the stairs at Harrington Gardens, I had smelt that
sweet, unusual perfume and heard the jingle of golden bangles, had been
proved.

She had actually admitted her presence there--with the man I had believed
to be my friend, the man, whom, up to the present, I had sought to shield
and protect!

I hailed a taxi, and not knowing what I did, drove to the Reform. As I
passed up the steps from Pall Mall the porter handed me my letters, and
then, heedless of where my footsteps carried me, I entered the big,
square hall and turned into the writing-room on the left--a room historic
in the annals of British politics, for many a State secret had been
discussed there by Ministers of the Crown, many a point of the Cabinet's
policy had been decided, and also the fate of many a bill.

The long, sombre room with the writing tables covered with blue cloth,
was empty, as it usually is, and I flung myself down to scribble a
note--an apology for not keeping an appointment that afternoon.

My overburdened heart was full of chagrin and grief, for my idol had been
shattered by a single blow, and only the wreck of all my hopes and
aspirations now remained.

In a week's time the coroner would hold his adjourned inquiry into the
tragedy at Harrington Gardens, and then what startling revelations might
be made! By that time it was probable that the police would be able to
establish the identity of the accused, and, moreover, with Mrs. Petre
vengeful and incensed against Phrida, might she not make a statement to
the authorities?

If so, what then?

I sat with my elbows upon the table staring out into Pall Mall, which
wore such a cold and cheerless aspect that morning.

What could I do? How should I act? Ah! yes, at that moment I sat utterly
bewildered, and trying in vain to discern some way out of that maze of
mystery.

I had not looked at the unopened letters beneath my hand, but suddenly
chancing to glance at them, I noticed one in an unfamiliar feminine
handwriting.

I tore it open carelessly, expecting to find some invitation or other,
when, within, I found three hastily scrawled lines written on the
notepaper of the Great Eastern Hotel at Liverpool Street. It read:

"Since I saw you something has happened. Can you meet me again
as soon as possible? Please wire me, Mrs. Petre, Melbourne
House, Colchester."

I gazed at the note in extreme satisfaction. At least, I had the woman's
address. Yes, after I had again seen Ph