LITMIR.BIZ

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was carefully sealed with black wax.

      "Now, listen," he said, holding the letter in his fingers; "on the night of the fourteenth, just at eight o'clock precisely, go to the Piccadilly tube station, stand at the telephone box numbered four on the Haymarket side, when a lady in black will approach you and ask news of me. In response you will give her this note. But there is a further condition: you may be watched and recognised, therefore be extremely careful that you are not followed on that day, and, above all, adopt some effective disguise. Go there dressed as a working-man, I would suggest."

      "That request, Kemsley, is certainly a very queer one," I remarked. "Is she the lady?"

      He smiled, and I took that as an affirmative.

      "You say she'll be dressed in black. Lots of ladies dress in black. I might mistake her."

      "Not very likely. I forgot to tell you that she will wear a small spray of mimosa."

      "Ah, that shows originality," I remarked. "Mimosa is not often worn on the person."

      "It will serve as a distinguishing mark." Then, after a pause, he added, handing me the letter: "There is one further request I want to make – or, at least, I want you to give me your promise, Royle. I ask you to make a solemn vow to me that if any suspicion arises within your mind, that you will believe nothing without absolute and decisive proof. I mean that you will not misjudge her."

      "I certainly will not."

      "Your hand upon it?"

      I put forth my hand and, gripping his warmly, gave him my word of honour.

      "I hope you will never regret this, Royle," he said in an earnest tone.

      "We are friends," I remarked simply.

      "And I trust, Royle, you will never regret the responsibility which you have accepted on my behalf," he said in a deep, hard voice – the voice of a desperate man. "Remember to treat my successor exactly as you have treated me. Be his best friend, as he will be yours. You will be astonished, amazed, mystified, no doubt, at the events which must, alas! inevitably occur. But it is not my fault, Royle, believe me," he declared with solemn emphasis. "It is, alas! my misfortune!"

      CHAPTER II.

      THE SCENT

      After giving me the letter, and receiving my assurance that it would be safely delivered, Sir Digby's spirits seemed somewhat to revive.

      He chatted in his old, good-humoured style, drank a whisky and soda, and, just before one o'clock, let me out, urging me to descend the stairs noiselessly lest the hall-porter should know that he had had a visitor.

      Time after time I had questioned him regarding his strange reference to his successor, but to all my queries he was entirely dumb. He had, I recollected, never been the same since his return from a flying visit to Egypt.

      "The future will, no doubt, astound you, but I know, Royle, that you are a man of honour and of your word, and that you will keep your promise at all hazards," was all he would reply.

      The secrecy with which I had entered and left caused me considerable curiosity. Kemsley was one of those free, bluff, open-hearted, open-handed, men. He was never secretive, never elusive. I could only account for his curious, mystifying actions by the fact that the reputation of a woman was at stake – that he was acting for her protection.

      And I was to meet that woman face to face in eight days' time!

      As I walked towards Gloucester Road Station – where I hoped to find a taxi – all was silence. At that hour the streets of South Kensington are as deserted as a graveyard, and as I bent towards the cutting wind from the east, I wondered who could be the mysterious woman who had broken up my dear friend's future plans. Yet he bore her no malice. Some men's temperaments are really curious.

      Beneath a street-lamp I paused and looked at the superscription upon the envelope. It ran:

      "For E. P. K."

      The initial K! Was the lady Digby's wife? That was the suspicion which at once fell upon me, and by which I became convinced.

      At half-past one o'clock I let myself into my own flat in Albemarle Street. The faithful Haines, who had been a marine wardroom servant in the navy before entering my employ, was awaiting me.

      "The telephone bell rang ten minutes ago, sir," he said. "Sir Digby Kemsley wishes to speak to you."

      "Very well!" I replied. "You can go to bed."

      The man placed my tray with whisky and soda upon the little table near my chair, as was his habit, and, wishing me good-night, retired.

      I went to the telephone, and asked for Digby's number.

      After a few seconds a voice, which at first I failed to recognise, replied to mine:

      "I say, Royle; I'm so sorry to disturb you, old chap, but could you possibly come back here at once?"

      "What?" I asked, very surprised. "Is it so very important? Can't it wait till to-morrow?"

      "No, unfortunately it can't. It's most imperative that I should see you. Something has happened. Do come!" he begged. "But don't attract attention – you understand!"

      "Something happened!" I echoed. "What?"

      "That woman. Come at once – do, there's a good fellow. Will you – for my sake and hers?"

      The mention of the woman decided me, so I replied "All right!" and hung up the receiver.

      Within half an hour I alighted in Courtfield Gardens and walked up Harrington Gardens to the door of my friend's house, which I saw was already ajar in anticipation of my arrival.

      Closing the door noiselessly, in order not to attract the attention of the alert porter who lived in the basement, I crept up the carpeted stairs to the door of the flat, which I found also ajar.

      Having closed the door, I slipped into the hall and made my way to the warm, cosy room I had left earlier that night.

      The door was closed, and without ceremony I turned the handle.

      I threw it open laughingly in order to surprise my friend, but next instant halted in amazement upon the threshold.

      I stood there breathless, staring in speechless wonder, and drawing back.

      "I'm really very sorry!" I exclaimed. "I thought Sir Digby was here!"

      The man who had risen from his chair and bowed when I opened the door was about the same build, but, apparently, a trifle younger. He had iron-grey hair and a pointed beard, but his face was more triangular, with higher cheek-bones, and eyes more brilliant and deeper set.

      His thin countenance relaxed into a pleasant smile as he replied in a calm, suave voice:

      "I am Sir Digby Kemsley, and you – I believe – are Mr. Edward Royle – my friend – my very intimate friend – are you not?"

      "You!" I gasped, staring at him.

      And then, for several seconds I failed to articulate any further words. The imposture was so utterly barefaced.

      "You are not Sir Digby Kemsley," I went on angrily at last. "What trick is this?"

      "No trick whatever, my dear Royle," was the man's quiet reply as he stood upon the hearthrug in the same position in which my friend had stood an hour before. "I tell you that my name is Kemsley – Sir Digby Kemsley."

      "Then you assert that this flat is yours?"

      "Most certainly I do."

      "Bosh! How can you expect me to believe such a transparent tale?" I cried impatiently. "Where is my friend?"

      "I am your friend, my dear Royle!" he laughed.

      "You're not."

      "But did you not, only an hour ago, promise him to treat his successor in the same manner in which you had treated himself?" the man asked very slowly, his high, deep-set eyes fixed upon me with a crafty, almost snake-like expression, an expression that was distinctly one of evil.

      "True, I did," was my quick reply. "But I never bargained for this

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