"What I can't really make out is how your friend could have had the audacity to pose as Sir Digby Kemsley, well knowing that the real person was alive," she remarked. "The police have discovered that Sir Digby died in Peru last January," I said. "While your friend was in London?" "Certainly. My friend--I shall still call him Sir Digby, for I have known him by no other name--has not been abroad since last July, when he went on business to Moscow." "How very extraordinary," remarked Mrs. Shand. "Your friend must surely have had some object in posing as the dead man." "But he posed as a man who was still alive!" I exclaimed. "Until, perhaps, he was found out," observed Phrida shrewdly. "Then he bolted." I glanced at her quickly. Did those words betray any knowledge of the truth, I wondered. "Apparently there was some mystery surrounding the death of Sir Digby at Huacho," I remarked. "The British Consul in Lima made a report upon it to the Foreign Office, who, in turn, handed it to Scotland Yard. I wonder what it was." "When you know, we shall be better able to judge the matter and to form some theory," Phrida said, crossing the room and re-arranging the big bowl of daffodils in the window. I remained about an hour, and then, amazed at the calmness of my well-beloved, I returned to my rooms. In impatience I waited till a quarter past five, when Haines ushered in a tall, well-dressed, clean-shaven man, wearing a dark grey overcoat and white slip beneath his waistcoat, and who introduced himself as Inspector Charles Edwards. "I've called, Mr. Royle, in order to make some further inquiries regarding this person you have known as Sir Digby Kemsley," he said when he had seated himself. "A very curious affair happened last night. I've been down to Harrington Gardens, and have had a look around there myself. Many features of the affair are unique." "Yes," I agreed. "It is curious--very curious." "I have a copy of your statement regarding your visit to the house during the night," said the official, who was one of the Council of Seven at the Yard, looking up at me suddenly from the cigarette he was about to light. "Have you any suspicion who killed the young lady?" "How can I have--except that my friend----" "Is missing--eh?" "Exactly." "But now, tell me all about this friend whom you knew as Sir Digby Kemsley. How did you first become acquainted with him?" "I met him on a steamer on the Lake of Garda this last summer," was my reply. "I was staying at Riva, the little town at the north end of the lake, over the Austrian frontier, and one day took the steamer down to Gardone, in Italy. We sat next each other at lunch on board, and, owing to a chance conversation, became friends." "What did he tell you?"