My love paused. She remained silent for a long time. Then, with her head bowed, she faltered:

"Yes. I—I am compelled to refuse."

"Why compelled?" I demanded.

"I—I cannot tell you," she whispered hoarsely. "I dare not."

"Dare not? Is your secret so terrible, then?"

"Yes. It is all a mystery. I do not know the truth myself," she replied. "I only know that I—that I love you, and that now, because that woman has spoken, I have lost you and am left to face the world—the police—alone!"

"Have I not told you, dearest, that I will do my best to protect and defend you if you will only reveal the truth to me," I said.

"But I can't."

"You still wish to shield this blackguard who has held you in secret in his hands?" I cried in anger.

"No, I don't," she cried in despair. "I tell you, Teddy, now—even if this is the last time we ever meet—that I love you and you alone. I have fallen the victim of a clever and dastardly plot, believe me, or believe me not. What I tell you is the truth."

"I do believe you," I replied fervently. "But if you love me, Phrida, as you declare, you will surely reveal to me the perfidy of this man I have trusted!"

"I—I can't now," she said in a voice of excuse. "It is impossible. But you may know some day."

"You knew that I visited him on that fatal night. Answer me?"

She hesitated. Then presently, in a low tone, replied—

"Yes, Teddy, I knew. Ah!" she went on, her face white and haggard. "You cannot know the torture I have undergone—fearing that you might be aware of my presence there. Each time I met you I feared to look you in the face."

"Because your secret is a guilty one—eh?"

"I fell into a trap, and I cannot extricate myself," she declared hoarsely. "Now that the police know, there is only one way out for me," she added, in a tone of blank despair. "I cannot face it—no—I—now that I have lost your love, dear. I care for naught more. My enemies will hound me to my death!"

And she burst into a torrent of bitter tears.

"No, no," I answered her, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "Reveal the truth to me, and I will protect you and shield you from them. At present, though the police are in possession of your finger-prints, as being those of a person who had entered the flat on that night, they have no knowledge of your identity, therefore, dear, have no fear."

"Ah! but I am in peril!" she cried, and I felt her shudder beneath my touch. "That woman—ah!—she may tell the police!"

"What woman?"

"Mrs. Petre, the woman who has already betrayed me to you."

"Then she knows—she knows your secret?" I gasped.

She bent her head slowly in the affirmative.

I saw in her eyes a look of terror and despair, such as I had never before seen in the eyes of any person before—a haunted, agonised expression that caused my heart to go out in sympathy for her—for even though she might be guilty—guilty of that crime of vengeance, yet, after all, she was mine and she possessed my heart.

"Is there no way of closing that woman's lips?" I asked very slowly.

She was silent, for, apparently, the suggestion had not before occurred to her. Of a sudden, she looked up into my face earnestly, and asked:

"Tell me, Teddy. Will you promise me—promise not to prejudge me?"

"I do not prejudge you at all, dearest," I declared with a smile. "My annoyance is due to your refusal to reveal to me anything concerning the man who has falsely posed as my friend."

"I would tell you all, dearest," she assured me, "but it is impossible. If I spoke I should only further arouse your suspicions, for you would never believe that I spoke the truth."

"Then you prefer that I should remain in ignorance, and by doing so your own peril becomes increased!" I remarked, rather harshly.

"Alas! my silence is imperative," was all she would reply.

Again and again I pressed her to tell me the reason of the evil influence held over her by the man who was now a fugitive, but with the greatest ingenuity she evaded my questions, afterwards declaring that all my inquiries were futile. The secret was hers.

"And so you intend to shield this man, Phrida," I remarked at last, in bitter reproach.

"I am not silent for his sake!" my love cried, starting up in quick resentment. "I hate him too much. No, I refuse to reveal the truth because I am compelled."

"But supposing you were compelled to clear yourself in a criminal court," I said. "Supposing that this woman went to the police! What then? You would be compelled to speak the truth."

"No. I—I'd rather kill myself!" she declared, in frantic despair. "Indeed, that is what I intend to do—now that I know I have lost you!"

"No, no," I cried. "You have not lost me, Phrida. I still believe in your purity and honesty," I went on, clasping her passionately to my heart, she sobbing bitterly the while. "I love you and I still believe in you," I whispered into her ear.

She heaved a great sigh.

"Ah! I wonder if you really speak the truth?" she murmured. "If I thought you still believed in me, how happy I should be. I would face my enemies, and defy them."

"I repeat, Phrida, that notwithstanding this suspicion upon you, I love you," I said very earnestly.

"Then you will not prejudge me!" she asked, raising her tear-stained eyes to mine. "You will not believe evil of me until—until I can prove to you the contrary. You will not believe what Mrs. Petre has told you?" she implored.

"I promise, dearest, that I will believe nothing against you," I said fervently, kissing her cold, hard lips. "But cannot you, in return, assist me in solving the mystery of Harrington Gardens. Who was the girl found there? Surely you know?"

"No, I don't. I swear I don't," was her quick reply, though her face was blanched to the lips.

"But Mrs. Petre gave me to understand that you knew her," I said.

"Yes—that woman!" she cried in anger. "She has lied to you, as to the others. Have I not told you that she is my most deadly enemy?"

"Then she may go to the police—who knows! How can we close her mouth?"

My love drew a long breath and shook her head. The light had faded, and only the fitful flames of the fire illuminated the sombre room. In the dark shadows she presented a pale, pathetic little figure, her face white as death, her thin, delicate hands clasped before her in dismay and despair.

"Have you any idea where Digby is at this moment?" I asked her slowly, wondering whether if he were an intimate friend he had let her know his hiding-place.

"No. I have not the slightest idea," was her faint reply.

"Ah! If only I could discover him I would wring the truth from him," I exclaimed between my teeth.

"And if you did so, I myself would be imperilled," she remarked. "No, Teddy, you must not do that if—if you love me and would protect me."

"Why?"

"If you went to him he would know that I had spoken, and then he would fulfil the threats he has so often made. No, you must not utter a single word. You must, for my sake, still remain his friend. Will you, dear?"

"After what you have told me!" I cried. "Never!"

"But you must," she implored, grasping both my hands in hers. "If he had the slightest suspicion that I had admitted my friendship with him, he would act as he has always declared he would."

"How would he act?"

"He would reveal something—he would bring proofs that even you would consider irrefutable," she answered in a low, hard whisper. "No, dear," and her grip upon my hands tightened. "In any case there only remains to me one course—to end it all, for in any case, I must lose you. Your confidence and love can never be restored."

"You must not speak like that," I said very gravely. "I have not yet lost confidence in you, Phrida. I——"

"Ah! I know how generous you are, dear," she interrupted, "but how can I conceal from myself the true position? You have discovered that I visited that man's flat clandestinely, that—that we were friends—and that——"

She paused, not concluding her sentence, and bursting again into tears, rushed from the room before I could grasp and detain her.

I stood silent, utterly dumbfounded.

Were those words an admission of her guilt?

Was it by her hand, as that woman had insinuated, the unknown girl's life had been taken?

I recollected the nature of the wound, as revealed by the medical evidence, and I recalled that knife which was lying upon the table in the drawing-room above.

Why did Phrida so carefully conceal from me the exact truth concerning her friendship with the man I had trusted? What secret power did he exercise over her? And why did she fear to reveal anything to me—even though I had assured her that my confidence in her remained unshaken.

Was not guilt written upon that hard, white face?

I stood staring out of the window in blank indecision. What I had all along half feared had been proved. Between my love and the man of whom I had never had the slightest suspicion, some secret—some guilty secret—existed.

And even now, even at risk of losing my affection, she was seeking to shield him!

My blood boiled within me, and I clenched my fists as I strode angrily up and down that dark room.

All her admissions came back to me—her frantic appeal to me not to prejudge her, and her final and out-spoken decision to take her own life rather than reveal the truth.

What could it mean? What was the real solution of that strange problem of crime in which, quite unwittingly, I had become so deeply implicated?

I was passing the grate in pacing the room, as I had already done several times, when my eyes fell upon a piece of paper which had been screwed up and flung there. Curiosity prompted me to pick it out of the cinders, for it struck me that it must have been thrown there by Phrida before I had entered the room.

To my surprise I saw the moment I held it in my hand that it was a telegram. Opening it carefully I found that it was addressed to her, therefore she had no doubt cast it upon the fire when I had so suddenly entered.

I read it, and stood open-mouthed and amazed.

By it the perfidy of the woman I loved, alas! became revealed.

She had deceived me!