ree that strange intuition of impending danger. It was so with me that
night--just as I have on other occasions been obsessed by that curious,
indescribable feeling that "something is about to happen."

There was about that house an air of mystery which caused me to hesitate
in suspicion. Whether it was owing to its lonely position, to the heavy
mantle of ivy which hid its walls, to the rather weird and unusual
appearance of the young man who had admitted me, or to the mere fact that
I was there to meet the woman who undoubtedly knew the truth concerning
the tragic affair, I know not. But I recollect a distinct feeling of
personal insecurity.

I knew the woman I was about to meet to be a cold, hard, unscrupulous
person, who, no doubt, held my love's liberty--perhaps her life--in the
hollow of her hand.

That horrifying thought had just crossed my mind when my reflections were
interrupted by the door opening suddenly and there swept into the room
the lady upon whom I had called.

"Ah! Mr. Royle!" she cried in warm welcome, extending her rather large
hand as she stood before me, dressed quietly in black, relieved by a
scarlet, artificial rose in her waistband. "So you've come at last. Ah!
do you know I've wanted to meet you for days. I expected you would come
to me the moment you returned from Brussels."

I started, and stood staring at her without replying. She knew I had been
to Belgium. Yet, as far as I was aware, nobody knew of my visit--not even
Haines.

"You certainly seem very well acquainted with my movements, Mrs. Petre,"
I laughed.

But she only shrugged her shoulders. Then she said:

"I suppose there was no secrecy regarding your journey, was there?"

"Not in the least," I replied. "I had business over there, as I very
often have. My firm do a big business in Belgium and Holland."

She smiled incredulously.

"Did your business necessitate your visiting all the hotels and
music-halls?"

"How did you know that?" I asked in quick surprise.

But she only pursed her lips, refusing to give me satisfaction. I saw
that I must have been watched--perhaps by Digby himself. The only
explanation I could think of was that he, with his clever cunning, had
watched me, and had written to this woman, his accomplice, telling her of
my search.

"Oh! don't betray the source of your information if you consider it so
indiscreet," I said with sarcasm a few moments later. "I came here, Mrs.
Petre, in response to your