"Oh, dearest, I'm so sorry," I said. "But I've been awfully worried, you know. Do forgive me!" "Yes, I know!" she answered. "Well, I'll forgive you if you'll run over now and take me to tea at the Leslies. I've ordered the car for four o'clock. Will that suit you?" The Leslies! They were snobbish folk with whom I had but little in common. Yet what could I do but agree? And then my well-beloved rang off. When I got down to Cromwell Road just before four o'clock, the darkness had not lifted. My feelings as I passed along the big, old-fashioned hall and up the thickly-carpeted stairs to the drawing-room were mixed ones of doubt, and yet of deep affection. Ah, I loved Phrida--loved her better than my own life--and yet----? Fresh in my memory was the doctor's evidence that the crime in Harrington Gardens had been committed with a thin, triangular knife--a knife such as that I had often seen lying upon the old-fashioned, walnut what-not in the corner of the room I was just about to enter. I had known it lying in the same place for years. Was it still there? Purposely, because I felt that it could no longer be there, I had refrained from calling upon my love, and now, when I paused and turned the handle of the drawing-room door, I hardly dared to cast my eyes upon that antiquated piece of furniture. Phrida, who was sitting with her hat and coat already on, jumped up gaily to meet me. "Oh, you really are prompt, Teddy!" she cried with a flush of pleasure. Then, as I bent over her mother's hand, the latter said-- "You're quite a stranger, Mr. Royle. I expect you have been very upset over the curious disappearance of your friend. We've searched the papers every day, but could find nothing whatever about it." Phrida had turned towards the fire, her pretty head bent as she buttoned her glove. "No," I replied. "Up to the present the newspapers are in complete ignorance of the affair. But no doubt they'll learn all about it before long." Then, crossing the room to pick up a magazine lying upon a chair, I halted against the old walnut what-not. Yes, the mediæval poignard was still lying there, just as I had always seen it! Had it been used, and afterwards replaced? I scarcely dared to glance at it, lest I should betray any unusual interest. I felt that Phrida's eyes were watching me, that she suspected my knowledge. I took up the magazine idly, glanced at it, and, replacing it, returned to her side. "Well," she asked, "are you ready?" And then together we descended to the car. All the way up to Abbey Road she hardly spoke. She seemed unusually pale and haggard. I asked her what was the matter, but she only replied in a faint, unnatural voice-- "Matter? Why nothing--nothing, I assure you, Teddy!"