y--I want to see him most urgently," I said.

"And so do I!"

"How can we trace him?" I asked.

"Ah! I am afraid he is far too elusive. If he wishes to hide himself we
need not hope to find him until he allows us to," she replied. "No, all
we can do is to remain patient and hopeful."

Again a silence fell between us. I felt instinctively that she wished to
confide in me, but dare not do so.

Therefore I exclaimed suddenly:

"Will you not tell me, Mrs. Petre, the identity of this great enemy of
our friend--this woman? Upon information which you yourself may give,
Digby's future entirely depends," I added earnestly.

"His future!" she echoed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean only that I am trying to clear his good name of the stigma now
resting upon it."

The handsome woman bit her lip.

"No," she replied with a great effort. "I'm sorry--deeply sorry--but I am
now in a most embarrassing position. I have made a vow to him, and that
vow I cannot break without first obtaining his permission. I am upon my
honour."

I was silent. What could I say?

This woman certainly knew something--something which, if revealed, would
place me in possession of the truth of what had actually occurred at
Harrington Gardens on that fatal night. If she spoke she might clear
Phrida of all suspicion.

Suddenly, after a pause, I made up my mind to try and clear up one
point--that serious, crucial point which had for days so obsessed me.

"Mrs. Petre," I said, "I wonder if you will answer me a single question,
one which does not really affect the situation much. Indeed, as we are, I
hope, friends, I ask it more out of curiosity than anything else."

"Well, what is it?" she asked, regarding me strangely.

"I want to know whether, being a friend of Digby's, you have ever met or
ever heard of a certain young lady living in Kensington named Phrida
Shand."

The effect of my words was almost electrical. She sprung towards me, with
fire in her big, dark eyes.

"Phrida Shand!" she cried wildly, her white-gloved hands again clenched.
"Phrida Shand! You know that woman, eh? You know her, Mr. Royle. Is she a
friend of yours?--or--or is she your enemy? Your friend, perhaps,
because she is pretty. Oh, yes!" she laughed, hysterically. "Oh, yes! Of
course, she is your friend. If she is--then curse her, Mr. Royle--invoke
all the curses of hell upon her, as she so richly deserves!"

And from her lips came a peal of laughter that was little short