William Le Queux

"Sir Digby Kemsley was here an hour ago, sir. He couldn't wait!" Haines exclaimed, bringing himself to attention.

"Sir Digby!" I gasped, starting. "Why, in heaven's name, didn't you ring me up at Mrs. Shand's?" I cried.

"Because he wouldn't allow me, sir. He came to see you in strictest secrecy, sir. When I opened the door I didn't know him. He's shaved off his beard and moustache, and was dressed like a clergyman."

"A clergyman!"

"Yes, sir. He looked just like a parson. I wouldn't have known him in the street."

"An excellent ruse!" I exclaimed. "Of course, Haines, you know that—well—that the police are looking for him—eh?"

"Perfectly well, but you can trust me, sir. I'll say nothing. Sir Digby's a friend of yours."

"Yes, a great friend, and I feel that he's falsely accused of that terrible affair which happened at his flat," I said. "Did he promise to call again?"

"He scribbled this note for you," Haines said, taking up a letter from my blotting-pad.

With trembling fingers I tore it open, and upon a sheet of my own notepaper read the hurriedly written words—

"Sorry you were out. Wanted to see you most urgently. Keep your promise at Piccadilly Circus, and know nothing concerning me. My movements are most uncertain, as something amazing has occurred which prevents me making explanation. I will, however, send you my address in secret as soon as I have one. I trust you, Teddy, for you are my only friend.

"Digby."

I read the note several times, and gathered that he was in hourly fear of arrest. Every corner held for him a grave danger. Yet what could have occurred that was so amazing and which prevented him speaking the truth.

That I had not been in when he called was truly unfortunate. But by the fact that he was in clerical attire I surmised that he was living in obscurity—perhaps somewhere in the suburbs. London is the safest city in the world in which to hide, unless, of course, creditors or plaintiffs make it necessary to seek peace "beyond the jurisdiction of the Court."

Many a good man is driven to the latter course through no fault of his own, but by the inexorable demands of the Commissioners of Income Tax, or by undue pressure from antagonistic creditors. Every English colony on the Continent contains some who have fallen victims—good, honest Englishmen—who are dragging out the remainder of their lives in obscurity, men whose names are perhaps household words, but who conceal them beneath one assumed.

Digby would probably join the throng of the exiled. So I could do naught else than wait for his promised message, even though I was frantic in my anxiety to see and to question him regarding the reason of the presence of my well-beloved at his flat on that fatal night.

Imagine my bitter chagrin that I had not been present to receive him! It might be many months before I heard from him again, for his promise was surely very vague.

Presently I took the glass very carefully from my pocket, unwrapped it from its paper, and locked it in a little cabinet in the corner of my room, until next morning I brought it forth, and placing it upon a newspaper powdered it well with the pale green chalk which revealed at once a number of finger-marks—mine, Bain's, and Phrida's.

I am something of a photographer, as everybody is in these days of photo competitions. Therefore, I brought out my Kodak with its anastigmat lens,—a camera which I had carried for some years up and down Europe, and after considerable arrangement of the light, succeeded in taking a number of pictures. It occupied me all the morning, and even then I was not satisfied with the result. My films might, for aught I know, be hopelessly fogged.

Therefore, with infinite care, I took the glass to a professional photographer I knew in Bond Street, and he also made a number of pictures, which were duly developed and enlarged some hours later, and showed the distinctive lines and curves of each finger-print.

Not until the morning of the day following was I able to take these latter to Edwards, and then a great difficulty presented itself. How was I to explain how I had obtained the prints?

I sat for an hour smoking cigarettes furiously and thinking deeply.

At last a plan presented itself, and taking a taxi I went down to Scotland Yard, where I had no difficulty in obtaining an interview in his airy, barely-furnished business-like room.

"Hulloa, Mr. Royle!" he exclaimed cheerily as I entered. "Sit down—well, do you know anything more of that mysterious friend of yours—eh?"

I did not reply. Why should I lie? Instead, I said:

"I've been doing some amateur detective work. Have you the photographs of those finger-prints found on the specimen-table in Sir Digby's room?"

"Yes, of course," was his prompt reply, and going over to a cupboard he brought out a pile of papers concerning the case, and from it produced a number of photographic prints.

My heart stood still when I saw them. Were either of them exactly similar to any of those I carried with me? I almost feared to allow comparison to be made.

Edwards, noticing my hesitation, asked in what quarter my efforts had been directed.

"I've been getting some finger-prints, that's all," I blurted forth, and from my pocket drew the large envelope containing the prints.

The detective took them across to the window and regarded them very closely for some time, while I looked eagerly over his shoulder.

The curves and lines were extremely puzzling to me, unaccustomed as I was to them. Edwards, too, remained in silent indecision.

"We'll send them along to Inspector Tirrell in the Finger-print Department," my friend said at last. "He's an expert, and will tell at a glance if any marks are the same as ours."

Then he rang a bell, and a constable, at his instructions, carried all the prints to the department in question.

"Well, Mr. Royle," exclaimed the inspector when the door had closed; "how did you obtain those prints?"

I was ready for his question, and a lie was at once glibly upon my lips.

"Sir Digby, on the night of his disappearance, returned to me a small steel despatch box which he had borrowed some weeks before; therefore, after the affair, I examined it for finger-prints, with the result I have shown you," I said.

"Ah! but whatever prints were upon it were there before the entrance of the victim to your friend's rooms," he exclaimed. "He gave it to you when you bade him good-night, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"And you carried the box home with you?"

"Yes," I repeated; in fear nevertheless, that my lie might in some way incriminate me. Yet how could I tell him of my suspicion of Phrida. That secret was mine—and mine alone, and, if necessary, I would carry it with me to the grave.

Edwards was again silent for some minutes.

"No, Mr. Royle, I can't see that your evidence helps us in the least. If there should be the same prints on your despatch box as we found upon the specimen-table, then what do they prove?—why, nothing. If the box had been in the room at the time of the tragedy, then it might have given us an important clue, because such an object would probably be touched by any malefactor or assassin. But——"

"Ah!" I cried, interrupting. "Then you do not suspect Sir Digby, after all—eh?"

"Pardon me, Mr. Royle, but I did not say that I held no suspicion," was his quiet answer. "Yet, if you wish to know the actual truth, I, at present, am without suspicion of anyone—except of that second woman, the mysterious woman whose finger-prints we have, and who was apparently in the room at the same time as the unidentified victim."

"You suspect her, then?" I asked breathlessly.

"Not without further proof," he replied, with a calm, irritating smile. "I never suspect unless I have good grounds for doing so. At present we have three clear finger-prints of a woman whom nobody saw enter or leave, just as nobody saw the victim enter. Your friend Sir Digby seems to have held a midnight reception of persons of mysterious character, and with tragic result."

"I feel sure he is no assassin," I cried.

"It may have been a drama of jealousy—who knows?" said Edwards, standing erect near the window and gazing across at me. "Your friend, in any case, did not care to remain and explain what happened. A girl—an unknown girl—was struck down and killed."

"By whom, do you think?"

"Ah! Mr. Royle, the identity of the assassin is what we are endeavouring to discover," he replied gravely. "We must first find this man who has so successfully posed as Sir Digby Kemsley. He is a clever and elusive scoundrel, without a doubt. But his portrait is already circulated both here and on the Continent. The ports are all being watched, while I have five of the best men I can get engaged on persistent inquiry. He'll try to get abroad, no doubt. No doubt, also, he has a banking account somewhere, and through that we shall eventually trace him. Every man entrusts his banker with his address. He has to, in order to obtain money."

"Unless he draws his money out in cash and then goes to a tourist agency and gets a letter of credit."

"Ah, yes, that's often done," my friend admitted. "The tourist agencies are of greatest use to thieves and forgers. They take stolen notes, change them into foreign money, and before the numbers can be circulated are off across the Channel with their booty. If we look for stolen notes we are nearly certain to find them in the hands of a tourist agency or a money-changer."

"Then you anticipate that you may find my friend Digby through his bankers?"

"Perhaps," was his vague answer. "But as he is your friend, Mr. Royle, I perhaps ought not to tell you of the channels of information we are trying," he added, with a dry laugh.

"Oh, I assure you I'm entirely ignorant of his whereabouts," I said. "If I knew, I should certainly advise him to come and see you."

"Ah! you believe in his innocence, I see?"

"I most certainly do!"

"Well,—we shall see—we shall see," he said in that pessimistic tone which he so often adopted.

"What are you doing about those letters—that letter which mentions the fountain?" I asked.

"Nothing. I've dismissed those as private correspondence regarding some love episode of the long ago," he replied. "They form no clue, and are not worth following."

At that moment the constable re-entered bearing the photographs.

"Well, what does Inspector Tirrell say?" Edwards asked quickly of the man.

"He has examined them under the glass, sir, and says that they are the same prints in both sets of photographs—the thumb and index-finger of a woman—probably a young and refined woman. He's written a memo there, sir."

Edwards took it quickly, and after glancing at it, handed it to me to read.

It was a mere scribbled line signed with the initials "W. H. T.," to the effect that the same prints appeared in both photographs, and concluded with the words "No record of this person is known in this department."

I know I stood pale and breathless at the revelation—at the incontestable proof that my well-beloved had actually been present in Digby's room after my departure on that fatal night.

Why?

By dint of a great effort I succeeded in suppressing the flood of emotions which so nearly overcame me, and listened to Edwards as he remarked:

"Well, after all, Mr. Royle, it doesn't carry us any further. Our one object is to discover the identity of the woman in question, and I think we can only do that from your absconding friend himself. If the marks are upon your despatch-box as you state, then the evidence it furnishes rather disproves the theory that the unknown woman was actually present at the time of the tragedy."

I hardly know what words I uttered.

I had successfully misled the great detective of crime, but as I rode along in the taxi back to my rooms, I was in a frenzy of despair, for I had proved beyond a shadow of doubt that Phrida was aware of what had occurred—that a black shadow of guilt lay upon her.

The woman I had loved and trusted, she who was all the world to me, had deceived me, though she smiled upon me so sweetly. She, alas! held within her breast a guilty secret.

Ah! in that hour of my bitterness and distress the sun of my life became eclipsed. Only before me was outspread a limitless grey sea of dark despair.