ite still, listening intently. The woman's story of the yellow
man on the stairs suddenly assumed a totally different aspect--a new and
sinister aspect. Could it be that the pigtail was at the bottom of the
mystery?--could it be that some murderous Chinaman who had been lurking
in hiding, waiting his opportunity, had in some way gained access to my
chambers during that brief absence? If so, was he gone?

From the table drawer I took out a revolver, ascertained that it was
fully loaded, and turning up light after light as I proceeded, conducted
a room-to-room search. It was without result; there was absolutely
nothing to indicate that anyone had surreptitiously entered or departed
from my chambers.

I returned to the study and sat gazing at the revolver lying on the
blotting-pad before me. Perhaps my mind worked slowly, but I think that
fully fifteen minutes must have passed before it dawned on me that the
explanation not only of the missing pigtail but of the other incidents
of the night, was simple enough. The yellow man had been a fabrication,
and my dark-eyed visitor had not been in quest of "Raphael Philips," but
in quest of the pigtail: and her quest had been successful!

"What a hopeless fool I am!" I cried, and banged my fist down upon the
table, "there was no yellow man at all--there was-----"

My door bell rang. I sprang nervously to my feet, glanced at the
revolver on the table--and finally dropped it into my coat pocket ere
going out and opening the door.

On the landing stood a police constable and an officer in plain clothes.

"Your name is Malcolm Knox?" asked the constable, glancing at a
note-book which he held in his hand.

"It is," I replied.

"You are required to come at once to Bow Street to identify a woman
who was found murdered in a taxi-cab in the Strand about eleven o'clock
to-night."

I suppressed an exclamation of horror; I felt myself turning pale.

"But what has it to do------"

"The driver stated she came from your chambers, for you saw her off, and
her last words to you were 'Good night, Mr. Knox, I am sincerely sorry
to have given you all this trouble.' Is that correct, sir?"

The constable, who had read out the information in an official voice,
now looked at me, as I stood there stupefied.

"It is," I said blankly. "I'll come at once." It would seem that I had
misjudged my unfortunate visitor: her story of the yellow man on the
stair had apparently been not a fabrication, b