"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.

CHAPTER IX.

DESCRIBES THE YELLOW SIGN.

The night of my mysterious tryst--the night of January the
fourteenth--was dark, rainy, and unpleasant.

That afternoon I had taken out the sealed letter addressed to "E. P. K."
and turned it over thoughtfully in my hand.

I recollected the words of the fugitive. He had said:

"On the night of the fourteenth just at eight o'clock precisely, go to
the Piccadilly Tube Station and stand at the first telephone box numbered
four, on the Haymarket s