"The identity of the victim has not yet been established, sir."

These words were spoken to the coroner by Inspector Edwards at the adjourned inquest held on January the twenty-second.

Few people were in court, for, until the present, the public had had no inkling as to what had occurred on that fatal night in Harrington Gardens. The first inquest had not been "covered" by any reporter, as the police had exercised considerable ingenuity in keeping the affair a secret.

But now, at the adjourned inquiry, secrecy was no longer possible, and the three reporters present were full of inquisitiveness regarding the evidence given on the previous occasion, and listened with attention while it was being read over.

Inspector Edwards, however, had dealt with them in his usually genial manner, and by the exercise of considerable diplomacy had succeeded in allaying their suspicions that there was any really good newspaper "story" in connection with it.

The medical witnesses were recalled, but neither had anything to add to the depositions they had already made. The deceased had been fatally stabbed by a very keen knife with a blade of peculiar shape. That was all.

The unknown had been buried, and all that remained in evidence was a bundle of blood-stained clothing, some articles of jewellery, a pair of boots, hat, coat, gloves, and a green leather vanity-bag.

"Endeavours had been made, sir, to trace some of the articles worn by the deceased, and also to establish the laundry marks on the underclothing," the inspector went on, "but, unfortunately, the marks have been pronounced by experts to be foreign ones, and the whole of the young lady's clothes appear to have been made abroad—in France or Belgium, it is thought."

"The laundry marks are foreign, eh?" remarked the coroner, peering at the witness through his pince-nez, and poising his pen in his hand. "Are you endeavouring to make inquiry abroad concerning them?"

"Every inquiry is being made, sir, in a dozen cities on the continent. In fact, in all the capitals."

"And the description of the deceased has been circulated?"

"Yes, sir. Photographs have been sent through all the channels in Europe. But up to the present we have met with no success," Edwards replied. "There is a suspicion because of a name upon a tab in the young girl's coat that she may be Italian. Hence the most ardent search is being made by the Italian authorities into the manner and descriptions of females lately reported as missing."

"The affair seems remarkably curious," said the coroner. "It would certainly appear that the lady who lost her life was a stranger to London."

"That is what we believe, sir," Edwards replied. Seated near him, I saw how keen and shrewd was the expression upon his face. "We have evidence that certain persons visited the flat on the night in question, but these have not yet been identified. The owner of the flat has not yet been found, he having absconded."

"Gone abroad, I suppose?"

"It would appear so, sir."

"And his description has been circulated also?" asked the coroner.

"Yes, a detailed description, together with a recent photograph," was Edwards' reply. Then he added: "We have received this at Scotland Yard, sir—an anonymous communication which may or may not throw considerable light on to the affair," and he handed a letter on blue paper to the coroner, which the latter perused curiously, afterwards passing it over to the foreman of the jury.

"Rather remarkable!" he exclaimed.

Then, when the jury had completed reading the anonymous letter, addressing them, he said:

"It is not for you, gentlemen, to regard that letter in the light of evidence, but, nevertheless, it raises a very curious and mysterious point. The writer, as you will note, is prepared to reveal the truth of the whole affair in return for a monetary reward. It is, of course, a matter to be left entirely at the discretion of the police."

I started at this statement, and gazed across the court—dull and cheerless on that cold winter's afternoon.

Who had written that anonymous letter? Who could it be who was ready to reveal the truth if paid for doing so?

Was Phrida's terrible secret known?

I held my breath, and listened to the slow, hard words of the coroner, as he again addressed some questions to the great detective.

"Yes, sir," Edwards was saying. "There is distinct evidence of the presence at the flat on the night in question of some person—a woman whose identity we have not yet been successful in establishing. We, however, have formed a theory which certainly appears to be borne out by the writer of the letter I have just handed you."

"That the unknown was struck down by the hand of a woman—eh?" asked the Coroner, looking sharply across at the Inspector, who briefly replied in the affirmative, while I sat staring straight before me, like a man in a dream.

I heard the Coroner addressing the jury in hard, business-like tones, but I know not what he said. My heart was too full to think of anything else besides the peril of the one whom I loved.

I know that the verdict returned by the jury was one of "Wilful murder." Then I went out into the fading light of that brief London day, and, seeking Edwards, walked at his side towards the busy Kensington High Street.

We had not met for several days, and he, of course, had no knowledge of my visit to Brussels. Our greeting was a cordial one, whereupon I asked him what was contained in the anonymous letter addressed to "The Yard"?

"Ah! Mr. Royle. It's very curious," he said. "The Coroner has it at this moment, or I'd show it to you. The handwriting is a woman's, and it has been posted at Colchester."

"At Colchester!" I echoed in dismay.

"Yes, why?" he asked, looking at me in surprise.

"Oh, nothing. Only—well, Colchester is a curious place for anyone to live who knows the truth about an affair in Kensington," was my reply, for fortunately I quickly recovered myself.

"Why not Colchester as well as Clapham—eh?"

"Yes, of course," I laughed. "But, tell me, what does the woman say?"

"She simply declares that she can elucidate the mystery and give us the correct clue—even bring evidence if required—as to the actual person who committed the crime, if we, on our part, will pay for the information."

"And what shall you do?" I asked eagerly.

"I don't exactly know. The letter only arrived this morning. To-morrow the Council of Seven will decide what action we take."

"Does the woman give her name?" I asked with affected carelessness.

"No. She only gives the name of 'G. Payne,' and the address as 'The G.P.O., London.' She's evidently a rather cute person."

"G. Payne"—the woman Petre without a doubt.

I recollected her telegram asking me to meet her. She had said that something had "happened," and she had urged me to see her as soon as possible. Was it because I had not replied that she had penned that anonymous letter to the police?

The letter bore the Colchester post-mark, and she, I knew, lived at Melbourne House in that town.

"I suppose you will get into communication with her," I exclaimed presently.

"Of course. Any line of action in the elucidation of the mystery is worth trying. But what I cannot quite understand is, why she requires blood-money," remarked the detective as we strolled together in the arcaded entrance to the Underground Station at High Street, Kensington. "I always look askance at such letters. We receive many of them at the Yard. Not a single murder mystery comes before us, but we receive letters from cranks and others offering to point out the guilty person."

"But may not the writers of such letters be endeavouring to fasten guilt upon perfectly innocent persons against whom they have spite?" I suggested.

"Ah! That's just it, Mr. Royle," exclaimed my companion gravely. "Yet it is so terribly difficult to discriminate, and I fear we often, in our hesitation, place aside letters, the writers of which could really give valuable information."

"But in this case, what are your natural inclinations?" I asked. "I know that you possess a curious, almost unique, intuition as to what is fact and what is fiction. What is, may I term it, your private opinion?"

He halted against the long shop-windows of Derry & Toms, and paused for several minutes.

"Well," he said at last in a deeply earnest tone, "I tell you frankly, Mr. Royle, what I believe. First, I don't think that the man Kemsley, although an impostor, was the actual assassin."

"Why?" I gasped.

"Well—I've very carefully studied the whole problem. I've looked at it from every point of view," he said. "I confess the one fact puzzles me, that this man Kemsley could live so long in London and pose as the dead Sir Digby if he were not the actual man himself, has amazed me! In his position as Sir Digby, the great engineer, he must have met in society many persons who knew him. We have evidence that he constantly moved in the best circles in Mayfair, and apparently without the slightest compunction. Yet, in contradiction, we have the remarkable fact that the real Sir Digby died in South America in very mysterious and tragic circumstances."

I saw that a problem was presented to Inspector Edwards which sorely puzzled him, as it certainly did myself.

"Well," I asked after a pause, and then with some trepidation put the question, "what do you intend doing?"

"Doing!" he echoed. "There is but one course to pursue. We must get in touch with this woman who says she knows the truth, and obtain what information we can from her. Perhaps she can reveal the identity of the woman whose fingers touched that glass-topped table in the room where the crime was committed. If so, that will tell us a great deal, Mr. Royle." Then, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tapping it, he added, "Do you know, I've been wondering of late how it is that you got those finger-prints which so exactly corresponded with the ones which we secured in the flat. How did you obtain them?"

His question non-plussed me.

"I had a suspicion," I replied in a faltering voice, "and I tried to corroborate it."

"But you have corroborated it," he declared. "Why, Mr. Royle, those prints you brought to the Yard are a most important clue. Where did you get them?"

I was silent for a moment, jostled by the crowd of passers-by.

"Well," I said with a faint smile, realising what a grave mistake I had made in inculpating my well-beloved, "I simply made some experiments as an amateur in solving the mystery."

"Yes, but those prints were the same as those we got from the flat. Whence did they come?"

"I obtained them upon my own initiative," I replied, with a forced laugh.

"But you must surely tell me, Mr. Royle," he urged quickly. "It's a most important point."

"No," I replied. "I'm not a detective, remember. I simply put to the test a suspicion I have entertained."

"Suspicion of what?"

"Whether my theory was correct or not."

"Whatever theory you hold, Mr. Royle, the truth remains the same. I truly believe," he said, looking hard at me, "namely that the unknown victim was struck down by the hand which imprinted the marks you brought to me—a woman's hand. And if I am not mistaken, sir—you know the identity of the guilty woman!"