"No, madame. He has left, and though I am, perhaps, his most intimate friend, I am unaware of his whereabouts. There were," I added, "reasons, I fear, for his disappearance."
"Who are you? Tell me, first."
"My name is Edward Royle," was my brief response.
"Ah! Mr. Royle," the woman cried, "he has spoken of you many times. You were his best friend, he said. I am glad, indeed, to meet you, but—but tell me why he has disappeared—what has occurred?"
"I thought you would probably know that my friend is wanted by the police," I replied gravely. "His description has been circulated everywhere."
"But why?" she gasped, staring at me. "Why are the police in search of him?"
For a few seconds I hesitated, disinclined to repeat the grave charge against him.
"Well," I said at last in a low, earnest voice, "the fact is the police have discovered that Sir Digby Kemsley died in South America some months ago."
"I don't follow you," she said.
"Then I will be more plain. The police, having had a report of the death of Sir Digby, believe our mutual friend to be an impostor!"