Her gown was of dark blue serge, smartly made, and beneath her coat she wore a cream silk blouse with deep sailor collar open at the neck, and a soft flowing bow of turquoise blue. This, however, had been disarranged by the doctor in opening her blouse to listen to her breathing, and I saw that upon it was a small crimson stain. Yes, she was remarkably good-looking, without a doubt. When I announced myself as an intimate friend of Sir Digby Kemsley, the inspector at once took me into the adjoining room and began to eagerly question me. With him I was perfectly frank; but I said nothing regarding my second visit there in the night. My gravest concern was the whereabouts of my friend. "This is a very curious case, Mr. Royle," declared the inspector. "The C.I.D. men have established one fact--that another woman was with the stranger here in the early hours of this morning. This hair-comb"--and he showed me a small side-comb of dark green horn--"was found close beside her on the floor. Also a couple of hair-pins, which are different to those in the dead woman's hair. There was a struggle, no doubt, and the woman got away. In the poor girl's hair are two tortoiseshell side-combs." "But what is her injury?" I asked breathlessly. "She's been stabbed," he replied. "Let's go back." Together we re-entered the room, but as we did so we saw that the doctor had now left the bedside, and was speaking earnestly with the two detectives. "Well, doctor?" asked the inspector in a low voice. "She's quite dead--murder, without a doubt," was his reply. "The girl was struck beneath the left breast--a small punctured wound, but fatal!" "The woman who left this hair-comb behind knows something about the affair evidently," exclaimed the inspector. "We must first discover Sir Digby Kemsley. He seems to have been here up until eleven o'clock last night. Then he mysteriously disappeared, and the stranger entered unseen, two very curious and suspicious circumstances. I wonder who the poor girl was?" The two detectives were discussing the affair in low voices. Here was a complete and very remarkable mystery, which, from the first, the police told me they intended to keep to themselves, and not allow a syllable of it to leak out to the public through the newspapers. A woman had been there! Did there not exist vividly in my recollection that strange encounter in the darkness of the stairs? The jingle of the golden bangles, and the sweet odour of that delicious perfume? But I said nothing. I intended that the police should prosecute their inquiries, find my friend, and establish the identity of the mysterious girl who had met with such an untimely end presumably at the hands of that woman who had been lurking in the darkness awaiting my departure. Truly it was a mystery, a most remarkable problem among the many which occur each week amid the amazing labyrinth of humanity which we term London life. Sir Digby Kemsley had disappeared. Where?