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?"