in fear lest he might be followed. But he walked to the York train, where his bag was put into a first-class smoker, he afterwards purchasing a paper and entering the compartment. Presently I saw a ticket inspector commence the work of examination at the rear of the train, and half a crown in his palm resulted in his statement a few minutes later that the destination of "the gentleman in the first smoker" was King's Cross.

He was returning to London.

Therefore, I got a ticket myself and entered a third-class compartment near the engine. Up to the present he was, I saw, entirely unsuspicious of me.

But had I only known what the result of my boldness was to be, I don't think I should ever have dared to face the risk.

That moment proved to be the opening of a series of very strange, very remarkable, and withal exciting adventures, which, if you will bear with me, I will chronicle as briefly as possible.

They will, I am confident, amaze you, as much as they amazed myself.

THE STEPS OF THE STRANGER

We alighted at York, with just sufficient time to spare to allow us to catch the up dining-car express from Edinburgh to London.

As he got out of the compartment Stonor glanced at his watch and looked up and down the platform as though in search of someone. The passengers for London, urged on by the porters, rushed up to the further end of the platform. There the London express was waiting; but not so Stonor, for he turned into the Station Hotel quite leisurely after leaving his bag in charge of a porter.

To follow him there was too risky. Therefore I left the station by passing through the booking-office, and entered the hotel from the street a few minutes later.

I found him seated at one of the small tables in the hall, ordering a whisky and soda. It was evident that on the way from Scarborough he had changed his mind as regards his destination, and was now awaiting another train going in an opposite direction.

For half an hour he idled, smoking many cigarettes; then at last he rose and went out again upon the platform and bought another ticket.

Passing across the bridge to the other side of the huge station he entered a train, where the collector quickly clipped the ticket. From the official I learned the destination to be Manchester, and instantly rushed and bought a third-class ticket for that city.

Hardly had I entered the train when it moved slowly out of the station, and from that time till eleven o'clock that night, when I alighted again, the hours passed uneventfully.

As soon as I fixed his destination I intended to wire to Whitlock, but up to the present he appeared to be endeavouring to cover his tracks.

He went to the Midland Grand Hotel, that place which is always so full of bustle and movement, but did not engage a room. On the contrary he had some supper, smoked for an hour in the lounge, chatted to two men with whom he was apparently well acquainted, and at three o'clock next morning left Manchester again, with a ticket for Peterborough. Soon after seven we were at the latter station and he got out, still in entire ignorance that he was being followed. His appearance was now considerably altered, I noticed, for during the journey down from Manchester he had shaved off his moustache, and appeared to have deep lines upon his countenance that I had not hitherto noticed.

That he was an adept in effacing himself was shown by this. Indeed, he had changed his clothes during the journey, and when he stepped from his first-class compartment I confess that, at first, I did not recognise him, for he presented the appearance of being at least twenty years older.

In the booking-office he purchased still another ticket, and from the telegraph-office despatched a wire. As regards the latter, not being a detective, I could not ascertain its address, but the ticket I found was to Cromer, on the Norfolk coast.

There was nearly an hour to wait for the train; therefore he sauntered across to the Great Northern Hotel for breakfast, while I took mine at the refreshment-bar of the station.

My one great fear was lest he might see and recognise me. Up to the present I had succeeded in passing unnoticed. Indeed, I had not shown myself more than absolutely necessary, and flattered myself that my efforts at surveillance had, up to the present, been crowned with success. Why was this man going to Cromer? I wondered. It was certainly not a port from which he might get away to the Continent. Had he been going to Yarmouth or Lowestoft I should have suspected his intention was to get away on board a fishing smack to the Dutch coast.

Again, what object had he in taking that flying visit to Manchester? It was true that in the Winter Garden he had met two well-dressed men with whom he had held a long conversation, evidently upon some matter of importance, for all three had spoken very seriously together.

But I was not at all sure that he had gone to Manchester to meet those men, for he seemed to discover them quite casually. The fact of taking a ticket to King's Cross from Scarborough showed his intention to mislead anyone watching or making inquiries regarding him, and he was now bound for Cromer, where, perhaps, he intended to lie low for the present.

The journey from Peterborough to Cromer is a rather slow and tiresome one, but by noon Stonor was comfortably settled in the Hôtel de Paris, which, standing on the cliff above the pier, commands a good view of the town and the country in the vicinity. The hotel was not large, therefore I decided not to risk anything by putting up there. So I took a room in another and less pretentious hotel behind the church, but still kept a vigilant watch upon all the man's actions.

At the Paris I found later that afternoon that he had given the name of Ridgman and his address at Stockton-on-Tees. He evidently meant to remain there at least for another day; therefore I succeeded, after an hour of patient trial, in getting on to Whitlock by telephone to his own house.

When I told my friend where I was he gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, and when I explained where Stonor was, and the name under which he was living, he said—

"You remain where you are, Keene. I've made it all right at the Herald office. I'll leave by the seven o'clock from King's Cross, and bring down a man with me. I expect I'll be with you by midnight. What's your address?"

I told him, and he wrote it down.

"Right you are. Be watchful. He's a wary bird, so mind you're not spotted. We've found out a bit more. Kennedy's been busy."

"What further do you know?"

"I'll tell you when we meet. I never care about telling tales over the 'phone," he laughed. "Good-bye," and he rang off.

I idled about quaint, old-world Cromer the whole afternoon, but saw nothing further of the fugitive. In the square around the church, which is the natural centre of the place, I whiled away the time looking into the several shop-windows, not daring to pass either the front or the back of the Hôtel de Paris lest I should attract his attention unduly.

With the blaze of the sundown landward, a bright, blood-red glare shedding over the grey North Sea, I descended the cliff to the esplanade and sat for a long time near the pier lost in my own bitter reflections. One thought, one sad memory arose within me always: that of my sweet-faced love now lost to me.

Kennedy had discovered some further facts! What could they be? I was impatient for Whitlock's return, to learn the latest phase of this complicated and astounding affair. So many people seemed to be in some way or other implicated in that midnight tragedy at Barnes that I failed to grasp any other clue than the one we were now so actively following.

Whitlock, however, seemed to be directing inquiries in various other directions, and also appeared to entertain a strong suspicion of the girl I loved. He was prejudiced against her—prejudiced by something that had been told him. His very words betrayed what was at the back of his active mind. The whole problem was an incomprehensible one, yet our visit to Scarborough had certainly been fruitful. We at least now knew the name of the dead girl, Louise Lorimer, and it was her past that Kennedy and Whitlock were now engaged in tracing. The past of a murdered person will generally show the motive of the crime, and point to the identity of the assassin.

The grey waves, tipped with the crimson light of the dying day, slowly lapped the shingly beach. What, I wondered, would be the end of it all? What had Kennedy discovered?

Dozens of times I reflected whether it would be judicious to reveal to Whitlock the secret of my love for Daisy—whether knowledge of it would further our inquiries. But I always decided against such a course. She had, because of that man Drayton, forsaken me. Therefore I would conceal my own heavy burden of sorrow.

I did not blame her entirely. My enemy was the man who had uttered some vile lies concerning me.

Why was she so antagonistic towards Julian Little? Why, indeed, had Whitlock's attitude been so curious on that evening when he had called at Gray's Inn and I had introduced them? I often reflected upon that incident, and the more I did so the more puzzling it became.

Daisy's hard words at parting rang ever in my ears. Should I ever see her again save behind the footlights, in that environment of tinsel and pasteboard which seemed always so ill-suited to her sweet and modest demeanour? Daisy Marvin, the idol of audiences at the Oxford, the Pavilion, the Holborn Empire, and many of the outlying "halls," became gay and reckless when the curtain rang up for her "turn," but the instant she came off she was the same quiet-mannered, sweet-faced, charming girl that I knew so intimately, and who I had vainly believed would be mine for ever.

Her pretty face, smart figure, musical voice, and reckless dancing had already endeared her to half London, and she had only recently had tempting offers to go to New York and Chicago. But Mrs Marvin would not hear of it, therefore a three-year contract with the Tivoli had been entered into instead, and by that she could with justification call herself a "star" of her profession.

Most variety artistes, as well as the ladies in musical comedy who call themselves actresses, have a male admirer lurking somewhere. As far as Daisy Marvin was concerned I had foolishly imagined myself alone, until the discovery of that man with whom she had visited the Gambrinus and afterwards gone to Barnes—the man Francis Drayton.

The last rays of the blazing afterglow had faded and the sea had grown cold, grey, and mysterious. A chill wind had sprung up with the close of the day, therefore I rose and walked slowly to the end of the promenade, and afterwards reascended the cliff to the town.

Few people were about, for it was the dinner-hour of the visitors. Indeed, from where I had been walking I had heard the gong of the Hôtel de Paris just above, and it reminded me that I myself had hardly touched food that day. I had existed in such a whirl of excitement that I had forgotten all about luncheon.

While walking to my hotel across the square, in which stands the old square-towered church—a prominent landmark to mariners in the North Sea—I saw before me a familiar figure in a dark tweed suit. It was Stonor. He had changed both clothes and hat. Instead of a black bowler he wore a dark-brown soft felt, and carried in his hand a light cane. During my absence on the promenade below he seemed to have purchased a new wardrobe and had got into it.

Undetected by him, I followed and saw him cross to the post-office. Peering within, as I passed, I saw that he was writing a telegram. I looked at my watch and noted that the hour was 7.11. When Whitlock came I would report this, and no doubt he would go to the postmaster and obtain sight of the message.

After despatching it, he posted two letters which he took from his pocket, and then retraced his steps leisurely to the hotel. It was evident that he was not yet contemplating another such a journey as he had just accomplished; therefore, I went at once to my dinner, having first ascertained that Whitlock was due to arrive at 11.39.

And I awaited that hour with all impatience.

REVEALS A CROOKED CIRCUMSTANCE

At midnight Whitlock arrived, and I took him up to my bedroom where we might talk without an eavesdropper.

He sat on the edge of my bed, listening to my report upon the movements of Stonor from the moment he had left Scarborough, without uttering a word.

"Suspicious!—very suspicious," he remarked at last. "To me, it seems as though he feared to be followed, but is now confident that he has escaped us."

"Yes. That is exactly my opinion. He is quite unaware of our presence here."

"Good. Then I'm half inclined to take a room at the Paris to-morrow. I should have better opportunities of keeping in touch with him," was my friend's reply.

"But what is your opinion of the affair in its present aspect?" I asked eagerly.

"Well, it's the most difficult problem I've ever had to solve during all the years I've been in the police," he declared. "The further Kennedy probes, the more extraordinary become the features of the case."

"But you told me on the telephone that Kennedy had made some further discoveries."

"And so he has. He's found out one or two things that add both interest and mystery to the matter. He's been making inquiries about Drayton—and also about that girl, Daisy Marvin."

"About Daisy Marvin!" I gasped. "What about her?"

"Oh, well—as I suspected," was his careless reply. "You recollect what I told you in the train coming North—eh?"

"About her double life—as you called it?"

"Exactly."

"Well, what about it?"

"Oh, nothing which really concerns this case. She's only one of a thousand others on the stage. You know, Keene, in what contempt I hold the whole world of the variety stage."

"Ah! you're prejudiced," I declared. "Because there are a few black sheep you condemn the whole flock!"

"You're young," he laughed, "and a devotee of the music-hall, of course. I was the same once."

"No," I cried resentfully. "Many men and women on the variety stage are honest and hard-working, and some are, you'll admit, clever in dancing, juggling, riding cycles, performing acrobatic tricks, and the like. Why entertain such a strong prejudice! You should leave that to others."

He laughed, saying—

"Well, Keene, there's a lot of truth in what you say, of course. But in the case of Miss Daisy Marvin I don't think Kennedy is mistaken. He's been very active these past two days."

"And he's found out, of course, that she has a lover," I remarked bitterly, "and that his name is Francis Drayton."

"There's no doubt that a very strong friendship exists between the pair," he said. "That was surely apparent when we watched them the other night."

"But are they lovers?"

"You seem very interested in the young lady's love-affairs," he remarked.

"Well, I've often seen her on the stage, and greatly admire her. I think she's charming in some of her songs."

"Take my advice, Keene, and never have anything to do with a stage-woman."

"Why?"

"Because they're all the same—deceit and heartlessness. When I was a young man I loved a girl in the chorus at Drury Lane—in Gus Harris's time. We used to meet every night at the stage door, and on Sundays I took her to Hampton Court, Richmond, and other places—six months of this and then a rude awakening. No, you take my tip and keep away from the stage if ever you're in search of a wife."

"And Drayton?" I asked, eager to change the subject.

"His identity is established without a doubt," Whitlock responded quickly. "The result of Kennedy's inquiries go to show that the girl is, by some unaccountable means, entirely beneath the fellow's influence. Miss Marvin has a confidential maid who accompanies her everywhere and who dresses her at the theatre. Last night Drayton and this maid, known as Annie, met in the Horse-shoe in Tottenham Court Road, unknown to Miss Marvin. The latter was on the stage at the Oxford waiting for Annie's return. The maid and the man held a long consultation in private, after which Drayton showed her a letter. The maid appeared very much perturbed on reading it, and commenced to upbraid her mistress's lover."

"Then Drayton is her lover? You admit that," I cried.

"Well, knowing what we now do, we can only surmise—eh?"

"Go on," I said hoarsely. I had tried to believe in my love's honesty, but how could I continue in that belief in face of all that was now being revealed?

"The woman quarrelled with the man and appeared to threaten him. They were sitting in a corner of the private bar, conversing in undertones, so Kennedy, unfortunately, could not get sufficiently near to them to overhear what was said. The man, however, was evidently frightened of her reprisals. She openly threatened him, and when he heard her words his face fell. Kennedy says that across his countenance spread an evil look—the glance of a man who had a terrible revenge within his heart. Yet at the same time he held the woman Annie in terror, for he presently took from his pocket-book a bank-note and tried to press it into her palm. But she refused to accept it and pushed it away from her. Drayton appeared surprised. He had not expected that her attitude would be so antagonistic.

"He argued with her, but she merely laughed in his face. He surreptitiously took out a second bank-note and added it to the first, but she refused point-blank.

"'No!' she said, loud enough for Kennedy to hear. 'You've gone too far. I wish to have nothing further to do with you.'

"'But you shall,' he cried. 'It's all very well for you to be defiant, but remember what I can tell if I choose—recollect that you have already accepted monetary consideration for certain services.'

"The woman rose as though to go.

"'No. Wait and hear me!' he commanded. 'I give you till to-morrow at this hour to decide. I shall meet you here, and then hear your answer. Consider well, for your decision means whether we shall still continue to be friends—or whether in future we are to be enemies. Now you may go.' And she left him without uttering a word. His threat of exposure had, it seemed, caused a sudden change in her manner. She was now rather crestfallen than defiant.

"Kennedy waited and afterwards followed Drayton out. The old servant had evidently gone to rejoin her young mistress on the stage of the Oxford. That some conspiracy is in progress was evident."

"Does Kennedy suspect some plot against Miss Marvin?" I asked anxiously.

"Well, it almost seems so," was my friend's reply. "After leaving the Horse-shoe, Drayton went across to Frascati's, and there met two men who were apparently awaiting him. They were foreigners—Spaniards evidently."

"You said that Drayton had been in Peru," I remarked.

"Yes. They were evidently friends he had known abroad. Kennedy says that, from their appearance and their ignorance of the life about them, it was certain they had not been in London very long. Well, they remained in earnest conversation for half an hour or so, and then he rose and left them, taking a cab down to the Gambrinus in Regent Street."

"That seems to be a favourite resort of his," I remarked.

"Yes. And curiously enough, after waiting there a few minutes he was joined by the girl against whom he had evidently been conspiring."

"Daisy Marvin!" I gasped. "And she met him there by appointment?"

"Yes. It's distinctly curious," Whitlock said. "How she gets rid of the old woman Annie, we don't know. But it's very evident that she's over head and ears in love with the fellow Drayton. It's a pity, for he's such an infernal blackguard."

"A pity!" I cried. "Yes; but, by Heaven, we'll be even with him. He little dreams of how much we know, does he?"—and I chuckled within myself as I contemplated my bitter revenge. Daisy had cast me aside in favour of this good-looking criminal—this man who, though young in years, was already an adept in crime. My love was in ignorance of the fellow's past, but ere long I would unmask him, and then she should choose between us.

"Well," I said, "and what else?"

"Very little. They remained chatting together for about twenty minutes, and then he put her into a cab and told the man where to drive—her father's house on the Surrey side. After that, Kennedy left him, resolving to go to-night to the Horse-shoe again at the same hour and witness the meeting between Annie and the man we have under surveillance. What has occurred to-night I, of course, don't yet know."

"The man is her lover evidently," I declared bitterly. "She's infatuated with him."

"All girls of her age suffer from an infatuation. It's an infantile disease—like the measles or whooping-cough—and is seldom fatal," laughed Whitlock, philosophically. "Every girl begins her womanhood with an infatuation of some man older than herself, and very soon learns to dislike him just as much as she once admired him. There is no harsher critic of a man than a girl still in her teens. This pretty dancer is in the infatuation stage, but in a month or so you'll see that the ecstasy will gradually wear itself out, and——"

"But you believe there is a conspiracy against her," I said. "Ought she not to be warned?"

"Yes. When we know the truth—not before. Otherwise we may betray ourselves to Drayton."

"But in the meantime, if Annie is compelled to act with Drayton, she may fall a victim."

"We must chance that," was his reply, ignorant of my love for the girl we were discussing.

"Chance it!" I cried, "and allow her to run such a risk?"

"The risk is not so very great, Keene. Remember what she is—an actress. She's well able to take care of herself, depend upon it."

"Not when she is helpless in her infatuation of that scoundrel," I declared quickly.

But to this he made no reply. He changed the subject, asking—

"Has Stonor met any friend here?"

"Not to my knowledge," I answered. "Of course some friend may be staying at the Hôtel de Paris. The place seems full of golfers. It's a pity I dare not go there."

"I think I shall make a move there in the morning. I'm at a disadvantage here."

"And I suppose the best thing for me to do is to return to town—eh?"

"No; not yet. I've seen your people at the office and they quite understand. They told me to tell you to send them some good copy," and he smiled.

"Copy!" I cried. "If you'd only let me publish all I know, Whitlock, regarding this affair, it would make a first-class sensation."

"Yes. But at present we must keep our own counsel," he answered. "I know quite well that you view the mystery from a journalistic standpoint—as a feature, as you call it—in the Herald. I admit that it is one of the strangest and most complex mysteries that has ever been given to Scotland Yard to unravel. At present we have a clue, but whither it will lead us we cannot tell. To be wary and silent is our present course. While pretending to know nothing, we must be ever watchful."

"And Stonor? What do you think of him?"

"This time to-morrow I may be able to express an opinion. At present I have not yet seen him."

I saw by my friend's manner that he was in possession of some further fact which, though it puzzled him, caused him considerable satisfaction. He took a cigarette from my case and smoked with such an air of contentment that I knew he had at last discovered a clue—either in Stonor and his sister or in Drayton and Daisy Marvin.

Until the bells of the parish church chimed two o'clock, we sat chatting in low tones, so as not to be overheard by our neighbours. Then we parted, to meet again at eight the following morning.

Shortly before ten Whitlock, with an excuse to the landlord of our hotel that a golfing friend of his was staying at the Hôtel de Paris, took his bag and left. Then that day I spent in loneliness, as before, ever on the lookout for my friend, but never once catching sight of him.

At six I received a scribbled note telling me to watch the promenade and see who went upon the pier from seven till eight-thirty. "Be careful not to be seen," was Whitlock's injunction, "and be in your hotel to-night at ten-thirty."

Accordingly, just before seven I descended the steps from the cliff to the seashore and idled up and down, watching narrowly those who went upon the pier. Quite a goodly number of persons were taking their evening airing for the sunset was a glorious one of green, crimson and gold.

Suddenly—walking behind two ladies in tweed Norfolk costumes, golfers evidently—came two men, walking leisurely, enjoying their cigars. Both were in dark flannels and both possessed the easy gait of gentlemen.

The first I recognised as Stonor, but when I glanced at the second I stared and rubbed my eyes. Was I dreaming? Was this a hard, solid reality? I drew back next instant, fearing lest he should recognise me.

The discovery was a startling one—more amazing, indeed, than any we had hitherto made in the whole course of that difficult and searching inquiry. I stood bewildered.

Sight of that man—the very last person I had expected to meet—revealed to me a startling and astounding truth.

Whitlock was correct. We had found a clue to the assassin of Louise Lorimer, if not to the motive of the suicide of her friend—the unknown woman who had killed herself rather than reveal her secret!

IS DISTINCTLY CURIOUS

The man with whom Stonor was walking on the pier was none other than Julian Little!

He was wearing a suit that I had never seen before, and with his hat slightly drawn down over his eyes there seemed an effort at disguise. I had imagined him to be in Belgrade, but, on the contrary, he seemed to be in hiding at the Hôtel de Paris at Cromer. That he had actually travelled to Servia was proved by the fact that Wakeley had received a telegram from King Peter's capital announcing his arrival there. But it seemed most probable that he had, after despatching the message, taken the Orient Express back again to Ostend, and thence straight to Cromer.

I looked about, but saw nothing of Whitlock. He had not dared to follow, lest Little should recognise him.

Two queries arose within my mind. First, the object of Julian's subterfuge, and secondly, the reason of his intimate friendship with the man who had taken the unfortunate girl, Louise Lorimer, to the photographer's. That the pair were in guilty co-operation seemed more than possible. If Julian was in hiding, then only to his best friend could he betray his hiding-place. That was certain. Then, why was this fugitive his best friend? Surely there must be some guilty bond between them!

Whitlock had suspected Little from the very first. The detective's visit to our chambers in Gray's Inn was the cause of Julian's sudden flight—an escape apparently well known to Daisy, who had, in other words, alleged that I was in possession of his secret. The skein was becoming more and more tangled, and yet had we not returned again to the Whitlock starting-point—the suspicion of Julian Little?

I recollected that half-smoked Greek cigarette that we had found in the empty grate at Barnes—the cigarette of that brand which he alone had brought from Patras. Again, the story of old Mrs Davis about the two men endeavouring to enter our chambers. Could one of them have been Julian? I remembered that he had left his own latchkey upon the mantelshelf when he had left so hurriedly for Belgrade. There might be something in his writing-table which he wished to obtain possession of or to destroy.

And yet, as I watched the receding figures of the pair as they walked to the pier-head, I could not bring myself to believe that Julian was guilty of a crime. He was my friend—my best friend. Old Sir Halliday Little, of Winholt Hall, had been a life-long friend of my father's, even while he was still in the Diplomatic Service. My father had been his guest on more than one occasion at the Embassy in Madrid, where Sir Halliday had been British Ambassador for seven years, and prior to that at Athens, where he was Chargé d'Affaires for three years.

The son took after the father, inasmuch as he was a thorough-going cosmopolitan—honourable, upright, and with all the pride of honour characteristic of an English gentleman. No. As I could not believe in Daisy's wilful deceit, so I could not credit that Julian Little was implicated in the assassination of a lonely and defenceless woman.

He and Stonor turned as I watched, and faced me, causing me to quickly turn away and seek concealment. They were in earnest conversation, Julian emphasising his words with his index finger, a habit of his when he wished to impress a fact. Stonor was wholly a listener; he heard what his friend had to say without offering any comment whatsoever. It was now quite evident to me that Stonor, alarmed by our presence at Kazan House, had fled across England and back again in order to evade anyone that might follow. That he should have failed to discover me was most fortunate. I, of course, had exercised every precaution, yet I regarded my first attempt at shadowing with pardonable pride. The man Stonor flew from Scarborough to confer with Julian!

Why had the latter been so antagonistic towards Daisy? That she was equally an enemy of Julian's was proved by those words she had uttered in Kensington Gardens. True it is that life is a variety entertainment and things are not what they really seem. Woman has become a term of endearment, and marriage is a perpetual armistice. The Speaker is one who seldom speaks, and Parliament is but a popular delusion. Have these and many other incongruities of our national life never occurred to you? Have you not seen the honest man "go under" because of his scrupulous probity, and have you not likewise seen the unscrupulous swindler in business with his flaring offices, shining brass-plates and rows of clerks, rise to become a millionaire, give a substantial donation to "the Party funds," and blossom forth a titled personage with a suddenly superior air, and a cockade in his coachman's hat? Truly this England of ours to-day is the world of make-believe.

I walked back to my hotel puzzled and perplexed. I had never dreamed that Julian was in England. I knew that he passed from city to city with a rapidity that often astounded me, but that he should be living quietly in a seaside hotel had never occurred to me.

Whitlock must certainly have had some good ground for suspicion from the very first. But what was it, I wondered?

Fearing to stroll about the town lest I might come face to face with my fellow-occupant of the chambers in Gray's Inn, I idled in the hotel until half-past ten, when, quite punctually, Whitlock was shown up to my bedroom for greater privacy.

"Well," he exclaimed, when the door was shut. "You saw them—eh?"

"Yes. It is amazing!"

"I agree with you, Keene. It is a staggerer," he said. "What is your friend Little doing here? I thought you said he was in Servia?"

"I believed him to be in Belgrade," I replied. "Indeed, he wired from there to the office announcing his arrival, as he always does."

"And evidently he returned here immediately. Depend upon it, he went to Servia for some ulterior reason."

"Nothing connected with the affair we are investigating, surely!" I remarked. "What connection can he possibly have with the mystery at Barnes?"

"Well—he's an intimate friend of Stonor, isn't he? Otherwise the man from Scarborough would not desire to consult him. You've done well, Keene, to track Stonor here. I congratulate you upon a very clever bit of observation."

"But what are we to do now?" I inquired.

"Remain patient and watch. They'll probably live here for some time, believing themselves quite safe. I've got Sergeant Beale staying at the Crown. I've left the Paris and my bag is already at the station. Beale will go to the Paris to-morrow and learn what he can. Little knows us both, therefore we cannot be too careful."

"And do you propose to remain here!"

"No. We leave by the first train in the morning. The adjourned inquest is fixed for three to-morrow afternoon and I have to be present. After that we may return here—or we may not. All depends upon Beale's report."

I got my companion a room and we remained smoking until nearly midnight, when we parted and turned in. Next morning, at eight, we left Cromer and duly arrived at King's Cross. Snatching a hasty lunch at a small Italian restaurant opposite the station, we took a cab to Gray's Inn, where we had a wash and brush-up, and afterwards went by the "tube" from Holborn to Hammersmith.

Across Hammersmith Bridge we walked into Barnes, past the empty house that had been the scene of the mysterious tragedy, and on to the Red Lion, where the coroner was about to open his adjourned inquiry.

The public crowded the court, the jury were expectant, and the reporters and "liners" had pencils ready sharpened to take down some startling evidence which would form the "feature" of that night's papers.

But Whitlock had already arranged privately with the coroner that the evidence should be vague, and contain nothing which should put the assassin on his guard.

The jury having been sworn, the coroner briefly addressed them, referring to the curious circumstances of the death of the young woman and the suicide of the other woman, who apparently came to visit her in secret. It was a nocturnal tragedy, full of mysterious features. He recalled to the minds of the jury the evidence they had already heard, and then proceeded to read it over from the sheets of blue foolscap upon which he had written it.

This ended, there was a stir in court, and then a tension of excitement as Inspector Whitlock came forward and kissed the Testament.

"You are Inspector Whitlock, Criminal Investigation Department?" asked the coroner, in those businesslike tones he used when dealing with a professional witness. "Well?"

"It is not our intention, sir, to offer much additional evidence," my friend said. "We are still making investigations."

"Have you established the identity of the deceased woman?"

"Yes, sir. Her name was Louise Lorimer."

"And address?"

"She had several. She at one time lived in Scarborough."

"And the woman who committed suicide?"

"Her identity is not yet established."

"I need not ask you if you have any suspicion of any person who was the enemy of this Louise Lorimer, and who would be capable of taking her life. That is your own affair. All I would like to know is whether you propose to offer any further evidence to-day?"

"No, sir. We do not!"

"Any question of the witness?" asked the coroner of the foreman of the jury.

"We would like to know whether Inspector Whitlock has any clue to—well, to the assassin?"

"I'm afraid, sir, that is not a question you can ask," interrupted the coroner. "Scotland Yard is doing its best, but such a question is, at this stage, indiscreet, and, if answered, might defeat the ends of justice."

"Then I don't see why we should be brought here any more," grumbled the foreman. "The affair is a mystery, and it isn't yet cleared up."

"Except in one important particular—the identification of the woman found shot," remarked the coroner. Then, after a pause, he went on. "Of course, gentlemen, it rests entirely with you if you return your verdict to-day, or not. I am quite willing to adjourn, say, for another seven days, but honestly, I do not myself see the use of it. You are here to state by what means, in your opinion, these two women came by their deaths. You have heard the whole of the evidence, and if you believe that they died from natural causes, you must return your verdict to that effect. If, on the contrary, you believe they died by their own hand or by violence, it is your duty to record that fact. It is not for me to influence you in any way whatsoever. I merely place the facts before you as I have them here—the evidence of the police and of the doctors. You see what the post-mortem has shown, and I ask you to carefully consider whether you would like to conclude the case, as far as this court is concerned, to-day, or adjourn again?"

The jury, after a brief consultation, announced their decision to return their verdict that day.

"In those circumstances, then," the coroner went on, "it is my duty to briefly review the whole case as it appears in evidence," and, clearly and succinctly, he laid the facts, as far as had been given in evidence, before the twelve local tradesmen who had been empanelled as a jury.

The public in the body of the court were very disappointed. They had anticipated a sensation, but there was none forthcoming.

For a quarter of an hour the coroner continued to describe the mysterious circumstances, until, in conclusion, he said—

"And it now remains with you, gentlemen, to record your verdict. If you wish to retire you are perfectly at liberty to do so."

The foreman announced that his brother-jurors wished to consult in private. Therefore they all filed out into an adjoining room, where for ten minutes or so they remained with locked door.

Then, on their return, they reseated themselves, and the foreman, bending forward, said—

"We are agreed, sir, that the younger woman, Louise Lorimer, was wilfully murdered by some person unknown, and that the woman unidentified committed suicide."

"What? A verdict of felo-de-se!" exclaimed the coroner, in surprise.

"No, sir—suicide we mean—while in an unsound state of mind."

"Very well, gentlemen," replied the coroner. "Then I record that as your verdict." He wrote it down upon his blue paper, then read it over. The foreman signed it, and the remainder of the investigation was left in the able hands of my friend Whitlock.

That night, the Evening Herald and other papers made a feature of the verdict, but as I glanced down the column I reflected what a sensation the real facts, as I knew them, would cause if I only dared to publish them.

The verdict had been given, but we were, alas! no nearer the truth.

A NIGHT AT THE SAVAGE

It was Saturday evening, and Whitlock decided to return to Cromer. At the conclusion of the inquest, in consequence of a telegram he received from Beale, he made a sudden resolve. I ventured to suggest that to return might mean detection by Julian Little. But he only smiled, saying—

"I shall take good care we do not meet."

I wished to accompany him, but he would not allow it. One of us was sufficient, he declared; therefore, about eight o'clock I saw him off from King's Cross, and walked back to Gray's Inn—lonely and puzzled.

Old Mrs Davis had nothing fresh to report; but among my letters I found an urgent note from Wakeley, the news editor of the Daily Herald, stating that Tewfik Pasha, the Foreign Minister of the Sultan, had consented to be interviewed regarding the proposal of international disarmament; that he had appointed a day at the end of next week; and that "the Chief" had suggested that I should be sent on my first foreign mission to Constantinople.

In ordinary circumstances such an order would delight any journalist. Not only was I to be sent so far, on my first engagement abroad, but I was to be entrusted with a very delicate and important interview, which I was to sign, and which would, I knew, be quoted in the Press of the whole world. Any pronouncement of policy by Tewfik Pasha is of international importance, and he must be a very wooden journalist who would not be filled with delight at such an opportunity of earning distinction.

With me, however, it was different. I had no desire to leave London, and yet there were Wakeley's words—

"I shall be at the office on Sunday night and will have cash ready for you, also your passport, which I've sent to the Turkish Consulate for visé for Constantinople. You must leave Charing Cross at nine on Monday morning at latest, and catch the Orient Express from Ostend viâ Constanza. I have heard nothing of Little. A wire to the Grand at Belgrade has been returned. Have you any news of him?"

I read and re-read my travelling orders. At that moment I would have given anything to remain in England and watch the course of events. But it was quite out of the question. I could not possibly disobey the Chief's wishes in this respect. He trusted me and believed in me, otherwise he would never have entrusted me with such an important mission. Besides, I was a Bohemian in spirit—a wanderer who desired to travel and see the world beyond the stifling four-mile radius and the smug, self-satisfied civilisation enjoyed by our modern England.

True, I had "done" one or two of the Continental capitals as a summer tourist, and had been driven in Cook's chars-a-bancs to the battlefield of Waterloo and suchlike historic spots, but it had always been the dream of my life to see the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, to visit St Sophia and the Great Bazaar. The capital of His Majesty the Sultan is, to the majority of Europeans, a closed book. Its beauties are well known, but few have seen them. Here was surely an opportunity not to be missed.

And yet when I reflected upon the urgent necessity of my presence in England just at that moment, and how it might affect my future life, I felt sorely tempted to write direct to Sir Henry Neave, and ask him to relieve me of my engagement. On the other hand, however, I reflected how all my chances of advancement in my profession depended upon the success of that mission, and how the Chief might view my disinclination to travel to the Near East. It was he himself who had given me advancement, and surely I ought to keep faith with him!

It was this reflection that decided me. I was hipped and soured by Daisy's heartlessness, and a change, perhaps, would do me good. I would be absent at least a fortnight, and would return refreshed in mind and body.

So I sent a wire to Whitlock to get on the telephone at ten o'clock next morning, and then went down to the Savage Club for an hour.

Saturday night is always merry at that smoke-begrimed home of London's Bohemia—or, at least, the little that is left of Bohemia. In my own student days in Paris, Bohemia still existed, and across the Seine we were a merry, careless crowd, who assisted each other and who never judged a man by his coat. But the Bohemia of Mürger and of Du Maurier has long ago departed, and in its place there is in London, as also in Paris, the little coterie of successful men who assemble weekly and endeavour to sustain its old traditions and unwritten laws.

Save in the case of one or two members of the Savage, the real, thorough-going, felt-hatted Bohemian does not exist nowadays. Even the last of the race of original Savages—a charming old gentleman in broad-brimmed hat and flowing cloak—has become changed, indeed, in these decadent days of "tubes" and motor 'buses.

Even if one sighs for the free, merry life that is no more—the life where the successful helped the struggling, and where the good-fellowship was as genuine to the penniless artist as to the influential editor—nevertheless Saturday night at the Savage is still one of the institutions of London, and invitations are eagerly coveted by some of the highest in the land. The guests at the weekly house-dinner have ranged from Royal princes down to recently-made birthday knights, including scientists, explorers, soldiers, lord mayors, politicians, literary men, doctors—in fact, representative men in all professions. After the ordinary, plain English dinner the tables are cleared and a smoking concert is given, the chairman of the evening keeping order with a huge African club—the Savage club.

On entering, I found the stairs crowded by men who had come out of the room "to get a breath of air." Within, the tobacco smoke was thick and the assembled company were laughing hugely at a humorous recitation given by Mr O'Neil, an actor of the old school, who for many years had made the Savage his home, and was in consequence one of its best-known members. The recitation ended, a loud encore compelled him to sing a song with a rousing chorus, the final lines of which were—

Men I knew waved their hands to me, journalists, artists, sculptors, most of them, all smoking furiously and consuming whisky and soda.

The guest was one of the greatest scientists of the day, a white-headed, sedate-looking man, who blinked upon the company through his gold spectacles and who rarely laughed, while the chairman was an alderman who during the preceding year had been Lord Mayor of London. The Savages have a partiality for ex-Lord Mayors, and no really representative gathering is complete without one.

Mr O'Neil was followed by a great naturalist of world-wide fame in a brief and very humorous lecture upon the common or garden snail, illustrated by diagrams on the blackboard, which caused great hilarity. Then came a lightning artist, another recitation, several songs, and afterwards a selection from a popular play given by an actor who had recently received a knighthood, and who, in consequence, now considered the club rather bad form. He patronised it merely because he met critics there who were of use to him. The whole club were well aware of this, and despised both him and his conduct, treating him with the contempt he deserved.

Presently, as I sat at the end of one of the long, crowded tables, smoking and chatting with Garnett, the news editor of the Pall Mall, Wakeley entered and, greeting me, managed to squeeze himself in at my side.

"Thought you were in the country, Keene!" he exclaimed. "Got my letter—eh? When shall you leave?"

"Well, on Monday morning, I suppose."

"Right! I'll wire to-morrow to our man in Constantinople telling him you are coming. I've never met him, but I believe you'll find him a decent fellow," he added, lighting his big briar pipe. "He'll put you up to all the ropes. I only wish I were going out. What a chance!"

"Where are you off to, Keene?" inquired Garnett.

"To see Tewfik Pasha in Constantinople," I replied.

"What, have you given up crime?" he laughed.

"Yes," I answered. "I've become a special."

"Then good luck to you, my dear chap," he said, raising his glass to me. "That was always my ambition, as it is of every man in Fleet Street. But it comes to few of us. I'm getting a bit too old, now, and shall stick in the news-room for ever, I suppose."

"And I, too," admitted Wakeley, who was undoubtedly the smartest journalist in all London. "I tried to become a special a dozen times before I went to the Herald, but nobody would have me!"

"By Jove! It requires a smart man nowadays to be a special correspondent!" our colleague of the Pall Mall remarked. "But you, Keene, are just the fellow."

"You're very kind indeed to say so," I laughed. "I love travelling."

"You'll follow in the footsteps of Julian Little, I suppose—his assistant in fact—eh?"

"I suppose so," I said, for mention of my friend's name brought before me all the tangled skein of events which, amid that smoky scene of good-fellowship and bonhomie I had, for the moment, forgotten.

A well-known variety artiste had at that moment seated himself at the piano and commenced to play and sing a popular song with a catchy refrain that had recently taken all London. Therefore, the chairman brought down the big club heavily, and called us to order in a fierce voice. And so for the next few moments we were compelled to remain silent.

The door was closed, and an associate of the Royal Academy had his back against it, for no Savage enters or leaves the room while a song or recitation is in progress. Saturday night is the one night in the week when all are equal, and when the chairman rules. Guests sit meekly by in wonder at the nicknames bandied about by men whose names are as household words in the homes of England.

"Oh! by the way," exclaimed Wakeley, turning to me suddenly—when the song was ended in a thunder of applause and cries of "Give us another, old man!"—"have you heard from Little? We haven't the slightest notion where he is. He went to Belgrade, and hasn't been heard of since. I know he writes to you often when he's away."

"No," I replied. "He hasn't written to me."

"Why, Little's in Cromer," remarked Garnett, who had overheard our words.

"In Cromer!" cried Wakeley, in a tone of incredibility. "Cromer—here in Norfolk?"

"Yes. Certainly."

"But he's out somewhere in Servia—went out there because of a crisis he anticipated. He has a free hand—as you know."

"I don't care for that," Garnett replied. "He was in Cromer three days ago—I happen to know that as a fact. And a rather curious fact, I think, when everything is considered."

"Everything!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean?"

A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC

Wakeley and I exchanged glances. That Julian Little was actually living in secret in Cromer he refused to believe. I did not, of course, betray my own knowledge, but repeated my question to Garnett.

"My dear fellow," he said, "there are sometimes things better left unsaid—where a woman is concerned, you know," he added, with a meaning laugh.

"Ah!" exclaimed Wakeley. "A woman at the bottom of it—eh? It's always so. But I did not believe Little to be at all a ladies' man. He's essentially a traveller, and travellers never dangle at a woman's skirts."

"Well," exclaimed Garnett, "if you wait a bit you'll see."

"What—you surely don't mean a divorce case?"

"Oh, no, no, not that!" cried our colleague of the Pall Mall. "But there, that's enough. He's in Cromer, and not in Servia. That's all."

Wakeley sat puzzled. I knew that he was reflecting deeply by the deliberate way he knocked the ashes from his pipe. A newly-discovered entertainer, who had made a hit at the Hippodrome, was giving an exhibition of thought-reading so wonderful that the whole room sat silent in amazement. Then, when it had concluded and the door was opened again, I rose and, wishing my two companions good-night, went out into the purer air of Adelphi Terrace, where the moon shone brightly and the rows of lights lined the dark and silent Thames. The theatres were over, and the Strand was crowded with homeward-bound pleasure-seekers, of people rushing to the restaurants to snap up their supper before midnight—the closing hour.

Obsessed by my own gloomy thoughts I elbowed my way through the crowd towards Chancery Lane, and duly arrived home at my silent chambers.

Why was Little in Cromer? At what woman had Garnett hinted? Did he refer to Daisy Marvin, the woman I had so devotedly loved?

On the following evening I was down at the Daily Herald office, and from Wakeley, in his shirt-sleeves and pipe in mouth, I received my instructions and the draft for money for my journey to the Ottoman capital.

He told me what questions to put to His Excellency and the general lines of the interview, and urged me to obtain, if possible, some definite expression of opinion regarding the probability of war with Bulgaria.

"And remain in Constantinople till I send you word to come home, Keene," he added. "I may want you to go somewhere else in that quarter. There seems some little trouble brewing in Roumania."

"Then I may be away some time?" I exclaimed, dismayed.

"Yes. I didn't know about Roumania till this afternoon. We've had a message from our Vienna man. So you'd better take kit for a month. If you're away longer we can send some more out to you. The Orient Express takes parcels nowadays."

And so next morning at nine I left Charing Cross without a soul to wish me bon voyage on my first trip as special correspondent of, perhaps, the most influential journal in the world.

At Ostend I entered the train of wagons-lits which two days a week links West with East, and, travelling for several days by Brussels, Nuremberg, Vienna, Budapest, and Bucharest, at last reached at night the port of Constanza, on the Black Sea. Here a fine steamer conveyed the half-dozen or so of my fellow-passengers and the many bags of mail to the entrance of the Bosphorus, and then commenced a slow and delightful steam up a channel which is acknowledged to be one of the most picturesque and beautiful in all the world. Were this a book of travel I could describe the many beauties of that journey up past white Therapia and the tiny Turkish villages at the edge of the calm blue waters, until on the left in the misty haze rose the tall, thin minarets and white domes of Stamboul, of Galata, and Pera, which, piled tier upon tier and looking fairylike from the sea, make up the Sultan's capital—Constantinople the Unchanging.

From the steamer the whole scene was indescribably delightful. The West had been entirely left behind, and here was the gateway of the glowing East, the baggy-trousered, befezzed Turk, in a hundred varying garbs, and of a hundred different races.

Ashore at Galata, I admit, was a disenchantment, of mud, scavenger-dogs, corrupt Customs officers, greasy passport officers, and spies at every turn. But once within the Pera Palace Hotel, high above the beautiful Golden Horn, all was artistic and full of quaint Eastern charm.

The Pera Palace is the centre of Western life in Constantinople. Here in the midst of Oriental life one has an American bar and one can get a grill. Travellers, diplomats, concession-hunters, and financiers are constantly beneath its roof, and all Europeans in Constantinople naturally drift there, to lounge in its Eastern smoking-room or sip cocktails in the American bar below.

In writing this record of curious circumstances and man's cunning it is unnecessary for me to describe my life in the Sultan's capital, save to say that Tewfik Pasha—the white-bearded old gentleman in fez and frock-coat, who is His Imperial Majesty's right hand—received me very graciously, and with the inborn courtesy of the Turk answered the questions I put to him. Noury Bey, the Secrétaire-Général and head of Oriental diplomacy—a fair-bearded and very charming diplomat—was also present, and both of them did all they could to render my stay in the Turkish capital as agreeable as possible.

Previously I had entertained a marked antipathy towards the Turk. I had viewed him through Western spectacles and adjudged him upon the basis of the Armenians I had met. But now that I had seen the real educated Turk at home I could not fail to be fascinated with him, and was compelled to admit within myself that all my prejudices were absurd. On every hand I received little kindnesses without thought of reward. The real Turk is a gentleman of honour, but the Armenian was, I found, the most unscrupulous blackguard on the face of the globe—notwithstanding the periodical screeches of our Nonconformist friends at home. Let those who cry shame upon what they choose to dub "the Sick Man of Europe" for his treatment of the Armenians in recent years go to Turkey and see for themselves, as I saw, and they will very soon alter their opinion. Certainly those who defend the Armenians are not travellers.

I wrote my interview with Tewfik, and it was duly published in the Daily Herald and quoted up and down Europe by almost every paper of note. In the Reichstag and in the House of Commons questions were asked about it, and the great Turkish statesman, the man who directed the external policy of the great Ottoman Empire, laughed merrily when we discussed its effect one afternoon at the Sublime Porte—as the Foreign Office is called.

It is the privilege of a special correspondent to mix with all sorts and conditions of men, and to know the trend of the political undercurrent. Many a correspondent is, therefore, of great service to his Government in furnishing confidential information to the proper quarter—information which he carefully withholds from the public. In fact, the foreign telegrams one often reads in one's daily paper are the exact opposite to the truth, and have been sent with one object—namely, the misleading of the opponent and the furtherance of British diplomacy in that particular country. Ambassador and journalist are always good friends, and many has been the day when the former has scribbled a fictitious despatch and asked his journalistic friend to telegraph it to London as the truth!

A whole month went by.

October was creeping on, and the Bosphorus was, I found, delightful in the autumn. Across at Scutari I frequently went and spent pleasant afternoons with "Our Own Correspondent," who was resident in Stamboul, and who often took me to see the sights—the great mosques, the Imperial Treasury, the Selamlik and the Sweet Waters of the Bosphorus.

I had written to Wakeley twice, asking that I might return, but in reply I had received the one telegraphed word, "Remain." And so I remained on from day to day, wondering when I might be sent to investigate the Roumanian troubles.

Whitlock, in reply to mine, had written me several letters. There was nothing fresh to report, he declared. All the inquiries we had made had led him into a cul-de-sac. He was still watching, but rather hopeless.

Little had reappeared. His excuse to Wakeley, when taunted with having been in Cromer, was that he had a very dear friend living there who was lying ill, and that he had been to visit him.

With the coroner's open verdict the public sensation regarding the Barnes mystery had now died down. It is amazing what a short memory the British public possess in these times of the daily "sensations" of the evening Press. Personally, I was anxious to return home to seek the solution of the mystery, with which I felt convinced that my lost love was in some unaccountable way connected. The delights of Constantinople were all very well and very entertaining, but I was daily longing to return in order to glean the truth. From Daisy I had had no word. I had written to her the night before my departure, telling her my address in the Turkish capital, but her silence showed me only too plainly that she had given me my congé. Ah! in those warm autumn days beside the blue Bosphorus, how often I walked along the heights, gazing over to the Asiatic shore and wondering what the future held in store for me. Broken-hearted as I was, and, held there in exile because of the duty imposed upon me, I was powerless. I had ceased to take any interest in the life about me. My one desire now was to get back to London. In the European papers reaching me I could discover nothing regarding any rising in Roumania. As far as I gathered, all was quiet. Therefore, why was I held there and bidden not to move? Was Wakeley himself conspiring against my happiness?

I wrote again to Daisy, but, alas! without result. All was over between us. I tried not to prejudge her, but I admit that in the circumstances it was very hard not to do so. Memory of her sweet, innocent countenance haunted me everywhere. Sleeping or waking, that unforgettable face was ever with me, ever taunting me with the past that had been so full of perfect bliss and of a love that I had, alas! vainly believed would last always.

And so I lived on in my lonesome exile, fettered, puzzled, unable to act. Constantly I wrote to Whitlock, asking for news of Stonor, of Drayton, and of Miss Marvin. But the replies were ever vague, and I saw plainly that Scotland Yard were gradually disregarding the inquiry, and relegating the Barnes mystery to the long list of London's unelucidated mysteries.

I was helpless, with the present a blank and the future hopeless.

I loved Daisy Marvin, but she was now lost to me for ever.

THE MYSTERIOUS M'SIEUR SMITH

Weeks dragged by.

From Constantinople I was suddenly ordered to Berlin, thence to Warsaw and St Petersburg, where I was kept busy describing the reign of terror, and had little time for reflection. At Moscow I was eye-witness of a terrible bomb outrage, in which the chief of police and half a dozen other persons were blown to atoms, and very quickly I found that as special correspondent on the Continent my life was to be as full of adventure as it had been when I was the "Murder-Monger" of the evening edition of the Herald.

No word had come to me from Daisy, or indeed from anyone at home except my father, who constantly wrote to me from our dear old home in Suffolk, kindly encouraging and giving me good advice. Now and then a brief telegram of instruction came from Wakeley, and one day in our embassy in St Petersburg, I chanced to pick up a copy of the Daily Herald, and there saw a signed telegram of Julian Little's, dated from Chicago. He had, therefore, emerged from his retreat, and was again on one of his erratic journeys.

It was nearly seven weeks since I had left Charing Cross, and I was already tired of the strenuous work in towns with which I was unacquainted and amid people who spoke a tongue which I could not understand. True, my knowledge of French and the smattering of German I knew stood me in good stead, but there was nevertheless always a difficulty in getting at the root of a matter, and I was always liable to be misled by any unscrupulous informant who might wish to make the Daily Herald the laughing-stock of Europe.

A special correspondent abroad experiences far more difficulties than the public even suppose. Every influential journal has its enemies as well as its partisans, and the former are ever scheming to bring it into ridicule by furnishing false intelligence. It is the correspondent's first qualification to be able to sift the truth from the fiction, and be ever wary not to be "had" for purposes of the Bourse.

Full of change and excitement as my life was, I had, nevertheless, already grown homesick because of the woman I so fondly loved. I used to sit in my hotel in the evening, smoking, reflecting, and trying to discern the reason why Scotland Yard, having discovered a clue to the strange affair at Barnes, had suddenly dropped it. What could be the reason of Whitlock's evasive responses?

The last letter I had received from him was dated from the Adelphi, at Liverpool, where, he told me, he was inquiring into a big jewel robbery on the American Boat Express between Euston and that port. A well-known woman in New York society had lost nearly forty thousand pounds' worth, and it had been taken, it was believed, by certain American "crooks." He made no mention of the Barnes affair, and merely concluded his letter with an expression of belief that I must be having a better time in Russia than in London.

By that same post came something which caused me the greatest gratification—three scribbled lines from the Chief, and initialled—lines of satisfaction at the work I was doing. At anyrate, I was not disappointing them at home, even though I had been thrown so suddenly upon my own resources without any old hand to guide me.

Yet, nevertheless, I was anxious to continue that inquiry in London, and to search out the truth regarding Daisy and the life she led. The man Drayton—the well-dressed idler who had stolen her heart—had aroused within me a perfect volcano of jealousy. I was anxious to follow him and to see with my own eyes the depth of his perfidy.

Ah! when I thought of my lost love I was beside myself. In all the faith my innocence could give me, and with all the duty of my soul, I had served her. And now in my bitterness it became impressed upon me that to doubt is safer than to be secure. Friendship is but a word after all; in this life of ours love is everything. Happy the man who is a stranger to love's enemy, jealousy. Yet fortune rules everything, and as far as my affection was concerned, she had jilted me. Was it not Massinger who wrote Nil ultra to his proudest hopes?

There is no venom like that of the tongue, and it was certain that to advance his own interests Drayton had lied to her concerning me. What had he said? I knew that she suspected me to be implicated in the affair at Barnes, and yet was it not curious that she should also suspect Julian Little? Did it not appear as though some portion of what had been told her was the truth?

From St Petersburg I was sent to Berlin and thence to Hanover, hoping soon to be recalled to London. Unfortunately, however, a political crisis arose in Germany and I was compelled to return to the Kaiserhof Hotel in Berlin, and remain day after day reporting the progress of events, at that moment of great interest to England.

Just two months after leaving London I found myself in Paris, at the Grand Hotel. An automobile show was about to open, and I had been sent to do a special column of descriptive. I had dined, and upon the telephone I had just talked to Wakeley and extracted a promise that I should return to London as soon as the show in question had opened.

I was passing through the big winter garden, intending to go down to the Paris office of the Herald, where an old friend of mine named Dunn was in charge, when, amid the smart, chattering crowd sipping their coffee at the little tables, I caught sight of a familiar figure in a plain black evening dress, with a pretty hat of the latest mode, and a dark wrap about her shoulders.

She was leaning back in her chair, laughing merrily.

It was Daisy Marvin!

And the man with her—the good-looking idler in dinner jacket and black tie—was Francis Drayton!

I halted in amazement. Then, in fear lest they should detect my presence, I turned upon my heel and managed to conceal myself at a table behind one of the pillars, where I could watch unseen.

She was dressed with her characteristic neatness, except that her hat was of striking design and betrayed the hand of the Parisian modiste. That they were both on pleasure bent was apparent. They had evidently dined in the restaurant, and were now taking their coffee prior to going forth to some place of entertainment. The winter garden of the Grand is always crowded just after the dinner-hour, and is perhaps the most cosmopolitan spot in all Paris. The monde and the demi-monde rub shoulders, and the scene is usually full of gaiety and brilliance.

Daisy was chatting with her cavalier vivaciously, and appeared loth to go forth from the pleasant surroundings. Therefore I rose, and, slipping out to the hall, made some inquiries.

A Mlle. Marvin was certainly among the guests, but the name of Drayton did not appear on the list. He was not staying there.

So it seemed as though the fellow was a visitor. She had invited him to dine.

I wondered whether Daisy had an engagement at the Jardin de Paris, the Marigny, Olympian, the Folies Bergère, or one of the other variety theatres; but although I searched the lists I could not discover her name.

Returning to the table, where they were unable to see me, I took a newspaper and, pretending to read, still watched them. The expression in her eyes when they met his was sufficient to reveal to me how entirely and completely the fellow had fascinated her. He was "wanted" by the police, therefore I would, at the earliest moment, wire to Whitlock and tell him of the whereabouts of the man who was believed to have died in Peru.

That she was beneath his influence was undoubted. Her whole attitude was that of a woman devoted to her secret lover, hanging upon his every word; while he, blowing the cigarette-smoke from his lips, basked in her smiles.

And this was the woman in whom I had so foolishly believed, the woman whom I had known as so sweet, modest, and unassuming.

The steel of a poignant bitterness pierced my soul. I could have risen, gone over to them, and denounced the man before her. Sorely was I tempted to do that, yet after all, I reflected, it would be sheer folly to create a scene. The onlookers would only jeer at me as a jealous idiot.

No, I could only watch as I had watched before. That Drayton was possessed of a guilty knowledge regarding the mystery at Barnes I had all along been convinced. Was it possible that he—the man whose existence we had discovered by means of that anonymous Press message—was the actual assassin of poor Louise Lorimer?

For fully half an hour they remained there, still laughing and chatting. In those well-remembered eyes of hers was a love-look unmistakable. Her companion, with his airy graces, held her enthralled.

She was bending across to him, speaking very earnestly, laying her white-gloved fingers upon his arm in order to emphasise her words, but he on his part treated her with coolest unconcern. He merely smiled with veiled sarcasm and utterly disregarded what was, most evidently, an appeal.

What would I not have given at that moment to have overheard her words? Though she had forsaken me in favour of this man, whom Whitlock himself had denounced as a criminal, I, nevertheless, still regarded her as mine—mine by right of my intense and all-consuming love. I was still her champion, and he that harmed her would have to answer to me.

From my place of concealment I watched the superior airs the fellow had assumed towards the woman who had so unfortunately fallen beneath his influence, and surely if ever the thought of murder entered my heart it was at that moment. All the savage instincts of my wild ancestry were aroused within me, and I felt as though I could rise and strike him dead where he sat.

Yet I remained watchful, chuckling within myself at the thought of their utter ignorance of my presence, and determined to ascertain the reason of their meeting in Paris. She was staying alone in the hotel; therefore, if I wished, I might on the morrow meet her accidentally and demand of her the truth. Yet was such a course judicious? Would it not frighten Drayton into flight? I had no desire to do this until I knew what action Whitlock intended to take.

Indeed, it occurred to me that, as I had been on the telephone to Wakeley, I could speak to Scotland Yard and leave an urgent message for him, which he would receive in the morning.

At last Drayton drained his liqueur glass and put his cigarette-end in the ash-tray. By this I saw their intention to depart, therefore I rose and went out to the main entrance, where at a point where I should be unobserved, I awaited their exit.

In a few moments they came and, entering a motor-cab, drove away.

Inquiry of a porter, and a five-franc tip, elicited the fact that they had gone to Rue Pierre Charron, No. 105, in the Champs Elysées quarter.

I had believed, by their dress, that they were about to go to a variety theatre, for Daisy was ever anxious to witness the "turns" of other artistes, but it seemed that they had gone to a private house—to pay a call upon some mutual friend, no doubt.

My duty was to discover that friend's identity; therefore I took another motor-cab, and told the man to put me down at the corner of the rather aristocratic thoroughfare in question. No. 105 differed in no way from dozens of other high houses in the same wide thoroughfare, and a difficulty arose from the fact that the whole house was a series of flats, and that it was impossible to discover into which the pair had entered. The concierge, whom I found in his little den, was, after the application of a little palm oil, quite communicative. The English young lady and gentleman had ascended to the second floor—the right-hand door—the apartment of an eccentric Englishman who had only taken it furnished a week before, and who seemed a very eccentric person.

He was, according to the concierge, a certain "Meester Sme-eth."

Without a moment's hesitation I resolved to ascertain more of that interesting tenant, but such resolve was destined to cause me more adventures than I ever contemplated—adventures which were, to say the least, most exciting and extraordinary.

THOSE WHO KNEW

I ascended to the second floor, to the door of the small apartment occupied by the eccentric "Monsieur Smith."

As I stood on the landing outside I could hear men's voices raised in altercation.

"I don't believe you!" I heard one man exclaim in English.

"Then you call me a liar!" cried the other, in anger.

"It isn't the first time that you've lied to me," was the response.

"And you come here, to Paris, to tell me this—eh?"

"I've come to tell you that I'm sick of the whole affair, and the game wasn't worth the candle. What have I got out of it? Nothing!"

"Well, and I can say the same."

"Except that you've tried to mislead me."

"Mislead you! How?"

"You've tried to run me into the trap which you and your friends have so cunningly baited!" shouted the other, in fury. "See here! Here is the bait. Take her!"

And I knew that voice was Drayton's!

A woman screamed. It was Daisy!

"Bait!" shrieked the other. "You're mad! You're——"

"I mean what I say!" Drayton declared. "I've brought back the pretty hostage, and here she is," he laughed. "Take her, and don't try to play any more of your tricks upon me. I'm quite as fly as you are."

"Oh, Douglas!" cried the girl, for they were apparently standing in the small entrance-hall. "What are you saying?"

"He's insulting both you and me!" replied the mysterious Monsieur Smith, "and, by Heavens! he shall pay for it!"

Drayton laughed loudly. Their conversation was, to say the least, intensely interesting.

"Those are bold words of yours, my dear sir," he answered airily, in a lower tone. "But recollect that two can play the good old game of retaliation. So reflect well before you act."

"Cease this quarrel, both of you!" cried Daisy, in a frightened voice, apparently knowing well the desperate character of the pair. "If I am the bait, as you call it, I can well take care of myself."

"Don't believe him, Miss Marvin," Smith urged. "This fellow could not obtain the money he wanted, and now rounds upon his friends."

"But you are surely not his friend," she protested.

"My friend!" Drayton cried. "A pretty fine friend, when, if he were not afraid of his own skin, he'd give me away to that bloodhound Whitlock to-morrow."

"Give you away? What for?" asked Daisy, in all innocence.

There was an awkward pause.

"Never mind what for," he answered lamely. "That's my own affair and nobody else's. You've been used as a decoy, my dear girl, and one day you'll thank me for daring to make this exposure of the blackguardly tactics of a man who poses as a gentleman!"

"What do you mean?" asked Smith.

"What I say," replied Drayton, in an impudent, defiant tone.

"Be careful what you say."

"I repeat my words—that you are a blackguard and a liar who baited your infernal trap with this woman!" shouted Drayton, in anger.

"Oh, this is infamous!" Daisy shrieked. "I won't remain here."

"Yes," said her companion, "you shall remain, for I will be your protection against this evil genius of yours—this man who sought to make me the scapegrace."

"No!" she cried. "I will not remain. You are cruel to me, both of you!" and she burst into tears. "Let me go!"

"No, not yet," responded Drayton. "Please remain calm," and he apparently barred her passage.

"Let me pass," she commanded, while I, in fear lest she should emerge, drew back into a recess upon the dark landing, where I hoped I should escape notice.

"First hear me," cried the man who had dined with her at the Grand Hotel. "To-night, Daisy, we shall part, never, perhaps, to meet again. But I tell you before this man's face that he is a liar and unscrupulous. He would have sacrificed your good name, your future, and the man you love, in order to serve his own ends."

"Please do not bring Mr Keene's name into this affair," she protested.

Was this because she had no further confidence in me, or was it because she still loved me?

This quarrel had surely opened her eyes to the truth that Drayton did not care a single straw for her. The mask had fallen from the fellow's face.

I was eager to see this eccentric Englishman who, passing in Paris as Monsieur Smith, had been so openly denounced by Francis Drayton.

My love's reference to myself held me in suspense, and caused me to wonder whether, after all, I had not allowed myself to wrongly judge her. Drayton himself had exposed the manner in which she had been tricked into becoming the tool of the scoundrel, and the bait of some ingenious trap which had for its object the betrayal of himself into the hands of the police.

To me it seemed as though I were on the verge of a discovery—that at last the veil of mystery was to be lifted and the real truth revealed. I stood there breathless, my ears strained to catch every sound.

From the spot where I had drawn back I could not catch the conversation, which was still heated. The two men were again in fierce altercation, while the voice of my well-beloved was raised in protest. Therefore I risked the sudden opening of the door and stole back into my previous position.

"Then I defy you!" I heard Drayton cry. "And, moreover, if you do not apologise for those words, I'll go straight to the Prefect of Police, who will be glad of certain information."

"You dare not do that!" was Smith's defiant reply.

"Wait and see. I have nothing to lose; you have."

"You may lose your liberty."

"Not if I turn King's evidence. That is very easy, you know," Drayton said. "The affair has blown over now, but it can quickly be re-opened. Even up to now not a soul suspects why Hetty committed suicide."

Hetty! Who was she? Could that be the Christian name of the woman who killed herself in the police-cell rather than reveal the truth concerning poor Louise Lorimer?

"And they will never know."

"Unless I reveal it."

"Which you will never do, my dear sir," Smith replied. "You are not the man to incriminate yourself."

"No; but the object of my revelation will be to retaliate for what you have told this girl regarding myself."

"I don't believe it—I don't believe anything he's said," Daisy interrupted, as though eager to end the quarrel. "Come, let us go!"

"I shall go. You will never, I hope, see me again, Miss Marvin. You know the truth now."

"But is it the truth?" she queried, bewildered.

"I swear it is. Beware of this man. He threw you into my company, and he intended that you should share the fate of poor Louise—death!"

"It's a lie!" shouted Monsieur Smith, whose face I longed to see.

"It is the truth, and I repeat it," was Drayton's reply.

"Then I see it all," Daisy cried in deep distress, "I see how I have been made the victim of a foul, despicable plot—how I have been forced by you to sever myself from the man who loves me dearly, and whom I love."

"You mean Keene," Drayton said, referring to myself. "Yes, he loves you, without a doubt."

"And he's been prying about with Whitlock," added Smith. "He knows too much about things already."

"He will know more when next I meet him," declared Daisy, openly. "I shall tell him the whole story."

"No," urged Drayton, "don't. For all our sakes, keep the truth from him. We should all be misjudged—all of us. Keep your own counsel, but beware of this man here, who is your bitterest enemy!"

Would she adhere to her resolve, I wondered. Would she, when I sought her at the hotel, tell me all that she knew—all that Drayton had revealed? This man whom I hated was actually turning out to be my friend!

The trio retired into a room still altercating, but I could not distinguish a single word uttered.

Mine was a tantalising position. Upon the stairs I heard the old concierge ascending, and was obliged to descend a flight in order to meet him and give a whispered explanation. In common with all concierges he was thirsting for information regarding his new English tenant, so I promised to afterwards satisfy his curiosity.

Then I again crept upward to the door and listened for words from the mouth of my sweet-faced well-beloved.

She was the victim of a plot. That had been most conclusively proved. She had been fascinated by this good-looking idler, who was also a criminal, but he on his part had resolved to reveal to her the hideous truth of how she had been duped.

My sole hope now was that when I approached her at the Grand, in pretence of a chance meeting, she would place me in possession of the true facts. Who was this man Smith—this eccentric Anglais who had only arrived a week before, and taken furnished the apartments of a young Spanish diplomat?

At least I should have an intensely interesting story to relate to Whitlock!

Each minute seemed to me an hour, as I waited there, my ears strained behind the door, listening to the hum of voices, but unable to catch a single intelligible sentence of the conversation.

I think a quarter of an hour must have passed. Now the voices were raised in angry discussion, as accusations were hurled at each other by the men, and then the altercation fell to a low hum, in which my well-beloved would join. My position was surely tantalising. Ah! if I could only catch the whole of those bitter accusations and defiant retorts! Would they not lead me to a direct knowledge of the truth concerning poor Louise Lorimer and brand the actual assassin?

I was so near the truth, and yet, at the same time, so far from it. I would have given worlds if Whitlock had been with me now, for, by the exercise of his ingenuity and daring, we might probably learn more than what I had already gathered.

The concierge below must have held me in suspicion, for I heard him moving, probably half inclined to believe that I was a thief, or that I had ascended there and was lying in ambush with evil intent.

I heard a telephone bell ringing within the flat of "Mee-ster Smee-eth," and he himself went to answer it.

He spoke French excellently, even though he might be an Englishman.

"Eh—what?" I heard him ask, in a quick, excited voice. "Eh—are you sure? He's over here—and——"

There was a pause. He was listening intently with the receiver at his ear.

"Thanks for the tip. I won't go near the place. Do you think it would be wise to leave Paris?" he asked, still speaking in French.

"Very well. I'll leave the Gare du Nord to-morrow at nine-fifty. Keep your eyes and ears open, and if you think it safe see me at the train. Bon soir!"

I wondered whether either Drayton or Daisy knew French. But the question was quickly solved by Daisy, who asked in English—

"Who was that?"

"Oh, only a man who wants me to go with him to-morrow night to a reception. Nothing. He's a dreadful bore, so I've refused."

It was therefore evident that neither she nor her companion understood French, or were aware that he had received a mysterious warning, and had resolved upon flight.

FACE TO FACE

It was after midnight.

Daisy had just entered her room on the third floor of what is known as the "Opera quarter" of the colossal Grand Hotel. I had followed her back, and had seen Drayton take leave of her at the entrance.

The leave-taking was not exactly cordial, while she seemed depressed and full of anxiety. Her last words to him were an appeal, but of what nature I was in ignorance.

Hardly had she closed the door of her room when, with my mind made up, I walked swiftly along and tapped loudly. When, a moment later, she opened it and found herself face to face with me, she drew back with a startled cry, and her countenance went pale as death.

"You, Victor! I—I did not know you were in Paris!"

"I've not been here long," was my reply. "But I'm staying in this hotel, and seeing you enter a moment ago I could not resist the temptation, Daisy, of coming to talk to you."

"At this hour!" she exclaimed in a strangely cold voice. "Why not to-morrow?"

She had not invited me in, therefore I suggested we should go downstairs to one of the public rooms.

"No," I urged; "to-night, dearest. Do you not still recollect our parting—and your hard words to me?"

"Well," she said, "we cannot discuss our private affairs here in the corridor. You had better come inside, at risk of a breach of les convenances," and she smiled in her old sweet way.

"Now, look here, Daisy!" I said, when she had closed the door behind me, and I stood with her near the big dressing-table set in the window. "I've come to know what you meant by your strange words when we met in Kensington Gardens—I mean about Julian Little going to Servia in my interests?"

She stood before me the same dainty little figure, the same sweet-faced girl with the well-dressed chestnut hair and great dark eyes that had fascinated all London, and that had been in secret my own trustful well-beloved.

"Why should we discuss that any further, Victor?" she queried, standing with her hand upon the back of a chair. She had removed her hat before I entered, and she looked strikingly beautiful in the black dinner-gown with a bunch of pink carnations in the corsage. She was fond of pink in combination with black, and had adopted it in several of her stage-dresses. "You have been abroad quite a long time," she went on. "Dad told me of your success in Constantinople, and how you had been sent on to Russia."

"So you sometimes think of me, Daisy, even though you have treated me—well, let us say, without consideration—eh?"

She hesitated, her dark eyes fixed upon me. She seemed at a loss what to reply to my indictment.

"Why could you not have waited until the morning?" she asked. "It is so late, and your presence here is scarcely judicious, is it?"

"I care nothing for what people may say, dearest," I cried, taking her hand, and holding it firmly in mine as I looked into those wonderful eyes of hers. "Surely you know that my whole future, my whole life, depends upon you? That without your love I am as one lost? Ah! dearest heart, you cannot know how much I have suffered ever since that moment when you left me in London, how every hour I have thought of you, how every day I have longed to return to you and ask you for the plain, straight-forward truth."

"But, Victor——" she exclaimed, trying to withdraw her hand. I could see that she was terrified and unnerved by the quarrel of those two men which she had witnessed that night, and now my sudden reappearance had completed her anxiety. She was concealing something. What had she to conceal? What was this strange secret of her heart?

"There are no buts, dearest," I interrupted. "I am here because I love you—because I have never for one moment wavered in my affection for you," and before she was aware of it I had raised her hand to my hot, passionate lips. "An enemy has come between us and has poisoned your mind against me. I am full well aware of that. But why, I beg of you, do you allow a stranger to break the bond of love which binds your own dear heart to mine? Is it wise, Daisy? Is it just, either to you or to me? We were happy—ah! so happy—in each other's peaceful affection until of a sudden you changed—you doubted me!"

Her eyes were fixed immovably upon mine. Never before had I noticed such a strange look upon her countenance—a look that told of the fierce struggle taking place within her heart. That fellow Drayton held her fascinated. I knew she had forsaken me on that account. But how could I tell her so without revealing what I knew?

"Victor!" she said at last, her voice trembling with emotion. "Will you not have pity on me?"

"Pity?" I echoed. "If you are in distress, tell me. Let me assist you, my darling! You are still mine—or at least I still regard you as such—even though you somehow appear to have forsaken me in favour of somebody else."

To this last remark of mine she raised no protest.

"You cannot, alas! assist me, Victor," she said simply, her eyes downcast, her hand trembling slightly in mine.

"But something is troubling you, my darling," I said. "Tell me what it is—do!"

She only shook her head. I could see that her emotion prevented her from replying. That violent quarrel between Drayton and the mysterious Monsieur Smith had utterly upset her. Her countenance was still pale and drawn. Hers was the face of a woman upon whose conscience rested some great and terrible secret. Was it possible that over her young life hung the shadow of that dastardly crime at Barnes?

From the very first she had in some mysterious way been associated with the mystery. Little, the man at first suspected by Whitlock, had openly declared himself as her enemy.

What she was doing at that moment in Paris I did not seek to inquire. I did not wish to complicate matters further, being myself aware of all her movements that night.

Failing to get a word from her in reply to my question, I asked the reason of her sudden change towards me, adding—

"You know, Daisy, how all this has driven me to distraction, loving you as devotedly as I do, and in ignorance of the real reason why you rose from that seat in Kensington Gardens and left me in that manner. I can only surmise that there must be some burden of suspicion upon your mind. Why not reveal it to me, and allow me a chance to make my defence? Surely," I said, "it is not fair to condemn a man unheard?"

"No," was her reply, for she had suddenly grown quite calm. "I have not condemned you, Victor. I—well, I don't know how to put it to you. I'm puzzled. I have been told something which I cannot really believe. Yet I have had proof in a certain way that what has been said is the actual truth."

"About myself?"

"Yes, about you," she said, looking me in the face unflinchingly.

"And will you not tell me what this charge is against me?"

"I have given a promise not to speak to you upon the matter."

"To whom?"

"To a friend."

"But I put it to you, dearest, is this justice? Ought not I to be given an opportunity of refuting this allegation, and of proving my innocence of this mysterious charge against me?"

"You undoubtedly ought," was her reply. "But I, unfortunately, cannot break my promise."

"Not when your own future happiness is at stake?"

"Future happiness!" she echoed wildly. "There is none for me now that——"

But she broke off short in the middle of her sentence, and her cheeks flushed slightly as she realised how nearly she had been to betraying herself.

Was it of Drayton's desertion that she had been about to speak when she suddenly arrested her words? I became convinced that it was, and that her emotion was more upon his account than in consequence of our sudden meeting.

She loved that good-looking fellow, who would, ere long, be again in the dock. For one thing, however, I entertained an admiration for him—namely, that he had that night had the courage to denounce the mysterious Englishman of the Rue Pierre Charron, and reveal to Daisy how she had been made the cat's-paw of unscrupulous persons.

I had expected that this latter fact would, in itself, cause her to return to me. But I was mistaken. Those allegations against myself, whatever they were, had so impressed themselves upon her that she was unable to repose further trust in me. I knew, of course, what they were—that I was implicated in the assassination of Louise Lorimer.

"Daisy!" I said, very quietly, placing my hand upon her shoulder as I stood before her and looking straight into those dear eyes, "there is still happiness for you, the happiness of life and of love, if you will continue to trust me. Surely you must see that my heart is entirely yours? In the past our love was perfect, our confidence mutual, and our hearts were as one. You have hundreds of admirers. You, with your beauty and grace, cannot avoid it. In your profession your success in a measure depends in your captivating those of my sex who are patrons of the variety stage. They believe you to be gay and giddy like most of the others, and you do not undeceive them. Only I myself know your true character, that of a sweet, refined, and honest woman, who casts off her stage manners with her dresses, and who would make a good wife to the man who honestly loved her. I love you—with all my soul. Dear heart, forgive me if I have in any way offended you. Kiss me forgiveness, and let us be as we were before—lovers in secret."

I bent slowly to kiss her soft red lips, but with a frightened cry—almost of repulsion—she put me away from her, saying—

"No! No! I cannot! Leave me, Victor. Leave me! I beg of you never to approach me like this again."

"But why, dearest? Surely by right of long friendship, I, on finding you alone in Paris, may come and pay my respects to you? I don't understand."

"No; that's just it. You don't understand."

"Then, tell me—tell me, darling, I beg of you. Do you doubt my great love for you?"

"No. Certainly not. I know you love me—better than any other man could ever love me," she faltered, her eyes fixed upon the carpet.

My hand was again upon her shoulder, but I felt a shudder run through her as I touched her.

"Then why discard my love?" I urged. "Why not accept it?"

For a full minute no response came from her lips, but when it did it held me appalled.

"Why not?" she echoed, in a hoarse, agonised whisper, covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. "Because—ah! you do not know all, Victor!—because—ah! yes, I—I confess—I must confess to you," she sobbed—"because—cannot you guess?—I—I am unworthy of your love!"

DESCRIBES AN EXCITING CHASE

Soon after nine o'clock on the following morning I strolled through the big booking-office of the Gare du Nord, in Paris, and out upon the platform.

The long green-painted restaurant car express for Calais—the morning mail to England—was already in waiting, and homeward-bound British tourists—some of the men in knickers and stockings and the womenkind in the usual tweed skirt and blouse—began to dribble in and seek the best places. The maître d'hôtel of the restaurant was busy distributing his tickets for the first déjeuner, and blue-capped attendants were conducting passengers to seats previously reserved for them.

Perhaps the departure of no train in the world presents such a changeful picture of life as the Paris-London mail. I have travelled by it a great many times, both before and since, yet the scenes witnessed there always fascinate me. One sees the elegant Frenchwoman going en voyage for the first time in her life, and dreading the fifty minutes of sea passage; the home-coming tourist, who believes he has had a holiday because he has put on nailed boots and attempted the fagging ascent of a Swiss mountain, or who has accomplished a tour of Italy, including Rome, in eight days; the youth who has just had his first taste of the much overrated pleasures of "Gay Paree," as he terms it; the uninterested business man; the home-going schoolgirl, personally conducted after the completion of her education; and the hardened traveller who knows which is the best seat in the train and has it, and who lifts his finger to the chief of the restaurant car and thus secures a little table to himself.

And amid the increasing bustle I was seeking for a man I had never seen—the mysterious Monsieur Smith.

A P. and O. boat had come into Marseilles on the previous day, and a crowd of her overland passengers had just arrived, eager to get a sight of "home" after perhaps years of exile. Huge quantities of baggage were being registered, and more than one Anglo-Indian carried his solar topee in his hand.

It was within ten minutes of the departure of the train, yet, although I walked up and down, I saw nobody that I knew. Who, among that crowd, was the man known in the Rue Pierre Charron as Monsieur Smith? One man, an elderly, grey-haired Englishman with a very red face, was seated in the corner of a second-class carriage immersed in the Gaulois. I passed and repassed, wondering if it were he. Among the hundred and fifty or so departing passengers there were, indeed, several of whom I entertained suspicion.

It was tantalising that I had not had an opportunity of getting a glimpse of him during the previous night. The words of my sweet-faced well-beloved rang in my ears. "I am unworthy of your love!" she had cried. Why had she made this confession? Why was she unworthy, if it were not that Francis Drayton had held, and still held, her fascinated?

My intention was to endeavour to see her again on my return to the Grand—to induce her to reveal to me the truth. Who was Louise Lorimer? Why had she been so cruelly assassinated, and who was the actual assassin? That she knew all this I was convinced. Behind her public life as a popular stage-favourite lay a mystery—one that it was her duty to me, her lover, to confess and to reveal.

For what purpose was she in Paris? As far as I knew she had no engagement there. My only conjecture was that she had come to the French capital to meet in secret the mysterious Mr Smith—the man who at that moment was, unknown to me, flying back to England. Who had warned him, I wondered? Whose voice had that been on the telephone?

My vigilant watch along the train remained unrewarded. No doubt the man Smith was there, but, not being acquainted with his appearance, I was unable to identify him.

My position at that moment was a most annoying and puzzling one.

The minutes were passing quickly. Most of the passengers had taken their seats, and people "seeing off" their friends were crowding about the carriages giving their parting injunctions to write, and wishing the travellers bon voyage.

I was standing near the luggage-trucks at the front of the train, and facing the barrier by which travellers gained access to the platform, when I suddenly saw a figure hurrying along in search of a seat. He was the usual late passenger, to be noticed at the departure of every train, and two conductors, seeing him, began to search the first-class carriages for a vacant place.

He was a rather stout man, in a light greenish drab overcoat of sack shape and a grey soft felt hat. He was clean-shaven, keen-faced, and beneath the overcoat he wore a dark blue suit, while on his nose he wore gold-rimmed pince-nez.

No second glance was needed to tell me the truth. I stood staring at him when I realised his identity.

The man approaching me was Frederick Stonor. His altered appearance to that he had presented weeks ago at Cromer gave me no cause to doubt that he was the Monsieur Smith of the Rue Pierre Charron, who had received over the telephone the urgent warning to escape. It was he who had been so openly charged with being a blackguard by Drayton on the previous night, he who had been so defiant, and so utterly heedless of his friend's bitter reproaches.

The fellow, who was Julian Little's secret friend, and whom Drayton had accused of using Daisy as a decoy in some ingenious but dastardly plot, was hurrying along the train, breathless and eager to get away from France. A little bearded man in neat black, and wearing a bowler hat, eyed him suspiciously. He was the agent of police, I knew, but, not having monsieur's description as a person "wanted," he allowed him to enter the train in search of a seat.

Cries of "En voiture, messieurs," were at that moment being raised by the porters. Should I mount the train and follow the fugitive? If I did so I should have no opportunity of further conversation with Daisy. But on an instant's reflection I began to query whether such attempt to see her was wise, having in view the fact that Drayton was in Paris. If I left for England after Stonor I should still have an opportunity of seeing Daisy on her return to London in a day or two.

Stonor's attitude told me that he was in fear, and it was this that decided me, for just as the train moved away I clambered up into one of the carriages. In the corridor I was at once pounced upon by a ticket examiner, and not having one, obtained from him a first-class ticket for London.

"M'sieur had plenty of time to obtain a ticket," he remarked, as he handed me the written voucher.

"I know," I replied; "but I did not decide to go until the last moment."

Then I wandered along the train, noted the compartment which the man from Scarborough had selected, and afterwards went along to the restaurant car, and there found a seat myself.

As I had anticipated, the fugitive did not come to lunch, and the journey to Calais was uneventful. Indeed, I saw nothing more of him until in the afternoon I watched him, his hat crushed down on his head, pacing the deck of the Dover boat, his countenance dark and heavy—essentially the face of a man with a secret.

His actions were those of a person who feared to be followed, and I was compelled to exercise the greatest caution not to betray in him any undue interest. At Calais Station, before embarking, I had sent an urgent telegram to Whitlock at Scotland Yard, but whether he would receive it in time to meet us at Charing Cross was an open question. Part of the time on board he spent chatting with one of the sailors, to whom he appeared to be giving some instructions, the nature of which was revealed when he landed.

Without luggage he had passed along the pier to where the Charing Cross train was in waiting and entered a compartment, when about ten minutes later the seaman with whom he had been talking upon the steamer came to the carriage accompanied by a telegraph boy, who handed him a message.

This he read, knit his brow slightly, and then, handing both the sailor and the boy each a tip, he got out of the carriage in which he had been so comfortably ensconced.

Receipt of that telegraphic message seemed to have altered his plans, for he sought out the station-master and of him made some inquiries, after which both men consulted a time-table pasted up near the refreshment bar. The fugitive, after some discussion with the guard, walked along the pier to Dover Town Station, and after half an hour's wait took train to Ashford. To follow was a precarious undertaking, but I resolved to risk it. It was evident he meant to avoid London, and keep some appointment. Ashford reached, he took another ticket, and after an hour's wait arrived in Guildford.

It was near ten o'clock when he entered the old-fashioned hotel in the steep, broad High Street. I continued past the place, and after the lapse of a short space I turned and entered the bar. The house is a favourite resort of motorists from London, who run down by that road, ever popular since the early days of cycling, which passes from Kingston through Ripley. It was therefore not surprising that several cars should be standing in the yard, or that a particularly fine Limousin should be awaiting its owner at the door.

Stonor was not in the bar, therefore I swallowed the drink I ordered and then explored the place. I had been there on a previous occasion, when my journalistic duties had taken me to the county town of Surrey, therefore I knew the quaint old place, with its wooden staircases, narrow passages, and odd nooks and corners.

Pushing open the door of the long, low coffee-room, I peered within, and there to my joy saw the man whom I had followed from Paris, seated with a clean-shaven man in motoring overcoat and muffler, with whom he evidently had an appointment. They were sitting opposite each other, engaged in earnest conversation. Before Stonor was a formidable plate of cold beef and pickles, which he was devouring with keen appetite, while his companion calmly smoked a big briar pipe.

The man, a perfect stranger to me, was rather refined, with the air and manners of a gentleman. What was the topic of discussion I could not possibly discover, for they were conversing in an undertone, fearing, no doubt, lest the rather shabby, splay-footed English waiter should overhear.

In silence I gently pulled back the door again and returned to the bar. My chase had been a close and hard one, and I hoped that, for that night at least, it was at an end.

Drayton's open denunciation had evidently alarmed him, in conjunction with the mysterious warning he had received over the telephone. His intention had been to escape to London, but he had received information which had brought him across country to that old-fashioned town wherein we now were.

My second telegram to Whitlock must have puzzled him, for a quarter of an hour after urging him to meet us at Charing Cross I had despatched a second wire telling him that I had changed my destination.

From where I stood in the bar I could keep a watchful eye upon anyone leaving the hotel, and it was not long before my vigilance was rewarded. Stonor and his motoring friend came forth and went out to the "forty" Limousin standing at the kerb.

As I watched I at once realised Stonor's intention, for opening the door he took from within a heavy frieze motor-coat, cap, and pair of goggles, which he assumed in place of his own thin overcoat and felt hat. The instant I saw that flight was intended I passed back through the hotel into the garage and of several men assembled there asked if there was a car to be hired for a run to London.

At first there was some demur, but presently one young chauffeur remarked that his master had left him there with the car, having been suddenly recalled by train to Exeter, and that if it would only occupy a few hours he was ready to take me for a consideration.

The consideration I fixed at "a fiver," and without further ado he went up to a fine, big open car, a "sixty" Mercédes to be exact, started the engine, and lit the headlights. Then, he having put on his overcoat and cap, I borrowed a coat of his master's, and just as we were seated side by side I saw the red car, in which was the fugitive, glide past the end of the yard on its way down the hill.

MORE MYSTERY!

Never, to my dying day, shall I forget that exciting night run.

Scarcely had we started than it began to pour with rain, and in a few brief words I told the chauffeur that I was following the red car, the back-light of which was slowly drawing away from us.

I no longer feared detection by Stonor, for, muffled up in the big coat with astrakan collar, and wearing a pair of very disfiguring goggles with linen flaps, I presented an appearance entirely different to that I had done a quarter of an hour before.

"It's that Limousin, sir," remarked the man as we slipped down the hill almost in silence.

"What—do you know it?" I asked eagerly.

"No. Never seen it before, to my knowledge. Half an hour ago, however, I had a look round it and found that everything was ready for a long run. I asked them in the garage whose the car was, but nobody knew. It came in here this morning, and the owner's driving. It has a London identification plate."

"And from that I could discover the owner, I suppose?" I suggested.

"You might, and you might not," was the man's dubious reply. "If they're on any crooked bit of business, as from what you say they seem to be, then depend upon it that their plates are false ones, in order to mislead the police, providing they're stopped for exceeding the limit."

Suddenly we saw the car before us turn off to the right, then again to the right and up the hill, showing that they had either mistaken the road or had preferred to go by a roundabout route to turning the car on the steep incline of the main street.

"They're making for the Ripley road, after all!" said the young man at my side. "We'll let them get on a bit, so as not to appear that we're following them. And they've got an open exhaust, too. What an infernal row it makes!" he remarked.

True, the noise of the car before us awakened the echoes of the night as it ran through the streets of Guildford, at that hour dark and deserted.

As my chauffeur had predicted, they took the left-hand road, and ten minutes later we were tearing along the level, well-kept highway that runs by Woodlands and Sandhurst to Ripley. The red car, upon which was a whistle as well as a horn, went at a fearful speed. Rounding the corner on entering Ripley village it narrowly escaped collision with a farmer's cart which, without a light and with a sleeping driver, was on its wrong side of the road. But through Ripley we went like a flash, and every attempt to gain upon them was futile.

Shortly afterwards we passed along the edge of the lake opposite the motorists' hotel called The Hut, and then up the hill and across Ockham Common, in the direction of Cobham.

Two cars we passed coming from London, but in the pelting rain all was blurred. Along the dark, wet road the small red back-lamp remained ever before us, slowly drawing away from us sometimes, and at others growing nearer as now and then the chauffeur at my side let her "rip." The car I was on was a splendid one, and owned by a baronet whose name was well-known in the political world. Many a time I had, in years gone by, reported his speeches on platforms and in the House itself. But I had never dreamed that I should experience a night ride in his car following a fugitive criminal.

The chauffeur, whose name was Mills, had thoroughly entered into the spirit of the chase, and was delighted to find that up to the present the pair on the Limousin, by reason of the big body hiding out the view behind, were unaware that another car was behind. While the steady splutter of their open exhaust rendered hearing impossible, we were running smoothly—almost, indeed, noiselessly. At half a mile only the white radiance of our powerful head-lamps betrayed us. With these we could see our road far ahead of us, and so bright were they—some new French invention—that more than one person we met shaded their eyes with their hands, so dazzled were they by the glare.

Half-way between Fairmile and Esher the tiny red light suddenly stopped. The keen eye of the man Mills instantly detected it, and pulling up short, he sprang from the car, and extinguished both our lights. And not an instant too quickly, for in another moment, though we were nearly half a mile behind, our presence there would certainly have been detected. It was a prompt action and one upon which I heartily congratulated the driver. He was a man of resource without a doubt.

The red back-lamp remained stationary; therefore, leaving Mills with the car, I went forward on foot to get closer and reconnoitre. It was as we had surmised. A tyre trouble had occurred, and both men with their overcoats off and one of the headlights set in the muddy roadway, were at work upon the wheel in frenzied haste.

Fearing to approach too near, I retraced my footsteps and reseated myself at Mills' side, watching for the moving of the tiny red light in the distance. It was at a lonely part of the road, half-way across a common, where we had halted, and as we sat there I began to experience the pangs of hunger, remembering that I had had nothing to eat for more than twelve hours.

The period of waiting there in the rain seemed interminable, but at last the car moved forward again, gathering great speed, and quickly we were through Esher and on towards Surbiton. On such a drenching night the police had relaxed their vigilance, otherwise we both would have been trapped for exceeding the limit, for often we must have been travelling over forty miles an hour. Fortunately the road was too wet for skidding, or we might have come to grief on the slippery pavement of Esher.

"It's evident they're going to London," Mills remarked, as we flashed through Surbiton. "We shall have to get up nearer presently."

His surmise proved correct, for presently we passed through Kingston, and afterwards through Richmond and along to Kew. Outside the Star and Garter, beyond Kew Bridge—closed at that hour—Stonor first discovered us, though it was evident that he had no idea that we had followed him from Guildford. The red car, ascending the short hill from the bridge leading to the main road through Chiswick to Hammersmith, was pulled up suddenly, and, next moment, a man in a drab mackintosh emerged from a doorway, where he had evidently been awaiting the pair, and went up to Stonor with some hurried information. What the man said we had, of course, no idea. My first impulse was to pull up at the foot of the bridge, but next moment I told Mills to pass them and go on towards Chiswick, which he did.

As we passed, Stonor—in conversation with the man in the mackintosh—glanced across at us, but in complete ignorance that we were following. Surely his had been a roundabout route from Paris to London. Had he undertaken it in order to evade Whitlock's vigilance at Charing Cross? Did he expect arrest?

The man in the mackintosh had raised his finger in emphasis of his words. He appeared very excited, and all three spoke together quickly. Just as we passed, Stonor was bending down to the clock upon the splash-board in an endeavour to see the time.

"There's some crooked business in progress, I should think, sir," Mills remarked, after we had passed.

"Yes. That man is giving them some important information, it would appear," I said. "Let's go on a bit farther, and then pretend to have a breakdown. They're sure to come up here if they are going to London."

"And if they're not? Why, they'll just turn to the left through Brentford and Hounslow, where they've got the Bath or the Staines road before them—both main roads to the West."

"We must take the risk," I decided. "It will not do for them to suspect that we've followed."

I saw that Mills believed me to be a detective. His own excitement, and the sporting way in which he had kept up the chase, told me how keenly interested he was in its motive.

Then, about a quarter of a mile further up the broad high road, which is paved, and along which run those irritating tram-lines, I said suddenly—

"Let's run to this kerb and break down here."

The man obeyed, drew the waterproof sheet from his knees, and in order to mislead any who suspected us got down and took off the bonnet from the engine—an action always indicative of trouble.

We were beneath a gas-lamp and so completely in view. Mills pretended to potter about with the cylinders, and so realistically did he act that the driver of a car coming from the direction of Hammersmith slowed up and inquired if he could be of any assistance.

"No, thanks," I cried. "Only a broken sparking-plug. Good-night!"

"Good-night!" cried a cheery voice, and the friendly car drew away again, and was soon lost to sight.

For a full ten minutes we had been there, when, of a sudden, we heard the rhythmic roar of an open exhaust, and the red car flashed past us. Our trouble was noted by Stonor and his companion, but we furthermore saw that in the Limousin sat the man in the drab mackintosh.

When they had passed Mills at once readjusted the bonnet, and after the lapse of several minutes we sped on over the wood-paving as fast as he dared go without skidding.

Not before we had passed Young's Corner did we get another sight of the car of the fugitive, and then we followed it up through Kensington, past Hyde Park Corner, up Piccadilly and Shaftesbury Avenue, until I found that we were in a neighbourhood I had already good cause to remember.

We were entering Russell Square. At my orders Mills slowed down. The car we had been following pulled up suddenly at a short distance from the house in Woburn Square, which had once been tenanted by the mysterious Elkington and his wife.

Stonor and the man in the mackintosh descended and hurriedly bade the owner of the Limousin adieu. The red car moved off, and the two men immediately parted.

The man in the mackintosh walked on towards Euston Road, while Stonor, not dreaming that he was being watched, so far off were we, out in Russell Square, crossed quickly to the tenantless house, the door of which opened noiselessly to receive him, and closed again without a sound.

The mysterious Monsieur Smith had sought what he believed to be a safe asylum.

For a few minutes I sat upon the car, my eyes strained towards the abode of the missing pair, the Elkingtons, wondering what I had best do next. I had tracked Stonor to his hiding-place. What was now to be done?

Even while I sat pondering a strange thing happened.

A man ran swiftly down the steps of the house upon which my eyes were fixed, and, evidently escaping from the place, hurried in our direction.

As he approached he passed beneath the light of a street lamp—and I saw his face!

THE PALACE THEATRE, HAMMERSMITH

The man who fled from that house was Julian Little! He had escaped in secret because of the return of his friend Stonor. I had no doubt about that, because he had not closed the front door after him.

My motor clothes were sufficient disguise, and as he passed the car he did not recognise me.

He disappeared round the corner of the Hotel Russell, leaving me puzzled and uncertain. Would he return to our chambers? Should I go there and wait?

After a few minutes I took the car along to Theobald's Road, and, descending, paid the man the sum agreed upon, together with a tip, and dismissed him. Utterly fagged out, I ascended the stairs in Gray's Inn, entered with my latchkey, and switched on the light.

At a single glance I could see that Little had not been there in my absence. All was untouched, even to his latchkey still upon the mantelshelf. Where, I wondered, were his headquarters in London? Why had he fled from Woburn Square on the arrival of the man who was so entirely in his confidence?

I longed to obtain a peep within that house which, on that well-remembered night, I had searched with Whitlock—the house wherein we found the first clue to the truth. During my absence on the Bosphorus my mind had ever been full of the strange nocturnal tragedy at Barnes, and now, at the first moment of my return on English soil, I found myself again watching the progress of an amazing drama.

Utterly done up I snatched a few hours' sleep, and next morning rang up Whitlock on the telephone. At eleven o'clock I sat with him at his office at Scotland Yard relating my adventure in Paris, but, of course, omitting the fact that I had spoken with Daisy Marvin.

My friend was sorely puzzled. What I told him did not, it seemed, tally with the result of his secret inquiries during my absence in Turkey.

Later that day I went down to the office, and from Wakeley gathered that Little had suddenly turned up about a fortnight ago and asked "the Chief" for a month's leave. Things being unusually quiet, he was at once granted it, and had given an address in county Galway where a telegram would reach him in case of necessity. Then he had walked out of the news-room and had not since been seen.

Through several corridors I walked, and up two flights of stairs until I gained the news-room of the Evening Herald, where old Marvin was seated at his table in his shirt-sleeves.

"Halloa, Murder-Monger! Back again! Well, how did you get on in the Land of Turkish Delight?" he grunted, without taking his eyes off the pile of "flimsy" before him.

I briefly related some of my experiences, whereupon he said—

"I wish you'd been back again with us the other day, Keene. That Barnes affair is a devilish good story, and has never been sufficiently worked up."

"I'm off crime now," I answered, though rather surprised at his sudden reference to the matter that was so near my heart.

"Ah! I know! As special you haven't any further interest in murder mysteries and domestic tragedies. We've got to get another Murder-Monger, I suppose? One thing, however, is quite certain: we shan't get as good a man as you were."

"You're jolly flattering," I said. "But I've had enough of crime to last me my lifetime. By the way, how's your daughter getting on? Any fresh engagements?"

"Well, yes. Let's see. She starts at the Holborn Empire and the Hammersmith Palace on Monday next. Two shows at the first house and one at the second."

"'The Motor-Maid,' I suppose?"

"Oh, of course. It's her most popular song. The week after next she's at the Pavilion for four weeks, and then starts on a provincial tour—Manchester, Glasgow, Newcastle—the Moss Empires."

The Palace of Varieties at Hammersmith! I happened to know all connected with that very popular place of entertainment—the pleasant and very gentlemanly proprietor, the genial manager, and the tall, thin and active, if sharp-tongued, stage-manager behind. It had been my habit to go there often, for at no suburban hall was there such an excellent entertainment provided. Mr Rowe, the proprietor, believed in giving a thoroughly amusing but thoroughly sound programme. He spared no expense, and consequently the house was crowded nightly by an orderly and interested audience.

It was my intention to again see Daisy and speak with her. Therefore I waited until Monday night, and then took the "tube" to Hammersmith. By reason of the fact that I sometimes wrote notices of the variety performances for the Evening Herald I had free entrée to more than one music-hall in London, including the one in question. Therefore, after being warmly welcomed by Mr Rowe and his smartly-dressed, clean-shaven manager, Mr Lewis—who, by the way, was one of the shrewdest and most genial among music-hall managers in all London—I went round to "the back" and, passing the fireman at the stage-door, found myself shaking hands with Mr Dickinson, the stage-manager. He had just shouted "Lights up!" for a popular female artiste was on the stage, singing a song with a swinging chorus—a song about love, money, and green fields—and one or two people were idling in the wings. In a suit of blue serge, and wearing a yachting cap, he bade me as warm a welcome as his principals "in front" had done. Tall, thin-faced, with a slight black moustache, he was at heart a refined, generous, sympathetic man, with a penchant for photography, but close and nightly contact with the variety world and its vulgar tastes had rendered him somewhat callous and hard towards the artistes who came there to fulfil their engagements.

He was scrupulously just to the very letter. Once he had confided to me that "these artistes would simply wipe their shoes on you if you were not master. So I have very often to be a bit hard on them." But, be it said, I have never heard a single complaint by an artiste against any injustice practised by the management of the Hammersmith Palace.

To those unaccustomed to the little world behind the stage at a London music-hall, all would appear strange. Nobody is allowed there except those actually engaged, and, in rare cases, representatives of the Press, of which I was one. Mr Rowe, the proprietor, was most strict in this respect, and in every part of the house the most strict decorum was always displayed. Indeed, the house in all its appointments, in its entertainment, and its general management, was quite equal to any in the West End, for Mr Rowe knew what the public wanted and he gave it to them.

Though they were in Hammersmith he tolerated no vulgarity upon the stage, and woe betide the artiste who attempted it. "Behind" was as decorous as any West End drawing-room, and, perhaps, more so; and the whole theatre was, indeed, a credit to its merry, round-faced, and prosperous proprietor, who always had a cheery word for all of his friends who gathered nightly about him.

I walked along the stage with my friend Dickinson, to where, against the corner of the proscenium, was the clock dial which worked the curtain and the electric numbers corresponding with the programme. The stage-manager had a seat there, at that moment occupied by a rather pretty dancing girl, who in her gay skirts and spangled bodice was awaiting her turn.

"I saw in the Herald that you've been in Turkey lately, Mr Keene," my friend was saying, as we stood together watching the girl at that moment occupying the stage.

I explained that I was only just back, and wanting an evening's entertainment I had come down to look him up. Beside him upon a desk was a ledger, where, in an almost microscopically neat caligraphy, he booked the time of each artiste, "on" and "off."

"You've Daisy Marvin this week," I remarked. "What time is she on?"

He consulted the programme tacked upon the wall, and replied—

"Oh, about 10.18. She has to come from the Holborn. An excellent turn, isn't she? By Jove! she's making a lot of money nowadays, and a jolly good girl into the bargain. Know her?"

"Oh, yes. Quite well. Her father's at our office, you know."

"Of course. I quite forgot. You'll stay and see her—eh?" And, unable to wait for my reply, he dashed away, shouting some orders to the scene-shifters, whom his keen eye had detected setting the next scene wrongly. It was the scene for a sketch, and not being properly done he gave vent to some forcible language, threw his coat aside, and, nipping about nimbly, set it himself to show how it should be done.

A young man with a waxed moustache—his assistant—came to ask a question about the "limes," and received a quick, decisive answer; and then came the female dresser, a short, rather thin girl with a merry face, with a message from one of the artistes who had that moment arrived and was in her dressing-room.

By this time the curtain had fallen and "the house" was thundering applause. Dickinson was shouting and running about, giving an order here and bestowing condemnation there. Not an instant did he lose, until at last a young woman in evening dress took up her place upon a couch in the drawing-room that had been so rapidly built up.

Then, with a swift glance to see all was right, Dickinson shouted up to the flies, "Lights up." And next instant the curtain rose, the orchestra ceased, and the great house was silent in expectation as the tall, fair girl in the pale blue dinner-gown spoke her opening lines.

"We can go out now," Dickinson remarked to me with a sigh of relief, wiping the perspiration off his brow and putting on his coat. "This plays for twenty minutes."

And so we emerged from the stage-door and walked up the by-road into King Street, where, at the private bar at the corner, we had a friendly glass together, as was our habit whenever I visited the theatre.

I was standing on the stage with Dickinson watching a pair of humorous acrobats who were making the audience laugh heartily by their antics when the musical voice I knew so well exclaimed, "Good-evening, Mr Dickinson!" and, turning, I found myself face to face with Daisy, dressed ready to go on. Indeed, she had come along in the brougham from Holborn just as she was in her short, spangled skirt of pansy velvet, shaded from the palest tint to the darkest, and its bodice glittering with golden sequins.

She started back at discovering me there, but next moment recovered herself, saying—

"Only fancy, Victor—you here! I thought you were still in Paris."

"No," I laughed. "I'm back home again," and together we strolled to the farther end of the stage, where no one could overhear. "Is Annie here?" I asked quickly.

"No. She's not well, so I'm alone to-night."

"And we can have a chat after you've finished your business—eh?" I suggested.

She hesitated, but only for a second.

"If you wish. Will you wait till I've dressed? Excuse me a moment," she added, "I've left my fan in the brougham." And she bustled away to send the stage-door keeper for it.

I saw that she evinced but little pleasure at meeting me. Six months ago her face would have been illuminated by real pleasure had we met unexpectedly like that. To-night, however, there seemed just a slight shadow of annoyance upon her countenance. And yet how fondly I loved her—and how I hated that fellow Drayton with all my heart!

Where was he, I wondered? Was it because of him that she had hesitated to spend an hour with me after the show?

How neat and dainty she looked as she tripped back towards me, fan in hand! I preferred her in her ordinary clothes and without the make-up which, against her will, she was compelled to use. Yet from the auditorium, with the white lights upon her, she looked very charming to the public, who applauded her dancing so vociferously.

Would I ever be able to take her from that life of glitter and artificiality and make her my wife? Would she, used as she had now become to the nightly excitement and the plaudits of the crowd, ever be able to live without it? Aye, that was the question which often occurred to me.

The curtain fell, and the acrobats, perspiring and panting, brushed past us, one of them asking Dickinson: "How's that, boss? Got a double encore, you see!"

"A very good act," responded the stage-manager, laughing. "You're improving."

"Thanks," replied the man with the powdered face, red nose, and a smashed silk hat. "Good-night, old chap," and he passed away into the dressing-room.

"Miss Marvin—ready?" shouted Dickinson, touching one electric button to give the orchestra the cue, and another which caused the heavy velvet curtains to part, and draw up on either side of the proscenium.

And next second, Daisy, waiting until the orchestra had played the opening bars of the song, tripped lightly on to the stage.

A perfect thunder of applause greeted her from "stalls" to "gods." She was one of the popular favourites whose portraits looked out upon you from the window of every post-card shop, and whose catchy songs were played upon every street-piano.

With a piquant air and a merry, devil-may-care manner, she sang a new and somewhat sarcastic song that I had not before heard, called "Love—Love—Latter-day Love." In it, face-fakers and medicated sleeps at ten guineas each were referred to, while it was declared that love was slowly dying—dying of popularity. A tuneful song, with many references to the humorous side of affection, and yet it somehow jarred upon me, owing, most probably, to my frame of mind at that juncture.

But it received a loud and enthusiastic encore, and she dressed swiftly and went on again to sing "The Motor-Maid," that song which had secured for her popularity throughout the whole country.

The gods clapped again and again when she appeared a second time, and the band struck up the overture. They shouted their rough but hearty salutations to her, and she, in return, smiled up to them and waved her hand merrily.

The song went with a swing and the whole house joined in the chorus, as it always did, whether at the Oxford, the Tivoli, the Holborn, or elsewhere. It was the song the words of which had been written by Tommy Newton of the Savage, and had taken all London. "Tuck up your veil! Tuck up your veil!" was one of the lines in the second verse, and this had become a popular saying. "Now, tuck up your veil!" one heard on every side, the advice being generally given by men to the opposite sex.

At last she sang the final verse, there was a thunder of applause, and the great velvet curtains swung to. But the clapping did not cease, and she was bound to go to the centre of the stage again and bow her acknowledgments from between the parted curtains.

Yes. The wild plaudits she received for that song were surely sufficient to turn the head of any girl.

She skipped away to the dressing-room, hot and excited after the strain of singing and dancing, but a quarter of an hour later rejoined me, neat in a black skirt, close-fitting tailor-made jacket, and black toque—modist, sweet-faced, and devoid of every artificiality of the stage. That fifteen minutes had transformed her into an entirely different being.

She was the modest, soft-voiced, soft-haired girl I loved so well—the girl whose bright eyes held me beneath the spell of her wondrous beauty, and whose voice filled me with enchantment.

"Well?" she asked, as she came up to me, looking straight into my face. "Are you angry, Victor? You don't seem yourself to-night!"

"Let's get away from here," I whispered. "I want to speak to you;" and together we wished Dickinson—who was busy "booking-in" another turn—"Good-night."

MY LOVE'S CONFESSION

The big dress-basket had been placed upon the hired brougham, and we were within the vehicle going at a jog-trot past the West London Hospital in the direction of Kensington.

She had repeated her question why I was not myself that evening, but I had evaded it. Then we sat silent for a long time. I was holding her soft, ungloved hand in mine, for even though I was distracted by the enigma that had, through all those weeks, become more and more complicated, yet it surely gave me happiness to be once more beside the woman I so dearly loved.

You all of you, do love, or have once loved. Therefore you know the sweet and silent ecstasy of the first moments of being alone together after a long and bitter parting.

I did not know what to say, so full was my heart. Whitlock, the famous police agent, had failed utterly to unravel the mystery which grew daily more inscrutable and more impossible of solution. Only the sweet-faced, soft-voiced woman at my side knew the truth.

"Dearest," I said at last, drawing her closer to me until her face was near my own, "I have come to ask you what you meant the other night in Paris when you made that strange assertion that—that you were unworthy of my love—you, who are all the world to me!"

She tried to release herself quickly, and I felt her trembling.

"No! Victor, you are cruel! Why refer to it? Why have you come to me like this to-night? Ah! my God! you do not know—you don't know how I suffer!"

"For what?" I asked in a low whisper. "Why not, dearest, confide in me?" I urged persuasively.

She was silent for a few moments.

"Did I not tell you in Paris? We are best apart in future."

"Because you doubt me—eh?"

"And because I have no right longer to your love," she said in a voice of mystery.

"I can't make it out," I declared, still holding her hand. "Why have you so suddenly taken up this extraordinary attitude, Daisy?"

She only sighed. By the ray of light from a shop-window I saw that her countenance was now deathly pale. The sudden change it had undergone was remarkable and startling.

I repeated my question clearly, perhaps even a trifle harshly. The existence of Drayton flashed across my mind. Had he actually supplanted me in my well-beloved's affection?

"I have already confessed to you, Victor," she faltered at last in a low voice. "I told you the truth in Paris."

"But why—why do you tell me this? Why are you unworthy of my love?"

"One day you will, perhaps, discover for yourself," she responded hoarsely, sitting bolt upright, her face turned from me.

"I confess I cannot understand this self-condemnation of yours. Surely you should give me some reason!" I cried, dismayed. "You know full well how dearly and sincerely I love you, darling."

"Yes," she answered in a mechanical voice. "Unfortunately, I do. But——"

"But what?" I asked, pressing her hand and trying to draw her nearer to me.

"But love and happiness can never come to us again, Victor," she said in a sad voice full of emotion. "Our dream has ended."

"No, it has not!" I cried decisively. "I love you, and you are mine, even—even if, as you tell me, you are unworthy. Daisy—you shall be mine," I said in a hard, fierce tone. "I will not allow you to pass from me like this. I care nothing for your self-condemnations, nothing for your declarations of unworthiness. You have been my love, and you still are, and still shall be."

She started at my words, and, turning, peered into my face.

"And if I refuse?" she asked in an unusual tone. "What then?"

"It makes no difference. You have told me, long ago, that you loved no other man but myself, and I believe your words."

"Ah! that was long ago," she answered. "A woman changes her mind sometimes, you know."

"And you have changed yours!" I gasped, staring at her. "Do you mean to tell me that you have discarded me, the man who loves you better than his life, in favour of that fellow?"

"Of what fellow?" she asked quickly.

"Of Drayton," I said, boldly. "I do not forget your attitude in Kensington Gardens."

"Of him!" she gasped, staring at me, as though she suddenly realised a truth that she had not dreamed before. "Ah! I see. You believe that—that I have deceived you, Victor!" she exclaimed quickly.

"I only believe what I have seen with my own eyes," I said vaguely, for I had no intention of explaining to her how with Whitlock I had watched her movements. She, of course, believed that I referred to Drayton's visit to Paris.

"My confession of unworthiness had no connection with that man," she said in a low, intense voice.

"Come," I said, after a long pause, "let us end all this, Daisy. I love you, and I refuse to accept your self-condemnation. You have assured me that the fellow Drayton is not your lover."

"I swear he is not, Victor," she cried hastily. "I—I love no one else but you."

I drew her closely to me, as, with a sigh, her head fell upon my shoulder, and I kissed the cold lips again and again, while at the same moment a slight shudder ran through her frame.

"No, no!" she cried, putting me away from her a moment later. "Why have you come—to torture me—to recall all the past? My life is—God knows—bitter enough."

"Why should it be?" I asked in surprise. "Why are you not frank with me? You have taken a great burden from my mind, dearest, in telling me that I have misconstrued your regard for Drayton; and you have gone farther—you have admitted that you still love me. Ah! you cannot tell what peace your words have brought to me, or how deeply and devotedly I love you!"

"And yet," she said in a strange voice, turning to look me full in the face as a gleam of light illuminated the interior of the brougham—"and yet you still refuse to tell me the truth regarding Julian Little!"

"The truth regarding Julian!" I echoed. "What do you mean?"

"You surely know," she said.

"Ah! you mean the motive which took him to Servia," I remarked.

"I mean the real reason why he has been so long in hiding."

"That, dearest, is as great a mystery to me as it is to you," I declared. "He has not entered our chambers in Gray's Inn since the strange affair down at Barnes. But, tell me, why are you so greatly interested in that occurrence?"

"I have a very strong reason to be, Victor," was all the reply she would vouchsafe. "You have made many inquiries, I know. Have you yet established the identity of the assassin?"

"No. Unfortunately I have not," I replied. "But, truth to tell, I have always had a suspicion that you know more of the secret history of the affair than anyone else."

She started visibly.

"I? Why, whatever makes you think that?" she laughed, uneasily.

"Because your actions somehow convinced me that you knew more than either Scotland Yard or myself," I responded quite frankly. "I began to investigate the affair in order to obtain sensational 'copy' for the Evening Herald, but my connection with the affair has apparently caused you to suspect me of complicity. Why, is a complete mystery."

"You have refused to answer my questions, remember, Victor," she said in a rather hard tone. "I have been investigating, just as you have been."

"And you apparently suspect Julian?"

"I have made no allegation," she answered. "I have merely asked you to tell me what you knew, and you refused."

"As I have before told you, dearest," I said, "I have no knowledge of Julian's connection with the affair, save that Whitlock held suspicion of him from the very first."

"Exactly. Who, I ask, could have sent those bogus Press messages, except a man who had intimate knowledge of the ways of correspondents? Why did he escape to Servia, and then return to Cromer and live in hiding?"

"You knew he was at Cromer, then?"

"Yes; and he is now here, in London, in secret. I caught sight of him last night."

"Then you have not yet given up your inquiries?"

"No, I shall never give them up until I have fully established his guilt," she cried furiously, and I saw, in the faint glimmer from a street lamp, that upon her white countenance was a look of desperate vengeance. Why, I wondered, was she so bent upon bringing the assassin to justice? Was it possible that the two unfortunate women were her friends? Why, indeed, had she gone to Paris to see the mysterious Monsieur Smith?

Suddenly she said—

"You repeat, then, that you are entirely in ignorance of Little's motives?"

"Entirely. I have heard nothing from him since the day following the tragedy."

She gave vent to a long-drawn sigh, and sat back in the carriage without uttering a word. Her self-condemnation puzzled me. Why did she declare her unworthiness? Was it merely because she had doubted me, and now saw that I had spoken the truth?

My love for her was boundless. True, I had more than once found myself doubting her, and had suspected her of double-dealing. But now that she had denied it I had become reassured, and found myself more than ever filled with affection for her sweet self.

"Why should this mysterious affair be allowed to interfere with the love we bear each other, darling?" I asked, placing my hand upon her shoulder and kissing her soft cheek. She made no protest, but merely sighed again.

"Will you allow it?" I asked. "Surely your interest is also my own! And have you not only a few minutes ago admitted that you are still mine as completely as you ever were?"

"I know! I know!" she exclaimed, hoarsely. "But—Victor—you do not know——"

"Know what?"

"Know all that this means to me," she cried, bursting suddenly into tears. "You say that you love me; but—but when you know the truth you will hate me!"

And she sobbed aloud, giving way to a fit of deep remorse.

I sat beside her entirely mystified, and unable to utter a single sentence.

She seemed as though she was condemning herself for the actual crime!

"Hate you!" I exclaimed at last. "Why, Daisy—why should I hate the woman I love?"

"Because—because—ah! no, I can't tell you. I can't! You love me, and I cannot in one moment turn all your love to hatred. Ah! no—no"—and throwing her arms wildly about my neck, she clung to me, sobbing bitterly and saying: "let me drink the cup of my happiness to the dregs. And—and," she sobbed, "you will think of me sometimes, Victor; think of me as a woman who loved you fondly—who dared to love you, notwithstanding her guilt——"

"Guilt!" I gasped, taking both her soft hands and looking straight into her haggard face. "Guilt! Speak! What do you mean?"

"What—I—say," she answered in a hollow voice of despair.

What could I answer? I sat dumbfounded, in silence, listening to her broken breathing and her low sobs.

Of what was she guilty? Of one thing only—of a crime I dare not recall. Why was she so antagonistic towards Julian Little? Was it because he alone knew her secret and, perhaps, had actually been one of the conspirators who caused the tragic death of Louise Lorimer and her unidentified friend?

While I sat there pondering, with my well-beloved at my side, the brougham suddenly pulled up. I had not heard Daisy give any order to the coachman, so I presume he drove to the address where he had been in the habit of taking her each evening after the show.

She suddenly realised where we were, and gave vent to a low scream.

"No, no!" she cried wildly to the coachman. "Not here! I—I forgot—I——"

"Yes, Daisy," I said in as quiet a tone as I could command, "let us alight here. You evidently know this house. Come."

I got out and helped her to descend. And like one in a dream I followed her up the short flight of steps, where the front door fell back to receive her.

We were entering together the dark, silent house in Woburn Square—the grim house of doom.

TO THE UNKNOWN

Behind her I passed into the dark hall. The door of the dining-room was closed, but from within I heard voices—voices raised in high altercation.

The man who had apparently been watching for the arrival of my companion, and who had opened the door, was tall and bearded—a perfect stranger to me.

He threw back the door of the dining-room, where a curious scene presented itself.

My companion, uttering a cry, drew back in alarm, while I stood upon the threshold, scarcely knowing where I was. All was so sudden, so entirely inexplicable. The room, with its old-fashioned furniture, was well lit, and within stood two men. I could hardly believe my own eyes, for before me stood Stonor—the mysterious M'sieur Smith of the Rue Pierre Charron—and standing near him was my friend Whitlock.

My friend, the police officer, was quite as surprised as myself. He looked from me to my companion, and then exclaimed—

"This is certainly a surprise, Mr Keene. I had no idea that you would come here, especially with Miss Marvin."

"Nor I. But," I asked, "why are you here?"

"To perform a duty," he answered. "I have just placed this man, Frederick Stonor, alias Elkington, under arrest for the murder of Louise Lorimer at Barnes."

"Arrest!" I gasped, staring at Stonor, and yet not without surprise, while Daisy was too confounded to speak.

"Yes. Didn't you recognise the sergeant who admitted you?"

"It's a lie!" declared Stonor, defiantly. "I never killed the girl. You have arrested me wrongfully."

"Then let us say 'on suspicion,'" remarked Whitlock, a sarcastic smile overspreading his ruddy features. "And recollect that all you've told me already may be given in evidence against you on your trial."

"I do not fear any evidence," he said. "I am innocent, perfectly innocent. I know quite well that you came to Scarborough, that you watched me. My movements may have been suspicious, but I shall be interested to see what proofs you have against me."

"You knew the poor girl well," I said, looking him straight in the face. "You took her to have her photograph taken."

"I quite admit that, but I had no knowledge of her assassination until afterwards."

"Until after your wife, Hetty Stonor, had committed suicide," interposed Daisy.

"What!" exclaimed Whitlock, turning to my well-beloved. "Was the woman who took her own life the wife of this man?"

"Yes. But—but I know that he is innocent," she declared. "Are you a police officer?"

"This is Inspector Whitlock, of Scotland Yard," I said.

"Then he has no right to arrest Mr Stonor," she said. "The man who killed poor Louise is your friend, Julian Little."

"He did not, any more than myself," cried Stonor, whom we, however, knew to be his friend in secret.

"We shall inquire into that all in due course, Miss Marvin," Whitlock said. "But it seems that you know something of this case. Perhaps you will kindly give us some information, and we will see if it tallies with the results of our investigations."

"I have told you the truth," she said in a harsh, strained voice. "Mr Little is the guilty person."

"I do not differ from you," said Whitlock; "but I go farther, and say that this man here is equally guilty."

"We shall see," laughed Stonor, in defiance. "Do your worst; but remember that if you arrest me I shall hold you responsible for illegal detention."

"On suspicion, remember," Whitlock said, with a smile. It was evident that some further information had reached him during the past day or so, and he had resolved to take the bull by the horns and make the arrest. It had been quite obvious from the first that Stonor was implicated in the tragic affair, but we had never dreamed that the woman hitherto unidentified was actually his wife. Besides, Little, who had been suspected from the first by Whitlock, had acted in a manner which betrayed fear of arrest.

Yet why, after that scene in Paris, where Drayton had openly denounced Stonor, should Daisy seek to secure his liberty? Why was she so sure of Julian's guilt?

I shall ever remember the startling scene that night—the man under arrest, standing defiant, the inspector cool and somewhat sarcastic, and my well-beloved, with countenance pale as death and trembling hands, seeking to shield that man whose wife had taken her own life under such extraordinary circumstances, and of whose guilt there could, after all, be no doubt!

"Mr Little returned to his chambers this evening," Whitlock said. "He is under observation and we will go to him later."

"You need not trouble. He will be here at midnight. I have an appointment with him," Stonor said.

"Then you admit an intimate friendship—eh?" remarked the detective.

"Certainly. We are friends."

"And he is the assassin!" declared Daisy. "He killed poor Louise!"

"You will have to prove your allegation, Miss Marvin," Stonor said in a quiet voice. "I have not forgotten your words in Paris the other night."

"Nor have I forgotten the exposure which Mr Drayton made concerning yourself," she cried. "It was you who endeavoured to part me from the man who is to be my husband—the man who is here beside me."

Whitlock started and stared at me.

"Is this true, Keene?" he asked in surprise.

I admitted that it was, and that a secret engagement had long existed between the popular artiste and myself.

At this he seemed puzzled, for he reflected for a full five minutes. Then, turning to her, he asked—

"What causes you to suspect Mr Little?"

"I need not say," was her answer. "I know that he killed Louise—that is all."

"I believe you know Mr Francis Douglas Drayton?"

"Intimately," was her prompt reply. "He is my half-brother. My mother married again."

"Your half-brother!" I gasped. "Why, Daisy, you never told me that, and I have all along been jealous of him."

"I had no idea of that until to-night, when I saw how foolishly I had acted. But, now that you know the truth, dismiss him from your mind. In this affair he has acted openly and honestly, and he has saved me from becoming the victim of that man who now stands before us."

A look of anger crossed Stonor's face. Had she been a man he would, I am certain, have knocked her down. But as it was he only said, with a bitter smile playing about his mouth—

"You will regret one day, Daisy, the scandalous allegations you are making against me."

"Allegations! Have I not told them that you are innocent of the blood of Louise Lorimer, although you cannot deny that you loved her."

"I do not deny it. I did love her, and I have been searching to discover the poor girl's secret assassin."

"You have long ago found him in Julian Little," she said. "He played you false."

"As you have played this gentleman here—whose name I don't know," he responded, indicating myself.

Was he referring to the mysterious guilt which she had asserted prevented her from accepting my affection to the full. I watched her face, and saw that she had gone white to the very lips.

"Yes," Stonor went on. "You and your half-brother Drayton may denounce Little and myself, but one day the truth will be out and our innocence established."

"One moment," interposed Whitlock. "Am I correct in believing that this Mr Drayton has been abroad for some years—in Peru and other places?"

"Certainly he has been in Peru. He made, I believe, quite a comfortable sum there by fortunate speculations."

I exchanged glances with Whitlock. There were some closed chapters of the life of her half-brother of which she was, no doubt, in complete ignorance. And certainly she would not know that he was at that moment wanted by the police.

A detective-sergeant, whom I recognised as one of Whitlock's men, entered the room and whispered something, but what he said I could not hear. It was evident that my friend had called there unexpectedly, while several of his men had surrounded the house where, before his wife's tragic death, Stonor had lived under the name of Elkington. The information that the Elkingtons had been young people—obtained originally, I believe, from a milkman—had rather misled us, for, later, we discovered that Elkington—or Stonor, as he was known to us—had let the house furnished after the strange death of his wife, and that the tenants were the young people who had gone away suddenly and to whom the milkman had referred.

A cab, sent for by Whitlock, was at the door, it appeared, ready to take Stonor to the police-station.

"I regret," said the man whose suspicious movements I had watched both in Scarborough and Cromer, addressing Whitlock, "that you should think fit to act like this. You apparently do not wish me to give you any information."

"On the contrary. I merely said that any denial or any statement you may make will be used in evidence against you. It is the law, you know," replied my friend, politely, while the sergeant stood awaiting the orders of his superior.

"At least allow me to remain until Little's arrival," urged the prisoner. "He must be here in a moment, and he will perhaps convince you that I am not the culprit."

"But he is," declared my well-beloved.

"How do you know?" inquired Whitlock. "What evidence have you?"

"I can bring forward a person who knows the truth," she said. "Arrest Julian Little, the murderer of poor Louise, my schoolfellow and friend, and I will furnish ample evidence of his guilt."

"Then, in your opinion, Miss Marvin, this gentleman here is not the actual assassin?" Whitlock remarked.

"I express no opinion except that, knowing what I do, I think you are defeating the ends of justice by arresting him. I do not say he is an upright or an honest man—far from it. Indeed, if I cared, I could reveal certain things concerning him which would probably bring about his arrest upon an entirely different charge, but, mark me, he is not the secret assassin of Louise Lorimer. It was to his interest that the girl should live."

"But who was the girl?" I asked the woman I loved so dearly. "What was the secret of that house at Barnes?"

"Ask the man before you," she replied, indicating Whitlock's prisoner, whose face fell at her direct accusation. "Or, if he will not tell, ask Julian Little."

"I am well aware that Mr Little was at the house at Barnes on the evening preceding the tragic affair," Whitlock said. "He was identified as having entered the house supposed to be tenantless, and therefore, from the first moment when the inquiry was placed in my hands, I have entertained a good deal of suspicion concerning him."

"Exactly. And you will discover that what I have told you is correct," Daisy said. Then, turning to me, she added, "Forgive me for saying this, Victor, of a man who is your friend."

"I cannot yet discover why you are so bitter against him," I remarked. "What harm has he ever done to you?"

"He killed Louise, my friend."

"Tell us the reason of the girl's presence in that tenantless house," urged Whitlock, addressing Stonor, "and why she was engaged at that secret telegraph instrument!"

"I am now under arrest," was his reply. "Ask Little. If he chooses to tell you he can do so."

"And if he does not?"

"Then I shall say nothing," he replied briefly.

"You still assert your innocence?" Whitlock asked, rather surprised at the man's demeanour.

"I do. Take me to the station if you wish, but not before you have questioned Julian Little."

"You imply that he is implicated in the affair with you," said the inspector, drily. When dealing with a prisoner he always spoke abruptly and to the point.

"I imply nothing, and I refuse to make any further statement," Stonor said, with an attempt at carelessness. "Miss Marvin has told you that I am not guilty."

"That has yet to be established," remarked the inspector, quietly.

"And I will establish it," Daisy said, standing bolt upright and facing Whitlock boldly. Her attitude was most extraordinary, having regard to what had taken place in Paris.

I did not know what to think.

CONTAINS A GRAVE CHARGE

There was a movement at the door and Little entered.

His face was full of blank surprise when, on looking around, he recognised Whitlock, Daisy, and myself.

He wore a shabby grey tweed suit, was unshaven, and his appearance was entirely unlike his usual dapper self. Like most constant travellers and thorough-going cosmopolitans, he always—even if he had only just come off a long journey—was well-shaven, clean, and the pink of tidiness. Long journeys, or constant vigilance, induce in most people habits of personal untidiness. But not so in the hardened traveller. He can do a sixty-hour journey and look as fresh and clean at the end of it as if he had only run down to Brighton. Therefore Julian's haggard, neglected look took me by surprise. Certainly the expression of apprehension upon his face was sufficient to cause the gravest suspicion to arise within the mind of myself, his very best friend.

"Ah!" cried the girl I loved so dearly. "Ask this man the truth. Compel him to tell it to you."

"The truth of what?" he gasped, looking round at us each in turn. "What does this mean?"

Stonor spoke.

"It means, Little, that I am arrested for the assassination of Louise Lorimer at Barnes!"

"You!" laughed his friend. "How absurd!" Turning to Whitlock, he said, "Perhaps the movements of Mr Stonor and myself have appeared suspicious, but the truth is we have been investigating the affair on our own account. I know you've watched us. I saw both you and Keene in Cromer, and I feared that you might believe we were the guilty parties, acting in co-operation. But I think I can point out to you facts that will probably astonish you. I'm a journalist, as you know—correspondent of a paper which has the reputation of printing a picture of the real life of to-day. The hypercritical call it sensationalism, but it is really the human interest of our everyday life, omitting the dry-as-dust mock literature which papers like The Globe still put forward. Keene and I believe in being alive and giving the public facts up to date. He has investigated this case on behalf of the paper, while I started out entirely on my own accord. And, I may add, I have made certain discoveries."

"Have you discovered the actual assassin?" I asked, fixing my eyes upon his.

"Yes, Victor," he said, in a low, distinct voice; "I have."

"And who is he?" I demanded.

"The truth regarding the affair is a long story," was Julian's reply. "Stonor can tell you better than myself."

Daisy laughed sarcastically. Her air was that of one acquainted with the truth; and yet Julian's words had caused her to listen with interest, and to wonder. I knew that Julian was antagonistic towards her, but I little dreamed the truth. The scene at that moment was full of tension, a dramatic episode the recollection of which I shall surely carry with me to the grave.

My well-beloved had alleged the crime of murder against the man who was my dearest and best friend! What could I do? What could I say?

"I am under arrest," Stonor said. "Therefore I will say nothing."

There was a pause.

"Look here, Mr Whitlock," said Julian, facing my friend boldly; "this situation is absurd. I tell you frankly that Stonor never harmed the girl. His wife committed suicide after the murder, and it was in his own interest to elucidate the truth. He and I have been engaged in making inquiries ever since the day following the tragedy."

Whitlock looked at him for several moments. Then he said—

"This statement of yours is interesting. And all the more so for one single reason."

"And what's that?"

"Because there is an allegation against you that you are the actual assassin!"

Little burst into laughter.

"Come, Whitlock," he said, "let us speak seriously. Are you actually in earnest?"

"Ask Miss Marvin."

He turned to Daisy. Their eyes met, and I saw in his a strange look of quick inquiry.

"I have said all I have to say," she exclaimed, perfectly cool and perfectly frankly.

"And that," explained Whitlock, "is that you, Mr Little, killed Louise Lorimer."

Julian pursed his lips. It needed no second glance to show him that his position was one of danger and of difficulty. The girl, against whom he had, for the past couple of years, been so antagonistic, had apparently had her revenge, for she had alleged against him the crime of murder.

"So you have said this?" he asked her at last. "You!"

"I have," was her bold reply, "and I repeat it. Mr Stonor is innocent. It is you who are guilty."

"And I suppose both you, Mr Whitlock, and you, Keene, suspect me—eh?" he said, with a bitter smile. "Well, I admit that my movements have been extremely suspicious. But our actions were imperative, and at least we now have one satisfaction."

"And what, pray, is that?" I inquired.

"That we have solved the mystery—Stonor and I. We know how the whole extraordinary affair was conducted, and who actually killed poor Louise!"

"Who is the guilty person?" Whitlock asked.

Little glanced across at Daisy, who stood at my side, and said in a mysterious manner—

"When we are alone I will answer your question. It was neither Stonor nor myself."

"Then you know the whole story of the crime," I said anxiously. "Explain it to us."

"I know a good deal," he replied, "even though I may not know every detail—not having been present myself."

"Yes. Tell us," urged Whitlock.

"With Stonor's permission," he said, glancing inquiringly at his friend.

"I have no objection," the other answered. "For the sooner the affair is cleared up and the real criminal arrested the better. This arrest of myself is absurd. Better be frank and explain the whole affair."

"Very well," said Julian Little, "I will." Then, turning to us, he said: "There are very many curious features of the case, I admit; but, Stonor's mouth being closed, I will explain briefly all I know concerning the tragedy. Some few months ago, while in Constantinople as special correspondent of the Herald, I discovered Stonor living there with his wife—the woman who afterwards committed suicide at Barnes. He had been there for nearly a year, endeavouring to obtain a concession for a monopoly to supply the Sultan's capital with electric light, and had already got hold of one or two good things which he had sold in London. He placed an ingenious project before me—a project whereby we might both make a big fortune at one coup. Briefly explained, it was this. Germany is now making a railway towards the Persian Gulf. Of this line a very long section is completed, but, as the line is a menace to our interests in the East, our Embassy had put pressure upon the Sultan and induced him to withdraw his irade, so that the line could not be extended farther than the point it had already reached. In consequence of this the shares in what had been a most prosperous company with a huge future before it had gone down to nothing, for the stopping of the line half-way across a desert had put an end to all hope of financial success. Now, from one of his friends at the Yildiz—a son of the Grand Vizier, I believe—Stonor knew that Germany was trying to secretly influence the Sultan to revoke his decision. Therefore he suggested that if we obtained early knowledge of the Sultan's reply we might, with the assistance of a capitalist whom we knew in Berlin, buy up the majority of the shares in the company before the truth leaked out, and thus make a huge coup."

"By Jove!" I exclaimed in surprise. "Go on."

"Well, there was only one way in which we could obtain premature news of His Majesty's decision, and that was by intercepting and reading the secret despatch sent from the German Ambassador to the Porte to Prince von Bülow. The latter was in England, staying for some weeks with some friends near Portsmouth. From the secret police in Constantinople Stonor obtained a copy of the telegraphic cipher of the German Foreign Office, which had been abstracted from the German Embassy a year before, copied, and returned to its place. With this in our possession we proceeded to complete our plans; first, in Berlin, with our financial friend—who, at a given signal, could place his hands on the majority of the shares—and then in London, where we took possession of the empty house at Barnes, close to the trunk telegraph lines to Portsmouth, which, with the aid of a telegraph engineer, whom we paid well, we successfully tapped, so that we could read every message before it reached the German Chancellor."

"But what of Louise Lorimer?" Daisy asked, still full of suspicion.

"I was about to tell you of her," Julian went on. "We wanted a female telegraph-clerk, and Stonor, fortunately, knew Louise Lorimer, who was at that time engaged at the post-office at Sydenham. She came to us, and for six weeks, night and day, that wire was watched to see if the despatch from Constantinople, which would mean fortune for us all, came over it. I went to the house, it was true. Indeed, I often went surreptitiously, for I chanced to be in England a good deal at that time. Stonor's wife had been a telegraph-clerk before her marriage, therefore she and Louise took it in turns to watch and sleep. It was a weird business—that constant alertness in the empty house—I can assure you. And then," he added, pausing—"and then came the astounding news of poor Louise's death, and the unaccountable suicide of Mrs Stonor. Only Stonor himself and I knew the identity of the lady who had taken her own life, and it was to our interests to keep the affair a mystery. Instead of a huge fortune, as we anticipated, our ingenious plot had only resulted in a tragedy! And ever since that day Stonor and I have been seeking to elucidate the mystery of who killed poor Louise."

"The movements of both of you were highly suspicious, to say the least," Whitlock remarked, surprised at the story.

"I quite admit that. Indeed, when we knew that you had found us at Cromer, Stonor anticipated arrest."

"And I was not mistaken," laughed the man who had hit upon that ingenious method of making a fortune.

"You will recollect several curious Press messages during your investigations," Little said, addressing me. "They were sent by me, so as to put you off the scent of ourselves, and at the same time to lead you to a knowledge of the actual assassin."

"By you!" I gasped, recollecting that I had at the time judged them to be the work of a professional journalist.

"Yes. The box in the garden of the house at Barnes Stonor had buried himself, while the pointing out of the house wherein he had lived as Elkington was done in order to give you a clue to the young girl's identity. We had already established, without a shadow of doubt, who had committed the murder."

"And whom, pray, do you allege committed the crime?" asked Whitlock, deeply in earnest.

"My friend and whilom partner, Stonor, is under arrest," answered Little, with a smile. "Until he is free I shall not speak."

"Then, in that case, I release him," said Whitlock, utterly amazed at the extraordinary narrative.

"And I hope, Inspector Whitlock, you will arrest the guilty man, who stands there before you!" Daisy exclaimed, pointing straight at Little, who merely shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly.

"Come," said Whitlock, "explain all you know, and give me the names of any witnesses you may have."

"If I may see you for one moment alone, outside in the hall, I will tell you something," he said.

Acting upon his suggestion Whitlock went out at once with him, and for a few moments they conversed together in an undertone.

When the inspector returned I saw that his countenance had altered. There was a look of self-satisfaction upon his face, for he at last knew the truth.

At that moment we heard the front door close, as some one left the house, and then Whitlock said—

"I think, gentlemen, that for the next half hour we may postpone the discussion of the matter. I have sent a sergeant for an important witness, whose presence here will greatly assist us," whereupon the tension grew less, and Stonor, producing a box of cigars and some whisky and soda, offered us generous hospitality.

As if by general consent not a word was spoken regarding the tragedy. Only Daisy was silent and thoughtful. She still seemed full of suspicion of the man who was my friend.

The moments seemed as hours as we waited for the arrival of the person whose name Whitlock would not tell us. He evidently intended to spring some surprise upon one or other of us. It was a habit of his to proceed quickly, coolly, and then suddenly produce his trump-card. And this trump-card had apparently been furnished by Julian Little.

WHICH REVEALS THE TRUTH

The door of the dining-room, wherein we were still assembled, re-opened to admit a young man in evening clothes, the man of whom I had entertained a groundless jealousy—Drayton.

Stonor had, a few moments before, left the room in order to obtain some more soda-water. Otherwise, we were all present.

As Drayton entered, greeting us with some surprise, and inquiring of Whitlock why he had been sent for, Little suddenly and abruptly stepped forward and, raising his hand, said—

"I charge that man with being the assassin of Louise Lorimer!"

"You're a liar!" the young fellow cried. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that we are here to-night to end this mystery, and to deliver the assassin to justice," exclaimed Julian, facing him boldly. "You have acted cleverly—very cleverly—in establishing my guilt to your half-sister. But to-night it must end. The truth must out."

"Oh, must it?" cried Drayton. "Very well, then—it shall. Let us assume for a moment that I am guilty. How, pray, do you prove my alleged offence?"

"You were her secret lover."

"I don't deny that. It is true that I was in love with Louise; and, by heaven! ever since the poor girl's death I've been seeking her assassin!"

"You admit that you were the lover of Louise Lorimer?" asked Whitlock, in surprise.

"Of course I do. Daisy knows that quite well," he answered. "I frequently went to see her at that lonely house in Barnes where she spent so many dismal weeks. After the murder I took Daisy there to show her the place, as she wished to see it."

"My allegation is that you wished to get rid of her, and went there that night intending to do so," Julian said determinedly.

"Scandalous!" cried Daisy, in defence of her half-brother.

"My dear sir," he said, "you are at liberty to allege exactly whatever you like against me. But you will have to establish it, recollect. As a matter of fact, I was not in London on that night."

"Ah, so you intend to prove an alibi!" remarked Whitlock, quickly.

"You're a liar!" Little declared openly. "It will be proved that you were not only in London, but you were with Miss Marvin earlier in the evening."

"She will be able to tell you that, no doubt," responded the man whose finger-marks upon his glass at the Gambrinus had betrayed him. "You are endeavouring to make this allegation against me in order to shield yourself. You were, as you know, Daisy's admirer, and because she refused to have anything whatever to do with you, you have been her bitterest enemy."

"Is this true?" I asked breathlessly, turning to my well-beloved, beside whom stood Stonor, who had just re-entered.

"I have forgiven everything long ago, Victor," she said, in her soft, sweet voice. "But what I can never forgive is the foul assassination of my helpless friend. What Douglas has told me is sufficient proof of that man's guilt."

"And what has he told you?" I asked.

"Facts which he cannot substantiate," interposed Little, with a dry, but uneasy, laugh. The revelation that he had been an admirer of Daisy's had apparently upset him. It was strange how each man was now accusing the other, and all apparently without any satisfactory evidence to support their charges.

Drayton had admitted, however, that he had been the poor girl's lover in secret, and his manner when charged with the crime was distinctly that of a guilty man. I had not liked him from the first moment when I had seen him in the Gambrinus, and I did not like him now. Upon his countenance "Adventurer" was plainly written, yet he seemed to wield over Daisy some strong but occult power. She humoured his every whim, and what he told her she believed implicitly.

That there had been suspicion against Julian Little could not be denied, but in face of what I had just heard, I began now to discard the theory I had once formed, and I believed every word that my friend uttered.

Drayton, though shielded by Daisy, was no doubt guilty. He had been the secret lover of poor Louise, had been in the habit of visiting the deserted house at night—as it was impossible to go there in the daytime—and had, on the fatal night, rid himself of what he feared was becoming an incubus upon him. The whole affair was now plain as daylight; yet, unfortunately, it was merely based upon circumstantial evidence. There was no witness; no actual proof.

Whitlock apparently viewed the situation from exactly the same standpoint as myself. He saw in Drayton's allegations against Little an attempt to shield himself. The admission he had made of being the girl's lover was in itself a damaging one.

"Well," said the inspector, who certainly had a difficult task in these conflicting allegations, "I think, Mr Drayton, that I shall have to ask you to consider yourself my prisoner."

"What!" gasped the young man, all the colour fading from his face. "You—you mean you arrest me!"

"Yes—on suspicion of being the assassin of Louise Lorimer," responded Whitlock, in hard, businesslike tones.

Daisy gave vent to a low scream, realising that her half-brother, in whose honesty she had such firm belief, was now under arrest.

"No!" she cried. "This is infamous! He is innocent. I know he is!"

"Mr Drayton's innocence will be proved in due course," the detective said coldly. "Meanwhile I must detain him on suspicion."

"I can prove my innocence at once," cried the young man. "Give me a piece of paper—I want to write a note."

Whitlock pointed to a small escritoire, and, bending to it, Drayton scribbled a few hasty lines, which he placed in an envelope upon which he wrote an address.

"Will you please send someone with that and ask for an answer," he said, handing the note to Whitlock. "It isn't far—only in Marylebone Road."

My friend despatched it, ordering the sergeant to take a cab.

Twenty minutes or so later the sergeant returned, ushering in a pale-faced, ill-dressed youth with longish hair and broken boots—a youth who, by his appearance, picked up a precarious living on the streets.

"Good-evenin', Mr Drayton!" he exclaimed, on encountering the young man who had sent for him. "I've come, yer see. I said I would, when yer sent for me."

"Yes; I'm glad you're here, Monro," Drayton said. "I want you to tell this gentleman"—and he indicated Whitlock—"what you saw in that house at Barnes on the night when the young woman was murdered."

"Well, sir," he answered without hesitation, "I wor down on my luck, an' 'avin' no place to go for the night I saw, as I wor goin' along Castelnau, in Barnes, wot I takes to be a hempty 'ouse. I climbs over the gate, an' findin' a window at the back 'arf open, gets inside, when on a sudden I 'ears voices—a man and a woman, an' I also 'ears a little bell a-ringin'. I listens, an' I 'ears another footstep outside in the garden, an' I sees the figure of a man a-hidin' hisself in the bushes. I creeps up to the room where the voices come from, an' I sees a fellow an' a girl a-quarrellin'. An' then—an' then I saw the fellow deliberately kill the girl. An' after 'e'd done it 'e steals out quick, an' 'e nearly 'it up agin me in the dark passage where I wor a-standin'. An' 'e does a bunk, quick."

"You actually saw his face?" Whitlock asked eagerly. "Now, think of what you're saying."

"'Course I did."

"Is he in this room?"

"No. 'E ain't 'ere."

Drayton stared at the youth in abject wonder, for he expected that he would identify Little. "It was myself who hid in the bushes, for I had gone there to see Louise," he explained.

"What was he like?" Whitlock asked. "Describe him to us."

"Well, 'e was stout, with a rather crooked nose an' a reddish face. I saw 'im quite plainly," answered the youth Monro.

"But you never told me this before," Drayton said.

"I pointed out a bloke close to 'Ammersmith bridge wot from 'is back I thought was the man."

"And he was this gentleman—Mr Little," Drayton said.

"Well, the chap who did it was much fatter, an' 'ad a red face—a reg'lar clock on 'im," the youth declared.

"Where is Stonor?" I asked, looking round, for on Monro's entry there he had left the room again and had not returned.

Stonor! the description of the assassin fitted him exactly! I stood breathless.

In an instant his absence aroused strong suspicion, and Whitlock, stepping out into the hall, inquired of the sergeant if anyone had passed out.

"No, sir. And the area door is locked. I have the key."

Whitlock shouted up the stairs, "Mr Stonor! Mr Stonor!" but there was no response.

Frantic search resulted in the discovery of the door of a small bedroom on the second floor being locked. In a few moments it was unceremoniously forced, and there upon the floor, with a small empty phial upon the dressing-table, lay the body of the scoundrel who had so completely deceived the man who had entered into the ingenious partnership. He had, it seemed, seen the youth as he had left the rooms at Barnes on the night of his crime, and, again recognising him, saw that the game was up.

Later inquiries, made by Little, Drayton and myself, showed that Stonor was at first much attached to Louise, and had completely misled his sister at Scarborough. A very shady business transaction of his, amounting to a serious crime, in which he had swindled Little, had been discovered by the girl, and he feared to discharge her lest she should have her revenge by exposing his methods to Julian. Therefore he resolved to kill her, and cast suspicion upon Drayton with Little's aid. The concealment of the birth-certificate and other things showed how carefully he had prepared the evidence against Drayton, whom he knew as an adventurer, and how ingeniously he had carried the mystery forward until the police were so utterly puzzled that the problem had been placed beyond solution. Every detail had been marvellously thought out—all except the tragic suicide of his poor wife—which had utterly unnerved even him.

Inquiries made it quite plain that she was well aware of her husband's clever tactics, and had assisted him in several business transactions which were the reverse of honest. Drayton had, through Louise, obtained knowledge of all this, and the day previous to the tragedy demanded blackmail of her. She had not told her husband, as they were not on very good terms because of his undue admiration of the pretty telegraph-girl. When on the night in question she entered there to relieve Louise and watch the wire while she slept, and encountered the constable, and saw the body of the girl of whom she was jealous, she naturally concluded that Drayton had carried out his threat of exposure, especially as she found herself under arrest. She, therefore, in a frenzy of terror and despair, committed suicide in the police-cell.

More than a year has now passed since the dramatic incidents of that well-remembered night when the truth was crystallised.

Daisy—my own sweet-faced Daisy—is now my wife. We love each other. Need I tell you more?

An hour after the establishment of Stonor's guilt we mutually apologised for daring to doubt each other, and since that moment our lives have been full of blissful happiness.

She retired from the stage a week before our marriage, preferring my love to the life of limelight and tinsel in which she had hitherto been such a prominent figure. We have a pretty, old-fashioned house down at Wimbledon, overlooking the common; but we are very seldom there, for she is already becoming a hardened traveller, and is mostly away with me on the Continent, journeying hither and thither, and assisting me in my work as special correspondent of the Daily Herald. Indeed, many of the telegrams you read in your morning paper signed by myself have been penned by her hand.

Drayton, owing to certain information I gave him regarding the probable activity of the police, again left England suddenly, and when last heard of was in Mexico. Julian Little is now our best friend, and a confirmed bachelor. He is, like myself, ever travelling, and we sometimes come across each other in odd out-of-the-way places on the Continent, while at the office off Fleet Street the staff are just the same, except that in certain quarters there is, I believe, considerable envy at my good fortune.

But Daisy and I laugh the whole world in the face. We love each other with a passionate, perfect, and all-absorbing affection, and no cloud mars our peace and contentment. Her self-accusation was, I discovered, relative to the days long past, when Little had admired her, and when she in her girlish ecstasy had given him a declaration of what she believed then to be love. Though our marriage was really the outcome of a great and mysterious crime, yet we both feel, and we have both more than once declared, that if we could peep for an instant into the Book of Fate we should find our present existence of sweet content and our future just exactly as desired by you, my reader.—"The Looker-On."

THE END

EDINBURGH
COLSTON AND CO. LIMITED
PRINTERS

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]

WILLIAM LE QUEUX'S NOVELS

OPINIONS IN 1908

"Mr William Le Queux is the master of the sensational novel. He never lets us pause for an instant to draw breath."—Daily Mail.

"Our most gifted and popular writer of sensational fiction."—M.A.P.

"Mr Le Queux, instead of becoming stale, seems by practice to have become more ingenious and subtle in his plots and defter in developing them."—British Weekly.

"No living novelist can beat Mr Le Queux in contriving an ingenious, sensational and absorbing mystery."—The Reader.

"Certainly the age of the mystery novel does not seem likely to pass away so long as William Le Queux lives and writes."—Northern Whig.

"There is no defter hand at the compounding of a thoroughly satisfactory mystery than Mr Le Queux. He holds the reader in breathless suspense throughout."—Literary World.

"It is useless to recommend Mr Le Queux. He has an audience always ready for more."—Queen.

"The last page ('The Count's Chauffeur') indicates that we have not finished with George Ewart, and his tales are so exciting that we feel we could stand any amount more."—Daily Telegraph.

"Mr William Le Queux is the favourite novelist of at least four crowned heads. They are Queen Alexandra, the King of Italy, King Peter of Servia, and Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria."—Pall Mall Gazette.

"Mr Le Queux is the most widely-read novelist; and deservedly so, for his books hold one from the first page to the very last."—Illustrated Mail.

"Wherever the English language is spoken, the thrilling stories of Mr Le Queux are known."—Ideas.