"I most certainly do!"
"Well,—we shall see—we shall see," he said in that pessimistic tone which he so often adopted.
"What are you doing about those letters—that letter which mentions the fountain?" I asked.
"Nothing. I've dismissed those as private correspondence regarding some love episode of the long ago," he replied. "They form no clue, and are not worth following."
At that moment the constable re-entered bearing the photographs.
"Well, what does Inspector Tirrell say?" Edwards asked quickly of the man.
"He has examined them under the glass, sir, and says that they are the same prints in both sets of photographs—the thumb and index-finger of a woman—probably a young and refined woman. He's written a memo there, sir."
Edwards took it quickly, and after glancing at it, handed it to me to read.
It was a mere scribbled line signed with the initials "W. H. T.," to the effect that the same prints appeared in both photographs, and concluded with the words "No record of this person is known in this department."
I know I stood pale and breathless at the revelation—at the incontestable proof that my well-beloved had actually been present in Digby's room after my departure on that fatal night.