Still the one fact remained that, after all our efforts—the efforts of Scotland Yard, of the Belgian police, and of my own eager inquiries—a solution of the problem was as far off as ever.
Somewhere there existed a secret—a secret that, as Phrida had declared to me, was inviolable.
Would it ever be revealed? Would the ghastly truth ever be laid bare?
The affair of Harrington Gardens was indeed a mystery of London—as absolute and perfect an enigma of crime as had ever been placed before that committee of experts at Scotland Yard—the Council of Seven.
Even they had failed to find a solution! How, then, could I ever hope to be successful?
When I thought of it, I paced my lonely room in a frenzy of despair.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SELLER OF SHAWLS.
After much eloquent persuasion on my part, and much straight talking on the part of the spectacled family doctor, and of Mrs. Shand, Phrida at last, towards the last days of June, allowed us to take her to Dinard, where, at the Hotel Royal, we spent three pleasant weeks, making many automobile excursions to Trouville, to Dinan, and other places in the neighbourhood.