I sprang nervously to my feet, glanced at the
revolver on the table--and finally dropped it into my coat pocket
ere going out and opening the door.
On the landing stood a police constable and an officer in plain
clothes.
"Your name is Malcolm Knox?" asked the constable, glancing at a
note-book which he held in his hand.
"It is," I replied.
"You are required to come at once to Bow Street to identify a
woman who was found murdered in a taxi-cab in the Strand about
eleven o'clock to-night."
I suppressed an exclamation of horror; I felt myself turning
pale.
"But what has it to do------"
"The driver stated she came from your chambers, for you saw her
off, and her last words to you were 'Good night, Mr. Knox, I am
sincerely sorry to have given you all this trouble.' Is that
correct, sir?"
The constable, who had read out the information in an official
voice, now looked at me, as I stood there stupefied.
"It is," I said blankly. "I'll come at once." It would seem that
I had misjudged my unfortunate visitor: her story of the yellow
man on the stair had apparently been not a fabrication, but a
gruesome fact!
III
HOW I REGAINED IT
My ghastly duty was performed; I had identified the dreadful
thing, which less than an hour before had been a strikingly
beautiful woman, as my mysterious visitor.
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