A 521671



T7
VIMUI
S
PUMUNURUT
ARTES
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY VERITAS
OF THE
ERSITY OF MICHIGA
UNIVERSITY
OSSESSCOBS
LIMITATIONEN UITSLAND
TUEBOR
QUERIS PENINSULAM
SULAM-AMG
CIRCUMSPICE
SAN NO.9.
WS
RENAMUNITINDA
ILMU
T
MOTO
INDIVIND
THE GIFT OF
UNUTTUMUNA
Mrs. Albert Stanley



Par
T 761 my
1905











A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE





Tracy, Louis
ED 1 0333212222222222229972
A MYSTERIOUS
DISAPPEARANCE
вү
GORDON HOLMES
LIEL
TORONTO
MCLEOD & ALLEN
PUBLISHERS
1905


Copyright, 1905, by
EDWARD J. CLODE
828
7761 my
1905
eccors
The Plim pton Press Norwood Mass.


mes achard ataukcy
6.23.42
CONTENTS
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
·
I “Last Seen at Victoria!” . .
II Inspector White
III The Lady's Maid . . .
IV No. 61 Raleigh Mansions
· V At the Jollity Theatre
VI Miss Marie le Marchant.
VII In the City . . . .
VIII The Hotel du Cercle
IX Breaking the Bank.
X Some Good Resolutions
XI Theories . . . .
XII Who Corbett Was . . .
XIII A Question of Principle .
XIV No. 12 Raleigh Mansions
XV Mrs. Hillmer Hesitates .
XVI Foxey . . . . .
XVII A Possible Explanation . .
XVIII What Happened on the Riviera
·
·
·
101
·
109
·
·
119
·
·
131
·
·
.
142
152
·
163
·


Contents
175
183
194
205
216
225
XIX Where Mrs. Hillmer Went . .
XX Mr. Sydney H. Corbett . . .
XXI How Lady Dyke Left Raleigh Man-
sions ·
·
XXII A Wilful Murder.
XXIII The Letter . . . . .
XXIV The Handwriting . . . .
XXV Miss Phyllis Browne Intervenes
XXVI Lady Helen Montgomery's Son
XXVII Mr. White's Method . . .
XXVIII Sir Charles Dyke's Journey .
XXIX How Lady Dyke Disappeared . .
XXX Sir Charles Dyke Ends His Narra-
tive . . . . .
XXXI Valedictory . . . . .
234
246
254
264
274
285
297


CHAPTER I
“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA!”
LICE, Lady Dyke, puckered her handsome fore-
head into a thoughtful frown as she drew aside
the window-curtains of her boudoir and tried to
look out into the opaque blackness of a November fog
in London.
Behind her was cheerfulness — in front uncertainty.
Electric lights, a nice fire reflected from gleaming brass,
the luxury of carpets and upholstery, formed an alluring
contrast to the dull yellow glare of a solitary lamp in the
outer obscurity.
But Lady Dyke was a strong-minded woman. There
was no trace of doubt in the wrinkled brows and reflective
eyes. She held back the curtains with her left hand,
buttoning a glove at the wrist with the other. Fog or no
fog, she would venture forth, and she was already dressed
for the weather in tailor-made costume and winter toque.
She was annoyed, but not disconcerted by the fog.
Too long had she allowed herself to take things easily.
The future was as murky as the atmosphere; the past was
dramatically typified by the pleasant surroundings on
which she resolutely turned her back. Lady Dyke was
quite determined as to her actions, and a dull November
[1]


A Mysterious Disappearance
night was a most unlikely agent to restrain her from
following the course she had mapped out.
Moving to the light again, she took from her pocket a
long, closely written letter. Its details were familiar to
her, but her face hardened as she hastily ran through it
in order to find a particular passage.
At last she gained her object — to make quite sure of
an address. Then she replaced the document, stood un-
decided for a moment, and touched an electric bell.
“James,” she said, to the answering footman, “I am
going out.”
“Yes, milady."
“Sir Charles is not at home?”.
“No, milady."
“I am going to Richmond — to see Mrs. Talbot. I
shall probably not return in time for dinner. Tell Sir
Charles not to wait for me."
“Shall I order the carriage for your ladyship ?”
“Will you listen to me and remember what I have
said ?”
“Yes, milady."
James ran downstairs, opened the door, bowed as Lady
Dyke passed into Portman Square, and then confiden-
tially informed Buttons that “the missus " was in a “rare
old wax” about something.
“She nearly jumped down my bloomin' throat when I
asked her if she would have the carriage,” he said.
Her ladyship's mood did not soften when she drifted
from the fixed tenure of Wensley House, Portman Square,
into the chaos of Oxford Street and fog at 5.30 on a
November evening.
Though not a true “London particular," the fog was
chilly, exasperating, tedious. People bumped against each
[2]


“Last Seen at Victoria!”
other without apology, 'buses crunched through the traffic
with deadly precision, pair-horse vans swept around
corners with magnificent carelessness.
In the result, Lady Dyke, who meant to walk, as she
was somewhat in advance of the time she had fixed on for
this very important engagement, took a hansom. In her
present mood slight things annoyed her. Usually, the
London cab-horse is a thoughtful animal; he refuses to
hurry; when he falls he lies contented, secure in the
knowledge that for five blissful minutes he will be at
complete rest. But this misguided quadruped flew as
though oats and meadow-grass awaited him at Victoria
Station on the Underground Railway
He raced down Park Lane, skidded past Hyde Park
Corner, and grated the off-wheel of the hansom against
the kerb outside the station within eight minutes.
In other words, her ladyship, if she would obey the
directions contained in the voluminous letter, was com-
pelled to kill time.
As she stepped from the vehicle and halted beneath a
lamp to take a florin from her purse, a tall, ulster-wrapped
gentleman, walking rapidly into Victoria Street, caught
a glimpse of her face and well-proportioned form.
Instantly his hat was off.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Dyke. Can
I be of any service ?”
She bit her lip, not unobserved, but the law of Society
forced her features into a bright smile.
“Oh, Mr. Bruce, is it you? I am going to see my
sister at Richmond. Isn't the weather horrid ? I shall
be so glad if you will put me into the right train.”
Mr. Claude Bruce, barrister and man about town,
whose clean-cut features and dark, deep-set eyes made
[3]


A Mysterious Disappearance
him as readily recognizable, knew that she would have
been much better pleased had he passed without greeting.
Like the footman, he wondered why she did not drive in
her carriage rather than travel by the Underground Rail-
way on such a night. He guessed that she was perturbed
— that her voluble explanation was a disguise.
He reflected that he could ill afford any delay in dressing
for a distant dinner — that good manners oft entail
inconvenience — but of course he said:
“Delighted. Have you any wraps ?”
“No, I am just going for a chat, and shall be home
early.”
He bought her a first-class ticket, noting as an odd
coincidence that it bore the number of the year, 1903,
descended to the barrier, found that the next train for
Richmond passed through in ten minutes, fumed inwardly
for an instant, explained his presence to the ticket-col-
lector, and paced the platform with his companion.
Having condemned the fog, and the last play, and the
latest book, they were momentarily silent.
The newspaper placards on Smith & Son's bookstall
announced that a “Great Society Scandal” was on the
tapis. “The Duke in the Box” formed a telling line, and
the eyes of both people chanced on it simultaneously.
Thought the woman: “He is a man of the world, and
an experienced lawyer. Shall I tell him ?”.
Thought the man: “She wants to take me into her
confidence, and I am too busy to be worried by some
small family squabble.”
Said she: “Are you much occupied at the Courts just
now, Mr. Bruce ?”
“No,” he replied; “not exactly. My practice is more
consultive than active. Many people seek my advice
[4]


“Last Seen at Victoria!”
about matters of little interest, never thinking that they
would best serve their ends by acting decisively and
promptly themselves.”
Lady Dyke set her lips. She could be both prompt
and decisive. She resolved to keep her troubles, whatever
they were, locked in the secrecy of her own heart, and
when she next spoke of some trivial topic the barrister
knew that he had been spared a recital.
He regretted it afterwards.
At any other moment in his full and useful life he would
have encouraged her rather than the reverse. Even now,
a few seconds too late, he was sorry. He strove to bring
her back to the verge of explanations, but failed, for her
ladyship was a proud, self-reliant personage — one who
would never dream of risking a rebuff.
A train came, with “Richmond” staring at them from
the smoke and steam of the engine.
“Good-bye!” he said.
“Good-bye!”
“Shall I see you again soon?”
“I fear not. It is probable that I shall leave for the
South of France quite early.”
And she was gone. Her companion rushed to the
street, and almost ran to his Victoria Street chambers.
It was six o'clock. He had to dress and drive all the way
to Hampstead for dinner at 7.30.
. . . . . . . . . .
At ten minutes past nine Sir Charles Dyke entered
Wensley House. A handsome, quiet, gentlemanly man
was Sir Charles. He was rich — a Guardsman until the
baronetcy devolved upon him, a popular figure in Society,
esteemed a trifle fast prior to his marriage, but sobered
down by the cares of a great estate and a vast fortune.
[5]


A Mysterious Disappearance
His wife and he were not well-matched in disposition.
She was too earnest, too prim, for the easy-going baronet.
He respected her, that was all. A man of his nature found
it impossible to realize that the depths of passion are
frequently coated over with ice. Their union was irre-
proachable, like their marriage settlements; but there are
more features in matrimony than can be disposed of by
broad seals and legal phrases.
Unfortunately, they were childless, and were thus de-
prived of the one great bond which unites when others
may fail.
Sir Charles was hurried; if not flurried. His boots were
muddy and his clothes splashed by the mire of passing
vehicles.
“I fear I am very late for dinner,” he said to the footman
who took his hat and overcoat. “But I shall not be five
minutes in dressing. Tell her ladyship —”
“Milady is not at home, Sir Charles.”
“Not at home!”
“Milady went out at half-past five, saying that she was
going to Richmond to see Lady Edith Talbot, and that
you were not to wait dinner if she was late in returning."
Sir Charles was surprised. He looked steadily at the
man as he said:
“Are you quite sure of her ladyship's orders ?”
“Quite sure, Sir Charles.”
“Did she drive ?”
“No, Sir Charles. She would not order the carriage
when I suggested it.”
The baronet, somewhat perplexed, hesitated a moment.
Then he appeared to dismiss the matter as hardly worth
discussion, saying, as he went up stairs:
“Dinner almost immediately, James.”
[6]


“ Last Seen at Victoria!”
During the solitary meal he was preoccupied, but ate
more than usual, in the butler's judgment. Finding his
own company distasteful, he discussed the November
Handicap with the butler, and ultimately sent for an
evening paper.
Opening it, the first words that caught his eye were,
“Murder in the West End.” He read the paragraph, the
record of some tragic orgy, and turned to the butler.
“A lot of these beastly crimes have occurred recently,
Thompson.”
“Yes, Sir Charles. There's bin three since the be-
ginning of the month.”
After a pause. “Did you hear that her ladyship had
gone to Richmond ?”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“Do you know how she went ?”
“No, Sir Charles.”
“I wanted to see her tonight, very particularly. Order
the brougham in ten minutes. I am going to the Travel-
lers' Club. I shall be home soon — say eleven o'clock -
when her ladyship arrives.”
The baronet was driven to and from the club by his
own coachman, but on returning to Wensley House was
told that his wife was still absent.
“No telegram or message ?”
“No, Sir Charles.”
“I suppose she will stay with her sister all night, and
I shall have a note in the morning to say so. Just like a
woman. Now if I did that, James, there would be no
end of a row. Anxiety, and that sort of thing. Call me
at 8.30."
An hour later Sir Charles Dyke left the library and
went to bed.
[7]


A Mysterious Disappearance
nce
At breakfast next morning the master of the house
rapidly scanned the letters near his plate for the expected
missive from his wife. There was none.
A maid was waiting. He sent her to call the butler.
“Look here, Thompson,” he cried, “her ladyship has
not written. Don't you think I had better wire ? It's
curious, to say the least, going off to Richmond in this
fashion, in a beastly fog, too.”
Thompson was puzzled. He had examined the letters
an hour earlier. But he agreed that a telegram was the
thing.
Sir Charles wrote: “Expected to hear from you. Will
you be home to lunch ? Want to see you about some
hunters”; and addressed it to his wife at her sister's
residence.
“There,” he said, turning to his coffee and sole. “That
will fetch her. We are off to Leicestershire next week,
Thompson. By the way, I am going to a sale at Tatter-
sall's. Send a groom there with her ladyship’s answer
when it comes.”
He had not been long at the sale yard when a servant
arrived with a telegram.
"Ah, the post-office people are quick this morning,” he
said, smiling. He opened the envelope and read:
“Want to see you at once. — DICK."
He was so surprised by the unexpected nature of the
message that he read the words aloud mechanically. But
he soon understood, and smiled again.
“Go back quickly," he said to the man, “and tell
Thompson to send along the next telegram.”
A consignment of Waterford hunters was being sold at
the time, and the baronet was checking the animals'
[8]


“ Last Seen at Victoria!”
descriptions on the catalogue, when he was cheerily
addressed:
“Hallo, Dyke, preparing for the shires, eh ?”
Wheeling round, the baronet shook hands with Claude
Bruce.
“Yes — that is, I am looking out for a couple of nice-
mannered ones for my wife. I have six eating their heads
off at Market Harborough now.”
Bruce hesitated. “Will Lady Dyke hunt this season ?”
he asked.
“Well, hardly that. But she likes to dodge about the
lanes with the parson and the doctor."
“I only inquired because she told me last night that she
would probably winter in the South of France."
“Told you — last night — South of France!" Sir
Charles Dyke positively gasped in his amazement.
“Why, yes. I met her at Victoria. She was going to
Richmond to see her sister, she said.”
“I am jolly glad to hear it.”
“Glad! Why?”
“Because I have not seen her myself since yesterday
morning. She went off mysteriously, late in the afternoon,
leaving a message with the servants. Naturally I am glad
to hear from you that she got into the train all right.”
"I put her in the carriage myself. Have you not heard
from her ?"
“No. I wired this morning, and expect an answer at
any moment. But what is this about the South of France ?
We go to Leicestershire next week.”
"I can't say, of course. Your wife seemed to be a
little upset about something. She only mentioned her
intention casually — in fact, when I asked if we would
meet soon.”
[9]


A Mysterious Disappearance
The other laughed, a little oddly in the opinion of his
astute observer, and dismissed the matter by the remark
that the expected message from his wife would soon clear
the slight mystery attending her movements during the
past eighteen hours.
The two men set themselves to the congenial task of
criticizing the horses trotting up and down the straw-
covered track, and Sir Charles had purchased a nice half-
bred animal for forty guineas when his groom again
saluted him.
“Please, sir," said the man, “here's another telegram,
and Thompson told me to ask if it was the right one.”
Sir Charles frowned at the interruption — a second
horse of a suitable character was even then under the
hammer — but he tore open the envelope. At once his
agitation became so marked that Bruce cried:
“Good heavens, Dyke, what is it? No bad news, I
hope ?”
The other, by a strong effort, regained his self-control.
“No, no,” he stammered; “it is all right, all right.
She has gone somewhere else. See. This is from her
sister, Mrs. Talbot. Still, I wish Alice would consider my
natural anxiety a little.”
Bruce read:
“I opened your message. Alice not here. I have not
seen her for over a week. What do you mean by wire ?
Am coming to town at once. — Edith.”
The baronet's pale face and strained voice betrayed the
significance of the thought underlying the simple question.
“What do you make of it, Claude ?”
Bruce, too, was very grave. “The thing looks queer,"
he said; “though the explanation may be trifling. Come,
[ 10 ]


“Last Seen at Victoria!”
I will help you. Let us reach your house. It is the
natural centre for inquiries.”
They hailed a hansom and whirled off to Portman
Square. They did not say much. Each man felt that
the affair might not end so happily and satisfactorily as
he hoped.
[11]


CHAPTER II
INSPECTOR WHITE
LADY DYKE had disappeared.
Whether dead or alive, and if alive, whether detained
by force or absent of her own unfettered volition, this
handsome and well-known leader of Society had vanished
utterly from the moment when Claude Bruce placed her
in a first-class carriage of a Metropolitan Richmond train
at Victoria Station.
At first her husband and relatives hoped against hope
that some extraordinary tissue of events had contributed
to the building up of a mystery which would prove to be
no mystery.
Yet the days fled, and there was no trace of her where-
abouts.
At the outset, the inquiry was confined to the circle of
friends and relatives. Telegrams and letters in every
possible direction suggested by this comparatively re-
stricted field showed conclusively that not only had Lady
Dyke not been seen, but no one had the slightest clue to
the motives which might induce her to leave her home
purposely.
So far as her distracted husband could ascertain, she
did not owe a penny in the world. She was a rich woman
in her own right, and her banking account was in perfect
order.
[ 12 ]


Inspector White
She was a woman of the domestic temperament, always
in close touch with her family, and those who knew her
best scouted the notion of any petty intrigue which would
move her, by fear or passion, to abandon all she held
dear.
The stricken baronet confided the search only to his
friend Bruce. He brokenly admitted that he had not
sufficiently appreciated his wife while she was with him.
"She was of a superior order to me, Claude,” he said.
“I am hardly a home bird. Her ideals were lofty and
humanitarian. Too often I was out of sympathy with her,
and laughed at her notions. But, believe me, we never
had the shadow of a serious dispute. Perhaps I went my
own way a little selfishly, but at the time, I thought that
she, on her part, was somewhat straight-laced. I appre-
ciate her merits when it is too late.”
“But you must not assume even yet that she is dead.”
The barrister was certain that some day the mystery
would be elucidated.
“She is. I feel that I shall never see her on earth
again.”
“Oh, nonsense, Dyke. Far more remarkable occur-
rences have been satisfactorily cleared up."
“It is very good of you, old chap, to take this cheering
view. Only, you see, I know my wife's character so well.
She would die a hundred times if it were possible rather
than cause the misery to her people and myself which, if
living, she knows must ensue from this terrible uncer-
tainty as to her fate.”
“Scotland Yard is still sanguine.” This good-natured
friend was evidently making a conversation.
“Oh, naturally. But something tells me that my wife
is dead, whether by accident or design it is impossible to
[ 13 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
say. The police will cling to the belief that she is in
hiding in order to conceal their own inability to find her.”
“A highly probable theory. Are your servants to be
trusted ?"
“Y-es. They have all been with us some years.
Why do you ask?”
“Because I am anxious that nothing of this should get
into the papers. I have caused paragraphs to be inserted
in the fashionable intelligence columns that Lady Dyke
has gone to visit some friends in the Midlands. For her
own sake, if she be living, it is best to choke scandal at
its source.”
“Well, Bruce, I leave everything to you. Make such
arrangements as you think fit.”
The barrister's mobile face softened with pity as he
looked at his afflicted friend.
In four days Sir Charles Dyke had aged many years in
appearance. No one who was acquainted with him in
the past would have imagnied that the loss of his wife
could so affect him.
“I have done all that was possible, yet it is very little,”
said Bruce, after a pause. “You are aware that I am
supposed to be an adept at solving curious or criminal
investigations of an unusual class. But in this case,
partly, I suspect, because I myself am the last person who,
to our common knowledge, saw Lady Dyke alive on
Tuesday night, I am faced by a dead wall of impenetrable
fact, through which my intellect cannot pierce. Yet I
am sure that some day this wretched business will be
intelligible. I will find her if living; I will find her
murderer if she be dead.”
Not often did Claude Bruce allow his words to so be-
tray his thoughts.
[14]


Inspector White
Both men were absorbed by the thrilling sensations
of the moment, and they were positively startled when
a servant suddenly announced:
“Inspector White, of Scotland Yard.”
A short, thick-set man entered. He was absolutely
round in every part. His sturdy, rotund frame was sup-
ported on stout, well-moulded legs. His bullet head,
with close-cropped hair, gave a suggestion of strength
to his rounded face, and a pair of small bright eyes looked
suspiciously on the world from beneath well-arched
eyebrows.
Two personalities more dissimilar than those of Claude
Bruce and Inspector White could hardly be brought to-
gether in the same room. People who are fond of trac-
ing resemblances to animals in human beings would
liken the one to a grey-hound, the other to a bull-
dog.
Yet they were both masters in the art of detecting
crime – the barrister subtle, analytic, introspective; the
policeman direct, pertinacious, self-confident. Bruce
lost all interest in a case when the hidden trail was laid
bare. Mr. White regarded investigation as so many
hours on duty until his man was transported or hanged.
The detective was well acquainted with his unpro-
fessional colleague, and had already met Sir Charles in
the early stages of his present quest.
“I have an important clue,” he said, smiling with
assurance.
“What is it?” The baronet was for the moment
aroused from his despondent lethargy.
“Her ladyship did not go to Richmond on Tuesday
night.”
Inspector White did not wait for Bruce to speak, but
[15]


A Mysterious Disappearance
the barrister nodded with the air of one who knew already
that Lady Dyke had not gone to Richmond.
Mr. White continued. “Thanks to Mr. Bruce's re-
membrance of the number of the ticket, we traced it at
once in the clearing office. It was given up at Sloan
Square immediately after the Richmond train passed
through.”
Bruce nodded again. He was obstinately silent, so the
detective questioned him directly.
"By this means the inquiry is narrowed to a locality.
Eh, Mr. Bruce ?”
“Yes,” said the barrister, turning to poke the fire.
Mr. White was sure that his acuteness was displeasing
to his clever rival. He smiled complacently, and went
on:
“The ticket-collector remembers her quite well, as the
giving up of a Richmond ticket was unusual at this station.
She passed straight out into the square, and from that
point we lost sight of her.”
“You do, Mr. White ?” said Bruce.
“Well, sir, it is a great thing to have localized her
movements at that hour, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is. To save time I may tell you that Lady
Dyke returned to the station, entered the refreshment
room, ordered a glass of wine, which she hardly touched,
sat down, and waited some fifteen minutes. Then she
quitted the room, crossed the square, asked a news-vendor
where Raleigh Mansions were, and gave him sixpence for
the information.”
His hearers were astounded.
“Heavens, Claude, how did you learn all this?” cried
the baronet.
“Thus far, it was simplicity itself. On Wednesday
[16]


Inspector White
evening when no news could be obtained from your
relatives, I started from Victoria, intending to call at
every station until I found the place where she left the
train. The railway clearing officer was too slow, Mr.
White. Naturally, the hours being identical in the same
week, the first ticket-collector I spoke to gave me the
desired clue. The rest was a mere matter of steady
inquiry.”
“Then you are the man whom the police are now
searching for?" blurted out the detective.
“From the railway official's description? Possibly.
Pray, Mr. White, let me see the details of my appearance
as circulated through the force. It would be interesting.”
The inspector was saved from further indiscretions by
Sir Charles Dyke's plaintive question:
“Why did you not tell me these things sooner, Claude ?”
“What good was there in torturing you? All that I
have ascertained is the A B C of our search. We are at
a loss for the motive of your wife's disappearance. Vic-
to h
toria, Sloane Square, or Richmond - does it matter
ave your mes disappearance. Vic-
which ? My belief is that she intended to go to Richmond
that night. Why, otherwise, should she make to the
footman and myself the same unvarying statement ?
Perhaps she did go there?”
“But these houses, Raleigh Mansions. What of them ?”
“Ah, there we may be forwarded a stage. But there
are six main entrances and no hall porters. There are
twelve flats at each number, seventy-two in all, and all
occupied. That means seventy-two separate inquiries
into the history and attributes of a vastly larger number
of persons, in order to find some possible connection with
Lady Dyke and her purposely concealed visit. She may
have remained in one of those flats five minutes. She
[17]


A Mysterious Disappearance
may be in one of them yet. Anyhow, I have taken the
necessary steps to obtain the fullest knowledge of the
inhabitants of Raleigh Mansions.”
“Scotland Yard appears to be an unnecessary institu-
tion, Mr. Bruce,” snapped the detective.
“By no means. It is most useful to me once I have
discovered a criminal. And it amuses me.”
“Listen, Claude, and you, Mr. White," pleaded the
baronet. “I implore you to keep me informed in future
of developments in your search. The knowledge that
progress is being made will sustain me. Promise, I ask
you."
“I promise readily enough,” answered Bruce. “I only
stipulate that you prepare yourself for many disappoint-
ments. Even a highly skilled detective like Inspector
White will admit that the failures are more frequent than
the successes.”
“True enough, sir. But I must be going, gentlemen.”
Mr. White was determined to work the new vein of Raleigh
Mansions thoroughly before even his superiors were aware
of its significance in the hunt for her lost ladyship.
When the detective went out there was silence for some
time. Dyke was the first to speak.
“Have you formed any sort of theory, even a wildly
speculative one ?” he asked.
“No; none whatever. The utter absence of motive is
the most puzzling element of the whole situation.”
“Whom can my wife have known at Raleigh Mansions ?
What sort of places are they ?”
“Quite fashionable, but not too expensive. The
absence of elevators and doorkeepers cheapens them. I
am sorry now that I mentioned them to White."
“Why ?”
[ 18 ]


Inspector White
“He will disturb every one of the residents by injudi-
cious inquiries. Each housemaid who opens a door will
be to him a suspicious individual, each butcher's boy an
accomplice, each tenant a principal in the abduction of
your wife. If I have a theory of any sort, it is that the
first reliable news will come from Richmond. There
cannot be the slightest doubt that she was going there on
Tuesday night.”
“It will be very odd if you should prove to be right,”
said Sir Charles.
Again they were interrupted by the footman, this time
the bearer of a telegram, which he handed to his master.
The latter opened it and read:
“What is the matter? Are you ill? I certainly am
angry. — DICK.”
He frowned with real annoyance, crumpling up the
message and throwing it in the fire.
“People bothering one at such a time,” he growled.
Soon afterwards Bruce left him.
True to the barrister's prophecy, Inspector White made
life miserable to the denizens of Raleigh Mansions. He
visited them at all hours, and, in some instances, several
times. Although, in accordance with his instructions, he
never mentioned Lady Dyke's name, he so pestered the
occupants with questions concerning a lady of her general
appearance that half-a-dozen residents wrote complaining
letters to the company which owned the mansions, and
the secretary lodged a protest, at Scotland Yard.
Respectable citizens object to detectives prowling about,
particularly when they insinuate questions concerning
indefinite ladies in tailor-made dresses and fur toques.
At the end of a week Mr. White was nonplussed, and
[ 19 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
even Claude Bruce confessed that his more carefully
conducted inquiries had yielded no result.
Towards the end of the month a sensational turn was
given to events. The body of a woman, terribly dis-
figured from long immersion in the water and other
causes, was found in the Thames at Putney.
It had been discovered under peculiar circumstances.
A drain pipe emptying into the river beneath the surface
was moved by reason of some sanitary alterations, and the
workmen intrusted with the task were horrified at finding
a corpse tightly wedged beneath it.
Official examination revealed that although the body
had been in the water fully three weeks, the cause of death
was not drowning. The woman had been murdered be-
yond a shadow of a doubt. A sharp iron spike was
driven into her brain with such force that a portion of it
had broken off, and remained imbedded in the skull.
If this were not sufficient, there were other convinc-
ing proofs of foul play.
Although her skirt and coat were of poor quality, her
linen was of a class that could only be worn by some one
who paid as much for a single under-garment as most
women do for a good costume; but there were no laundry
marks, such as usual, upon it.
On the feet were a pair of strong walking boots, bearing
the stamped address of a fashionable boot-maker in the
West End. Among a list of customers to whom the
tradesman supplied footgear of this size and character
appeared the name of Lady Dyke.
Not very convincing testimony, but sufficient to bring
Sir Charles to the Putney mortuary in the endeavor to
identify the remains as those of his missing wife.
In this he utterly failed.
[ 20 ]


Inspector White
Not only was this poor misshapen lump of distorted
humanity wholly unlike Lady Alice, but the color of her
hair was different.
Her ladyship's maid called to identify the linen — even
the police admitted the outer clothes were not Lady Dyke's
– was so upset at the repulsive nature of her task that she
went into hysterics, protesting loudly that it could not be
her mistress she was looking at.
Bruce differed from both of them. He quietly urged
Sir Charles to consider the fact that a great many ladies
give a helping hand to Nature in the matter of hair tints.
The chemical action of water would —
The baronet nearly lost his temper.
“Really, Bruce, you carry your theories too far,” he
cried. “My wife had none of these vanities. I am sure
this is not she. The mere thought that such a thing could
be possible makes me ill. Let us get away, quick."
So a coroner's jury found an open verdict, and the poor
unknown was buried in a pauper's grave.
The newspapers dismissed the incident with a couple of
paragraphs, though the iron spike planted in the skull
afforded good material for a telling headline, and within
a couple of days the affair was forgotten.
But Claude Bruce, barrister and amateur detective,
was quite sure in his own mind that the nameless woman
was Alice, Lady Dyke.
He was so certain — though identification of the body
was impossible — that he bitterly resented the scant atten-
tion given the matter by the authorities, and he swore
solemnly that he would not rest until he had discovered
her destroyer and brought the wretch to the bar of justice.
[21]


CHAPTER III
THE LADY’S MAID
The first difficulty experienced by the barrister in his
self-imposed task was the element of mystery purposely
contributed by Lady Dyke herself. To a man of his
quick perception, sharpened and clarified by his legal
training, it was easy to arrive at the positive facts under-
lying the trivial incidents of his meeting with the missing
lady at Victoria Station.
Briefly stated, his summary was this: Lady Dyke in-
tended to go to Richmond at a later hour than that at
which his unexpected presence had caused her to set out.
She had resolved upon a secret visit to some one who lived
in Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square—some person whom
she knew so slightly as to be unacquainted with the exact
address, and, as the result of this visit, she desired subse-
quently to see her sister at Richmond.
Sir Charles Dyke was apparently in no way concerned
with her movements, nor had she thought fit to consult
him, beyond the mere politeness of announcing her prob-
able absence from home at the dinner hour.
To one of Bruce's analytical powers the problem would
be more simple were it, in a popular sense, more complex.
In these days, it is a strange thing for a woman of assured
position in society to be suddenly spirited out of the world
without leaving trace or sign. He approached his inquiry
[ 22 ]


The Lady's Maid
with less certainty, owing to Lady Dyke's own negative
admissions, than if she had been swallowed up by an
earthquake, and he were asked to determine her fate by
inference and deduction.
It must be remembered that he was sure she was dead —
murdered, and that her body had been lodged by human
agents beneath an old drain-pipe at Putney.
What possible motive could any one have in so foully
killing a beautiful, high-minded, and charming woman,
whose whole life was known to her associates, whom the
breath of scandal had never touched ?
The key of the mystery might be found at Raleigh
Mansions, but Bruce decided that this branch of his quest
could wait until other transient features were cleared up.
He practically opened the campaign of investigation at
Putney. Mild weather had permitted the workmen to
conclude their operations the day before the barrister
reached the spot where the body had been found — that
is to say, some forty-eight hours after he had resolved
neither to pause nor deviate in his search until the truth
was laid bare.
A large house, untenanted, occupied the bank, a house
with solid front facing the road, and a lawn running from
the drawing-room windows to the river. Down the right
side of the grounds the boundary was sharply marked by
a narrow lane, probably a disused ferry road, and access
to this thoroughfare was obtained from the lawn by a
garden gate.
A newly marked seam in the roadway showed the line
of the drainage work, and Bruce did not glance at the
point where the pipe entered the Thames, as the structural
features here were recent.
He went to the office of the contractor who had carried
[ 23 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Ince
out the alterations. An elderly foreman readily answered
his questions.
“Yes, sir. I was in charge of the men who were on the
job. It was an easy business. Just an outlet for rain
from the road. An old-fashioned affair; been there thirty
or forty years, I should think; all the pipes were crumbling
away."
“Why were the repairs effected at this moment ?”
“Well, sir, the house was empty quite a while. You
see it used to be a school, a place where young gents were
prepared for the army. It was closed about a year ago,
and it isn't everybody as wants so many bedrooms. I do
hear as how the new tenant has sixteen children.”
“The incoming people have not yet arrived ?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you tell me the name of the schoolmaster ?”
“Oh, yes. When I was younger I have done a lot of
carpenter's work for him. He was the Reverend Septimus
Childe.”
Bruce made a note of the name, and next sought the
local police-inspector.
“No, nothing fresh,” said the latter, in reply to a query
concerning the woman “found drowned.”
“I suppose these things are soon lost sight of ?” said
Bruce casually.
“Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren't. It's
wonderful occasionally how a matter gets cleared up after
years. Of course we keep all the records of a case, so
that the affair can be looked into if anything turns up.”
“Ah, that brings me to the most important object of my
visit. A small piece of iron was found imbedded in the
woman's skull.”
The inspector smiled as he admitted the fact.
[ 24 ]


The Lady's Maid
“May I see it? I want either the loan of it for a brief
period, or an exact model.”
Again the policeman grinned.
“I don't mind telling you that you are too late, sir.”
“Too late! How too late?”
“It's been gone to Scotland Yard for the best part of a
week.”
So others besides the barrister thought that the Putney
incident required more attention than had been bestowed
upon it.
Bruce concluded his round by a visit to the surgeon who
gave evidence at the inquest.
The doctor had no manner of doubt that the woman had
been murdered before being placed in the water, the state
of the lungs being proof positive on that point.
“It was equally indisputable that she was put to death
by malice aforethought ?”
“Oh, yes. A small iron spike was absolutely wedged
into the brain through the hardest part of the skull.”
“What was the nature of the injuries that caused
death ?”
“This piece of iron penetrated the occipital bone at the
lowest part, and injured the cerebellum, damaging all the
great nerve centres at the base of the brain.”
“Would death ensue instantly ?”
“Yes. Such a blow would have the effect of a high
voltage electric current. Complete paralysis of the nerve
centres means death.”
“Then I take it that great force must have been used ?”
“Not so much, perhaps, as the nature of the wound
seems to imply; but considerable — sufficient, at any rate,
to break the piece of iron.”
[ 25 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“It was broken, you say? Was it cast-iron ?”
“Yes, of good quality. Off some ornament or design,
I should imagine. But it snapped off inside the head at
the moment of the occurrence.”
“Curious, is it not, for a person to be killed in such a
manner by such an instrument ?”
“I have never before met such a case. Were it not for
the way in which the body was jammed beneath a hidden
drain-pipe, and the effective means taken to destroy the
identity, I should have inclined to the belief that some
strange accident had happened. At any rate, the mur-
derer must have committed the crime on the spur of the
moment, and seized upon the first weapon to hand.”
“You say she was forcibly placed where found ?"
“Yes; the workmen's description left no other idea.”
“ Could not the tide have done this ?”
“Hardly. One cannot be quite emphatic, as such odd
things do happen. But it seems to be almost impossible
for the tide at Putney to pack a body beneath a jutting
drain-pipe in such a manner that the waist, or narrowest
part, should be beneath the pipe and the body remain
securely held.”
“Yet it is not so marvellous as the coincidence that this
particular drain should need repairs at the precise period
when this tragedy happened.”
“Quite so. It is exceedingly strange. Are you in-
terested in the case? Have you reason to believe that this
poor woman — 3”
“I hardly know," broke in the barrister. “I have no
data to go upon, but I feel convinced that I shall ulti-
mately establish her identity. You, doctor, can help me
much by telling me your surmises in addition to the known
facts.”
[ 26 ]


The Lady's Maid
The medico looked thoughtfully through the window
before he exclaimed: “I am certain that the woman found
in the Thames came from the upper walks of life. Not-
withstanding the disfiguring effects of the water and rough
usage, any medical man can rapidly appreciate the caste
of his subject. She was, I should say, a woman of wealth
and refinement, one who led an orderly, well-regulated
life, whose surroundings were normal and healthy."
Bruce thanked his informant and hurried back to Lon-
don. A telegram to Inspector White preceded him. He
had not long reached his Victoria-street chambers when
the detective was announced. He soon made known his
wishes. “I want you to give me that small piece of iron
found in the head of the woman at Putney,” he said.
“If necessary, I will return it in twenty-four hours."
Mr. White's face showed some little sign of annoyance.
“It is against the rules,” he began; but Bruce curtly
interrupted him.
“Very well, I will make direct application to the
Commissioner.”
“I was going to say, Mr. Bruce, that although not
strictly in accordance with orders, I will make an exception
in your case.” And the detective slowly produced the
piece de conviction from a large pocket-book.
In sober fact, the police officer was somewhat jealous of
the clever lawyer, who saw so quickly through complex-
ities that puzzled his slower brain. He was in nowise
anxious to help the barrister in his inquiries, though
keenly wishful to benefit by his discoveries, and follow
out his theories when they were defined with sufficient
clearness.
Bruce did not at first take the proffered article.
“Let me understand, Mr. White,” he said. “Do you
[27]


A Mysterious Disappearance
nce
object to my presence in this inquiry? Are you going to
hinder me or help me? It will save much future misun-
derstanding if we have this point settled now.”
The detective flushed at this direct inquiry. “I will be
candid with you, Mr. Bruce. It is true I have been vexed
at times when you have overreached me; but I regret it
immediately. It is foolish of me to try and solve problems
by your methods. Kindly forget my momentary disin-
clination to hand over the only genuine link in the case.”
“In what case ?”
“In the case of Lady Dyke's disappearance.”
“Ah! Then you think it is in some way connected
with the woman found at Putney?”.
“I am sure of it. The woman at Putney, whether Lady
Dyke herself or not I cannot tell, wore some of her lady-
ship's clothes. When we have ascertained the means and
the manner of the death of the woman buried at Putney
we shall not be far from learning what has become of
Lady Dyke.”
“How have you identified the clothes ?”
"I managed to gain the confidence of the lady's maid,
who gave evidence at the inquest. She, of course, is quite
positive that the body was not that of her mistress, but
when I had examined some of Lady Dyke's linen I no
longer doubted the fact.”
“If you knew all this, how comes it that more did not
transpire at the coroner's inquiry ?”
“In such affairs an inquest is rather a hindrance to the
police. It is better to lull the guilty person or persons
into the belief that the crime has passed into oblivion.
They know as well as we do that Lady Dyke is buried at
Putney. We have failed to establish her identity by the
evidence of the husband and servants. The linen and
[ 28 ]


CHAPTER IV
NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS
REALLY, the maid deserved to have her ears pulled..
People in her walk in life should not ape their betters.
Lady Dyke, owing to her position, was entitled to some
degree of oddity or mystery in her behavior. But for a
lady's maid to so upset the entire household at Wensley
House, Portman Square, was intolerable.
Sir Charles became, if possible, more miserable; the
butler fumed; the housekeeper said that the girl was
always a forward minx, and the footman winked at But-
tons, as much as to say that he knew a good deal if he
liked to talk.
The police were as greatly baffled by this latter incident
as by its predecessor. The movements of the maid were
quite unknown. No one could tell definitely when she
left the house. Her fellow-servants described the dress
she probably wore, as all her other belongings were in her
bed-room; but beyond the fact that her name was Jane
Harding, and that she had not returned to her home in
Lincolnshire, the police could find no further clue.
So, in brief, Jane Harding quickly joined Lady Dyke
in the limbo of forgetfulness.
Bruce, however, forgot nothing. Indeed, he rejoiced
at this new development.
“The greater the apparent mystery,” he communed,
[ 30 ]


No. 61 Raleigh Mansions
“the less it is in reality. We now have two tracks to
follow. They are both hidden, it is true, but when we
find one, it will probably intersect the other."
The new year was a few days old when Bruce made his
first step through the bewildering maze which seemed to
bar progress on every side. He received a report from
the man, a pensioned police-officer, who had conducted
a painstaking search into the history and occupation of
every inhabitant of Raleigh Mansions.
Two items the barrister fastened on to at once.
“At No. 12, top floor right, entrance by first door on
Sloane Square side, is a small flat occupied by a man
named Sydney H. Corbett. He passes as an American,
but is probably an Englishman who has resided in the
United States. He does not mix with other Americans
in London, and is of irregular habits. He frequents race
meetings and sporting clubs, is reported to belong to a
Piccadilly club where high play is the rule, and has no
definite occupation. He occasionally visits a lady who
lives at No. 61, same mansions, ground floor, and sixth
door. They have been heard to quarrel seriously, and
the dispute appears always to have concerned money.
Corbett went to Monte Carlo early in December. His
address there is ‘Hotel du Cercle,' and the local post-
office has a supply of stamped and addressed envelopes in
which to forward his correspondence.”
“At No. 61, as already described, resides Mrs. Gwen-
doline Hillmer. She lives in good style, rents a brougham
and a victoria, and is either a wealthy widow or main-
tained by some one of means. She dresses well, and goes
out a good deal to theatres, but otherwise leads a rather
lonely life. Her most frequent visitor is, or was, a gen-
tleman who looked like an officer in the Guards, and,
[ 31 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
much less often, the aforesaid Sydney H. Corbett. Her
servants, except the maid, live out. The maid, who is a
sort of companion, is talkative, but does not know much,
or, if she does, will not speak.”
Bruce weighed these statements very carefully. They
did not contain any positive facts that promised well for
the elucidation of Lady Dyke's visit to the mansions on
that fateful November evening, but the absolute color-
lessness of the reports concerning the other occupants
rendered them quite impossible of individual distinction.
After an hour of puzzled thought the barrister finally
decided upon a course of action. He would see Mrs.
Gwendoline Hillmer, and trust to luck in the way of
discoveries.
A quiet smile lit up his handsome, regular features as
he proceeded to array himself in the most fashionable
clothes he possessed, paying the utmost attention to every
detail in a manner that amazed his valet.
When at last that worthy was despatched to the nearest
florist's for a boutonniere, he communicated his bewilder-
ment to the hall-porter.
“My guv'nor's going out on the mash,” he said con-
fidentially. “I thought he would never look at a woman;
but, bless you, Jim, we're all alike. When the day comes
we all rush after a petticoat.”
It was nearly six o'clock when Bruce walked down
Victoria Street. For some reason, he did not call a han-
som, and it was almost with a start that he found himself
purchasing a ticket to Sloane Square at the Underground
Railway office. At this precise hour and place he had
last seen Lady Alice on earth. The memory nerved him
to his purpose.
A few minutes later he pressed the electric bell of No. 61
[ 32 ]


No. 61 Raleigh Mansions
Raleigh Mansions. As he listened to the slight jar of the
indicator within, he smiled at the apparent fatuity of his
mission.
He had one card, perhaps a weak one, to play, it was
true, but he hoped that circumstances might prevent this
from being tabled too early in the game.
The door opened, and a youthful housemaid stood
before him, the simple wonder in her eyes showing that
such visitors were rare.
“Is Mrs. Hillmer at home ?” he said.
“I'll see sir, if you give me your name.”
“Surely you know whether or not she is at home?”
The girl stammered and blushed at this unexpected
query. “Well, sir,” she said, “my mistress is in, but I do
not know if she can receive any one. She is dressed to go
out.”
“Ah! that's better. Now, take her my card, and say
that while I will not detain her, my business is very
important." This with a sweet smile that put the flurried
maid entirely at her ease.
The girl withdrew, after hesitating for a moment to
decide the important question as to whether or not she
should close the door in his face.
Another smile, and she did not.
He was thus free to note the luxurious and tasteful air
of the general appointments, for the entrance hall usually
reveals much of the characteristics of the inmates. Here
was every evidence of refinement and wealth. All the
display had not been lavished on the drawing-room.
As he waited, conscious of the fact that his colloquy
with the servant had been overheard, a lady crossed from
one room to the other at the end of the passage. Her
smart but simple dress, and the quick scrutiny she gave
[ 33 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
him, as though discovering his presence accidentally,
caused him to believe — rightly, as it transpired — that
this was the maid-companion described by his assistant.
Not only had she obviously made her appearance in
order to look at him, but the housemaid had carried his
message to a different section of the flat.
The girl returned. “My mistress will see you in a few
minutes,” she said. “Will you kindly step into the
dining-room ?”
He followed her, sat down in a position where the strong
glare of the electric lamps would fall on any one who stood
opposite, and waited developments.
The furniture was solid and appropriate, the carpet
rich, and the pictures, engravings for the most part, ex-
cellent. This pleasant room, warmed by a cheerful fire,
impressed Bruce as a place much used by the household.
Books and work-baskets were scattered about, and a
piano, littered with music, filled a corner. There were a
few photographs of persons and places, but he had not
time to examine these before the lady of the house entered.
Her appearance, for some reason inexplicable to the
barrister himself, took him by surprise. She was tall,
graceful, extremely good-looking, and dressed in a style
of quiet elegance. Just the sort of woman one would
expect to find in such a well-appointed abode, yet more
refined in manner than Bruce, from his knowledge of the
world, thought he would meet, judging by the hasty in-
ferences drawn from his subordinate's report. She was
self-possessed, too. With calm tone, and slightly elevated
eyebrows, she said:
“You wish to see me, I understand ?”
“Yes. Allow me first to apologize for the hour at
which I have called.”
[ 34 ]


No. 61 Raleigh Mansions
“No apology is necessary. But I am going out. Per-
haps you will be good enough not to detain me longer than
is absolutely necessary."
She stood between the table and the door. Bruce, who
had risen at her entrance, was at the other side of the
room. Her words, no less than her attitude, showed that
she desired the interview to be brief. But the barrister
resolved that he would not be repelled so coolly.
Advancing, with a bow and that fascinating smile of
his, he said, pulling forward a chair:
“Won't you be seated ?”
The lady looked at him. She saw a man of fine phy-
sique and undoubted good breeding. She hesitated.
There was no reason to be rude to him, so she sat down.
Claude drew a chair to the other side of the hearthrug,
and commenced:
“I have ventured to seek this interview for the purpose
of making some inquiries.”
“I thought so. Are you a policeman ?" The words
were blurted out impetuously, a trifle complainingly,
but Bruce gave no sign of the interest they had for
him.
“Good gracious, no,” he cried. “Why should you
think that?”
“Because two detectives have been bothering me, and
every other person in these mansions, about some myste-
rious lady who called here two months ago. They don't
know where she called, nor will they state her name; as if
any one could possibly know anything about it. So I
naturally thought you were on the same errand.”
“Confound that rascal White,” growled he to himself.
But Mrs. Hillmer went on: “If that is not your business,
would you mind telling me what it is ?”
[ 35 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Now Bruce's alert brain had been actively engaged
during the last few seconds. This woman was not the
clever, specious adventuress he had half expected to meet.
It seemed more than ever unlikely that she could have
any knowledge of Lady Dyke or the causes that led to her
disappearance. He was tempted to frame some excuse
and take his departure. But the certainty that his missing
friend had visited Raleigh Mansions, and the necessity
there was for exploiting every line of inquiry, impelled him
to adopt this last resource.
“It is not concerning a missing lady, but concerning a
missing gentleman that I have come to see you."
The shot went home.
Why, for the life of him, he could not tell, but his com-
panion was manifestly disturbed at his words.
“Oh,” she said.
Then, after a little pause: “May I ask his name?”
“Certainly. He is known as Mr. Sydney H. Corbett.”
She gave a slight gasp.
“Why do you put it in that way? Is not that his right
name ?”
“I have reason to believe it is not."
Mrs. Hillmer was so obviously distressed that Bruce
inwardly reviled himself for causing her so much unneces-
sary suffering. In all probability, the source of her
emotion had not the remotest bearing upon his quest.
Then came the pertinent query, after a glance at his
card, which she still held in her hand:
“Who are you, Mr. — Mr. Claude Bruce ?”
“I am a member of the Bar, of the Inner Temple. My
chambers are No. 7 Paper Buildings, and my private
residence is given there.”
“And why are you interested in Mr. Sydney Corbett ?”
[ 36 ]


No. 61 Raleigh Mansions
“Ah, in that respect I am at this moment unable to
enlighten you.”
“Unable, or unwilling ?”
He indulged in a quiet piece of fencing:
“Really, Mrs. Hillmer,” he said, “I am not here as in
any sense hostile to you. I merely want some detailed
information with regard to this gentleman, information
which you may be able to give me. That is all.”
All this time he knew that the woman was scrutinizing
him narrowly — trying to weigh him up as it were, not
because she feared him, but rather to discover the true
motive of his presence.
Personally, he had never faced a more difficult task than
this make-believe investigation. He could have laughed
at the apparent want of connection between Lady Dyke's
ill-fated visit to Raleigh Mansions and this worrying of a
beautiful, pleasant-mannered woman, who was surely
neither a principal nor an accomplice in a ghastly crime.
“Well, I suppose I may consider myself in the hands of
counsel. Tell me what it is you want to know!” Mrs.
Hillmer pouted, with the air of a child about to undergo
a scolding.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Corbett's present
address ? ” he said.
“No. I have neither seen him nor heard from him
since early in November.”
“Can you be more precise about the period ?”
“Yes, perhaps.” She arose, took from a drawer in
the sideboard a packet of bills — receipted, he observed —
searched through them and found the document she sought.
“I purchased a few articles about that time," she ex-
plained, “and the account for them is dated November 15.
I had not seen my —” She blushed, became confused,
[37]


A Mysterious Disappearance
ince
laughed a little, and went on. “I had not seen Mr.
Corbett for at least a week before that date — say Novem-
ber 8th or 9th.”
Lady Dyke disappeared on the evening of the 6th!
Bruce swallowed his astonishment at the odd coinci-
dence of dates, for he said, with an encouraging laugh,
“Out with it, Mrs. Hillmer. You were about to describe
Mr. Corbett correctly when you recollected yourself.”
Mrs. Hillmer, still coloring and becoming saucily
cheerful, cried, “Why should I trouble myself when you,
of course, know all that I can tell you, and probably
more? He is my brother, and a pretty tiresome sort of
relation, too."
“I am obliged for your confidence. In return, I am
free to state that your brother is now in the South of
France."
“As you are here, Mr. Bruce,” she said, “I may as
well get some advice gratis. Can people writ him in
the South of France ? Can they ask me to pay his
debts ? "
“Under ordinary circumstances they can do neither.
Certainly not the latter."
“I hope not. But they sometimes come very near to
it, as I know to my cost.”
“Indeed! How ?”
Mrs. Hillmer hesitated. Her smile was a trifle scornful,
and her color rose again as she answered: “People are
not averse to taking advantage of circumstances. I have
had some experience of this trait in debt-collectors already.
But they must be careful. You, as a legal man, must
know that demands urged on account of personal reasons
may come very near to levying blackmail.”
"Surely, Mrs. Hillmer, you do not suspect me of being
[ 38 ]


No. 61 Raleigh Mansions
a dun. Perish the thought! You could never be in debt
to me.”
“Very nice of you. Don't you represent those people
on Leadenhall Street, then ?"
“What people ?"
“Messrs. Dodge & Co.”
“No; why do you ask ?”
“Because my brother entered into what he called a
'deal' with them. He underwrote some shares in a South
African mine, as a nominal affair, he told me, and now
they want him to pay for them because the company is not
supported by the public.”
“No, I do not represent Dodge & Co.”
“Is there something else then ? Whom do you repre-
sent ?”
“To be as precise as permissible, I may say that my
inquiries in no sense affect financial matters.”
“What then ?”
“Well, there is a woman in the case.”
Mrs. Hillmer was evidently both relieved and interested.
“No, you don't say,” she said. “Tell me all about it.
I never knew Bertie to be much taken up with the fair
sex. I am all curiosity. Who is she ?”
He did not take advantage of the mention of a name
which in no way stood for Sydney. Besides, perhaps the
initial stood for Herbert. He resolved to try another tack.
Glancing at his watch he said: “It is nearly seven
o'clock. I have already detained you an unconscionable
time. You were going out. Permit me to call again,
and we can discuss matters at leisure.”
He rose, and the lady sighed: “You were just beginning
to be entertaining. I was only going to dine at a restau-
rant. I am quite tired of being alone.”
[ 39 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
zce
velf, then, Mrs. I may bring
May I v
Was it a hint ? He would see. “Are you dining by
yourself, then, Mrs. Hillmer ?”
“I hardly know. I may bring my maid.”
Claude now made up his mind. “May I venture," he
said, “after such an informal introduction, to ask you to
dine with me at the Prince's Restaurant, and afterwards,
perhaps, to look in at the Jollity Theatre ?"
The lady was unfeignedly pleased. She arranged to
call for him in her brougham within twenty minutes, and
Bruce hurried off to Victoria Street in a hansom to dress
for this unexpected branch of the detective business.
When he told his valet to telephone to the restaurant and
the theatre respectively for a reserved table and a couple
of stalls, that worthy chuckled.
When his master entered a brougham in which was
seated a fur-wrapped lady, the valet grinned broadly.
“I knew it,” he said. "The guv'nor's on the mash.
Now, who would ever have thought it of him ?”
[ 40 ]


CHAPTER V
AT THE JOLLITY THEATRE
By tacit consent, Claude and his fair companion
dropped for the hour the roles of inquisitor and witness.
They were both excellent talkers, they were mutually
interested, and there was in their present escapade a
spice of that romance not so lacking in the humdrum life
of London as is generally supposed to be the case.
Bruce did not ask himself what tangible result he ex-
pected from this quaint outcome of his visit to Sloane
Square. It was too soon yet. He must trust to the
vagaries of chance to elucidate many things now hidden.
Meanwhile a good dinner, a bright theatre, and the society
of a smart, nice-looking woman, were more than tolerable
substitutes for progress.
As a partial explanation of his somewhat eccentric be-
havior, he volunteered a lively account of a recent cause
celebre, in which he had taken a part, but the details of
which had been rigidly kept from the public. He more
than hinted that Mr. Sydney Corbett had figured promi-
nently in the affair; and Mrs. Hillmer laughed with unre-
strained mirth at the unwonted appearance of her brother
in the character of a Lothario.
“Tell me,” said Bruce confidentially, when a couple of
glasses of Moët '89 had consolidated friendly relations,
“what sort of a fellow in this brother of yours ?”
[ 41 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Not in any sense a bad boy, but a trifle wild. He will
not live an ordinary life, and at times he has been hard
pressed to live at all. As a matter of fact, it is this scrape
he blundered into with Messrs. Dodge & Co. that induced
him to masquerade temporarily under an assumed name.”
“Then what is his real name?”.
“Ah, now you are pumping me again. I refuse to tell.”
“But there are generally serious reasons when a man
disguises himself in such fashion.”
“The reason he gave me was that he dreaded being
writted for liability regarding the shares I mentioned to
you. It was good enough. Now you come with this
story of meddling with somebody else's wife. Surely this
is an additional reason. I supplied him with funds until
we quarrelled, and then he went off in a huff.”
“What did you quarrel about. ?”
“That concerns me only.” Mrs. Hillmer was SO
emphatic that Bruce dropped the subject.
When they drove to the theatre Mrs. Hillmer, on
alighting at the entrance, said to her coachman, “You
may return home now, and bring Dobson to meet me at
11.15.”
“May I venture to inquire who Dobson is ?” said
Claude.
“Certainly. Dobson is my maid.”
This woman puzzled him the more he saw of her. He
was now quite positive that she lived on the fringe of
Society. Her status was, at the best, dubious. Yet he
had never heard of her before, nor met her in public.
None of his friends were known to her, and she mentioned
no one beyond those popular personages who are connu
of all the world. She was obviously wealthy and refined,
with more than a spice of unconventionality. At times,
[ 42 ]


At the Jollity Theatre
too, beneath her habitual expressions of lively and viva-
cious interest, there was a touch of melancholy.
For an instant her face grew sad when her eyes rested
on a typical family party of father, mother, and two girls
who occupied seats in the row of stalls directly in front of
her.
For some reason Bruce felt sorry for Mrs. Hillmer. He
regretted that the exigencies of his quest forced him to
make her his dupe, and he resolved that, if by any chance
her scapegrace brother were concerned in Lady Dyke's
death, Mrs. Hillmer should, if possible, be spared personal
humiliation or disgrace.
Indeed, he had formed such a favorable opinion of her
that he had made up his mind to conduct his future inves-
tigations without causing her to assist involuntarily in
putting a halter around her relative's neck.
Nevertheless, it was impossible to avoid getting some
further information, as the lady herself paved the way for
it. Her comments betrayed such an accurate acquaint-
ance with the technique of the stage that he said to her,
“You must have acted a good deal ?”
“No,” she said, “not very much. But I was stage
struck when young."
“But you have not appeared in public ?"
“Yes, some six years ago. I worked so hard that I
fell ill, and then — then I got married.”
"Do you go out much to theatres, nowadays ?”
“Very little. It is lonely by oneself, and there are so
few plays worth seeing.”
Bruce wondered why she insisted so strongly upon the
isolation of her existence. In his new-found sympathy he
forebore to question, and she continued:
“When I do visit a theatre I amuse myself mostly by
[ 43 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Hlce
silent criticism of the actors and actresses. Not that I
could do better than many of them, or half so well, but it
passes the time.”
“I hope you do not regard killing time as your main
occupation ?”
“It is so, I fear, however hard I may strive otherwise.".
And again that shadow of regret darkened the fair
face.
Some one in front turned round and glared at them
angrily, for the famous comedian, Mr. Prospect Ricks,
was singing his deservedly famous song, “It was all
because I buttoned up her boots," so the conversation
dropped for the moment.
Claude focussed his opera-glasses on the stage. While
his eyes wandered idly over the pretty faces and shapely
limbs of the coryphées his brain was busy piecing together
all that he had heard. The odd coincidence of the dates
of Lady Dyke's murder and the speedy departure of the
self-styled Sydney Corbett for the Riviera would require
a good deal of explanation by the latter gentleman.
True, it was not the barrister’s habit to jump at conclu-
sions. There might be a perfectly valid motive for the
journey. If the man did not desire his whereabouts to be
known, why did he leave his address at the post-office ?
And, then, what possible reason could Lady Dyke have
in visiting him voluntarily and secretly at his chambers
in Raleigh Mansions ? This virtuous and high-princi-
pled lady could have nothing in common with a careless
adventurer, taking the most lenient view of his sister's
description of him. And as Bruce's subtle brain strove
vainly to match the queer fragments of the puzzle, his
keen eyes roved over the stage in aimless activity.
Suddenly they paused. His power of vision and mental
[ 44 ]


At the Jollity Theatre
analysis were alike inadequate to the new and startling
fact which had obtruded itself, unasked and unsought for,
upon his sight.
Among the least prominent of the chorus girls, posturing
and moving with the stiffness and visible anxiety of the
novice, who is not yet accustomed to the glare of the
footlights upon undraped limbs, was one in whose every
gesture Bruce took an absorbing interest.
He was endowed in full measure with that prime req-
uisite in the detection of criminals, an unusually good
memory for faces, together with the artistic faculty of
catching the true expression.
Hence it was that, after the whirl of a dancing chorus
had for a few seconds brought this particular member of
the company close to the proscenium, Bruce became quite
sure of having developed at least one branch of his inquiry
within measurable distance of its conclusion.
The girl on the stage was Jane Harding, Lady Dyke's
maid.
When her features first flashed upon his conscious gaze
he could hardly credit the discovery. But each instant
of prolonged scrutiny placed the fact beyond doubt. Not
even the make-up and the elaborate wig could conceal the
contour of her pretty if insipid face, and a slight trick she
had of drooping the left eyelid when thinking confirmed
him in his belief.
So astounded was he at this sequel to his visit to the
theatre, that he utilized every opportunity of a full stage
to examine still further the appearance and style of this
strange apparition.
When the curtain fell and Jane Harding had vanished,
he was brought back to actuality by Mrs. Hillmer's voice.
“Fie, Mr. Bruce. You are taking altogether too much
[ 45 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
notice of one of the fair ladies in front. Which one is it?
The tall standard bearer or the little girl who pirouettes
so gracefully ?”
“Neither, I assure you. I was taken up by wondering
how a young woman manages to secure employment in a
theatre for the first time.”
“I think I can tell you. Influence goes a long way.
Talent occasionally counts. Then, a well-known agent
may, for a nominal fee, get an opening for a handsome,
well-built girl who has taken lessons from either himself
or some of his friends in dancing or singing, or both.”
“Is such a thing possible for a domestic servant ?”
“It all depends upon the domestic servant's circle of
acquaintances. As a rule, I should say not. A theatre
like this requires a higher average of intelligence.”
This, and more, Bruce well knew, but he was only
making conversation, while he thought intently, almost
fiercely, upon the latest phase of his strange quest.
During the third act he devoted more time to Mrs.
Hillmer. If that sprightly dame were a little astonished
at the celerity with which he conducted her to her carriage
and the waiting Dobson, it was banished by the nice way
in which he thanked her for the pleasure she had conferred.
“The enjoyment has been mostly on my side," she
cried, as he stood near the window of her brougham.
“Come to see me again soon.”
He bowed, and would have said something if an im-
perious policeman had not ordered the coachman to make
way for the next vehicle. So Mrs. Hillmer was whisked
into the traffic.
From force of habit, he glanced casually at the crowd
struggling through the exit of the theatre, and he caught
sight of Mr. White, who, too late, averted his round eyes
[ 46 ]


At the Jollity Theatre
and strove to shield his portly form in the portico of a
neighboring restaurant.
He did not want to be bothered by the detective just
then. He lit a cigarette, and Mr. White slid off quietly
into the stream of traffic, finally crossing the road and
jumping on to a Charing Cross 'bus.
“So,” said Claude to himself, “ White has been watching
Raleigh Mansions, and watching me too. 'Pon my honor,
I shouldn't wonder if he suspected me of the murder! I'm
glad I saw him just now. For the next couple of hours
I wish to be free from his interference.”
Waiting a few moments to make sure that White had
not detailed an aide-de-camp to continue the surveillance,
he buttoned his overcoat to the chin, tilted his hat forward,
and strolled round to the stage door of the Jollity Theatre.
[ 47]


CHAPTER VI
MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT
THE uncertain rays of a weak lamp, struggling through
panes dulled by dirt and black letters, cast a fitful light
about the precincts of the stage-door.
Elderly women and broken-down men, slovenly and
unkempt, kept furtive guard over the exit, waiting for the
particular “super" to come forth who would propose the
expected adjournment to a favorite public-house. Some
smart broughams, a four-wheeler, and a few hansoms,
formed a close line along the pavement, which was soon
crowded with the hundred odd hangers-on of a theatre —
scene-shifters, gasmen, limelight men, members of the
orchestra, dressers, and attendants — mingling with the
small stream of artistes constantly pouring out into the cold
night after a casual inquiry for letters at the office of the
doorkeeper.
This being a fashionable place of amusement there were
not wanting several representatives of the gilded youth,
some obviously ginger-bread or “unleavened” imitations,
others callow specimens of the genuine article.
Bruce paid little heed to them as they impudently
peered beneath each broad-leafed and high-feathered hat
to discover the charmer honored by their chivalrous
attentions.
Yet the presence of this brigade of light-headed cavaliers
[ 48 ]


Miss Marie le Marchant
helped the barrister far more than he could have foreseen
or even hoped.
At last the ex-lady's maid appeared, dressed in a showy
winter costume and jaunty toque. She was on very
friendly terms with two older girls, on whom the stage had
set its ineffaceable seal, and the reason was soon apparent.
“Come along,” she cried, her words being evidently
intended to have an effect on others in the throng less
favored than those whom she addressed; “let us get into
a hansom and go to Scott's for supper. Here, cabby!”
She was on the step of a hansom when a tall, good-
looking boy, faultlessly dressed, and with something of
Sandhurst or Woolwich in his carriage, darted forward.
“Hello, Millie,” he said to one of Jane Harding's com-
panions. “How are you? A couple of fellows have come
up with me for the night. Let's all go and have something
to eat at the Duke's,” thereby indicating a well-known
club usually patronized by higher class artistes than this
trio.
After a series of introductions by Christian names,
among which Bruce failed to catch the word “Jane,” the
party went off in three hansoms, a pair in each.
Claude was not a member of the “Duke's,” though he
had often been there. But there was a man close at hand
who was a member of everything in London that in any
way pertained to things theatrical. Every one knew Billy
Sadler and Billy Sadler knew every one. A brief run in
a cab to a theatre, a restaurant, and another restaurant,
revealed the large-hearted Billy, drinking a whisky and
soda and relating to a friend, with great gusto and much
gesticulation, the very latest quarrel between the stage-
manager and the leading lady. He hailed Claude with
enthusiasm.
[ 49 ]


· Miss Marie le Marchant
“At the Jollity.”
“Oh! then here's our man” — for a Mephistophelian
gentleman was passing at the moment. “Say, Rosen-
heim, who's the new coryphée over there ?"
Mephistopheles halted, looked at Jane and laughed,
too. “Her name is Miss Marie le Marchant; but as she
happened to be born in London she pronounces it Mahrie
Lee Mahshuns, with the accent on the ‘Mahs.' Anything
else you would like to know ?”
“Yes, I'm stuck on her! Where did you pick her up ?”
“She's a housemaid, or something of the sort. Came
into money. Wants to knock 'em on the stige. The rest
is easy.”
“Has she been with you long?" put in Claude, as their
informant was the under-manager of the Jollity.
Mr. Rosenheim glanced at him. Sadler, he knew, had
no interest in the girl, and the barrister did not quite
possess the juvenile appearance that warranted such
solicitude.
"She joined us just before Christmas. What's up?
Is she really worth a lot of 'oof ?”
“I should imagine not,” laughed Bruce; and Mr.
Rosenheim joined another group.
Supper ended, Marie and Millie, and eke Flossie, at-
tended by their swains, discussed coffee and cognac in the
foyer.
Chance separated Miss le Marchant, as she may now
be known, momentarily from the others, and Bruce
darted forward.
“Good-evening,” he said. “I am delighted to meet
you here."
The girl recognized him instantly. She would have
denied her identity, but her nerve failed her before those
[51]


A Mysterious Disappearance
ince
steadfast, penetrating eyes. Moreover, it was not an ill
thing for such a well-bred, well-dressed man to acknowl-
edge her so openly.
“Good-evening, Mr. Bruce,” she said, with a smile of
assurance, though her voice faltered a little.
He resolved to make the situation easy.
“We have not met for such a long time,” he said; “and
I am simply dying to have a talk with you. I am sure
your friends will pardon me if I carry you off for five
minutes to a quiet corner.”
With a simper, Miss le Marchant took his proffered arm,
and they went off to an unoccupied table.
“Now, Jane Harding,” said he, with some degree of
sternness in his manner, “be good enough to explain to
me why you are passing under a false name, and the reasons
which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke's house in such
a particularly disagreeable way.”
“Disagreeable? I only left in a hurry. Who had any
right to stop me?"
“No one, in a sense, except that Sir Charles Dyke may
feel inclined to prosecute you."
“For what, Mr. Bruce ?”
This emancipated servant girl was not such a simpleton
as she looked. It was necessary to frighten her and at
the same time to force her to admit the facts with reference
to her sensational flight from Wensley House.
“You must know,” he said, “that Sir Charles Dyke can
proceed against you in the County Court to recover wages
in lieu of notice, and this would be far from pleasant for
you in your new surroundings.”
“Yes, I know that. But why should Sir Charles Dyke,
or you, or any other gentleman, want to destroy a poor
girl's prospects in that fashion ?"
[52]


Miss Marie le Marchant
“Surely, you must feel that some explanation is due to
us for your extraordinary behavior ?"
“No, I don't feel a bit like it.”
“But why did you go away?”
“To suit myself.”
“Could you not have given notice? Why was it neces-
sary to create a further scandal in addition to the disap-
pearance of your unfortunate mistress ?”
“I am sorry for that. It was thoughtless, I admit. If
I had to act over again I should have done differently.
But what does it matter now?"
“It matters this much — that the police must be in-
formed of your existence, as they are searching for you,
believing that you are in some way mixed up with Lady
Dyke's death.
The girl started violently, and she flushed, rather with
anger than alarm, Bruce thought, as he watched her
narrowly.
“The police, indeed,” she snorted; "what have the
police to do with me? A nice thing you're saying, Mr.
Bruce.”
“I am merely telling you the naked truth.”
“All right. Tell them. I don't care a pin for them or
you. Have you anything else to say, because I wish to
join my friends ?”
The girl's language and attitude mystified him more
than any preceding feature of this remarkable investiga-
tion. She was, of course, far better educated than he had
imagined, and the difference between the hysterical witness
at the coroner's inquiry and this pert, self-possessed young
woman was phenomenal.
Rather than risk an open rupture, the barrister tem-
porized. “If you are anxious to quarrel with me, by all
[53]


Miss Marie le Marchant
information, Mr. Bruce, as not another word will you get
out of me.”
She bounced up, fiery red, pluming herself for the fray.
“Will you not communicate with Sir Charles ?” he said,
utterly baffled by Miss le Marchant's uncompromising
attitude.
“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won't. Mr. White,
indeed!” And she ran off to join her friends.
The barrister drove quietly homewards. This was his
summary of the evening's events: “I have found two
women. When I know all about them I shall be able to
lay my hand on the person who killed Lady Dyke.”
[ 55 ]


CHAPTER VII
IN THE CITY
MESSRS. DODGE & Co., of Leadenhall Street, possessed
business premises of greater pretensions than Bruce had
pictured to himself from Mrs. Hillmer's description of
their transactions with her brother.
Not only were their offices commodious and well sit-
uated, but a liberal display of gold lettering, intermingled
with official brass plates marking the registering offices of
many companies, gave evidence of some degree of im-
portance — whether fictitious or otherwise Bruce could
not determine, as he scrutinized the exterior of the building
on the following morning.
Moreover, workmen were even then busy in substituting
the title “Dodge, Son & Co., Ltd.,” for “Messrs. Dodge
& Company,” the suggestive nature of the latter designa-
tion having perhaps proved a stumbling-block in the way
of the guileless investor.
When the barrister entered the office, a busy place, a
hive of many clerks, and adorned with gigantic maps of
the Rand, West Australia, Cripple Creek, and Klondike,
he asked for “Mr. Dodge.”
His card procured him ready admission. He was
shown into an elaborately upholstered apartment of con-
siderable size. At the farther end, seated in front of a
gorgeous American desk, was a young man who ostenta-
[56]


A Mysterious Disappearance
truth than if he were approached in a matter-of-fact
manner.
“To begin with,” he explained, never taking his eyes
off the furious face of Mr. Dodge, “I have called to ask
for information with regard to your dealings with Mr.
Sydney H. Corbett, of Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”
"I never heard of him in my life. You have evidently
come to the wrong office, Mr. Bruce.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Well, nearly so. However, I can tell you in a moment,
as it is impossible for me to carry every name connected
with several companies in my memory.”
Mr. Dodge recovered his temper now that he saw a
chance of disconcerting his caustic visitor. He touched
an electric bell, and told the answering youth to send Mr. -
Hawkins.
“My correspondence clerk,” he explained loftily when
Hawkins entered. “Are we in communication with any
one named Sydney H. Corbett, Mr. Hawkins ?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever heard the name ?”
“No, sir."
“That will do. You may go. You see you have come
to the wrong shop, Mr. Bruce."
“Yes, so I see.”
The barrister kept looking at the back of Mr. Dodge's
head, but made no move.
Mr. Dodge became puzzled.
“Now, Mr. Bruce,” he cried, “you know the age of my
son, and the extent of my information about Mr. Corbett.
Is there anything else in which I may be of service ?”
“Yes. You do a great deal of underwriting, mostly for
the flotation of gold-mining companies ?”
[58]


In the City
“Y-yes. That is a branch of our business.”
“I am interested in this class of undertaking, and I was
given to understand that Mr. Corbett has had some
dealings with you in a similar respect for a considerable
sum of money.”
“The name is absolutely unknown to me.”
“Of course. So I gather. I am sorry to hear it.
Several clients of mine have money to invest in that way,
and I naturally came to a firm whose name apparently
figured largely in the transactions of Mr. Corbett.”
It was good to see the manner in which Mr. Dodge
metaphorically kicked himself for his previous attitude.
His emotion was painful. For quite an appreciable time
he could not trust his sentiments to words.
At last he struggled to express himself.
“Really, Mr. Bruce, if you had only put things differ-
ently. Don't you see, it rather upset me when you came
in and began jawing about the youngsters. And then you
spring Mr. Corbett's name on me — a man of whom I
have no sort of knowledge. It must have been my firm
of which your friends heard. There is absolutely no other
Dodge in Leadenhall Street. Indeed, we are the only
financial Dodges — that is — er — Messrs. Dodge, Son &
Co. (Limited) are the only firm of the name dealing with
financial matters — in the city.
By this time Bruce had assured himself that Mr. Dodge
did not know Mr. Corbett's identity, and if Mrs. Hillmer's
brother had changed his name to conceal himself from
Dodge, it was likely to be successful.
“Anyhow, I am here, Mr. Dodge,” he said cheerfully,
“so I may as well enter into negotiations with you. Have
you any good things in hand at this moment?”
“Some of the best. We are just waiting for the market
[ 59 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
to ease a bit, and we shall have at least five splendid
properties to place before the public. By the way; do
you smoke?”
Bruce did smoke; and Mr. Dodge produced a box of
excellent cigars. Then he warmed to his work.
“Here is the prospectus of the Golden Halo Mine,
capital £150,000, for which the vendors are asking £140,-
000 in cash, with a working capital of £10,000. The ore
now in sight is estimated to produce two millions sterling,
and the mine is not one-tenth developed. We are offering
underwriters ten per cent in cash, and there is not the
slightest risk, as the shares will stand at a high premium
within a few days after the lists — ”
“It sounds most promising,” said Bruce; “but my
principals are more interested in taking up concerns which
have been already established, but in which, for want of
sufficient capital, the vendors' shares have, by a process of
reconstruction, come into the market. If you have
anything of that kind —”
“The very thing,” interrupted Dodge excitedly. “The
Springbok Mine will just suit ’em. After all is said and
done, Golden Halos are a bit in the air, between you and
me. But the Springbok is a genuine article. It was
capitalized for a quarter of a million, and the directors
went to allotment on a subscription list of about £14,000.
This money has been expended, but twice the amount is
necessary to develop the property properly. A call was
made on the shares, but no one paid up, and there is a
talk of compulsory reconstruction. Believe me, money
put into it now will yield two hundred per cent. in divi-
dends within twelve months.”
“There is a whiff of scent on this trail,” said Claude to
[ 60 ]


In the City
himself. He added aloud: “That looks promising. Can
you give me details ?”
“By all means. Here is the original prospectus.”
Bruce glanced through the document, which dealt with
the Springbok claims on the Rand with more candor than
is usually exhibited in such compilations. Judging from
the reports of several mining engineers of repute it really
looked as if, this time, Mr. Dodge were speaking with
some degree of accuracy.
“This reads well,” said Bruce. “What proportion of
share capital is falling in on the reconstruction scheme ?”
“I hold fifty thousand shares myself,” cried Dodge,
“and though my money is locked up just now I am so
convinced about this mine that I will manage to pay the
call myself. Roughly speaking, there are one hundred
and fifty thousand shares to be underwritten at, say,
three shillings each.”
“And who are the present holders ?”
The barrister asked the question in the most uncon-
cerned way imaginable, yet upon the answer depended
the whole success or otherwise of this hitherto unproduc-
tive mission.
Mr. Dodge was manifestly anxious.
“I take it that we are talking with a definite view to
business ?” he said.
The barrister hesitated. Even in the detection of a
crime a man does not care to tell a deliberate lie, and
Dodge's attitude so far had been candid enough. The
Springbok Mine honestly looked to be a good speculative
investment, so he resolved to place the proposition before
one or two friends who dealt with similar matters, and
who were fully able to look after their own interests.
he said.
[61]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Yes,” he answered, “I am here for that purpose. If
my principals like this thing they will go in for it.”
“Then here is the vendors’ list,” said Mr. Dodge,
taking a foolscap sheet from a drawer.
Claude perused it nonchalantly. His quick eyes took
in each name and address out of half-a-dozen, and rejected
all as being in no way connected with the man whose
antecedents he was seeking.
Yet, where possible, he left nothing to chance.
“Have you any objection to a copy being made ?” he.
asked.
Mr. Dodge hummed doubtfully.
“You see,” went on the barrister, “it is best to be quite
candid with people whom you wish to bring into risky if
apparently high promising ventures. I presume these
gentlemen are moneyless. If so, it is a factor in favor of
your scheme. Should any of them be men of means, my
principals would naturally ask why they did not them-
selves underwrite the shares.”
Mr. Dodge was convinced. “From that point of view,"
he cried emphatically, “they are above suspicion. Jot
them down, sir.”
The barrister armed himself with the necessary docu-
ments, and they parted with mutual good wishes. It was
only after reflection that Mr. Dodge saw how remarkably
little he had got out of the interview. “He was a jolly
smart chap,” communed the company promoter. “I
wonder what he was really after. And who the dickens
is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett ? Anyhow, the Springbok
business is quite above board. How can I raise the wind
for my little lot ?"
If Mr. Bruce had probed more deeply Mr. Dodge's
holding, he would have been saved much future perturba-
[62]


In the City
tion. But, clever as he was, he did not know all the
methods of financial juggling practised by experts on the
Stock Exchange.
A hansom brought him quickly to Portman Square.
In fulfilment of his promise, he was about to place Sir
Charles Dyke in possession of his recent discoveries.
When the door of Wensley House opened, the butler,
Thompson, who happened to be in the hall, anticipated
the footman's answer to Bruce's inquiry.
“Sir Chawles left yesterday for Bournemouth, sir. 'E
was that hovercome by the weather an' his trouble that 'e
has gone for a few days' rest at the seaside. If you called,
sir, I was to tell you 'e would be glad to see you there
should you find it convenient to run down. And, sir,
you'll never guess who came 'ere this morning, as bold as
brass.”
“ Jane Harding.”
“Now, ’ow upon earth can you 'it upon things that
way, sir? It was 'er, 'er very self. And you ought to
’ave seen her airs. “Thompson,' sez she, 'is Sir Chawles
at 'ome?' 'No, 'e isn't,' sez I; 'but you're wanted at the
polis station.' She was in a keb, and she 'ad asked a
butcher's boy to pull the bell, so 'im and the cabby larfed.
“Thompson,' she said, very red in the face, “I'll ’ave you
dismissed for your impidence.' An'off she went. Did
you ever 'ear anythink like it, sir ?”
“No, Thompson, Miss Harding is certainly a cool
hand.”
Bruce walked to his chambers, and his stroll through
the parks was engrossed by one subject of thought. It
was not Mrs. Hillmer, nor Corbett, nor Dodge who
troubled him. What puzzled him more than all else was
the “impidence” of Jane Harding.
[ 63 ]


The Hotel du Cercle
The attendant examined a green baize-covered board,
decorated with diamonds of tape, in which was stuck an
assortment of letters, mostly addressed to American
tourists.
“They were here! They have gone! Then he has
taken them!”
“Yes,” cried Bruce; “but surely you know something
about him ?”
“Nothing. This hall is open to all the world.”
“Do you tell me that any one can come here and take
any letters which may be stuck in that rack ?”
“Will the gentleman be pleased to consider ? Many
persons give their address here days and weeks before they
come to arrive. Some persons, in the manner of Monte
Carlo, do not wish their names to be known of everybody.
We cannot distinguish. We do not allow the address of
the hotel to be used improperly, if we know it; but there
are no complaints.”
The barrister did not argue the matter further. He
only said: “Perhaps you can tell me thus far, as I am very
anxious to meet Mr. Corbett. About how long is it since
the last letter came for him ?”
“But certainly. It came yesterday. It was re-ad-
dressed from some place in London. If possible, with
the next one I will keep watch for Mr. Corbett.”
So Mrs. Hillmer had not misled him. The so-called
Corbett was in Monte Carlo, but had possibly disguised
himself under another name. Again did Bruce consult
the hotel register, this time with the aid of the vendors'
list in the Springbok Mine, but without result.
There was nothing for it but to familiarize himself with
Monte Carlo and its habitués, awaiting developments in
the chase of Corbett. In January, when London alter-
himself a register nok Mi
[ 65 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
nates between fog and sleet, it is not an intolerable thing
to remain in forced idleness amid the sunshine and flowers
of the Riviera. There are two ways of “doing” Monte
Carlo. You may live riotously, lose your substance at
the Casino, and go home on a free ticket supplied by the
proprietors of the gambling saloons, or you may enjoy to
the utmost the keen air, magnificent scenery, fine prome-
nades, and excellent music — the two latter provided by
the same benevolent agency.
It is needless to say which of these alternatives appealed
to Claude Bruce. Being a rich man, it was of no conse-
quence to him to lose a few louis in backing the red for a
five minutes' bit of excitement. Being a sensible one, he
then quitted the Casino and went for a stroll in the
gardens.
Fashion, backed by the doctors, has decreed that no
longer shall the northern littoral of the Mediterranean be
the only haven of rest for those afflicted with pulmonary
complaints. Weak-chested and consumptive people are
now banished to the windless and icy altitudes of
Switzerland; so of recent years a walk through Nice,
Mentone, or Monte Carlo itself is not such a depressing
experience as it was when every second person encountered
was a hopeless invalid.
A pigeon-shooting match was in progress, and, as Bruce
fell in with a friend who took a prominent part in local
life, the two entered the club grounds to watch the contest.
At the moment a handsome, well-set-up young English-
man was shooting off a tie with a Russian count. A very
pretty girl, with a delicate and refined beauty enhanced by
a pleasant expression, was taking a most unfeminine in-
terest in the slaughter of the pigeons by the Englishman.
Her eyes spoke her thoughts. It was as if they said:
[66]


The Hotel du Cercle
“I do not want the birds to be killed, but I want a certain
person to win.”
Nine birds each had been grassed, and the Russian was
growing impatient. The Englishman was cool, his fair
backer keenly excited. The Count fired and missed his
tenth. Up rose the Englishman's bird, and the girl could
not restrain an impetuous “Now!”
So the Englishman missed also.
Amidst the buzz of comment which arose, Bruce said
to his companion: “What's going on?”
“This is the final tie in the International. It is a big
prize, and each man has backed himself heavily. The
two are Albert Mensmore and Count Bischkoff. The girl
has taken all the nerve out of Mensmore. Bar accident,
he is a goner.”
The cynic was right. In the thirteenth round the
count alone scored, and smiled largely in response to his
antagonist's quiet congratulations. As for the girl, it was
with difficulty she restrained her tears.
“I think that we have witnessed a tragedy,” said Bruce's
acquaintance as they walked off; and the barrister agreed
with him. He was sorry for Mensmore and his pretty
supporter. Mayhap the loss of the match meant a great
deal to both of them.
That night he learned by chance that Mensmore lived
at the Hotel du Cercle. He met him in the billiard-room
and tried to inveigle him into conversation. But the
young fellow was too miserable to respond to his advances.
Beyond a mere civil acknowledgement of some slight act
of politeness, Bruce could not draw him out.
Next morning he saw Mensmore again. If the man
looked haggard the previous evening his appearance now
was positively startling, that is, to one of Bruce's powers
[67]


The Hotel du Cercle
tween the chance of seeing Corbett with his own eyes and
pursuing the fanciful errand he had mapped out in
imagination with reference to the stranger who so in-
terested him.
“Thank you,” he said to the clerk. “I am going to
the Casino for an hour; you will greatly oblige me by
keeping a sharp lookout for any one who claims the
letter.”
“Monsieur, it shall have my utmost regard.”
The barrister had not erred in his surmise as to Mens-
more's destination. The young man walked straight
across the square and entered the grounds of the famous
Casino.
Indoors, an excellent band was playing a selection from
“The Geisha.” The spacious foyer was fast filling with
a fashionable throng; without, the silver radiance of the
moon, lighting up gardens, rocks, buildings, and sea,
might well have added the last link to the pleasant bond-
age that would keep any one from the gambling saloon
that night; but Mensmore heeded none of these things.
He passed the barrier, closely followed by Bruce, crossed
the foyer, and disappeared through the baize doors that
guard the magnificent room in which roulette is played.
Round several of the tables a fairly considerable crowd
had gathered already. The more, the merrier, is the rule
of the Casino. There is something curiously fascinating
for the gambler in the presence of others. It would seem
to be an almost ridiculous thing for a man to stalk solemnly
up to a deserted board and stake his money on the chances
of the game merely for the edification of the officials in
charge.
Bruce entered the room soon after Mensmore, and saw
the latter elbowing his way to a seat about to be vacated
[69]


A Mysterious Disappearance
by a stout Spanish lady, who had rapidly lost the sum she
allowed herself to stake each day.
She was one of those numerous players who bring to the
Casino a certain amount daily, and systematically stop
playing when they have either lost their money or won a
previously determined maximum.
This method, in fact, when combined with a careful
system, is the only one whereby even a rich individual can
indulge in a costly pastime, and, at the same time, escape
speedy ruin. With a fair share of luck it may be made to
pay; with continuous bad fortune the loss is spread over
such a period that common sense has some opportunity to
rescue the victim before it is too late.
Claude took up a position from which he could note the
actions of the stranger in whom he was so interested. At
first, Mensmore staked nothing. He placed a small pile
of gold in front of him; he seemed to listen expectantly to
the croupier's monotonous cry — “Vingt-sept, rouge, im-
pair, passe,” or “Dixhuit, noir, pair, manque,” and so
on, while the little ivory ball whirred around the disc, and
the long rakes, with unerring skill, drew in or pushed
forward the sums lost or won.
The dominant expression of Mensmore's face as he sat
and listened was one of disappointment. Something for
which he waited did not happen. At last, with a tight-
ening of his lips and a gathering sternness in his eyes, he
placed five louis on the red, the number previously called
being thirteen.
Black won.
For the next three attempts, each time with a five louis
stake on the board, Mensmore backed the red, but still
black won.
Next to him, an Italian, betting in notes of a thousand
[70]


The Hotel du Cercle
francs each, had quadrupled his first bet by backing the
black.
Both men rose simultaneously, the Italian grinning
delightedly at a smart Parisienne, who joyously nodded
her congratulations, the Englishman quiet, utterly un-
moved, but slightly pallid.
He passed out into the foyer and stopped to light a
cigarette. Bruce noticed that his hand was steady, and
that all the air of excitement had gone.
These were ill signs. There is no man so calm as he
who has deliberately resolved to take his own life. That
Mensmore was ruined, that he was hopelessly in love with
a woman whom he could not marry, and that he was about
to commit suicide, Bruce was as certain as though the
facts had been proved by a coroner.
But this thing should not happen if he could prevent it.
The band was now playing one of Waldteufel's waltzes.
Mensmore listened to the fascinating melody for a mo-
ment. He hesitated at the door of the writing-room; but
he went out, puffing furiously at his cigarette. A guard
looked at him as he turned to the right of the entrance,
and made for the shaded terraces overlooking the sea.
“A silent Englishman,” thought the man; and he caught
sight of Bruce, also smoking, preoccupied, and solitary.
“Another silent Englishman. Mon Dieu! What mis-
erable lives these English lead!”
And so the two vanished into the blackness of the
foliage, while, within the brilliantly lighted building, the
frou-frou of silk mingled with soft laughter and the sweet
strains of music.
If it be true that extremes meet, then this was a night
for a tragedy.
[71]


CHAPTER IX
BREAKING THE BANK
THERE were not many people in this part of the Casino
gardens. A few love-making couples and a handful of
others who preferred the chilly quietude of Nature to the
throng of the interior promenade, made up the occupants
of the winding paths that cover the seaward slope.
At last Mensmore halted. There was no one in front,
and he turned to look if the terrace were clear behind him.
He caught sight of Bruce, but did not recognize him, and
leant against a low wall, ostensibly to gaze at the sea until
the other had passed.
Claude came up to him and cried cheerily:
“Hello! Is that you, Mr. Mensmore? Isn't it a lovely
night?”
Mensmore, startled at being thus unexpectedly ad-
dressed by name, wheeled about, stared at the new-comer,
and said, very stiffy:
“Yes; but I felt rather seedy in the Casino, so I came
here to be alone.”
“Of course," answered the barrister. “You look a
little out of sorts. Perhaps got a chill, eh? It is danger-
ous weather here, particularly on these heavenly evenings.
Come back with me to the hotel, and have a stiff brandy
and soda. It will brace you up.”
Mensmore flushed a little at this persistence.
[72]


Breaking the Bank
“I tell you,” he growled, “ that I only require to be left
in peace, and I shall soon recover from my indisposition.
I am awfully obliged to you, but —”.
“But you wish me to walk on and mind my own busi-
ness ?”
“Not exactly that, old chap. Please don't think me
rude. I am very sorry, but I can't talk much to-night."
"So I understand. That is why I think it is best for
you to have company, even such disagreeable compan-
ionship as my own.”
“Confound it, man,” cried the other, now thoroughly
irritated; “tell me which way you are going and I will
take the other. Why on earth cannot you take a polite
hint, and leave me to myself ?”
“It is precisely because I am good at taking a hint that
I positively refuse to leave you until you are safely landed
at your hotel. Indeed, I may stick to you then for some
hours.”
“The devil take you! What do you mean ?”
“Exactly what I say.”
"If you don't quit this instant I will punch your head
for you.”
“Ah! You are recovering already. But before you
start active exercise take your overcoat off. That revolver
in the breast pocket might go off accidentally, you know.
Besides, as I shall hit back, I might fetch my knuckles
against it, and that would be hardly fair. Otherwise, I
can do as much in the punching line as you can, any
day.”
This reply utterly disconcerted Mensmore.
“Look here,” he said, avoiding Bruce's steadfast gaze,
“what are you talking about? What has it got to do
with you, anyhow ?”
[73]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Oh, a great deal. My business principally consists in
looking after other people's affairs. Just now it is my
definite intention to prevent you from blowing out your
brains, or what passes for them.”
“Then all I can say is that I wish you were in Jericho.
It is your own fault if you get into trouble over this matter.
Had you gone about your business I would have waited.
As it is — ”
It so happened that the guard, having nothing better
to do, strolled along the terraces by the same path that
Mensmore and Bruce had followed. The first sight that
met his astonished eyes, when in the flood of moonlight
he discovered their identity, was the spectacle of these
two springing at each other like a pair of wild cats.
“Parbleu,” he shouted, “ the solitary ones are fighting!”
He ran forward, drawing his short sword, ready to stick
the weapon into either of the combatants if the majesty of
the law in his own person were not at once respected.
In reality, the affair was simple enough. Mensmore
made an ineffectual attempt to draw his revolver, and
Bruce pinioned him before he could get his hand up to
his pocket. Both men were equally matched, and it was
difficult to say how the struggle might have ended had not
the sword-brandishing guard appeared on the scene.
Claude, even in this excited situation, kept his senses.
Mensmore, blind with rage and the madness of one who
would voluntarily plunge into the Valley of the Shadow,
took heed of naught save the effort to rid himself of the
restraining clutch.
“Put away your sword. Seize his arms from behind.
He is a suicide,” shouted the barrister to the gesticulating
and shrieking Frenchman.
Fortunately, Bruce was an excellent linguist. The man
[ 74 ]


Breaking the Bank
caught Mensmore's arms, put a knee in the small of his
back, and doubled him backwards with a force that
nearly dislocated his spine. In the same instant Claude
secured the revolver, which he promptly pocketed.
“It is well,” he said to the guard. “Here is a louis.
Say nothing, but leave us.”
“Monsieur understands that the honor of a French
policeman — ”
“I understand that if there is any report made of this
affair to the authorities you will be dismissed for negli-
gence. Had this lunatic been left to your care he would
now have been lying here dead. Do you doubt me?”
The guard hesitated. “Monsieur mentioned a louis,”
he said, for Bruce's finger and thumb had returned the
coin to his waistcoat pocket.
This transaction satisfactorily ended, Bruce accosted
Mensmore, who was awkwardly twisting himself to see
if his backbone were all right.
“You are not hurt, I hope ?”
“It is matterless. Why could you not let me finish the
business in my own way ?”
“Because the world has some use for a man like you.
Because you are a moral coward, and require support
from a stronger nature. Because I did not want to think
of that girl crying her eyes out to-morrow when she read of
your death, or heard of it, as she assuredly would have done.”
Mensmore, though still furious at his fellow-country-
man's interference, was visibly amazed at this final
reference.
“What do you know about her ?” he cried.
“Nothing, save what my eyes tell me.”
“They seem to tell you a remarkable lot about my
affairs.”
[75]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Possibly. Meanwhile I want you to give me your
word of honor that you will not make any further at-
tempt on your life during the next seven days."
“The word of honor of a disgraced man! Will you
accept it?”
"Most certainly.”
“You are a queer chap, and no mistake. Very well,
I give it. At the same time, I cannot help dying of star-
vation. I lost my last cent to-night at roulette. I am
hopelessly involved in debts which I cannot pay. I have
no prospects and no friends. You are not doing me a
kindness, my dear fellow, in keeping me alive, even for
seven days.”
“You might have obtained your fare to London from
the authorities of the Casino ?”
“Hardly. I lost very little at roulette. I am not such
a fool. My losses are nearly all in bets over the pigeon-
shooting match which I ought to have won. I was back-
ing myself at a game where I was apparently sure to
succeed.”
“Until you were beaten by a woman's voice.”
“Yes, wizard. I am too dazed to wonder at you
sufficiently. Yet I would have lost fifty times for her
sake, though it was for her sake that I wanted to win.”
“Come, let us smoke. Sit down, and tell me all about it.”
They took the nearest seat, lighting cigarettes. The
guard, watching them from the shade of a huge palm-tree,
murmured:
“Holy Virgin, what madmen are these English! They
move apart, unknown; they fight; they fraternize; they
consume tobacco — all within five minutes.”
And he lovingly felt for the louis to assure himself that
he was not dreaming.
[76]


Breaking the Bank
whi Quld here, to,
“There is not much to tell,” said Mensmore, who had
quite recovered his self-control, and was now trying to
sum up the man who had so curiously entered his life at
the moment when he had decided to do away with it.
“I came here, being a poor chap living mostly on my wits,
to go in for the pigeon-shooting tournaments. I won
several, and was in fair funds. Then I fell in love. The
girl is rich, well-connected, and all that sort of thing.
She is the first good influence that has crossed my life, so
I thought that perhaps my luck was now going to turn.
I backed myself for all I was worth, and more, to win the
championship. If it came off I should have won over
£3,000. As it is, I owe £500, which must be paid on
Monday. My total assets, after I settled my hotel bill
and sent a cheque to a chum who took some of my bets
in his own name, was £16. Now I have nothing. So
you see — ”
“Yes,” interrupted Bruce, “it is a hard case. But
death is no settlement. Nobody gets paid, and everybody
is worried."
"My dear fellow, my life is in your keeping for seven
days. After that, I presume, I take myself in charge
again.”
The barrister took thought for a while before he in-
quired:
“Why did you go to the Casino to-night, if you did not
patronize the tables as a rule?”.
The other colored somewhat and laughed sarcastically.
“Just a final bit of folly. I dreamt that my luck had
turned."
“Dreamt ?"
“Yes, last night. Three times did I imagine that I
was playing roulette, and that after a certain number -
[77]


A Mysterious Disappearance
whether thirteen or twenty-three I was uncertain — turned
up, there was a run of seventeen on the red. The funny
thing is that I had an impression that the number was
twenty-three, but with a doubt that it might be thirteen.
I remember, during a sub-conscious state in the third
dream, resolving to listen and look more carefully to dis-
cover the exact number. But again things got blurred.
The only clear point was that the run of seventeen on the
red commenced at once.”
“Well ?”
“Well, I took my remaining cash, went to the Casino,
became a bit impatient when neither number turned up
for quite a while, and when thirteen appeared I backed
the red. But four times it was the black that won.”
“So I saw.”
“Have you been keeping guard over me ?”
“Yes, in a sort of way.”
“You are a queer chap. I can't help saying that I am
obliged to you. But it won't do any good. I am abso-
lutely dead broke.”
“Now listen to me. I will pay your fare back to Lon-
don and give you something to live on until I return a
week hence. Then you must come to see me, and I will
help you into some sort of situation. But you must once
and for all abandon this notion of suicide.”
“What about my debts ?”
“Confound your debts. Tell people to wait until you
are able to pay them.”
“And — and the girl ?”.
“If she is worth having she will give you a chance of
making a living sufficient to enable you to marry her.
She is of age, I suppose, and can marry any one she
likes.”
[78]


A Mysterious Disappearance
will see something. This is not my own luck; it is bor-
rowed. Come, quick!”
They raced off, Bruce himself being more fired with the
zest of the thing than he cared to admit. Within the
Casino all the tables were now crowded, but Mensmore
hurried to that at which he sat during his earlier visit.
“It was here that I played in my dream,” he whispered,
“soon after I came to it.”
He edged through the onlookers, closely followed by
Bruce. Neither cared for the scowls and injured looks
cast at them by the people whom they forced out of the
way.
The Italian, the winner of half an hour ago, had come
back like a moth to the candle. Now he was getting his
wings singed. At last, with a groan, he hastily rose, but
as a final effort flung the maximum, six thousand francs,
on the black.
The disc whirled and slowly slackened pace, the ball
rested in one of the little squares, and the croupier's
monotonous words came:
“Vingt-trois, rouge, impair, et passe!”
Out bounced the Italian, and Mensmore seized his
chair, turning to Bruce with white face as he murmured:
“You hear! Twenty-three!”
“The barrister nodded, and placed his hands on Mens-
more's shoulders as though to steady him.
Mensmore staked his ten louis on the red. They be-
came twenty, then forty. Another whirl and they were
eighty. A fourth made them one hundred and sixty.
Mensmore was now so agitated that the table and the
players swam before his eyes. But Bruce, under the
stress of exciting circumstances, had the gift of remaining
preternaturally cool.
[80]


A Mysterious Disappearance
It was some time before the roulette tables began their
orderly round again, for Mensmore's sensational perform-
ance was in everybody's mouth.
The highest recorded sum is twenty-three on the black,
but a run of eighteen on the red is sufficiently remarkable
to keep Monte Carlo in talk for a week.
Albert Mensmore certainly could not complain that the
events of the particular evening were dull. For one hour
at least he lived in the fire that consumes, for he stepped
back from the porch of dishonored death to find himself
the possessor of a sum more than sufficient for his reason-
able requirements.
The pace was rapid and almost fatal.
[ 82 ]


CHAPTER X
SOME GOOD RESOLUTIONS
ONCE safe in the seclusion of Claude's sitting-room
Mensmore almost collapsed. The strain had been a
severe one, and now he had to pay the penalty by way of
reaction.
The barrister forced him to swallow a stiff brandy and
soda, and then wished him to retire to rest, but the other
protested with some show of animation.
“Let me talk, for goodness' sake!” he cried. I cannot
be alone. You have seen me through a lot of trouble
to-night. Stick to me for another hour, there's a good
fellow.”
“With pleasure. Perhaps it is the best thing you can
do, after all. Let us see how much you have won.”
Bruce made a calculation on a sheet of paper and said:
“Exclusive of the original stake of ten louis you ought to
have £3,128.
Mensmore pulled out of his pocket the crumpled bundle
of notes and bills. Claude's notes were among them, and
he tossed them across the table with a smile.
“There's your capital. I will see if the total is all right
before we go shares.”
Claude nodded, and Mensmore began to jot down the
items of his valuable package. He bothered with the
figures for some time but could not get them right. Finally
he tossed everything over to the other, saying:
[83]


A Mysterious LONS
Disappearance
“No matter how I count, I can't get this calculation
straight. Seventeen coups, beginning with ten louis, work
out at £3,128 all right enough. But in this lot there is
£3,368, and they don't pay twice at the Casino."
The barrister thought for a moment, and then laughed
heartily. “I remember now,” he said; “I kept careful
count of the series of seventeen, or eighteen, to be exact.
On my own account, as you were too dazed to notice
anything, I put a maximum on the black. Your dream
turned up trumps, as the series stopped and black won.
Hence the odd £240.”
“Then that is yours," said the other gravely. “I will
take £1,128 to square all my debts, and we go shares in
the balance, a thousand each, if you think that fair. If
not I will gladly hand over the lot, after paying my debts,
I mean.”
Mensmore's seriousness impressed the barrister more
than any other incident of that dramatic evening.
“You forget,” he replied, “that I told you I had money
in plenty for my own needs. You must keep every
farthing except my own £8, which you do not now need.
No. Please do not argue. I will consent to no other
course. This turn of Fortune's wheel should provide you
with sufficient capital to branch out earnestly in your
career, whatever it be. I will ask my interest in different
manner.”
“I can never repay you, in gratitude, at any rate. And
there is another who will be thankful to you when she
knows. Ask anything you like. Make any stipulation
you please. I agree to it.”
“It is a bargain. Sign this.”
Bruce took a sheet of note-paper, bearing the crest of
the Hotel du Cercle, dated it, and wrote:
[84]


Some Good Resolutions
“I promise that, for the space of twelve months, I will
not make a bet of any sort, or gamble at any game of
chance."
When Mensmore read the document his face fell a
little. “Won't you except pigeon-shooting ?” he said.
“I am sure to beat that Russian next time.”
“I can allow no exceptions."
“But why limit me for twelve months ?”
“Because if in that time you do not gain sense enough
to stop risking your happiness, even your life, upon the
turn of a card or the flight of a bird, the sooner thereafter
you shoot yourself the less trouble you will bring upon
those connected with you.”
“You are a rum chap,” murmured Mensmore, “and
you put matters pretty straight, too. However, here goes.
You don't bar me from entering for sweepstakes.”
He signed the paper, and tossed it over to Bruce, while
the latter did not comment upon the limitation of his
intentions imposed by Mensmore's final sentence. The
man undoubtedly was a good shot, and during his resi-
dence in the Riviera he might pick up some valuable prizes.
“And now," said the barrister, “may I ask as a friend
to what use you intend to put your newly found wealth ?”
“Oh, that is simple enough. I have to pay £500 which
I lost in bets over that beastly unlucky match. Then I
have a splendid ‘spec,' into which I will now be able to
place about £2,000 — a thing which I have good reason
to believe will bring me in at least ten thou' within the
year, and there is nearly a thousand pounds to go on with.
And all thanks to you.”
“Never mind thanking me. I am only too glad to have
taken such a part in the affair. I will not forget this night
as long as I live.”
[85]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Nor I. Just think of it. I might be lying in the
gardens now, or in some mortuary, with half my head
blown off.”
“Tell me,” said Bruce, between the contemplative puffs
of a cigar, “what induced you to think of suicide ?”.
“It was a combination of circumstances,” replied the
other. “You must understand that I was somewhat
worried about financial and family matters when I came
to Monte Carlo. It was not to gamble, in a sense, that
I remained here. I have loafed about the world a good
deal, but I may honestly say I never made a fool of myself
at cards or backing horses. At most kinds of sport I am
fairly proficient, and in pigeon-shooting, which goes on
here extensively, I am undoubtedly an expert. For in-
stance, all this season I have kept myself in funds simply
by means of these competitions.”
His hearer nodded approvingly.
"Well, in the midst of my minor troubles, I must needs
go and fall over head and ears in love — a regular bad
case. She is the first woman I ever spoke two civil words
to. We met at a picnic along the Corniche Road, and
she sat upon me so severely that I commenced to defend
myself by showing that I was not such a surly brute as I
looked. By Jove, in a week we were engaged.”
The barrister indulged in a judicial frown.
“No. It's none of your silly, sentimental affairs in
which people part and meet months afterwards with polite
inquiries after each other's health. I am not made that
way; neither is Phil — Phyllis is her name, you know.
This is for life. I am just bound up in her, and she would
go through fire and water for me. But she is rich, the
only daughter of a Midland iron-master with tons of
money. Her people are awfully nice, and I think they
[86]


Some Good Resolutions
approve of me, though they have no idea that Phil and I
are engaged.”
He paused to gulp down a strong decoction of brandy
and soda. The difficult part of his story was coming.
“You can quite believe,” he continued, “that I did not
want to ask her father, Sir William Browne — he was
knighted by the late Queen for his distinguished municipal
services — to give his daughter to a chap who hadn't a
cent. He supposes I am fairly well off, living as I do, and
I can't bear acting under false pretences. I hate it like
poison, though in this world a man often has to do what
he doesn't like. However, this time I determined to be
straight and above board. It was a very odd fact, but
I just wanted £3000 to enable me to make a move which,
I tell you, ought to result in a very fair sum of money,
sufficient, at any rate, to render it a reasonable proposition
for Phil and me to get married.”
Claude was an appreciative listener. These love stories
of real life are often so much more dramatic than the
fictions of the novel or the stage.
“The opportunity came, to my mind, in this big tourna-
ment. I had no difficulty of getting odds in six or seven
to one to far more than I was able to pay if I lost. Phil
came into the scheme with me — she knows all about me,
you know — and we both regarded it as a certainty.
Then the collapse came. She wanted to get the money
from her mother to enable me to pay up, but I would not
hear of it. I pretended that I could raise the wind some
other way. The fact is I was wild with myself and with
my luck generally. Then there was the disgrace of failing
to settle on Monday, combined with the general excitement
of that dream and a fearfully disturbed night. To make
a long story short, I thought the best thing to do was to
[87]


A Mysterious Disappearance
try a final plunge, and if it failed, to quit. I even took
steps to make Phil believe I was a bad lot, so that she
might not fret too much after me.”
Mensmore's voice was a little unsteady in this last
sentence. The barrister tried to cheer him by a little bit
of raillery:
“I hope you have not succeeded too well ?” he laughed.
“Oh, it is all right now. I mean that I left her some
papers which would bring things to her knowledge that,
unexplained by me, would give any one a completely
false impression.”
The subject was evidently a painful one, so Bruce did
not pursue it.
“About this speculation of yours,” he said. “Are you
sure it's all right, and that you will not lose your money ?”
“It is as certain as any business can be. It is a matter
I thoroughly understand, but I will tell you all about it.
If you will pardon me a moment I will bring you the
papers, as I should like to have your advice, and it is
early yet. You don't want to go to bed, I suppose ?”
“Not for hours.”
Mensmore rose, but before he reached the door a gentle
tap heralded the appearance of the hall-porter.
“There is a letter for the gentleman. Monsieur is not
in his room. He is reported to be here, so I bring it.”
Mensmore took the note, read it with a smile and a
growing flush, and handed it to the barrister, saying:
“Under the circumstances I think you ought to see this.
Isn't she a brick ?”
The tiny missive ran:
“ Dearest One, – You must forgive me, but we are both
so miserable about that wretched money that I told
[88]


Some Good Resolutions
mother everything. She likes you, and though she gave
me a blowing up, she has promised to give me £500 to-
morrow. We can never thank her sufficiently. Do come
around and see me for a minute. I will be in the verandah
until eleven.
Ever yours,
“PHYLLIS.”
Claude returned the note.
“Luck! you're the luckiest fellow in the South of
France!” he said. “Why, here's the mother plotting with
the daughter on your behalf. Sir William hasn't the
ghost of a chance. Off you go to that blessed verandah.”
When Mensmore had quitted the hotel Bruce descended
to the bureau to take up the threads of his neglected quest.
The letter to Sydney H. Corbett was still unclaimed, and
he thought he was justified in examining it. On the
reverse of the envelope was the embossed stamp of an
electric-lighting company, so the contents were nothing
more important than a bill.
An hour later Mensmore joined him in the billiard-
room, radiant and excited.
“Great news,” he said. “I squared everything with
Lady Browne. Told her I was only chaffing Phil about
the five hundred, because she spoiled my aim by shrieking
out. Sir William has chartered a steam yacht to go for
a three weeks' cruise along the Gulf of Genoa and the
Italian coast. They have put him up to ask me in the
morning to join the party. Great Scott! what a night
I'm having!”
They parted soon afterwards, and next morning Bruce
was informed that his friend had gone out early, leaving
word that he had been summoned to breakfast at the
Grand Hotel, where Sir William Browne was staying.
During the afternoon Mensmore came to him like a
[89]


A Mysterious Disappearance
whirlwind. “We're off to-day,” he said. “By the way,
where shall I find you in London ?”
The barrister gave him his address, and Mensmore,
handing him a card, said, “My permanent address is
given here, the Orleans Club, St. James's. But I will
look you up first. I shall be in town early in March.
And you ?”
“Oh, I shall be home much sooner. Good-bye, and
don't let your good luck spoil you.”
“No fear! Wait until you know Phyllis. She would
keep any fellow all right once he got his chance, as I have
done. Good-bye, and — and — God bless you!”
During the next three days Bruce devoted himself
sedulously to the search for Corbett. He inquired in
every possible and impossible place, but the man had
utterly vanished.
Nor did he come to claim his letter at the Hotel du
Cercle. It remained stuck on the baize-covered board
until it was covered with dust, and the clerk of the bureau
had grown weary of watching people who scrutinized the
receptacle for their correspondence.
Others came and asked for Corbett — sharp-featured
men with imperials and long moustaches — the interest
taken in the man was great, but unrequited. He never
appeared.
At last the season ended, the hotel was closed, and the
mysterious letter was shot into the dustbin.
[90]


CHAPTER XI
THEORIES
BRUCE announced his departure from Monte Carlo by
a telegram to his valet.
Nevertheless, he did not expect to find that useful
adjunct to his small household — Smith and his wife
comprised the barrister's ménage — standing on the plat-
form at Charing Cross when the mail train from the
Continent steamed into the station.
Smith, who had his doubts about this sudden trip to the
Riviera, was relieved when he saw his master was alone.
“Sir Charles Dyke called this afternoon, sir,” he explained.
“I told Sir Charles about your wire, sir, and he is very
anxious that you should dine with him to-night. You can
dress at Portman Square, and if I come with you —”.
“Yes; I understand. Bundle everything into a four-
wheeler.”
“Sir Charles thought you might come, sir, so he sent
his carriage.”
London looked dull but familiar as they rolled across
Leicester Square and up Regent Street. Your true Cock-
ney knows that he is out of his latitude when the sky is
blue overhead. Let him hear the tinkle of the hansoms'
bells through a dim, fog-laden atmosphere, and he knows
where he is. There is but one London, and Cockneydom
is the order of Melchisedek. Claude's heart was glad
[91]


A Mysterious Disappearance
within him to be home again, even though the band was
just gathering in the Casino gardens, and the lights of
Monaco were beginning to gleam over the moon-lit
expanse of the Mediterranean.
At Wensley House the traveller was warmly welcomed
by the baronet, who seemed to have somewhat recovered
his health and spirits.
Nevertheless, Bruce was distressed to note the in-
effaceable signs of the suffering Sir Charles Dyke had
undergone since the disappearance of his wife. He had
aged quite ten years in appearance. Deep lines of sor-
rowful thought had indented his brow, his face was thinner,
his eyes had acquired a wistful look; his air was that of a
man whose theory of life had been forcibly reversed.
At first both men fought shy of the topic uppermost in
their minds, but the after-dinner cigar brought the question
to Dyke's lips:
“And now, Claude, have you any further news concern-
ing my wife's — death ?”.
The barrister noted the struggle before the final word
came. The husband had, then, resigned all hope.
“I have none,” he answered. “That is to say, I have
nothing definite. I promised to tell you everything I did,
so I will keep my promise, but you will, of course, differ-
entiate between facts and theories ?”
The baronet nodded an agreement.
"In the first place,” said Bruce, “let me ask you
whether or not you have seen Jane Harding, the missing
maid ?”
“Yes. It seems that she called here twice before she
caught me at home. At first she was very angry about
a squabble there had been between Thompson and herself.
I refused to listen to it. Then she told me how you had
[92]


Theories
found her at some theatre, and she volunteered an expla-
nation of her extraordinary behavior. She said that she
had unexpectedly come into a large sum of money, and
that it had turned her head. She was sorry for the trouble
her actions had caused, so, under the circumstances, I
allowed her to take away certain clothes and other belong-
ings she had left here.”
“Did she ask for these things ?”
“Yes. Made quite a point of it.”
“Did you see them ?”
“No.”
“So you do not know whether they were of any value,
or the usual collection of rubbish found in servants’
boxes.”
“I have not the slightest notion.”
“Have they ever been thoroughly examined by any
one ?”
“'Pon my honor, I believe not. Now that you remind
me of it I think the girl seemed rather anxious on that
point. I remember my housekeeper telling me that
Harding had asked her if her clothes had been ransacked
by the detectives.”
“And what did the housekeeper say ?”
“She will tell you herself. Let us have her up.”
"Don't trouble her. If I remember aright the police
did not examine Jane Harding's room. They simply took
your report and the statements of the other servants, while
the housekeeper was responsible for the partial search
made through the girl's boxes for some clue that might
lead to her discovery."
“That is so."
The barrister smoked in silence for a few minutes, until
Sir Charles broke out rather querulously:
[ 93 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“I suppose I did wrong in letting Harding take her
traps ?”
“No,” said Bruce. “It is I who am to blame. There
is something underhanded about this young woman's
conduct. The story about the sudden wealth is all
bunkum, in one sense. That she did receive a bequest
or gift of a considerable sum cannot be doubted. That
she at once decided to go on the stage is obvious. But
what is the usual course for a servant to pursue in such
cases ? Would she not have sought first to glorify herself
in the sight of her fellow-servants, and even of her em-
ployers ? Would there not have been the display of a
splendid departure — in a hansom — with voluble direc-
tions to the driver, for the benefit of the footman? As it
was, Jane Harding acted suddenly, precipitately, under
the stress of some powerful emotion. I cannot help be-
lieving that her departure from this house had some
connection, however remote, with Lady Dyke's disap-
pearance."
“Good heavens, Claude, you never told me this before.”
“True, but when we last met I had not the pleasure of
Miss Marie le Marchant's acquaintance. I wish to
goodness I had rummaged her boxes before she carried
them off.”
“And I sincerely echo your wish,” said Sir Charles
testily. “It always seems, somehow, that I am to blame.”
“You must not take that view. I really wonder, Dyke,
that you have not closed up your town house and gone off
to Scotland for the fag-end of the shooting season. You
won't hunt, I know, but a quiet life on the moors would
bring you right away from associations which must have
bitter memories for you.”
“I would have done so, but I cannot tear myself away
[94]


Theories
while there is the slightest chance of the mystery attending
my wife's fate being unravelled. I feel that I must remain
here near you. You are the only man who can solve the
riddle, if it ever be solved. By the way, what of Raleigh
Mansions ?”
The baronet obviously nerved himself to ask the ques-
tion. The reason was patent. His wife's inexplicable
visit to that locality was in some way connected with her
fate, and the common-sense view was that some intrigue
lay hidden behind the impenetrable wall of ignorance that
shrouded her final movements.
Bruce hesitated for a moment. Was there any need to
bring Mrs. Hillmer's name into the business? At any
rate, he could fully answer Sir Charles without mentioning
her at this juncture.
“The only person in Raleigh Mansions who interests me
just now is one who, to use a convenient bull, is not there."
“Yes ?”
“This person occupies a flat in No. 12, his name is
Sydney H. Corbett, and he left his residence for the
Riviera two days after your wife was lost.”
“Now, who on earth can he be? I am as sure as a
man may be of anything that no one of that name was in
the remotest way connected with either my wife or myself
for the last — let me see — six years, at any rate.”
“Possibly. But you cannot say that Lady Dyke may
not have met him previously ?"
The baronet winced at the allusion as though a whip
had struck him. “For heaven's sake, Claude," he cried,
“ do not harbor suspicions against her. I cannot bear it.
I tell you my whole soul revolts at the idea. I would
rather be suspected of having killed her myself than listen
to a word whispered against her good name.”
[95]


Theories
“Oh, nonsense. You are good for another fifty years.
Come, shake off this absurd depression. You can do no
good by it. I wish now I had taken you with me to
Monte Carlo. The fresh air would have braced you up
while I hunted for Corbett.”
you find himed in for an adver searching va
“No, but I dropped in for an adventure that would
cheer the soul of any depressed author searching vainly
for an idea for a short story.”
“What was it?”
Claude, who possessed no mean skill as a raconteur,
gave him the history of the Casino incident, and the
thrilling dénouement so interested the baronet that he lit
another cigar.
“Did you ascertain the names of the parties ?” he
said.
“Oh yes. You will respect their identity, as the sensa-
tional side of the affair had better now be buried in
oblivion, though, of course, all the world knows about the
way we scooped the bank. The lady is a daughter of Sir
William Browne, a worthy knight from Warwickshire,
and her rather rapid swain is a youngster named Mens-
more.”
“Mensmore!” shouted the baronet. “A youngster, you
say?" and Sir Charles bounced upright in his excitement.
“Why, yes, a man of twenty-five. No more than
twenty-eight, I can swear Do you know him?"
“Albert Mensmore?”
“That's the man beyond doubt.”
Dyke hastily poured out some whiskey and water and
swallowed it. Then he spoke, with a faint smile: “You
didn't know, Bruce,” he said, “ that you vividly described
the attempted self-murder of a man I know intimately."
[97]


Theories
told him concerning Mensmore and Phyllis Browne, he
suddenly swerved back to the one engrossing thought.
“What are you going to do about Corbett ?” he asked.
“Find him.”
“But how ?”
“People are always tied to a centre by a string, and no
matter how long the string may be, it contracts sooner or
later. Corbett will turn up at Raleigh Mansions, and
before very many weeks have passed, if I mistake not.”
“And then ?”
“Then he will have to answer me a few pertinent
questions."
“But suppose he knows nothing whatever about the
business ?”
“In that case I must confess the clue is more tangled
than ever.”
“It would be curious if Corbett and Jane Harding were
in any way associated.”
“If they were, it would take much to convince me that
one or both could not supply at least some important
information bearing on my — on our quest. If Mr. White
even knew as much as I do about them he would arrest
them at sight.”
“Oh, he's a thick-headed chap, is White. By the way,
that reminds me. He got hold of the maid, it seems,
before she had bolted, and made her give him some of my
wife's clothes. By that means he established some sort
of a theory about — ”
“About a matter on which we differ," put in Bruce
quietly. “Let us talk of something else.”
The other moved restlessly in his chair, but yielded.
For the remainder of the evening they discussed questions
irrelevant to the course of this narrative.
[99]


A Mysterious Disappearance
rance
It was late when they separated, but Bruce found Smith
sitting up for him at home.
That faithful servitor bustled about, stirring the fire
and turning up the lights. Finally he nervously addressed
his master:
“Pardon me, sir, but there was a policeman here asking
about you to-night, sir.”
“A policeman!”
“Well, sir, a detective — Mr. White, of Scotland Yard.
I knew him, sir, though he did not think it. He came
about ten o'clock, and asked where you were."
“Did you tell him ?”
“Well, sir,” and Smith shifted from one foot to the
other, “I thought it best to let him know the truth, sir.”
“Good gracious, Smith, he is not going to handcuff me.
You did quite right. What did he say?”
“Nothing, sir; except that he would call again. He
wouldn't leave his name, but I know'd him all right.”
“Thank you. Good-night. It was unnecessary that
you should have remained up. But I am obliged to you
all the same.”
The barrister laughed as he went to his room. “Really,"
he said to himself, still highly amused, “White will cap
all his previous feats by trying to arrest me. I suspect he
has thought of it for a long time.”
And Mr. White had thought of it.
Crocer
[ 100 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
weeks. As for Bruce himself, they proposed to give him
a commission of five per cent in fully paid shares for the
introduction.
“Well, I never!” he laughed. “Now who would have
thought such a thing possible? Why, if that rascal Dodge
is right and this company is really a sound undertaking,
my share of the deal will be £10,000. It seems wildly
incredible, yet my friends know what they are writing
about as a rule.”
An hour later he was in the city.
A smart brougham stood in front of the now thoroughly
renovated offices of Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited), and
out of it, at the moment the barrister detached himself
from the chaos of Leadenhall Street, stepped the head of
the firm.
He was making up the steps when Claude cried:
“Hello, Mr. Dodge, how is the junior partner?”
Dodge stopped, focussed Bruce with his sharp eyes,
and smiled:
“Oh, it is you, is it? The young ’un is all right, thanks.
Are you coming in ?”
“That was my intention.”
“Come along then. I was hoping I would see you one
of these days.”
“Has business improved recently ?” inquired Bruce, as
they entered the inner office.
“Yes, somewhat; but money is very tight still. How-
ever, we generally look for a spurt early in the New Year.
Why do you ask?”
“No valid reason. A mere hazard.”
“Was it because you saw me drive up in a carriage?”
“Mr. Dodge, I never dreamt that self-consciousness
was a failing of the members of the Stock Exchange.”
[102]


Who Corbett Was
“Then that was the cause. I guessed it. I have been
making inquiries about you, Mr. Bruce, and there is no
use in trying to fool you, not a bit.”
"Have you another Springbok proposition on hand ?”
“No; bar chaffing. You were the man who ferreted
out the truth about that West Australian combination
when everybody else had failed. And, now I think of it,
you made me talk a lot the last time you were here.
However, I am ready. Fire away! I will tell you the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help
me”
“Sh—5—sh! Do not perjure yourself for the sake of
alliteration. Besides, it is I who have come to talk this
time.”
“About Springboks ?”
“Yes. The people I mentioned to you at my previous
visit are prepared to underwrite the shares, provided that
their agent's report is as favorable in its entirety as a
telegraphic summary leads them to believe."
“Eh? That's good news! When will they be in a
position to complete ?"
"As soon as they hear from South Africa by post. Say
three weeks.”
“So long! But suppose I get an offer from some other
quarter in the meantime? I cannot keep the proposal
open indefinitely."
“I have not asked you to do so, Mr. Dodge. Let me
see — three shillings per share on, say, two hundred thou-
sand shares is £30,000. It is a good deal of money. If
any one likes to hand you a cheque for that amount without
preliminary investigation, take it by all means.”
The notion tickled Dodge immensely.
“All right, Mr. Bruce. When people of that sort turn
[103]


A Mysterious Disappearance
up we don't sell 'em Springboks in the City. But there
is no harm in you telling me your clients' names.”
“Not in the least. They are the Anglo-African Finance
Corporation.”
Mr. Dodge whistled. “By Jove, they're the best back-
ing I could have. This is a good turn, Mr. Bruce, and I
shan't forget it. You see, we're a young firm, and asso-
ciation with well-known houses is good for us in every
sense. I'm jolly glad now that Springboks are all right.
It would never have done for me to introduce them to a
risky piece of business. I am really much obliged to you.
And now, how do we stand ?”
“Kindly explain.”
“How much 'com' do you want?”.
“Nothing."
Mr. Dodge moved his chair backward several feet in
sheer amazement. “Nothing, my dear sir! Nonsense!
It is a big affair. Shall we say one per cent in cash, or
two in shares. I am not very well off just now, or — ”
“Pray don't trouble yourself. I have already secured
my commission — five per cent in fully paid shares.”
“But the people who put up the money don't pay for
the privilege as a rule.”
“That I know quite well. This case is different. I
am not, nor ever have been, a financial go-between.”
“Didn't you come to see me about the deal in the first
instance ?"
It was Bruce's turn to hesitate.
“Not exactly,” he said. “I really wanted to know
something about Mr. Corbett, and the Springbok business
arose out of it.”
“Ah, that chap Corbett. I have been thinking about
him. · I wonder who he can be ? Anyhow, I owe him my
[ 104 ]


Who Corbett Was
best wishes, as the mention of his name has had such
excellent results.”
“Well, that is all,” said Bruce rising.
“Yes, thanks. I must now see about raising the money
to pay my own call. I am interested in fifty thousand
shares, you know.”
“Then you require some £7,500 ?."
“Yes. But that will be easy when I can say that the
Anglo-African Finance people are with me. Besides, this
morning - queer you should call immediately afterwards
- I have had some wholly unexpected news.”
"Indeed ?” Mr. Dodge was in a talkative vein, and
Bruce was in no hurry.
“The very best!” went on Dodge gleefully. “You see,
there is another man in this affair with me. I thought he
was as stony-broke as I am myself — speaking confiden-
tially, you know — when he suddenly writes to me saying
that he had won a pot of money at Monte Carlo and could
spare me £2,000. What's the matter? Beastly trying
weather, isn't it? Try a nip of brandy.”
For once in his life the self-possessed barrister had
blanched at a sudden revelation. But this was too much.
He felt as though a meteorite had fallen on his head.
Nevertheless, he grappled with the situation.
“Ill! No!” he cried. “How stupid of me. I have
forgotten my morning smoke. May I light a cigar?”
“With pleasure. You know these. Try one.”
“You were saying — "
“That's all. This young fellow, Mensmore his name
is, got mixed up with me over a Californian mine. I
thought he had lots of coin, so when Springboks came
along he and I went shares in underwriting them. The
public didn't feed, so we were loaded. I tried all I knew
[ 105]


A Mysterious Disappearance
to get him to pay up, but he absolutely couldn't. And
now at the very moment affairs look promising he writes
offering £2,000. More than that, he says, if necessary,
he can get the remainder of his half, £1750, from some-
body. Where is his letter ?”.
Mr. Dodge looked on his table. “Oh, here it is. Ad-
dressed from ‘Yacht White Heather,' if you please.
Quite swell, eh? Sir William Browne! That's the covey.
I think I will let Sir William have 'em. It's a good, solid
sort of name to have on the share register.”
“I would if I were you,” said Bruce, hardly conscious
of his surroundings.
“If you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a good
morning for me. Come and have lunch.”
“No, thanks. I have a lot to attend to. By the way,
where did Mensmore live ?”.
“I don't know. His address was always at the Orleans
Club."
Somehow, Bruce reached the street and a hansom. As
the vehicle rolled off westward he crouched in a corner
and tried to wrestle with the problem that befogged his
brain.
Was Albert Mensmore Sydney H. Corbett? Was he
Mrs. Hillmer's brother? The “Bertie” she had spoken
of meant Albert as well as a hypothetical Herbert. Mens-
more was an old schoolfellow of Sir Charles Dyke's. In
all probability he knew Lady Dyke as well. He lived in
Raleigh Mansions under an assumed name, and quitted
his abode two days after the murder.
Every circumstance pointed to the terrible assumption
that at Mensmore's hands the unfortunate lady met her
death. And Bruce had sworn to avenge her memory!
He laughed with savage mirth as he reflected that he
[106]


Who Corbett Was
himself had helped this man to escape the punishment of
Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed, pitifully amus-
ing to think how the clever detective had used his powers
to befool himself. The very openness of the clue had
helped to conceal it the more effectually. Were it not for
Dodge and his Springboks he might have gone on indefi-
nitely covering up the criminal's tracks by his own friendly
actions. The situation was maddening, intolerable.
Bruce wanted to seize the reins and flog the horse into
a mad gallop through the traffic as a relief to his
feelings.
Blissfully unconscious of the living volcano he carried
within, the cabby on the perch did not indulge in any such
illegal antics. He quietly drove along the Embankment
and delivered his seething fare at his Victoria-street
chambers.
Quite oblivious of commonplace affairs, the barrister
threw a shilling to the driver and darted out.
The man gazed at his Majesty's image with the air of
one who had never before seen such a coin. It might
have been a Greek obolus, so utter was his blank
astonishment.
But Bruce was across the pavement, and cabby had to
find words, else it would be too late.
“Here guv'nor,” he yelled, “what the ballyhooley do
you call this ?”
“What's the matter ?” was the impatient query.
"Matter!” The cabman looked towards the sky to see
if the heavens were falling. “Matter!” in a higher key,
as a crowd began to gather. “I tykes him from Leaden-
’all Street to Victoria. 'E gives me a bob, an''e arsks me
wot's the matter. I'd been on the ranks four bloomin'
hours —”
[107]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Oh, there you are!” and Bruce threw him half-a-crown
before he disappeared up the steps.
Mr. White was watching for Bruce's arrival. He won-
dered why the barrister was so perturbed, and resolved to
strike while the iron was hot. So he, too, vanished into
the interior.
[ 108 ]


CHAPTER XIII
A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE
“If any one calls, I am out,” cried Claude to his facto-
tum, as he crossed the entrance-hall of his well-appointed
flat, and flung open the door of his library.
“The guv'nor's in a tantrum,” observed Smith to his
wife, and he settled himself to renew the perusal of Grand
National training reports. He had just noticed the inter-
esting fact that last year's winner had “jumped in for the
last mile” in a gallop given to a rank outsider, when the
electric bell upset his calculations.
“My master is out,” he said, as he opened the door to
find Mr. White standing on the mat.
He was about to close the door again, but the detective
planted his foot against the jamb.
“Your master is not out,” he answered. “I saw him
come in a minute since. Tell him Mr. White wants to
see him.”
Smith's dignity was superb. “My master may be hin,”
he cried, “but 'e told me to say 'e was hout to callers."
The aspirates supplied emphasis.
“Tell him what I say at once,” and Mr. White gave him
his best "accessory-after-the-crime” glance.
“I don't see why I should,” snarled Smith, but the
squabble ended when Bruce's voice was heard —
“Show him in, Smith, but admit nobody else.”
Colin
[ 109 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
With an air of armed neutrality Smith ushered the
representative of Scotland Yard into the library.
“You're not looking very well, sir,” said White, his
round eyes fixed on Bruce with all their power.
“Was it to ask about my health that you came?”
“No, sir, not exactly. But I haven't seen you for quite
a while, and as we are both interested in the same
matter I thought I would look you up and compare
notes.”
Bruce was annoyed by the interruption. He wanted to
think, not to be bothered by official theories. He looked
hard at Mr. White, wondering whether he should tell him
all he knew and wash his own hands clear of the investi-
gation in future. But there was a second picture before
his eyes. He saw Phyllis Browne's face, not as it was that
day at the Tir aux Pigeons, but with the light of happiness
in it, with the joyousness of requited and undisturbed love,
with the glow reflected from dancing waves, and the trem-
ulous smile of innocent pleasure.
It was hard to believe that such a woman could place
her heartfelt trust in a man who was possibly a cold-
blooded murderer. Such a combination was unnatural
and horrible. Already Bruce was beginning to doubt the
evidence of his analytical senses.
Mr. White meanwhile flattered himself by the thought
that the other was trying to read his thoughts by looking
at him fixedly.
“I have been away from home,” said Bruce at last.
“I had occasion to go to the South of France.”
“I thought so. I was sure of it. How do you manage
always to get ahead of us?” Mr. White was enthusiastic
in his admiring divination.
“You have heard about Sydney H. Corbett ?" said the
Pierre
Crocca
[110]


A Question of Principle
barrister, still keeping that inscrutable, calculating gaze
upon the policeman.
“Yes. I am on his track. We may be slow, but we
are sure in Scotland Yard. May I ask what luck you
have had, sir ?”
“In what respect ?"
“As if you didn't go to Monte Carlo to find Corbett
yourself! Really, Mr. Bruce, the scent is too hot this
time. You might as well give a ‘View halloa’ if you have
seen him.”
“Seen Sydney H. Corbett, you mean?”
"That is the gentleman.”
For an instant Mensmore's future trembled in the
balance. Bruce almost framed the words which would
have led to his immediate arrest at the next port touched
by the White Heather. But the memory of Phyllis
Browne, of her agony, of the fearful scandal that must
fly through Society on the Riviera, restrained him. There
was no hurry. He must have time to think.
“I certainly went to Monte Carlo to discover the identity
of that interesting personage, but I came back, Mr. White,
as wise as I went. The only trace I found of him was
an undelivered letter awaiting him at the Hotel du
Cercle."
“A letter! Wasn't he there?” Mr. White's face, not-
withstanding its official decorum, betrayed its disap-
pointment. This was an unlooked-for check.
“He had been there. Other letters came for him earlier,
and he had received them.”
“But the hotel people —”
“Did not know him. In fact, there cannot be the
slightest doubt that Mr. Corbett concealed his identity at
Monte Carlo under another name.”
[111]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“It doesn't matter much,” growled the detective. “We
will nab him all the same, if he had fifty names.”
“Possibly. But it is wonderful how a man may be
under your very nose, and yet you may miss him.”
During the next few minutes neither man spoke. Bruce
smiled cynically at the thought that he was actually shield-
ing Lady Alice's probable slayer from the minions of the
law. He marvelled at himself for his irresolution. Never-
theless, he would wait. Mensmore could not escape him
now. Perhaps the business might be managed without
the dramatic features which would accompany an imme-
diate arrest. And there were some things that required
explanation. If his Monte Carlo acquaintance really
killed Lady Dyke, then he was the strangest criminal whom
Bruce had ever encountered during the course of his
varied career.
The policeman misinterpreted his expression.
“You can't laugh at us this time, Mr. Bruce,” he cried.
“Scotland Yard and yourself evolved the same theory,
eh? And we can't fly off to the South of France as readily
as you.”
“Your skill is profound, no doubt. Indeed, I wonder
at it, considering the mysterious way in which the missing
man left his address at the post-office.”
The other reddened. “That was simple enough, I
know; but we were on his track before that.”
“By watching me when I visited his sister.”
“You saw me outside the Jollity Theatre, then ?”
“Of course. What did you expect ?”
Mr. White recovered his placidity. “There's no use
quarrelling about it,” he laughed. “I did get that wrinkle
from you. But how on earth were we to know what to
do, when there were seventy-one flats occupied by respect-
[112]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Did she — tell you his real name ?” the barrister had
almost said, but he deflected the question. “Did she give
you any hint as to a possible cause for this apparently
unnecessary crime?”
“Not a word.”
“Then you did not mention Lady Dyke to her ?”.
“No. Sir Charles has always implored me to keep his
wife's name out of my inquiries until it became absolutely
impossible to conceal it in view of a public prosecution.
He wants to know definitely when that time comes.”
“Why ?”
The detective did not reply for a moment. When he
spoke he leaned forward and subdued his voice. “I am
as sure as I am sitting here, sir, that Sir Charles will not
live if any disgrace should come to be attached to his
wife's memory."
“Do you mean that he will kill himself ?”
“I do. He has changed a great deal since this affair
happened. He is not the same man. · He appears to be
always mooning about her. And people say that they
were not so devoted to one another when she was alive."
Again did the barrister switch off their talk from an
unpleasant topic.
“This description of Corbett is not much use,” he said.
“It applies to every athletic young Englishman of good
physique and gentlemanly appearance.”
“Quite true. I don't depend on that for his arrest, but
it will be valuable for identification. ‘Blue eyes, light
brown hair, fresh, clear complexion, well-modelled nose
and chin.' Some of these things can be changed by
tricks, but not all. For instance, there would be no use
in smoking a man with black eyes and irregular features.”
“Smoking' him ?”
[114] .


A Question of Principle
“Oh, that's our way of putting it. Following him, it
means."
“Suppose the French police don't succeed in catching
him?"
“We will get him at Raleigh Mansions. He is sure to
think that Lady Dyke's fate has never been determined,
and he will return when the inquiry has blown over, to all
appearance."
“You have quite made up your mind, then, that Sydney
H. Corbett is the murderer ?”.
“It looks uncommonly like it. At any rate, he knows
something about it. If not, why did he bolt to France two
days after the crime? Why has he concealed his identity ?
Why does he take pains to receive his correspondence in
the manner he has adopted ? And, by Jove! suppose he
isn't in Monte Carlo at all, but in London all the time!”
The inspector glowed with his sudden inspiration, but
Bruce kept him to the lower level of realities.
“Corbett is, or was, in Monte Carlo. Of that you may
be sure. He, and none other, got the letters sent to the
Hotel du Cercle. I cannot for the life of me imagine why
he did not take the last one. But let us look at what we
know. Lady Dyke, we will say, went to Corbett's cham-
bers, secretly and of her own accord. That may be taken
as fairly established. Thence there is a blank in our
intelligence until she appears as a hardly recognizable
corpse, stuffed by hands beneath an old drain-pipe in the
Thames at Putney. How do you fill up that gap, Mr.
White ?”
“Simply enough. Corbett, or some other person, per-
suaded her to voluntarily accompany him to Putney.
She was killed there, and not in London. It would be
almost a matter of impossibility for any man to have
[115]


A Mysterious Disappearance
conveyed her lifeless body from Raleigh Mansions to
Putney without attracting some notice. One man could
not do it. Several might, but it is madness to imagine
that a number of people would join together for the purpose
of killing this poor lady.”
“The seemingly impossible is often accomplished.”
“Do you really believe, then, that she met her death in
London ?”
“I have quite an open mind on the question.”
“You forget that she had resolved early that day to
visit her sister at Richmond, and Putney is on the direct
road. What more reasonable than to assume —”
“Beware of assumptions! You are assuming all the
time that Corbett was a principal in her murder.”
“Very well, Mr. Bruce. Then I ask you straight out
if you don't agree with me?”
“I do not.”
This declaration astounded the barrister himself. Often
the mere utterance of one's thoughts is a surprise. Speech
seems to stiffen the wavering outlines of reflection, and the
new creation may differ essentially from its embryo. It
was so with Bruce in this instance.
Ever since Mr. White's arrival had aroused him from
the positive stupor caused by the stock-broker's unwitting
revelation, Claude Bruce had been slowly but definitely
deciding that Mensmore did not kill Lady Dyke. He had
seen him, unprepared, facing death as preferable to dis-
honor. At such moments a man's soul is laid bare.
With the shadow of a crime upon his conscience Mens-
more's actions could not have been so genuine and straight-
forward as they undoubtedly were.
Mensmore, of course, might in some way be bound up
with the mystery surrounding Lady Dyke's movements.
[116]


A Question of Principle
His very utterance in Bruce's room at the Hotel du Cercle
implied as much. That was another matter. It would
receive his (Bruce's) most earnest attention. But the
major hypothesis, so quickly jumped at by the police,
needed much more substantiation than it had yet ob-
tained.
That it was plausible was demonstrated by the barris-
ter's readiness to adopt it at the outset. Even now that
his impulse to fasten the crime on Mensmore had weakened
he wondered at his eagerness to defend him.
The detective was even more surprised.
“I don't see how you can take that view," he cried.
“Corbett's behavior is, to say the least, unaccountable.
If he is an innocent man, then he must be a foolish one.
Besides, why should he necessarily be innocent? This is
the first gleam of light we have had in a very dark business,
and I mean to follow it up.”
The vindictive emphasis of his tone showed that the
detective was annoyed at the other's impassive attitude.
He even went so far as to dimly evolve a theory that the
barrister wished to throw him off Corbett's trail on account
of his sympathy for Mrs. Hillmer, but Claude rapidly
dispelled this notion.
“You are here, I suppose, to ask my advice in pur-
suance of our understanding that we are working together
in the matter, as it were ?” he said.
“Well, something of the kind, sir.”
“Then I recommend that we see the inside of that
closed flat in Raleigh Mansions at the earliest moment."
“Do you mean by a search warrant ?”
“ Certainly not. Do you want the whole neighborhood
to know of it? You have probably heard of locks being
picked before to-day. You and I, and none other, must
[117]


A Mysterious Disappearance
have a quiet look around the place without anyone being
the wiser.”
Mr. White hesitated, but the prospect was attractive.
“I think I can manage it,” he said, smiling reflectively.
“Will six this evening suit ?”
“Admirably.”
“Then I will call for you.”
After a parting glance at Smith, who returned it, nose
in air, the inspector ran down the stairs, murmuring,
“Blest if I can understand Mr. Bruce. But this is a good
move. We may learn something."
[118]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“diggings,” neglected and untidy, yet not without a sem-
blance of comfort, which only needed the presence of a
sturdy housemaid and a fire to be converted into the
ordinary chambers with which the locality abounds.
Their first care was to draw down all the blinds, the
neglect of which housewifely proceeding argued the care-
less departure of a mere male when the place was vacated.
A rapid preliminary survey followed, and drew from
Bruce the remark:
“Furnished by a woman, but occupied by a man.”
Mr. White agreed, but he didn't know why, so he put
a tentative question on the point.
“Don't you see,” said Bruce, “that the carpets match
the upholstery of the furniture, that the beds have valances,
that the spare bedroom for a guest is even more elaborate
than that used by the tenant, that care has been taken in
fitting up the kitchen, and taste displayed in the selection
of pieces of bric-a-brac? Only a woman attends to these
things. On the other hand, a card tray has been used as
a receptacle for a cigar ash, the pictures — no woman ever
buys a picture — have been picked up promiscuously
from shops where they sell sporting prints, and the sides
of the mantelpieces are chipped by having feet propped
against them. There are plenty of other signs, but these
suffice.
Thenceforth the two men devoted themselves to their
task, each after his kind.
The representative of Scotland Yard hunted for docu-
ments, photographs, torn envelopes; he looked at the
covers of books to see if they were inscribed; he opened
every drawer, ransacked every corner, peered into the
interior of jars, pots, and ovens; appraised the value of
furniture, noted its age, and was specially zealous in
( 120 ]


No. 12 Raleigh Mansions
studying the appearance of the only bedroom which had
been occupied so far as he could judge.
Bruce, having given a casual glance around, entered the
sitting-room, selected the most comfortable chair, and
proceeded to envelope himself in smoke.
He had not spent two minutes in Mensmore's flat before
he made a striking discovery.
The dwelling consisted of a central passage, dividing
two equal portions from the other. That on the right
contained a drawing-room and a large bedroom, with
dressing-room attached. On the left were another bed-
room, a dining-room, a kitchen, and a store-room. At the
end of the passage, which terminated in the transverse
corridor, were the bathroom, a pantry, and a small room,
empty now, but apparently designed for a servant's
bedroom.
The furniture, as has been stated, was good in quality
and sufficient for its purposes. But the fact which imme-
diately impressed this skilled observer was that the ar-
rangement of the sitting-room differed essentially from the
other details of the flat.
The same care had not been taken in the disposition of
the articles. They had been dumped down anyhow, with-
out taste or regard for suitable position. The carpet had
not been bought for this special apartment like the carpets
elsewhere. A handsome ebony cabinet stood in the wrong
place. The blue china ornaments obviously intended to
fill its shelves were littered about the mantelpiece or on
small tables, while the Satsuma ware meant for the over-
mantel was stiffly disposed on the cabinet.
Small matters these, but Bruce thought them more
fruitful of accurate theory than the detective's hunt for
a written history of the crime!
[ 121 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
So, as he smoked, he mused and examined.
“The drawing-room was the last place to be furnished,”
he thought. “The usual course. It remained empty for
some time probably. The rest of the flat was arranged
by a woman — Mrs. Hillmer in all likelihood — before
the arrival of her brother. Then he came and tackled the
vacant room. The history of the place is as plain as
though I were present. More than that, a woman —
Mrs. Hillmer again, let us say — fixed upon these latter
purchases, but without measurements. She did not per-
sonally see to their adaptability, and she certainly did not
supervise their final arrangement. Now, why was that?
Again, these things are more worn than those in the other
rooms. Were they bought second-hand ? If so, why?
A woman thinks most of her drawing-room. It is the
last place in which she would economize.”
Mr. White entered, anxious and puzzled.
“Found anything ?” inquired Claude, without looking
at him.
“Not a rag, not a piece of old newspaper with a date
on it. A lot of papers were burned in the kitchen grate,
but from the remnants I judge that they were mostly
bills.”
“The place has been systematically cleared, eh ?”
“It looks like it.”
“Going to hunt here?”.
“Yes. You don't seem to take much interest in the
premises, Mr. Bruce, though you persuaded me to do a
bit of house-breaking in order to get here.”
“I find the quietude good for thought, Mr. White. Be
good enough not to make more noise than is absolutely
necessary.”
The other sniffed. He was disappointed. He hoped
[ 122 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
of ironwork to hold the fire-irons. That on the left was
whole, but from that on the right a small spike had been
broken off.
By comparison with its fellow the missing portion was
identical with the bit of iron found imbedded in the skull
of the murdered woman. Of this damning fact Bruce had
no manner of doubt, though the incriminatory article
itself was then locked in a drawer in his own residence.
He did not move. He sat as one transfixed.
What a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more out-
landish instrument used with murderous intent? The
entire bracket could easily be detached from the fender,
and would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But why
seize this clumsy device when it actually supported a
heavy brass poker ?
The thing savored of madness, of the wild vagary of a
homicidal maniac. It was incomprehensible, strange
beyond belief.
Yet as Bruce pictured the final scene in that tragedy,
as he saw the ill-fated lady stagger helplessly to the ground
before a treacherous and crushing stroke, a fierce light
leaped into his face, and his lips set tight with unflinching
purpose.
Had Mensmore been within reach at that moment he
would assuredly have been lodged in a felon's cell forth-
with. No excuse, no palliation, would be accepted. The
man who could so foully slay a gentle, kindly, high-minded
woman deserved the utmost rigor of the law, no matter
what the circumstances that led to the commission of the
crime.
It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to master
reason so utterly.
In strange altruistic mood he asked himself why he did
[ 124 ]


No. 12 Raleigh Mansions
not spring from his chair, and, tearing the bracket from
its supports, exhibit it to his fellow-worker, while he gave,
in a few passionate sentences, the information that would
set the French police to scour the Mediterranean littoral
until they found the White Heather. Of what matter to
him was the suffering of a sister or sweetheart ? Did the
man who killed Lady Dyke reck of these things ? Yes,
he would do it —
But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested the
fateful words even as they trembled on his lips. “Here's
a find!” was the shout. “Thinking is all very well, Mr.
Bruce, but hard work is better. What do you make of
that?”
“That” was a letter, which, in the manner known to
many a puzzled householder, had slipped down behind a
drawer in the cabinet, to be crushed against the wardrobe
at the back, and lie there forgotten and unnoticed.
Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not help
glancing at the crumpled document, first noting the date,
October 15th of the year just closed, with the superscrip-
tion, “Mountain Butts, Wyoming,” There was no
envelope.
It was addressed to “Dear Bertie," and ran as follows:
“Your welcome note and its draft for fifty dollars came
to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget your
generosity. We know you are hard up, and that you can
ill spare these frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased
to call them. You and I have been in many a tight place,
old chap, and I never knew you to fail either with hand or
heart. And when we drifted into this ranch, on my
advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you who were
[125]


A Mysterious Disappearance
bold enough to cut yourself adrift so that you might make
something to keep the pot boiling.
“But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this
time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been
big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly
believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel
who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our
title. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at
the first round. So I may soon have big news for you.
By Jove, won't it be a change if we both become rich!
And won't we all have a time in Paris! However, I must
not promise too much. I have been taught caution by
repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches
you all right.
Your faithful friend,
“SYDNEY H. CORBETT.”
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective, when
Bruce had slowly mastered the contents of the letter.
“ Think! I am too dazed to think.”
“We can now learn all about him from America.”
“About whom ?”
“About Corbett, of course.”
“Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this
letter in order to murder Lady Dyke? It is dated October
15th, and she was killed November 6th. It takes twelve
days, at the quickest, for a letter to come here from
Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver,
must have travelled in the same steamer, or its immediate
successor.”
Mr. White's face fell, but he stuck to his point: .
“Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have
seen the secretary to the company that owns these flats.
Corbett took the rooms for six months from September
[126]


No. 12 Raleigh Mansions
first. When asked for references he gave his sister's name,
and as she banks with the National — and she has always
paid her rent for five years — it was good enough. Still,
I must confess that Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming
in October if he lived here in September and in November."
The barrister answered between his set teeth: “Yes, it
is rather puzzling.”
"Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant."
“An elaborate one. It must have been conceived a
month before the murder.”
“But suppose it never came from Wyoming. We have
no proof that it was written in America.”
“We have proof of nothing at present."
“Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is the
place where you ought to shine, you know.”
“I have no theory. I must think for hours, for days,
before I see my way clear.”
“Clear to what, sir.”
“To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the
murderer of Lady Dyke.”
“So this find of mine is of great importance ?”
“Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently,
but you will let me see it again if necessary ?”
“With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You
never returned that small bit of iron to me. You recollect
I lent it to you some time since.”
“Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax
and give it to you.”
“All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue
my search. I may drop on something else of value.”
Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detec-
tive had completely rummaged the cabinet. The reading
of that queer epistle from Corbett to “Bertie” — from
[127]


A Mysterious Disappearance
the real Simon Pure to the sham one — from one man to
his double — had stopped him at the very threshold of
disclosure.
The document impressed him as being genuine. If so,
who on earth was Corbett, and why had Mensmore taken
his name, if that was the solution of the tangle ?
Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a
conclusion. The web had closed too securely round
Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Bruce could bide
his time. Another week might solve many elements in
the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.
The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing
else in the cabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered
into every vase on the over-mantel, picked with his pen-
knife at the back of the frame to feel for other letters, and
in doing so several times kicked the fender.
The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of
method would note the missing portion of the iron
“ dog."
“Surely,” he thought, “he will see it now,” as Mr.
White bent to examine the ashes, and actually took the
poker from the very support itself in order to rake among
the cinders.
The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too
obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him in the face,
escaped notice. He was quite wrapped up in his theory
that Lady Dyke had been killed at Putney, and not in
Sloane Square.
At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the
small apartments at the end of the main corridor.
Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and
intently examined the iron rest with a strong lens. It bore
no unusual signs in the locality of the break. Taking
[ 128 )


No. 12 Raleigh Mansions
some wax from his pocket, he took a slight impression of
the fracture.
When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting
in his chair, still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes.
Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving
all things as they found them. They said little on their
way to Victoria Street, for Bruce was trying to explain
Mensmore's attitude at Monte Carlo, and the detective
was considering the best use to which he could put that
all-important letter.
Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion's silence
to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands on the
only direct piece of evidence yet discovered as to Corbett's
identity, and this in defiance of Bruce's spoken philosophy ?
He could afford to be generous and not to worry his
amateur colleague with questions.
Thus they reached the barrister's chambers. Bruce
asked the other to sit down for a moment while he obtained
a model of the small lump of iron. He took it into his
bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtained at
Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided
perfectly.
He handed the bit of iron to White without comment.
The latter said: “It had better remain in my keeping
now, sir, but if you want to see it again, of course I will
be glad —”
“I shall never want it again,” said Bruce, and his voice
was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experienced such
a strain as the last hours had given him. “It is an ac-
cursed thing. It has caused one death already, and may
cause others.”
“I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged,”
cried the detective, “for this affair is the warmest I have
[ 129 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
ever tackled. However, I'll get him, as sure as his name's
Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many addresses.”
Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a
moment at the door, said quietly, “Is your name Corbett ?”
“No, it ain't, any more than yours is Black. See ?"
Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were
better friends thenceforth, but Mr. White was thoughtful
as he passed into the street.
“This is a funny business,” he communed. “There
isn't enough evidence against Corbett to hang a cat, yet
I think he's the man. And Bruce is a queer chap. Was
he cut up about me finding the letter, or has he got some
notion in his head. He's as close as an oyster. I wonder
if he did dine at Hampstead on the evening of the murder,
as he said at the inquest ? I must inquire into it."
[ 130 ]


CHAPTER XV
MRS. HILLMER HESITATES
“I WONDER if I shall have such exciting times to-day
as I had yesterday,” said Bruce to himself, as he unfolded
his Times next morning at breakfast.
Affairs had so jumbled themselves together in his brain
the previous evening that he had abandoned all effort to
elucidate them. He retired to rest earlier than usual, to
sleep soundly, save for a vivid dream in which he was
being tried for his life, the chief witnesses against him being
Mrs. Hillmer, Phyllis Browne, and Jane Harding, the
latter varying her evidence by entertaining the Court with
a song and dance.
The weather, too, had improved. It was clear, frosty,
and sunlit — one of those delightful days of winter that
serve as cheerful remembrances during periods of seem-
ingly interminable fog overhead and slush beneath.
During a quiet meal he read the news, and, with the
invaluable morning smoke, settled himself cosily into an
armchair to consider procedure.
In the first place he carefully weighed those utterances
of Mensmore at Monte Carlo, which he could recall, and
which seemed by the light of later knowledge, to bear
upon the case.
Mensmore had alluded to “family troubles,” to “wor-
ries,” and “anxieties,” that practically drove him from
England.
[ 131 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Some of these, no doubt, referred to the Springbok
speculation. Others, again, might have meant Mrs. Hill-
mer or some other presently unknown relative. But in
Mensmore's manner there was nothing that savored of a
greater secrecy than the natural reticence of a gentleman
in discussing domestic affairs with a stranger.
This man had practically been snatched from death.
At such a moment it was inconceivable that he could cloak
the remorse of a murderer by the simulation of more
honorable motives, in themselves sufficiently distressing
to cause him deliberately to choose suicide as the best way
of ending his difficulties.
The policeman had summarized the testimony against
Corbett as insufficient to curtail the remarkable powers
of endurance of a cat. But to Bruce the case against
Mensmore, alias Corbett, stood in clearer perspective.
Now that he calmly reasoned the matter he felt that the
balance of probabilities swung away from the hypothesis
that Mensmore was the actual slayer of Lady Dyke, and
towards the theory that he was in some way bound up
with her death, whether knowingly or unknowingly it was
at present impossible to say.
The new terror to Bruce was Mr. White.
“Why, if that animated truncheon knew what I know
of this business he would arrest Mensmore forthwith.
If he did, what would result? A scandal, a thorough
exposure, possibly the ruin of Mensmore's love-making if
he be an innocent man. That must be stopped. But
how, without forewarning Mensmore himself ? — and he
may be guilty. Chance may favor White, as it favored
me, in disclosing the identity of the missing Corbett.
And what of the real Corbett ? What on earth has he
got to do with it, and why has Mensmore taken his name?
[132]


Mrs. Hillmer Hesitates
If ever I get to the bottom of this business I may well
congratulate myself. The sole result of all my labor thus
far may be summed up in a sentence — I have not yet
come face to face with the man whom I can honestly
suspect as Lady Dyke's murderer. Not much, my boy!"
Claude uttered the last sentence aloud, startling Smith,
who was clearing the table.
“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Smith.
“Oh, nothing. I was only expressing an opinion.”
“I thought, perhaps, sir, you was thinkin' of Mr.
White.”
“What of him?"
“Your remark, sir, hexactly hexpresses my hopinion of
’im.”
Smith was not a badly educated man, but the least
excitement produced an appalling derangement of the
letter “h” in his vocabulary.
“Mr. White is a sharp fellow in his own way, Smith.”
“Maybe, but why should 'e come pokin' round 'ere
pryin' into your little affairs-deecur?”.
“My what?”
“Sorry, sir, but that's what a French maid I once knew
called 'em. Flirtations, sir. Mashes.”
“Smith, have you been drinking ?”
“Me, sir ?”
“Well, explain yourself. I never flirted with a woman
in my life.”
. “That's what I told 'im, sir. ‘My master's a regular
saint,' says I, “a sort of middle-aged ankyrite.' But Mr.
White 'e wouldn't ’ave it at no price. "Come now,
Smith,' says 'e, 'your guv'nor's pretty deep. 'E's a toff,
’e is, an' knows lots of lydies — titled lydies.' 'Very like,'
says I, “but 'e doesn't mash 'em.' "Then what price that
[ 133 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
lydy who called for 'im in a keb afore 'e went away?
An' who's 'e gone to Monte Carlo with?' This was
durin' your absence, sir.”
“Go on, Smith. Anything else ?”
“Well, sir, that rather flung me out of my stride, as the
sayin' is, as I 'ad seen the lydy in question. An' Mr.
White ’as a nasty way of putting you on your oath, so to
speak. But I never owned up.”
Claude laughed.
“Excellent. Mr. White has a keen nose for false
scents. I have already told him to let my affairs alone.
He means no harm.”
But the reference to a “lydy in a keb” had suggested an
immediate plan of action to the barrister. He would call
to see Mrs. Hillmer. He wrote a note asking her if he
might come to tea that afternoon, and sent it by a boy
messenger.
In return he received this answer.
“Mrs. Hillmer will be at home at four o'clock if Mr.
Bruce cares to call then.”
“Whew!” he whistled. “What's in the wind there?
This is an uncommonly stiff invitation. That rascal
White has upset her, I'll be bound. I must choke him
off somehow. Suppose he were to find that damaged
bracket! He would have Mensmore under trial at the
Old Bailey in double-quick time. After I leave Mrs.
Hillmer I must visit No. 12 again, and carry off that pair
of brackets before White discovers them, as he will haunt
the place in future.”
Bruce had a set of skeleton keys in his possession.
They were in his pocket when he approached Raleigh
Mansions at the appointed hour.
The same trim maid opened the door for him and
[ 134 ]


Mrs. Hillmer Hesitates
ushered him into the drawing-room. On the occasion of
his first visit he was taken to the dining-room. It was a
small matter, but Bruce paid heed to such.
Mrs. Hillmer appeared, very stately and undemonstra-
tive. She greeted him coldly, seated herself at a distance,
and said, in a cold, well-controlled voice:
“I did not expect the honor of another visit from you,
Mr. Bruce.”
“Why not?”
There was a fight brewing, and he would let the enemy
open fire. The glitter in her eyes showed that the batteries
were ready to be unmasked. He was not mistaken.
“Why not? Because I believed you to be a gentleman.
Once you had stooped to sending your myrmidons to
pester me I imagined that you would keep yourself in the
background.”
There was an indignant ring in her words as she con-
cluded. When a woman is angry her own speech acts as
a trumpet-call and fires her blood. Mrs. Hillmer began,
as she intended, in icy disdain. She ended in tremulous
anger.
“You allude to Mr. White ?” said the barrister, looking
steadily at her.
“Yes, that is the man. Some hireling from Scotland
Yard. How could you so meanly induce my confidence
at our first meeting? I have never been so deceived in a
man in my life, and I have had a surfeit of bitter expe-
rience already.”
“Brother and sister are alike. They have led queer
lives," mused Bruce. Aloud he said:
“Your experience, Mrs. Hillmer, should at least lead
you not to condemn any one unheard. May I explain
( 135 )


A Mysterious Disappearance
that which is to you incomprehensible at this moment? -
justly so, I admit.”
“Explanations! I am a child in the hands of such as
you. How can I hope to fathom your real intent? Pre-
sumably, if I accept your apologies now, it will be a prelude
to further visits by impudent police officers.”
“I am not here to apologize, Mrs. Hillmer.”
“What then, pray?”
“To plead with you. For Heaven's sake do not dis-
trust me. It may ruin those whom you hold dear. Listen
to me first, and try to believe me afterwards.”
He was so thoroughly in earnest, so impressive in man-
ner, that she did not know what to make of him. In her
despair, she adopted a woman's chief resource — her eyes
filled with tears.
But he anticipated her,
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he cried, “let us act like sensible
people. Compose yourself, order in some tea, and after
an interlude I will tell you all about it. Candor is an
indispensable element of confidence.”
Mrs. Hillmer rose, made an effort to choke back her
agitation, went out, and called to the maid for tea. She
returned in a few moments. When they were alone Bruce
said, with a smile:
“A little poudre de ris is an excellent corrective for
signs of grief.”
The lady blushed, and there was a perceptible return
to her former pleasant manner.
“You are incorrigible, I fear,” she cried.
“Not a bit. Impressionable, rather. Now, I am going
to startle you considerably, so be prepared. And do not
jump at conclusions. Though startling, my news is not
alarming. All may yet end well.”
[ 136 1


Mrs. Hillmer Hesitates
Mrs. Hillmer was manifestly anxious, but she promised
to try to understand him fully before she formed any
judgment.
“Then,” said he, “I can clear the air a good deal by a
simple statement. Mr. White is no agent of mine, and I
have seen your brother, Albert Mensmore, at Monte Carlo."
Mrs. Hillmer gave a little gasp of surprise. “You have
seen Bertie ?”
“Yes; your brother, is he not ?”
“My half-brother, to be exact. My father was married
twice. I-I am the elder of the two by four years.”
“Apart from the compliment, you do not look it. But
what you say explains the total absence of likeness between
you.”
“Possibly. People said we each resembled our mother.
And Bertie, you know, has led a somewhat adventurous
career. He roughed it a good deal in America. But
what has all this got to do with detectives, and recent
inquiries, and that sort of thing?”.
“Much. The last time we met I told you that your
brother was mixed up in some little affair with a lady."
Mrs. Hillmer laughed, a trifle constrainedly. “If you
knew Bertie as well as I do, you would not harbor sus-
picions concerning him. He never had a love affair in
his life. Indeed, he is something of a woman-hater."
“No doubt he was. But he has changed his opinions.
He is in love, and is engaged to be married to a very
charming girl. Thus far, his beliefs and his good fortune
have pulled against each other.”
“Bertie engaged to be married! Good gracious! Who
is she? And how can he support a wife? He is poor,
and in debt, and he won't even let me help him.”
“I have stated the facts, nevertheless. The lady is a
hari Bertie ene how can
[ 137 ]


Mrs. Hillmer Hesitates
“I think I understand. I must have faith in you, Mr.
Bruce. Who — was — the lady?”
The barrister thought deeply before replying. He had
previously decided upon this supreme step, but he hesi-
tated now that it was imminent. There was no help
for it.
“Her name,” said he, “is one which is well known to
the world. Lady Dyke, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, is
missing from her home since the evening of November 6
last. She met with a violent death that night, and I -
not the police — have good reason to believe that she was
killed in your brother's residence.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on a lounge, buried her white
face in her hands and moaned, in a perfect agony of
terror:
“Oh, my God! What shall I do? What shall I do?”
This outburst astounded Bruce. He did not know what
to make of it. His intelligence had certainly taken his
hearer by surprise. What interpretation was he to place
upon her words and her unrestrained actions ?
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she broke in
vehemently, running to him and clutching him by the arm:
“He is innocent, Mr. Bruce. He must be innocent.
He could not lift his finger to any woman. You must
save him - do you hear ? — save him, or you will have
his blood on your soul. It was true, then, that you came
here to hunt for him. Save him, if you hope for mercy
yourself when you are dying.”
In her passion she shook him violently, and for an
instant they looked intently at each other — the woman
tensely piteous, entreating; the man amazed and ques-
tioning
“Do you not see,” he said at last,“ that your vehemence
[139]


A Mysterious Disappearance
reveals your thoughts ? For anything you know to the
contrary, your brother may have committed the crime.
Nay, it requires but slight knowledge of human nature to
read your suspicions lest it be true. At this moment I
am convinced that you are, in your heart, less sceptical
than I of his guilt.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself again upon the lounge, silent,
tearful, torn with violent emotion, which she vainly tried
to suppress.
He tried to reason with her.
“It will, perhaps, serve to clear up a mystery that
deepens each moment if you place your trust in me,” he
said. “Tell me fully and openly any cause you may have
for fearing that your brother may be implicated in this
terrible business. I ask you to adopt this course in all
faith. I have seen your brother under most trying cir-
cumstances; I have been with him at an hour when it
would be impossible for him to conceal his burden if the
weight of Lady Dyke's death lay upon him. Yet I think
him innocent. I think that chance has contributed to
gather evidence against him. If I can learn even a por-
tion of the truth it will enable me to quickly dispel the
barrier of uncertainty that now hinders progress.”
“What is it you want to know ?”
Mrs. Hillmer's voice was hollow and broken. The
barrister was shocked at the effect of his revelation, but he
was forced to go on with the disagreeable task he had
undertaken.
“Do you mean," he asked, “that you will answer my
questions ?”
“So far as I can.”
“Would it not be better to tell me in your own words
what you have to say ?”
[ 140 ]


Mrs. Hillmer Hesitates
Mrs. Hillmer looked up, and the agony in her face
filled him with keen pity.
“Oh, Heaven help me to do what is right!” she cried.
“Your prayer will surely be answered. I am certain of
that. A great wrong has been committed by some one,
and the innocent must not suffer to shield the guilty.”
Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head and did not utter a word
for some minutes. She appeared to be reasoning out some
plan of action in a dazed fashion. When decision came
she said in low tones:
“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have
time. When I am ready I shall send for you."
He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead with
her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray
unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.
“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.
“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving
you. When I have determined something which is not
now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I
shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either
case I only can judge — and suffer.”
“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we
part. Did you know of Lady Dyke's death before to-day?”
She came to him and looked him straight in the face,
and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”
Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of
this painful interview did not prevent him from noting
the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some
one hurried into the interior of a room.
In their excitement they forgot that their voices might
attract attention, and ladies' maids are proverbially
inquisitive.
[141]


CHAPTER XVI
FOXEY
THE keen, cold air of the streets soon restored the man
to his habitual calm. He felt that a quiet stroll would do
him good.
As he walked he pondered, and the more critically he
examined Mrs. Hillmer's change of attitude the less he
understood it.
“For some ridiculous reason,” he communed, “the
woman believes her brother guilty. Now I shall have
endless trouble at getting at the truth. She will not be
candid. She will only tell me that which she thinks will
help him, and conceal that which she considers damaging.
That is a woman's way, all the world over. And a des-
perately annoying way it is. Perhaps I was to blame in
springing this business too hastily upon her. But there!
I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate using her as one juggles
with a self-conceited witness. In future I shall trouble
her no more.”
A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square
Station gave him a glimpse of the barrier, and he recog-
nized the collector who had taken Lady Dyke's ticket on
that fatal night when she quitted the Richmond train.
Rather as a relief than for other cause he entered into
conversation with the official.
“Do you remember me?” he said.
[ 142 ]


Foxey
“Can't say as I do, sir.” The man examined his
questioner with quick suspicion. The forgotten “season”
dodge would not work with him.
“Maybe you remember these ?” said Bruce, producing
his cigar-case.
“Now, wot's the gyme ?” said the collector to himself.
But he smiled, and answered: “Do you mean by the look
of 'em, sir ?"
“Good!” laughed Claude. “Take three or four home
with you. Meanwhile I am sure you remember me coming
to see you last November concerning a lady who alighted
here from Victoria one foggy evening and handed you a
ticket to Richmond ?”.
“Of course I do, sir. And the cigars are all right.
There was a lot of fuss about that lydy. Did she ever
turn up ?"
“Not exactly. That is to say, she died shortly after
you saw her.”
“No! Well, of all the rummy goes! She was a fine-
looking woman, too, as well as I rec’llect. Looked fit for
another fifty year. Wot ’appened to 'er.”
“I don't know. I wish I did.”
“An' ’ave you been on the 'unt ever since, guv'nor ? "
“Yes, ever since." .
“She's dead, you s'y?”
“Yes.”
“But ’ow'd you know she's dead, if you ’ain't seen 'er
since ?”
“I have seen her. I saw her dead body at Putney."
“At Putney! Well, I'm blowed!”
A roar from beneath, the slamming of many doors, and
the quick rush of a crowd up the steps, announced the
arrival of a train. “Pardon, sir," said the man, “this is
[ 143 ]


Foxey
you are hurt. I hope my mates did not treat you too
badly?”
“What?” cried the one who had not yet spoken. “He
gave me such a punch on the bread-basket that I've only
just recovered my speech.”
“I think we're about quits," said the other, surveying
a torn waistcoat and broken watch-chain.
“I shall be black and blue all over to-morrow,” said
Bruce; “but if you are satisfied I am. Come, Mr. White,
bring your friends and we will open a bottle of wine. We
all want it. Corbett won't be here to-night. Just now
he is in Wyoming."
“ How do you know ?”
“By intuition. I am seldom mistaken.”
“But why didn't you call out just now when you came
ini?”
“I hadn't a chance. You were on me like a thousand
of bricks. I must confess that if Corbett were in my
shoes he would be a doomed man.”
White didn't know whether to believe Bruce or not.
He was genuinely angry at the incident, but the barrister
did not want to convert him into an enemy, and he vaguely
felt that a catastrophe was imminent, and a false move by
the police might do irretrievable mischief.
“Well, inspector," he said, “I must confess that this
time you have got the better of me. I did not know you
were here. I looked in for the purpose of quietly studying
the ground, as it were, and I was never more taken by
surprise in my life. Moreover, your plan was a very
clever one, in view of the fact that Corbett might return
at any moment.”
The detective became more amiable at this praise from
[ 147]


A Mysterious Disappearance
the famous amateur, for Bruce's achievements were well
known to his two colleagues.
“I suppose you wondered what had happened,” he said
with a smile.
“I thought my last hour had come. I am only sorry
that Corbett himself did not have the experience.”
“Do you really believe he is in the States, sir ?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then he must have returned there since he wrote that
letter.”
“That is the only solution of the difficulty.”
“Hum. It's a pity.”
“Why?"
“I would sooner prefer to arrest him on this side. To
get him by extradition is a slow affair, and probably means
a trip across the Atlantic.”
Good-humor being now restored, the party quitted the
flat and adjourned to a neighboring hotel, where the
barrister started White on the full, true, and particular
account of his pursuit and capture of the Winchmore
Hill burglars, an exploit which was the pride of the
detective's life.
At the end of a bottle of champagne and a cigar they all
parted excellent friends, but Bruce did not attempt to
revisit Raleigh Mansions that night.
Instead, he partook of a quiet meal at a restaurant, and
hurried to his chambers to await the advent of the ticket-
collector.
Punctual to the hour, this new witness arrived, and was
admitted by Smith in obedience with previous instruc-
tions. The man was somewhat awed by the surroundings
and the appearance of a servant in livery, but Bruce
quickly put him at his ease.
[148]


Foxey
“ Come, sit near the fire. Do you drink whisky and
soda ? That box contains your favorite cigars. Now,
tell me all you know about this business.”
“I can't s'y as I know anythink about it, sir, but by
puttin' two and two together it makes four sometimes —
not always.”
“Quite right. You're a philosopher. Let me hear
the two two's. We will see about the addition after-
wards.”
“Well, sir, this yer lydy was a-missin' early in Novem-
ber. She tykes a ticket at Victoria Station on the District
for Richmond; she gives it up to me at Sloane Square,
arsks a newsboy the w'y to Raleigh Mansions, for 'e tellid
me so after you'd bin to see me, an' from what you s'y,
'as bin swallered up ever since.”
“The Lord Chief couldn't state the case more simply.”
“That's the first two. Now, for the second two, an'
you won't forgit as I knew nothink about the lydy bein'
dead, or I should ’ave opened my mouth long afore this."
“Go on. No one can blame you."
“There's an old chap -- Foxey they calls 'im, but I
don't know 'is right nyme — who drives a four-wheeler
around Chelsea, an' 'e 'ad tyken a fare from the Square
to the City. It might be four o'clock or it might be five,
but 'e was on 'is w'y back from Cornhill when a gent, a
tall, good-looking gent, a youngish, military chap, 'ails
’im and says: “ Cabby, drive me to Sloane Square. There's
no ’urry, but tyke care, because it's foggy.' Old Foxey
nearly jumped out of 'is skin at this bit of good luck.
’E was pretty full then, for ’e's a regular beer-barrel, 'e is,
but 'e made up 'is mind to ’ave a fair old skinful that
night. Well, Foxey drives 'im all right to the Square.
The gent gives ’im five bob and says: 'Wite 'ere for me,
[ 149 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
cabby. You can drive me 'ome in about an hour's time.'
This was at 5.30. Foxey drew up near the stytion, tells
me all about it, an' stan's me two beers, 'e was that pleased
with 'isself. 'E goes to give 'is 'oss the nose-bag, in
comes the Richmond train, and out pops the lydy with the
Richmond ticket. D’ye follow me?”
“Every word.”
"An' you see now 'ow it is I can fix the d'y ?”
“Perfectly.”
"Well, I sees no more of Foxey. I missed 'im about
the Square, so one d'y I axes at the rank, – Where's
Foxey ?' An' where d'ye think ’e was ?”
“I can not tell.”
“In quod.”
“In jail. Why?"
“That's hit. That's number two of the twos. Pardon
me, but I'm gettin' a bit mixed. Well, it seems that that
very night, comin' back from Putney as drunk as a lord,
old Foxey runs over a barrer. 'E an' the coster 'as a
fight. The police come, and Foxey dots one bobby in
the blinkers and another on the boko. You wouldn't
think it was in ’im. 'E must ’ave bin paralytic.”
“So he was locked up?"
"Locked up! 'E was dragged there by the 'eels. Next
mornin' 'e comes before the beak. “We was all drunk
together, your wurshup,' 'e says. “I took a fare from the
City to Sloane Square, an' 'e left me for more’n an hour.
'E comes back excited like — bin boozin' 'ard, I suppose
- brings my keb up to a 'ouse, carries in a lydy who was
that 'toxicated she couldn't stand, an' tells me to drive to
Putney. We gits there, an' I says "you've nearly killed
my 'oss, guv'nor.” With that 'e tips me a fiver- a five-
pun note, your wurshup.' 'What has that got to do with
locked up?"orded there by was all drur
( 150 )


A Mysterious Disappearance
but he dreaded approaching the grief-stricken baronet on
this matter. Now there was no help for it. The barrister
was beginning to feel impatient at the constant difficulties
which barred progress in each direction. After all, it was
a small thing merely to ask his friend if he ever knew a
reverend gentleman named Childe.
Bruce was sure that Sir Charles would not be acquainted
with Mr. Childe, and also with the fact that the Putney
house had served as his school, for it would be strange
beyond credence if it were so that he had not mentioned it.
The weather was still clear and cold, and a wintry sun
made walking pleasant. Claude, on quitting his club, set
out again on foot. He crossed St. James's Square,
Jermyn Street, and Piccadilly, and made his way to
Oxford Street up New Bond Street.
Not often did he frequent these fashionable thorough-
fares, and he had an excellent reason. When walking, he
was given to abstraction, and seldom saw his acquaint-
ances if he encountered them in unusual quarters. He
would thus cut dead a woman at whose house he had
dined the previous evening, or, when he was in practice at
the Bar, fail to notice the salutation of his own leader.
To Claude himself this short-coming was intolerable;
consciousness of it when in the West made him the most
alert man in the crowd to note anybody whom he knew,
except on the rare occasions when he forgot his failing.
This morning Bond Street was pleasantly full. People
were beginning to return to town. Parliament re-assem-
bled in a few days, and he passed many who were on his
visiting list.
Outside a well-known costumer's he saw a brougham,
into which a lady had just been assisted by the commis-
sionaire.
[154]


A Possible Explanation
It is no uncommon thing to recognize an acquaintance
by the color of his horse, or the peculiar cut of the coach-
man's whiskers. This time Bruce knew the driver as
well as the equipage, but the lady was not Mrs. Hillmer.
Instantly he was at the door, with his hat lifted; he
assumed an expression of polite regret as he saw Dobson,
the maid, in her mistress's place.
“Sorry," he said, “I knew the carriage, and thought
that Mrs. Hillmer was inside. She is well, I trust.”
"Not very, sir,” answered the maid with an angry pout.
“Indeed, what is the matter ?”.
“Madame is going away, and has put us all on board
wages.”
Dobson had some of the privileges of a companion, and
resented this relegation to the servants' hall.
“Going away?” cried Bruce. “A sudden departure,
eh?”
The girl was arranging some parcels on the seat in front
of her. She was not disinclined for a conversation with
this good-looking gentleman, so she smiled archly, as she
said: “Didn't you know, sir? I thought you would know
all about it.”
What he might have ascertained by a longer chat the
barrister could not tell, for an interruption occurred.
The coachman was more loyal to his mistress than the
maid.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he cried, “but the missus told us to
hurry”; and he whipped his steed into the passing stream
of carriages.
“More complications,” murmured Claude. “Mrs.
Hillmer contemplates a bolt. Shall I pay her another
visit and surprise her? No, confound it, I will not. Let
her go, and let things take their course."
[155]


A Mysterious Disappearance
ce
Not in the most amiable frame of mind at this discovery,
he pursued his walk to Portman Square.
Sir Charles Dyke was at home. He always was, now.
“For goodness' sake, Mr. Bruce,” whispered Thompson
in the hall, “try to persuade Sir Charles to quit smokin',
and readin', and thinkin'. He sits all day in the library
and 'ardly has anything to eat.”
Claude reproached himself for having neglected his
resolution to stir his friend into something like animation.
He was wondering what he should do in the matter,
when the baronet rose at his entrance, saying, with a
weary smile:
“Well, old fellow, what news ?”.
The other suddenly decided to throw all questioning to
the winds for the moment. “I have come to bring you
out. I won't hear of a refusal. Let us walk to the club
and have lunch and a game of billiards."
Sir Charles protested. He had slept badly and was
tired.
“All the more reason that you should sleep well to-night.
Come, now, be advised. You will allow yourself to be-
come a hopeless invalid if you go on in this way.”
Dyke unwillingly consented, and they left the house.
The older man brightened up considerably amidst the
bustle of the streets. His color returned, he talked with
some degree of cheerfulness, and even laughed as he
said:
“I never understood you were a doctor, Claude, in
addition to your other varied acquirements. For the first
time since — since November last, I feel hungry."
“Why don't you take my advice, and go away for some
shooting? It is not too late, even now, to go after a
hare.”
[ 156 ]


A Possible Explanation
“I will think of it. I wonder who we shall meet at the
club.”
“Lots of fellows, no doubt. And, by the way, you
must be prepared for one little difficulty. Suppose they
ask about your wife?”.
The baronet's momentary gaiety vanished. He stopped
short, and clutched Bruce's arm. “Don't you see," he
almost moaned, “that this is the reason I have remained
indoors for so long ? What shall I say ?”
“You must make the best of it. Say, off-handedly,
you don't know where she is – either with relations or in
Italy. Anything will do, and it will create a false impres-
sion.”
“I am sick of false impressions. · I cannot do it.”
“You must.”
The stronger will prevailed, and they entered the doors
of the Imperial, where, of course, Dyke was hailed at once
by a dozen men.
“Hallo, Charlie! Been seedy?”
“Good gracious, Dyke! have you had influenza ? I've
missed you for months, now I come to think of it.”
“I haven't seen your wife for quite a time. How is
she?”
In the multitude of questions there was safety.
Sir Charles answered vaguely, and a chance arrival
created a diversion by announcing that the favorite had
broken down in his preparation for the Grand National.
Later in the afternoon, the two found themselves en-
sconced in a quiet corner of the smoking-room. Bruce
seized the opportunity.
“You told me,” he said, “that Mensmore and you were
at school together?"
“Did I ?” said the baronet.
[ 157]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Yes; don't you remember?”
“I get mixed up in thinking about things. But it is
all right. We were.”
“Whereabouts ?”
“Oh, a private establishment kept by an old chap called
Septimus Childe, — Lucky Number was our nickname
for him."
Brute betrayed no surprise at this startlingly simple
statement. He said casually:
“I mean where was the school situated ?”.
"At Brighton in my time. But afterwards he shifted
to some place near London — something to do with exam-
inations, I fancy.”
“But don't you know where ?”
“How should I? I was at Sandhurst then. I believe
the old boy is dead. Why do you ask ?”
“Oh, it has something to do with the inquiry. I won't
trouble you now with the details.”
“Go on, I can stand it."
“But where is the good in paining you needlessly?”
“That stage has passed, old chap. My wife's memory
has almost become a dream to me.”
“Well, it is an extraordinary thing, but that place
where — that house at Putney, you know, must have been
the new school of the Rev. Septimus Childe."
“How did you learn that?”
“I have known it for months, ever since the inquest.”
“And you did not tell me ?”
“True, but at the time it seemed of no consequence.
Now that Mensmore turns out to be a pupil of his, and
probably passed the remainder of his early school days at
that very establishment, the incident assumes a degree of
importance.”
[ 158 ]


A Possible Explanation
Sir Charles looked earnestly at his friend as he put his
next question: "Tell me, Claude, do you seriously be-
lieve that Mensmore had anything to do with my wife's
death ?”
“I cannot honestly give you a satisfactory answer."
“But what do you think ?”
“If you press me I will try to put my opinion into words.
Mensmore was in some mysterious way associated with
the crime; but the degree of association, and whether
conscious or unconscious, I do not know.”
“What do you mean by conscious or unconscious'?"
“I am sure that Lady Dyke met her death in his resi-
dence; but it is impossible to say now if he was aware of
her presence. He was in London at the time, that is
quite certain.”
“Do the police know all this?”
“No.”
“I am glad of it. Mensmore did not kill my wife.
The suggestion is absurd — wildly absurd.”
“Things look black against him, nevertheless.”
"I tell you it is nonsense. You are on the wrong track,
Bruce. What possible reason could he have had to decoy
my wife to his flat and there murder her ?”.
“None, perhaps.”
“Then why do you hesitate to agree with me?”
“Because there is a woman in the case.”
“Another woman ?”
“Yes; Mensmore's sister, or half-sister, to be exact.
She also lives in Raleigh Mansions."
"Indeed. So all kinds of things have been going on
without my knowledge. Yet you promised faithfully to
keep me informed of every incident that transpired.”
“I am sorry, Dyke; but you were so upset — ”
[ 159 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Upset, man. Don't you realize that this affair is all
I have to think about in the world ?”
The baronet was so disturbed that Claude at once made
up his mind to tell him as little as possible in the future.
These constant possibilities of rupture between them must
be avoided at all hazard.
To change the conversation he said: “Never mind; this
time you must pardon my inadvertence. How do your
wife's people bear the continued mystery of her disap-
pearance ?”
“At first they were awfully cut up. But lately they
have been reconciled to her death, which they say must
have resulted from accident, and that her identity must
have been mixed up with that of some other person. Such
things do happen, you know. Anyway, her sister has
gone into mourning for her. You didn't hear, I suppose,
that I have made my little nephew my heir ?"
“Was that step necessary at your time of life?”
“I shall never marry again, Bruce.”
“Well, let us drop the subject. You have done right
as regards the boy under present circumstances; but, as a
man of the world, I only point out that it is an unwise
thing to bring up a youngster in expectation of something
which chance might determine differently.”
“ Chance! There is no chance! My wife cannot
return from the grave!”
“True. You have done right, no doubt. But the
suddenness of the thing caused me to speak unwittingly."
They were silent for a little while, when Sir Charles
returned to the subject nearest his heart.
“Has your search developed in other directions ?."
Bruce fenced with the query. “To be candid,” he
said, “I am now most busily engaged in the not very
[160]


A Possible Explanation
difficult task of throwing dust in the eyes of the police.
My motives are hardly definite to myself, but I do not
want this unfortunate man, Mensmore, to be arrested
until I have personally become convinced of his guilt.”
“You are right. Your instinct seldom fails you. I
question if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife.”
“Ah! You see you have hit upon the difficulty. Show
me her reason for making that secret journey, and I will
tell you how she met her death.”
His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old friend
of Dyke's had entered the room and came toward them.
A few minutes later Bruce quitted the Imperial and
drove to his chambers, where he found a note from the
ticket collector stating that Foxey's name was William
Marsh.
The day was still young, and the barrister paid a visit
to the West London Police Court, where the records soon
revealed the conviction of the cab-driver and the period
of his sentence.
“Let me see,” said the resident inspector, “his time at
Holloway is up on February 6. That is a Monday, and
as Sunday doesn't count, he will be liberated on the 4th,
about 8 A.M. That is the habit, sir, in the matter of
short sentences. If you want to see him when he leaves
the jail you can either wait at the gates or at the nearest
public-house, where the prisoners go for their first drink.
They seldom or never miss."
Bruce thanked the official and returned home.
He was on the point of going out to drive, when he
received a letter from Sir Charles Dyke. It ran:
“My Dear Claude, — Today's experiences have taught
me to take the inevitable step of announcing my wife's
[161]


A Mysterious Disappearance
death. Hence, I have forwarded the enclosed notice to
an advertisement agency, with instructions to insert it in
the principal papers. I have also decided to follow your
advice and leave town for a few days. I am going to
Wensley, my place in Yorkshire, should you happen to
want me.
Yours,
“CHARLES DYKE.”
The notice read:
“DYKE. — On November 6, Alice, wife of Sir Charles
Dyke, Bart., suddenly, at London.”
Next morning it figured in the obituary columns of
many newspapers. Bruce, though taken back by the
suddenness of his friend's resolve, saw no reason to en-
deavor to dissuade him. In the words of the letter, it
was “the inevitable step.”
[ 162 ]


CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA
S in Gented he ance," sa
e lull
THE White Heather swung quietly at her moorings in
the harbor of Genoa the Superb. The lively company on
board, tired after a day's sight-seeing, had left the marble
streets and palace cafés to the Genoese, and sought the
pleasant seclusion of the yacht's airy promenade deck.
“Dinner on board, followed by a dance,” said Phyllis,
as arbiter of the procedure. A few hasty invitations sent
out to British residents in Genoa met with general accept-
ance, and the lull between afternoon tea and the more
formal meal was a grateful interlude.
Genoa is so shut in by its amphitheatre of hills that
unless a gale blows from the west its bay is unruffled, and
its atmosphere oppressively hot during the day, even in
the winter months.
Sir William Browne's excursion had proved so attractive
to those invited that the White Heather was taken farther
along the coast than was originally intended. When all
the best known resorts of the Riviera itself were exploited,
some one, probably prompted thereto by Phyllis or Mens-
more, suggested a run to Genoa.
They had been in the port three days, and on the morrow
would hand the yacht over to the owner's agents, those on
board separating on their different routes. The Brownes
went to Florence and Rome, and Mensmore was pretend-
[163]


A Mysterious Disappearance
ing to hold out against a pressing request to accompany
them, cordially given by his prospective father-in-law.
This afternoon Phyllis and he were leaning over the
taffrail and discussing the point.
The young lady was slightly inclined to be angry. Her
eyes roamed over the magnificent panorama of church-
crowned hills and verdant valleys, with the white city in
front and the picturesque quays looking as though they
had been specially decked for a painting by Clara Mon-
talba. But Phyllis paid heed to none of these things.
She wanted her lover to come with her, and not to fly away
to smoke-covered London.
“Business!” she cried, “it is always business that men
think of. Of course I know that affairs must be attended
to, but now that everything is settled and we are quite
happy, it is too bad of you to run away immediately."
“But, dearest — ”
“There! Take your hand off my arm. You are not
going to coax me into agreement. Just because you
receive a horrid letter this morning you go and upset all
the arrangements.”
“Phyllis, listen to me. I -"
“You shan't go. I think it is mean of you to insist
upon it when I am so urgent.”
“I am not insisting. You might at least help me to
settle matters; otherwise they will get terribly mixed.”
“And you will stay?”.
“What else can I do when you ask me?”
“Oh, you darling!”
This little quarrel was very delightful, and made them
feel ever so much more in love than before; but it did not
help Mensmore out of his difficulty.
[164]


What Happened on the Riviera
“Let us see what Corbett really says,” he remarked,
ruefully taking a letter from his pocket.
“Am I to look, too ?”
“Of course. I have no secrets from you, little woman.”
Phyllis nestled up close to him. This time she did not
object to his hand resting on her shoulder, and together
they read the following letter:
“My Dear Bertie, — At last I am able to write you
definitely. The prospectors have struck it rich on our
property, and I have sold two claims outright for $50,000.
With this nest-egg I am taking the girls to New York, and
shall then start by the Teutonic for your side of the pond.
I am due in Liverpool on February 4, so look out for me.
“Yours ever,
“SYDNEY H. CORBETT.”
Both gazed thoughtfully at the document for a few
moments before Phyllis said:
“Does that mean we shall be rich, Bertie ?”
Her companion emphasized the gratification of the
plural pronoun by a squeeze.
“I hope so, sweet.”
“That will be very nice, won't it? I will marry you
even if you have to take a place in father's office; but it
will be so much better if we haven't to explain to him that
we are poor after all.”
Mensmore laughed. “It is not so bad as that in any
case," he said. “This Springbok Mine speculation will
probably turn out well, but I look to Wyoming to yield
the best and most permanent results.”
“Why is Mr. Corbett coming to London ?”
“Because it is only in London that capital can be
[165]


A Mysterious 201
ince
Disappearance
obtained for large undertakings, and if the Wyoming
Goldfield is really a valuable one we may be able to realize
some portion of our interests for a considerable sum.
Anyhow, he wants to consult me.”
“Do you both own the ranch ?”
“Yes; it was a joint transaction, but I found the money.”
“And why did you come away ?”
“Well, we made very little out of it, Phil. As Corbett
has two sisters, I thought it best to leave what there was
for him. He was absurdly grateful about what he called
my generosity in the matter, but now that the land has
proved valuable, of course all that nonsense is at an end,
and we go half-shares in the deal.”
“Two sisters! They pretty ?”
“What! Jealous already! They are very nice, but
much older than their brother, and he is my senior by two
years."
Miss Browne was graciously pleased to accept this
explanation. She knitted her smooth brow into a reflec-
tive frown as she said:
“Mr. Corbett arrives on the 4th. It is now January
30th. You really ought to go home, Bertie.”
“Now my dear, sensible little woman is talking like her
own self.”
“I see I must give you permission. But I did hope we
would see Florence together.”
“So we shall. I'll tell you what I can do. I shall
write to Corbett to-day, care of the steamer at Liverpool,
tell him to go to my flat, and stay there a few days until
I arrive, and go home myself at the end of next week.
He is sure to spend some time seeing the sights before
tackling business, and he can do that as well without me
as if I were there. A line to my old housekeeper, who has
[ 166 ]


What Happened on the Riviera
a spare key, will make the place habitable for him. Happy
thought, I'll do it.”
“And another happy thought! I'll come and watch
you do it.”
She did not notice that Mensmore's face clouded at this
otherwise pleasant intimation. Nevertheless, he raced off
with her to the saloon and seated himself at the writing.
table. But before he placed pen to paper, Phyllis bending
over him meanwhile, he suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of
annoyance:
“Now, what a bore this is. I don't know how to ad-
dress the letter to make sure of reaching him at once, and
it is very important that it should not miss him.”
“Father will know. Let us ask him.”
“No,” said Mensmore judicially, “I will row across the
harbor to the Florio-Rubattino office, find out the exact
thing, and send off the letter. Back in half-an-hour. Be
good!”
And before Phyllis could argue the matter he was at the
gangway shouting for a boat.
She blew a kiss to him as he shot over the narrow strip
of water inside the mole, and little realized that Mensmore
was saying to himself:
“That was a narrow squeak. Never again, as long as
I live, will I take another man's name. It causes no end
of bother, and at the most unexpected moments.”
He did not trouble the Florio-Rubattino people, as he
well knew that a letter addressed to the White Star offices
would insure any communication reaching his friend.
The context of the missive, as finally indited at the
post-office, explains his hesitancy to write it in the presence
of his fiancée.
[167]


A Mysterious Disappearance
rance
“My dear Sydney, — Your good news is more than
surprising. Although I believe you, I cannot yet grasp
its full significance. However, let us leave explanations
until we meet. I am fixed here for a few days more, as I
have just become engaged to the sweetest girl in the world,
but will return home at the end of next week. Meanwhile
I want you to take up your residence at my flat, No. 12
Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square, where my housekeeper
has instructions to receive you. Do not be surprised if
you find the name of Corbett familiar there. Indeed, I
took the place in your name in August last. However,
all explanations when we meet.
“Yours ever,
“BERTIE MENSMORE.”
This, with a note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robinson,
and another to the hall-porter of the Universities Club,
lest by any chance the Liverpool letter missed his friend,
completed his task.
He laughed as he hurried from the post-office to the
harbor.
“By Jove!” he said to himself, “won't old Robinson be
surprised when she gets my letter telling her that another
Mr. Corbett is coming from America, and that my name,
concealed for family reasons, is Mensmore. I guess that
Sydney will feel a bit mixed up, too, until I tell him the
whole yarn.”
No wonder his housekeeper would fail to understand
him.
Others, whose influence on his fortunes he little sus-
pected, were already puzzled by the circumstances. Bruce,
for instance, and White would be very glad if some occult
[168]


What Happened on the Riviera
, and Phyllia the White H
inner. Sir
power enabled them to read the seemingly trivial letters
posted that day in Genoa.
Every person known to the reader, and not the least
the visitor from the United States, was on the eve of a mad
whirl of events, the outcome of which no man could
prophesy. As yet, one man only, Claude Bruce, had the
slightest suspicion that affairs were approaching a crisis.
When Mensmore reached the White Heather he found
Lady Browne and Phyllis dressed for a drive before
dinner. Sir William seized the opportunity to cross-ex-
amine his daughter's suitor as to his means. Phyllis was
an only child, and her father did not propose that she
should live in penury, whatever the financial position of
her husband might be. He liked Mensmore, and had
ascertained by private inquiries that his social position
was good.
“His father was a Major-General,” said his informant,
“who lost his savings by speculation, and was unable to
maintain his son in a crack cavalry corps, so the youngster
resigned and went to America to try to better himself.
There was a daughter, too, by the first wife, a very charm-
ing woman, who, when the crash came, was supposed to
have gone on the stage. But I have never heard of her
since.”
So far, the credentials were not bad; but Sir William
thought it his duty to ascertain definite particulars.
Mensmore was quite candid with him.
“I have been somewhat of a rolling stone,” he said,
“but I am glad to believe that people have never had cause
to think ill of me. At times, my affairs have been at a
desperate stage, but I hope such periods have passed for-
ever. I have already spoken to you about the Springbok
Mine "
[ 169 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
The old gentleman nodded.
“Well, this morning I have received very satisfactory
news from America,” and he handed over Corbett's letter
for perusal.
“Yes,” agreed Sir William, “these things promise
well. We will look into them when we reach England.
Meanwhile, I give my provisional sanction to my daugh-
ter's engagement. She is a good girl, Mensmore. She
will be a true and excellent wife. I think you are worthy
of her, and I hope that whatever clouds may have darkened
your life will now pass away. You two ought to be
happy.”
“We will, sir,” said Mensmore fervently.
“By the way, where is your sister? Is she in England
or abroad?”
Mensmore had been expecting this question. He was
prepared for it.
"Mrs. Hillmer is my half-sister,” he explained. “I have
not seen much of her since — since an unhappy marriage
she contracted some years ago.”
“Indeed. Is her husband alive?”
“I can hardly tell you. I believe so. But she does not
live with him. She is well provided for, but it was partly
on account of this matter that I came to the Riviera for
the winter. To tell the truth, I quarrelled with her about
it.”
“Ah, well. Her troubles need not affect Phyllis and
you, except to give you warning. And take my advice.
Never interfere between husband and wife. However
good your motive, ill is sure to come of it."
In the growing dusk Sir William Browne did not note
his companion's embarrassment in discussing this topic.
Mensmore was essentially an honorable man, and he
[170]


What Happened on the Riviera
detested the necessity which forced him to permit false
inferences to be drawn from his words. Yet there was
no help for it. He was compelled to suffer for the faults
of another.
It was relief when the dressing-bell for dinner allowed
him to escape to his cabin.
There was quite a large gathering for dinner. Places
like Genoa contain a number of highly interesting per-
sonages if the visitor discovers them. The British race
produces a richer variety of human flotsam and jetsam
than any other. These derelicts come to anchor in out-
of-the-way parts of the earth. They seem to have been
everywhere and have done everything, while the whole
world is an open book to them.
Thus there was no lack of variety in the conversation,
and, as usual in such assemblies, it dealt more with
persons than with incidents.
Phyllis had arranged the guests, so it may be taken for
granted that her lover was near her — in fact, he sat
exactly opposite. The lady he took in to dinner was the
wife of an English doctor, and the British consul at the
port was Miss Browne's table companion.
The consul was a chatty man, who kept himself well
informed concerning society events.
"By the way,” he said to Phyllis, “ did you ever meet
Lady Dyke ?”
“No, her name is not familiar to me.”
“Do you mean the wife of Sir Charles Dyke ?" said
Mensmore; and the sudden interest he evinced caused
Phyllis to glance at him wonderingly.
“Yes, that is she.”
“I know Sir Charles well. What is there new about
his wife ?”
[171]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“She is dead."
“Good Heavens! Dead! When, and how ?”
Mensmore was so obviously agitated that others present
noticed it, and Phyllis marvelled much that in all their
confidence the name of Dyke had never escaped his lips.
The consul, too, was a little nonplussed by the sensation
caused by his words.
“I fear,” he said, “that I have blurted out the fact
rather unguardedly. The Dykes are friends of yours ?”
“No, no, not in that sense. Sir Charles I have known
for many years. But are you sure his wife is dead?”
“My authority is an announcement in the Times to
hand by to-day's post. I should not have mentioned
it were not her ladyship so well known in society, and the
affair is peculiar, to say the least.”
“Peculiar — how ?”
In his all-absorbing interest in the consul's statement,
Mensmore paid no heed to the curious looks directed at
him; he had become very pale, and was more excited in
manner than the circumstances appeared to warrant.
“In this sense: The paper is the issue of January 28,
yet the notice says that Lady Dyke died on November 6.
This is odd, is it not? A woman of her position could
hardly have quitted life so quietly that no one would
trouble to publish the fact until nearly three months after
the event.”
"It is extraordinary — inexplicable!”
“Did you know Lady Dyke personally, Bertie ?” put
in Phyllis timorously.
The question restored Mensmore to some sense of his
surroundings.
“I have never even seen her,” he said, trying desper-
ately to be commonplace; “but her husband is an old
[172]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Oh!” And the tone was somewhat mollified. “Then
why did you look so worried during dinner?”
“Simply because I know Sir Charles.”
“What a dear, sympathetic little boy you are! When I
die, Bertie, I suppose you will drop down stiff from grief
at once.”
“Don't talk nonsense. We are missing all this delight-
ful music.”
And they whirled away down the snowy deck, forgetful
of all things save one, that they were in love.
Now, what a pity it was that Bruce was not on board
the White Heather that night. Many complications, and
not a little misery, would have been avoided thereby.
[ 174 ]


CHAPTER XIX
WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT
SIR CHARLES DYKE, in sending off the hurried an-
nouncement of his wife's death, forgot the “society"
papers.
Such a promising topic did not come in their way every
week, and they made the most of it. Where did Lady
Dyke die? Under what circumstances did she die? They
rolled the morsel under their tongue in every conceivable
manner.
Details were not forthcoming.
“Our representative called at Wensley House, Portman
Square, but was informed that Sir Charles was in York-
shire.” Inquiry by a local reporter from Sir Charles in per-
son elicited no information. “Lady Dyke is dead,” wrote
this enterprising journalist; “ of that there can be no man-
ner of doubt, but her husband states that for family reasons
he is unable to supply the public with the precise facts
concerning his wife's demise.”
This ill-advised authentic statement only fanned the
flame. An evening journal got hold of the proceedings at
the Putney Coroner's Court which inquired into the death
of a woman found in the Thames, and, with a portentous
display of headlines, published an interview with the
doctor giving particulars of the iron spike found imbedded
in the skull.
The paper was also able to state “on the best author-
ity” that at this inquest Sir Charles Dyke and the missing
[175]


Where Mrs. Hillmer Went
remain, a mystery rendered more complex by the sim-
plicity of its leading features.”
Several newspapers, of course, pointed out that they
were helping forward the inquiry by noising it abroad, but
thenceforth the paragraphs ceased, being eclipsed in in-
terest by the revelations of a great divorce case in which
there were no less than six titled co-respondents.
One man was much puzzled by the original obituary no-
tice and the semi-official statement supplied by the solicitors.
Mr. White did not know what to make of them. He
guessed that Bruce had inspired that “explanation," and
he read the concluding sentence many times.
"It threatens to remain a mystery, does it not ?” he mur-
mured. “Just wait, Mr. Bruce, until I lay my hands on
Corbett. Clever as you are, I think I will show you that
Scotland Yard can occasionally get the better of your
theories. Anyhow, Corbett will have to be very explicit
about his movements before I am satisfied that he knows
nothing about this business.”
He had written to the Chief of Police at Cheyenne, and
something definite would soon come to hand.
Nevertheless, he felt somewhat shaken in his diagnosis
of the crime. Wyoming was a long way from London,
and the letter from Corbett, which he had in his possession,
did not exactly confirm his suspicion that this man was
concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke.
He quickly became aware of Mrs. Hillmer's departure,
and at once jumped to the conclusion that she had recently
left England for the United States. A close scrutiny of
the passenger lists at Liverpool and Southampton did not
help him much, and he ultimately resolved to call on
Bruce, in the hope that a chance exclamation might re-
veal the barrister's opinion of the situation.
[177]


A Mysterious Disappearance
cu.
Claude was not at a loss to account for Mr. White's
presence.
“I expected you,” he said.
“Really now, may I ask why, sir ?"
“Because you have missed Mrs. Hillmer, and you want
me to help you find where she has gone, and why."
The detective smiled.
“I won't say that you are wrong, sir,” he cried. “In
these affairs it is always well to keep an eye on the woman,
you know.”
“When did Mrs. Hillmer leave Raleigh Mansions ?”
“On the 30th.”
“It is now February 3. Four days ago, eh ?”
“That is the time. She might have left by the American
line from Southampton or the Cunard from Liverpool on
Wednesday, but she did not, and no one answering to her
description is booked by the White Star to-morrow.”
“Southampton! Liverpool! Do you think she has
gone to America ?”.
“Where else? She's in league with Corbett, somehow,
of that I am certain, and I think that the Monte Carlo
address was a mere blind — a clever one, too, as it even
deceived you, Mr. Bruce.”
“Yes. It did deceive me.”
“Then why are you so surprised at the suggestion that
the lady should attempt to cross the Atlantic ?"
“Because I have not your rapid perception of the points
of the case.”
“That's your way of pulling my leg, Mr. Bruce."
The barrister smiled.
Mrs. Hillmer, of course, had gone to Monte Carlo.
Once there she would have little difficulty in tracing the
White Heather, and overtaking Mensmore.
[178]


Where Mrs. Hillmer Went
She would warn him of the police pursuit, and there
would be a scene between them.
How would it result ? Would Mensmore, guilty, seek
safety in flight ? Would he, innocent, return to London
and demand to be confronted with his accusers ?
For the life of him, Bruce could not say positively. Yet
he felt the situation was too delicate to be dealt with by
Mr. White's bludgeon methods, and he forebore to speak.
The detective interpreted his silence as an admission
of inability to find a satisfactory explanation of Mrs. Hill-
mer's absence.
He went on:
“Corbett is not at Monte Carlo."
“So I imagined.”
“Well, it is a fact. The police have made constant
inquiries for him at the Hotel du Cercle and elsewhere.
Not the slightest trace of him can be found.”
“I was there myself, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I have not forgotten that. But it shows
what a clever rascal the fellow is in concealing his identity.
However, he could never have counted on my discovering
that letter of his. Even if he is not in America we shall
have some reliable data to go upon in answer to my
queries.”
“There I fully agree with you. You will have done a
great deal if you thoroughly clear up the mystery regarding
Corbett. May I ask you to let me know the result ?”
“With pleasure, sir. And now, can I request a favor
in return?”
“Certainly."
“Tell me, then, what is, in your opinion, the best way to
find Mrs. Hillmer.”
Bruce did not expect to be thus openly challenged on
[179]


A Mysterious Disappearance
the matter. It was one thing to withhold his own theories
and discoveries from this representative of the majesty of
the law, but quite another to refuse to help a detective
with whom he was nominally working.
Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days' start. It would
take some time — possibly a telegram would not be suffi-
ciently explicit — to obtain the desired assistance from the
Continental police. Yes — in this instance, Mensmore
must take his chances.
“If I were you,” said Bruce, slowly weighing his words,
“I would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Victo-
ria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge of the
morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it would be quite
safe if you were to wire the authorities at Monte Carlo,
asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at the Hotel du Cercle,”
The detective started as though he had been shot.
“What!” he cried, "you think she is there all the time ?”
“I think she has been there since Wednesday morning.”
“That is what I mean. Why did you not tell me
sooner ?”
"Because you never asked me. And now, Mr. White,
one word of advice. Go slow.”
“It's all jolly fine telling me to go slow when I have no
reason to go fast. The case even against Corbett is
shadowy enough at present.”
"Exactly. Wait until you can grasp a substance.”
“I will, sir,” said White, jamming his hat on;“ but when
I lay my hands on Corbett I will grasp him hard enough.”
It took the policeman all that day to satisfy himself that
Mrs. Hillmer had really booked for the Riviera by the
Club train from Charing Cross on the preceding Monday.
Just as he verified the fact, came a reply from the Monte
Carlo police:
[ 180 ]


Where Mrs. Hillmer Went
“Mrs. Hillmer arrived at the Hotel du Cercle on
Wednesday. Left for Italy same afternoon. Shall we
endeavor to trace her ?”
“Oh, bother,” he growled. “Corbett may be in Jeru-
salem by this time. And here have I been fussing about
· Wyoming or some other potato-patch in the Far West.”
However, he wired again to Monte Carlo:
“Yes. Locate Mrs. Hillmer, if possible. I will then
telegraph instructions to local police.”
When this message was despatched he felt easier in his
mind.
The chase was at least getting warm.
“I cannot arrest him yet,” he reflected; "but if I once
get fairly on his track, I will not lose sight of him again if
I can help it. I suppose it will mean a trip to Italy for
me. I must lay the evidence before the Treasury to see
if a warrant is justified.”
Two days passed without incident.
Late on Sunday evening, February 5, a Continental
telegram was handed to him at Scotland Yard:
“Mrs. Hillmer's present address, Hotel Imperiale,
Florence.”
He promptly wired the Chief of Police at Florence:
“Keep Mrs. Hillmer, English visitor, Hotel Imperiale,
under surveillance. Also watch her associates, particularly
Englishman named Corbett, if there. Letter follows."
“That's a good stroke of business," said he, when the
message was sent. “Now we shan't be long!”
It was in contented mood that he lit a cigar in his office,
[181]


A Mysterious Disappearance
before walking home for dinner, but a messenger with the
badge of the Commercial Cable Company in Northumber-
land Avenue bustled past him.
“Who's the cable for, boy ?" said the detective.
“White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer.
“That's me.”
He tore open the envelope, and found that the contents
were coded, but he caught the word “Corbett " amidst the
unintelligible jumble.
With some excitement he rushed into the office to find
the A B C Code, and after some confusion in deciphering
the words, this was what he read:
"Regret delay in replying to your communication.
Corbett left New York in White Star steamer due Liver-
pool, February 4.”
“February 4? Why, that's yesterday. Good gra-
cious, he's here all the time. Well, of all the — ”
But exclamations were useless. Calling another plain-
clothes man to accompany him, he drove off in mad haste
to Sloane Square.
About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten slip
gummed on to a telegraph form. It was from Florence,
and ran as follows:
"My brother wildly excited regarding allegations. We
start for London tonight. Meanwhile fearful complica-
tions expected. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my brother's
friend, is probably occupying his flat, and may be arrested.
We both trust you to save him. Wire us at Modane or
Gare du Nord.
GWENDOLINE HILLMER.”
So Bruce also raced off in a hansom towards Sloane
Square.
were uselessell, of all the _Good gra
[182]


CHAPTER XX
MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT
The detective glanced up at Bruce's chambers while
passing through Victoria Street.
“I wonder what he would think if he knew what we are
after,” he said to his colleague, one of the two who accom-
panied him when the barrister was arrested by mistake.
“What are we after ?" said the policeman.
“This time we are going to nail the right Corbett," was
the confident answer.
“Will we cart him off ?”
“Well, now, that depends. I think I am quite right in
collaring him unless he explains to my satisfaction, which
is hardly likely.”
“The charge is one of murder, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“Who did he kill ?”
“Well, up to now it hasn't come out, for the sake of
the family. But if Corbett is here you will know soon
enough.”
“It's a funny way to go to work.”
“ Commissioner's orders, my boy. I am not to reveal
the la — the name until it cannot be helped. However,
as I have said so much, I don't mind telling you it's a
woman, and a big one too.”
“Big! Fat, do you mean?”
[183]


Mr. Sydney H. Corbett
“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, “what did you mean by re-
ferring to this Mr. Corbett ?”
A quick step came bounding up the stairs, and a key
rattled in the lock.
“You'd betther ax him yerself,” responded the house-
keeper pithily, and the door opened to admit a handsome,
well-knit man, tall and straight, with the clearly cut fea-
tures of the true Westerner, and the easy carriage of one
accustomed to the freedom of the prairie.
He was quietly dressed. The only sign that he was not
a Londoner was given by his wide-awake felt hat, the last
token of environment relinquished by a wandering citizen
from the region of the Rockies. In the semi-darkness of
the interior he could but dimly discern the form of the
detective behind the ready-tongued housekeeper.
“There's two gintlemen to see ye, Misther Corbett,"
said she.
“Well, now, that's cu-rious,” he answered cheerfully.
“I can only see one of you, but I'm glad to have you call,
stranger, anyway. Come right in. Are you sent by my
friend to kinder cheer me up? I find this big city of yours
a powerful kind of tonic after Wyoming. Come right in.”
Mr. White was as greatly nonplussed by the new-
comer's attitude as by his flow of language.
Within the drawing-room Corbett caught sight of the
second detective. “Hello! Here's the other one. Ve-ry
glad to meet you both. Now, if you'll just tell me your
names we'll get along straight away, as I guess you know
mine all right.”
The man was genuinely pleased by this unexpected
visit. He smilingly pushed towards them a box of cigars,
green ones, and helped himself to a weed.
“My name,” said the detective, “is Inspector White, of
[185]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Scotland Yard, and my friend here accompanies me offi-
cially.”
“And hasn't he got a name ?”
“Yes; but it doesn't matter."
“Well, if it doesn't matter, we won't quarrel. I guess
you've got a message of some sort for me, else you wouldn't
trouble to climb these stairs. Why don't you have el-e-
vators in these big buildings ?”.
“As I said,” began Mr. White, “we are from Scotland
Yard.”
“That's so. I've got that fixed O.K. Your name is
I. White, from Scotland Yard. I don't know where Scot-
land Yard is, but we'll worry along without the geography
of it.”
“I am in the police. My title is Inspector. It is not
my Christian name. Scotland Yard is the headquarters
of the London police.”
The American's eyes opened wide in wonder at this an-
nouncement, and a perplexing thought seemed to occur to
him. But he said quietly:
“I'll figure it out better when you tell me why you've
been good enough to call. And suppose we all sit down.
I'm not used to stone pavements. I'm tired.”
“Your name is Sydney H. Corbett ?” said the detective
severely, though he took a chair.
“So my people always told me.”
“And you have occupied these chambers since August
last ?”
“Have I?”
“So I am informed.”
“Get along with your story.”
“You have just returned to England from Wyoming.
( 186 )


Mr. Sydney H. Corbett
The New York police cabled me that you arrived in Liver-
pool yesterday.”
“Did they now? That was real cute of 'em.”
“I want to ask you, in the first instance, the exact date
of your departure from this country.”
Before replying to the detective Corbett looked at him
fixedly, as though he was trying to read what was passing
in his mind.
At last he said with a smile:
“Say, what are you after, Mr. White of Scotland Yard ?
What's the game? Who's been fooling you ?”
“That is not the way to talk to me, sir. Answer my
question fully and properly, or it may be worse for you."
“Jehosh! Have you come to wipe the floor with me?”
“Are you going to reply to me or not?”
“I'm not going to speak square to any man who comes
along and puts a thing like you do.”
“Very well. I can get my information by other means.
You leave me no alternative — "
Mr. White had half risen and was about to add, “but
to arrest you,” when, with a rapidity known only to those
accustomed to “ draw" from boyhood, Corbett whipped a
revolver from a hip pocket and covered the bridge of
White's nose with the muzzle.
“Just you sit still, right there, Mr. White of Scotland
Yard, or I will let daylight through you and your nameless
friend if he interferes. You'd better believe me. By
gad! I won't speak twice.”
Neither White nor his companion were cowards. But
they were quite helpless. They had not grappled with
the circumstances with sufficient alertness, and they were
utterly at this man's mercy. They were away from the
door, and a table separated them from Corbett, while
[187]


A Mysterious Disappearance
there was that in his eye which told them he would shoot
if either of them moved. They both sprang to their feet,
and glared at him impotently.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Corbett, with the utmost cool-
ness, “let me persuade you to sit down again and go on
with your story, which interests me.”
White was scarlet with wrath and annoyance.
“Let me tell you —” he roared.
“Sit down!”
“Make the best of it, Jim,” murmured the other police-
man; and the queer gathering resumed their seats.
"That's better,” said Corbett genially. “Now, we'll
have a nice little chat. Am I correct in supposing that
you were about to march me off to jail just now, when I
spoilt the proposition ?”
“There's no use in resisting,” growled White. “You
cannot escape. If you have an atom of sense left you will
come with us quietly, as it's all up with you.”
“It looks like it,” said Corbett, with a grim smile. “But
if it's so bad a case as all that, there's no desperate hurry,
is there?”
“You're only making matters more difficult for your-
self.”
“Maybe. But as I happen to be a citizen of the United
States, I allow that I can't be whipped off to prison just
because a fool like you thinks it's good for me. I've been a
law-abiding man all my life, and I've lived in places where
each man made his own law. If you can show good cause
for your action, I'll stand the racket. At present I regard
you as a blamed idiot.”
The situation overcame the detective. He could only
mutter:
“Time will show who's the idiot.”
[188]


Mr. Sydney H. Corbett
“I'm getting hungry, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, and
I've a kind of notion that the old lady is ready with the
eatables. Will you be good enough to say what you're
after ?”
“I came here to ask you to account for your movements,
and, failing a satisfactory explanation, to arrest you.”
“On what charge ?"
“For being concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke,
on or about November 6 last.”
“Lady Dyke ?”
“Yes.”
“Arrest me?"
“ Yes."
"I placed you right away. You are a blamed idiot, Mr.
White of Scotland Yard.”
This repetition of his name and address goaded the de-
tective almost beyond endurance.
“Now you know the charge,” he shouted, “are you
coming with us quietly, or —”.
“Or what ?”
The revolver still hovered across the table.
"Are we going to sit here all night ?”
It was a weak conclusion, but to suggest an attack was
sheer madness under the conditions.
“I guess not," was the calm answer. “I want my din-
ner, and I mean to have it.”
“Very well. Eat your dinner and have done with it.”
“That's better. You and your friend shall join me.
We'll have a nice little talk and straighten out matters,
which have got kinder mixed.”
This was too much for White's associate. He burst
out laughing
“I allowed there was a joke in the deal, somewhere,”
[ 189 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
went on Corbett, “but I haven't quite got the hang of it
yet. Now, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, are you going to
act like a reasonable man, or must I keep your nose in
line with the barrel ?”
White was saved from deciding which horn of the di-
lemma he would land on, for a sharp rat-tat at the door
induced silence, and a moment later Bruce's voice was
heard inquiring:
“Is Mr. Corbett in ?”
“Faix, there may be a half-a-dozen of him in by this
time,” cried Mrs. Robinson. “I dunno where I am, at all,
at all. The gintlemen are in the parlor, sir.”
And Bruce entered.
In order to enfilade the new-comer scientifically, Cor-
bett backed to the corner. Claude glanced at the three,
saw the revolver, and said with a comical air of relief:
“Thank goodness, nothing has happened. Put away
your pistol, Mr. Corbett; you will not need it.”
Although the barrister's manner differed considerably
from the brusque methods adopted by Mr. White, the
American remained on his guard. He said stiffly:
“You all seem to know me fairly well; but if you had
the advantage of closer acquaintance, you would allow
that I am not the man to be rushed on a confidence trick.
If somebody doesn't explain quick I will lose my temper,
and there will be trouble.”
“I sympathize with you!” cried Bruce. “But the first
thing you must learn in this country is to keep dry cigars
for your visitors. Our respective tastes differ in that
respect.”
“I guess I'll cotton to you, stranger; but I'm tired hold-
ing this pistol.”
[ 190 ]


Mr. Sydney H. Corbett
“Put it away, then. I tell you it is not wanted. White,
listen to me. You have hit upon the wrong man.”
“Wrong man!” cried the detective, feeling more con-
fident in the barrister's presence. “Why, I've had a cable
about him from New York.”
“Possibly; but you're mistaken, nevertheless. Mr.
Corbett has not been within five thousand miles of Eng-
land for years, possibly not in his life.”
“Bully for you, stranger!” broke in Corbett.
“Then who is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett whom you be-
lieve, as well as I, to be the murderer of Lady Dyke ?”.
“Steady, White. The last time I saw you I appealed
to you to go slow. The man whom you want, simply be-
cause he happens to be the real occupant of these rooms,
is at present travelling to London as fast he can from
Florence, and his sister, Mrs. Hillmer, is with him.”
“Florence! Mrs. Hillmer!” gasped the policeman.
“I've just arranged to have her watched there.”
“Your arrangements, though admirable, are somewhat
late in the day.”
“Then what is her brother's name ?”
“Albert Mensmore. For some reason, hidden at this
moment, he lived here under the name of the gentleman
who has, I see, been giving you a practical lesson in the
art of not jumping at conclusions.'
“Have you known this long?”
“For some weeks."
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I have no definite reason for connecting
Mensmore with Lady Dyke's death. If I had, his action
in returning to London the moment he hears of the charge
would shake my belief.”
“Who told him ?”
[ 191]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Mrs. Hillmer.”
“Oh, this business is quite beyond me. I can't fathom
it a little bit.”
And White sank dejectedly to his chair again.
“I don't know what you're talking about, gentlemen,”
said Corbett, pocketing his revolver; “but it dawns upon
me that I shan't be required to shoot anybody or sleep in
jail to-night.”
“Why didn't you answer my questions properly, and
save all this nonsense ?”
“I'll tell you why, sir. The name of a friend of mine
has been mentioned. Albert Mensmore has been more
than a brother to me. I allowed you meant mischief to
him, as you thought you were talking to him all the time.
I don't know much about you, but I hope that your first
action would not be to give away your chum if he is in
trouble.”
The detective did not answer, though his look of aston-
ishment at Corbett's declaration of motive was eloquent
enough.
“Before we quit this business," went on the American,
“let me say one thing. Any man who tells you that Albert
Mensmore murdered a woman is telling you a lie. I don't
know anything about this Lady Dyke, or how she may
have died, but I do know my friend. He's good in a tight
place, but, to think of him killing a woman — Jehosh,
it's sickening."
Mrs. Robinson burst in, with face aflame.
“Is this palaverin' to go on all night ?" she demanded
angrily. “Here's the dinner sphilin', after all me worry
and bother, with the head of me vexed to know who is the
masther and who ishn't.”
[ 192]


Mr. Sydney H. Corbett
“All right, mother,” laughed Corbett. “Bring in the
whole caboodle.”
“Mr. Corbett,” said Bruce, “I hope you will come and
have lunch with me to-morrow, at this address,” handing
him a card. “I want to have a long talk with you. Mr.
White, if you come with me I will explain a good deal to
you of which you are now in ignorance.”
“Surely, Mr. Corbett will answer a few questions first,”
said the detective.
“Don't you think you have troubled him sufficiently for
this evening ? Besides, he can tell us nothing. All the
explanation is really due to him, and I propose to give it
to him tomorrow. Come, White, this time I promise you
that a considerable portion of your inquiry shall be cleared
up, and I do not speak without foundation, as you have
often learned hitherto.”
So the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett was left in undis-
turbed possession of his flat and his dinner, while the trio
passed out into the quietude of the streets.
[193]


How Lady Dyke Left Raleigh Mansions
“There you are, White; that is the true scent. Find
the motive and we find the murderer, if Lady Dyke was
wilfully put to death.”
“If she was, Mr. Bruce ? Have you any doubt about
it ?”
“There cannot be certainty when we are groping in the
dark. But the gloom is passing; we are on the eve of a
discovery.”
At Bruce's residence White's colleague left him. Soon
the barrister and the policeman were sitting snugly before
a good fire.
There Claude took him step by step through each
branch of his inquiry as it is known to the reader.
He omitted nothing. The discovery of Jane Harding
and of Mensmore, the latter's transactions with Dodge &
Co., his dramatic coup at Monte Carlo and its attendant
love episode — all these were exhaustively described. He
enlarged upon Mrs. Hillmer's anxiety when the tragedy
became known to her, and did not forget Sir Charles
Dyke's amazement at the suggestion that his oid play-
mate might prove to be responsible for the death of his
wife.
He produced the waxen moulds of the piece of iron
found on the body at Putney, and the ornamental scroll
from which it had been taken.
At this bit of evidence Mr. White's complacency for-
sook him. Thus far he had experienced a feeling of re-
sentment against Bruce for having concealed from him so
much that was material to their investigation.
But when he realized that a powerful link in the chain of
events had all along been placidly resting before his eyes
his distress was evident, and the barrister came to his
rescue.
[ 195 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“You are not to blame, White,” he said, “for having
failed to note many things which I have now told you.
You are the slave of a system. Your method works ad-
mirably for the detection of commonplace crime, but as
soon as the higher region of romance is reached it is as
much out of place as a steam-roller in a lady's boudoir.
Look at the remarkable series of crimes the English police
have failed to solve of late, merely because some bizarre
element had intruded itself at the outset. Have you ever
read any of the works of Edgar Allan Poe ?"
The detective answered in the affirmative. “The Mur-
ders of the Rue Morgue” and “The Mystery of Marie -
Roget ” were familiar to him.
“Well,” went on Bruce, “there you have the accurate
samples of my meaning. Poe would not have been puz-
zled for an hour by the vagaries of Jack the Ripper. He
would have said at once — most certainly after the third
or fourth in the series of murders — 'This is the work of an
athletic lunatic, with a morbid love of anatomy and a mor-
bid hatred of a certain class of women. Seek for him
among young men who have pestered doctors with out-
rageous theories, and who possess weak-minded or im-
becile relatives.' Then, again, take the murder on the
South-Western Railway. Do you think Poe would have
gone questioning bar-tenders or inquiring into abortive
love affairs ? Not he! Jealous swains do not carry
pestles about with them to slay their sweethearts, nor do
they choose a four-minutes' interval between suburban
stations for frenzied avowals of their passion. Here you
have the clear trail of a clever lunatic, dropping from the
skies, as it were, and disappearing in the same erratic
manner. That is why I tell you most emphatically that
[ 196 ]


How Lady Dyke Left Raleigh Mansions
neither you nor I have yet the remotest conception as to
who really killed Lady Dyke.”
“ Surely things look black now against this Mensmore ?"
“Do they? How would it have fared with an acquaint-
ance of one of the unfortunate women killed by Jack the
Ripper had the police found him in the locality with fresh
blood-stains on his clothes? What would have resulted
from the discovery of a chemist's mortar among the pos-
sessions of one of Elizabeth Camp's male friends ? Come
now, be honest, and tell me.”
But Mr. White could only smoke in silence.
“Therefore,” continued Bruce, “let us ask ourselves
why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit the
crime. Personally, notwithstanding all that we apparently
know against him circumstantially, I should hardly be-
lieve Mensmore if he confessed himself to be the mur-
derer!”
“Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce ?”
“Because Mensmore is normal and this crime abnormal.
Because the man who would blow out his brains on ac-
count of losses at pigeon-shooting never had brains enough
to dispose of the body in such fashion. Because Mens-
more, having temporarily changed his name for some
trivial reason, would never resume it with equal triviality
with this shadow upon his life.”
“Then why have you told me all these things that tell so
heavily against him ?”
“In order that, this time at least, you may feel that the
production of a pair of handcuffs does not satisfactorily
settle the entire business.”
“I promise there shall be no more arrests until this
affair is much more decided than it is at present.”
[ 197]


A Mysterious Disappearance
nce
“Good. I shall make a detective of you after my own
heart in time.”
“Yet I cannot help being surprised at the very strange
fact that his own sister should seem to suspect him!”
“Ah! Now you have struck the true line. Why did
she have that fear? There I am with you entirely. Let
us ascertain that and I promise you an important develop-
ment. Mrs. Hillmer and Mensmore are both concerned
in the disappearance of Lady Dyke, yet neither knew that
she had disappeared, and both are deeply upset by it, for
Mrs. Hillmer flies off to warn her brother, and the brother
posts back to London the moment it comes to his ears
through her. There, you see, we have a key which may
unlock many doors. For Heaven's sake let it not be bat-
tered out of shape the instant it reaches our hands.”
But Mr. White was quite humble. “As I have told
you,” he said, “I have done with the battering process.”
“I am sure of it. And now listen to the most remarkable
fact that has yet come to light. Lady Dyke's body was
taken from Raleigh Mansions to Putney in a four-wheeler.
The cabman was forthwith locked up by the police and
clapped into prison for three months. He was released
yesterday, and will be here within the next quarter of an
hour.”
The detective's hair nearly rose on end at this statement.
“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any more
startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish ?”
“That is the last shot in my locker.”
“I'm jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you
would say was that you did the job yourself.”
“It wouldn't be the first time you thought that; eh, my
friend?”
White positively blushed.
[198]


A Mysterious LOUS
тапсе
Disappearance
“Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You need one to
cheer you up. Answer this gentleman's questions. He
means you no harm’
“Honor bright ? ”
“ Honor bright.”
“Well, I don't mind if I do. No soda, thank you,
sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that's better
stuff ’n they keep in Holloway.”
Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling
them what he knew. Substantially, his story was identi-
cal with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.
“Can you describe the gentleman ?” said the barrister.
“No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and
well-dressed, and talked in the 'aw-'aw style. It might
ha' been yerself for all I could tell.”
“Do you think it was I ?”.
Foxey scratched his head.
“No, p'r’aps it wasn't, now I come to recʻllect. He ’ad
a moustache, and you ’aven't. Beggin' yer pardon, sir,
but you ’ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor, an'
this chap wasn't neither- just an every-day sort of toff.”
“Could you swear to him if you saw him?”
“That I couldn't, sir. I am a rare ’and at langwidge,
but I couldn't manage that.”
“Why?”
“Because that night, sir, I were as full as a tick when I
started. Lord love you, it must ’ave poured out of me
afterwards when I started fightin' coppers. Mr. White,
'e knows, I ain't no fightin' man as a rule."
“And the lady? Did you see her?”
“No, sir. Leastways, I seed a bundle which I took to
be a lydy, but her face was covered up with a shawl, and
[ 200 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
rance
“This isn't a five-pun' job, eh, guv'nor?” said Foxey
anxiously.
“Hardly at present. We shall see. Can you say
exactly where you drew up your cab when the lady was
carried into it?”
"Sure as death,” replied the cabman, in the hope that
his information might yet be valuable. “It was outside
Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”
“We know that —”
“It seems to me, sir, as ye know as much about the busi-
ness as I do,” broke in Marsh.
“Were you in the Square or in Sloane Street ?”
“In Sloane Street, of course. Right away from the
Square.”
“Not so very far away, surely.”
Foxey was doubtful. His memory was hazy, and he
feared lest he should be mistaken. “No, no,” he said
quickly, “not far, but still well in the street."
“Were there many people about ?”
“You could ’ardly tell, sir; it was that foggy and nasty.
If the lydy 'ad bin dead nobody would ’ave noticed 'er
that night.”
“Did any one besides yourself see the gentleman carry-
ing the lady into the cab ?”
“I think not. I don't remember anybody passin' at
the time.”
“Did the gentleman keep your cab waiting long at the
kerb before he brought the lady out ?”
“It might 'a' bin a minute or two ?”
“No longer ?”
"Well, sir, it’s ’ard for me to say, especially after bein'
away for a change of ’ealth, so to speak.”
“Did not the lady speak or move in any manner ?"
[ 202]


How Lady Dyke Left Raleigh Mansions
“Not so far as I know, sir.”
“And do you mean to tell me that, although you had
been drinking, you were not astonished at the whole busi-
ness ?”
“I never axes my fares any questions 'cept when they
says 'By the hour.' Then I wants to know a bit.”
“Yes; but this carrying of a lady out of a house in such
fashion — did not this strike you as strange ?”.
"Strange, bless your 'eart, sir. You ought to see me
cartin' 'em off from the Daffodil Club after a big night -
three and four in one keb, all blind, paralytic."
“No doubt; but this was not the Daffodil Club at day-
break. It was a respectable neighborhood at seven
o'clock, or thereabouts, on a winter's evening.”
“It ain't my fault,” said Foxey doggedly. “Wot was
wrong with the lydy? Was it a habduction ?”
“The lady was dead — murdered, we believe.”
The cabman's face grew livid with anxiety.
“Oh, crikey, Mr. White,” he cried, addressing the de-
tective, “I knew nothink about it.”
“No one says you did, Foxey," was the reply. “Don't
be frightened. We just want you to help us as far as you
can, and not to get skeered and lose your wits.”
Thus reassured, Marsh mopped his head and said
solemnly:
“I will do wot lies in my power, gentlemen both, but I
wish I ’adn't bin so blamed drunk that night."
“You say you would not recognize your fare if you saw
him,” continued Bruce. “Could you tell us, if you were
shown a certain person, that he was not the man? You
might not be sure of the right man, but you might be sure
regarding the wrong one.”
“Yes, sir. It wasn't you, and it wasn't Mr. White, and
[203]


A Mysterious Disappearance
it wasn't a lot of other people I know. I think if I saw
the man who really got into my keb, I would be able to
swear that 'e was like him, at any rate.”
“All right. That will do for the present. Leave us
your address, so that we may find you again if necessary.
Here is a sovereign for you.”
When Marsh had gone, Bruce turned to the detective.
"Well,” he said, “if Mensmore were here now, I sup-
pose you would want to lock him up.”
“No," admitted White sadly; "the more I learn about
this affair the more mixed it becomes. Still, I don't deny
but I shall be glad to have Mensmore's explanation of his
movements at that time. And so will you, Mr. Bruce.”
[ 204 ]


CHAPTER XXII
A WILFUL MURDER
BRUCE sent a telegram to Mrs. Hillmer at Paris. “Mat-
ters satisfactorily arranged pending your arrival,” he
wired, and early on Monday morning he received a reply:
“Due Charing Cross 7.30 P.M. Will drive straight to
your chambers with my brother.
“GWENDOLINE HILLMER.”
He forwarded the message with a note to the detective,
asking him to be present.
About one o'clock Corbett turned up.
“Guess I slept well last night after the excitement,” he
said, with a pleasant smile. “You seemed to skeer those
chaps more with a few words, Mr. Bruce, than I did with
a revolver.”
“The English police are not so much afraid of revolvers
as they are of making mistakes,” was the answer.
“Now, is that so ? On our side they wouldn't have
stopped to argy. Both of 'em would have drawn on me
at once.”
“Then I am glad, for everybody's sake, Mr. Corbett,
that the affair happened in London.”
"Why, sure. But tell me. Has my friend Mensmore
been getting himself into trouble ?”
“Not so much as it looks. Others appear to have in-
[205]


A Wilful Murder
“And what is that?”
“What about Mrs. Hillmer? Who is she? Who are
her friends ? Who maintains her in such style? Bertie
was with me four years and never mentioned her name.
She could not have been rich by inheritance, as it was on
account of their father going broke that Mensmore had to
leave the Army and come to the States. It strikes me,
Mr. Bruce, that the woman knows more about this affair
than the man.”
. “You may be right. But do not forget the absolute
proofs we possess that the crime occurred in Mensmore's
chambers, and the extraordinary coincidence that he left
England immediately afterwards.”
“I am not forgetting anything. Those facts tell both
ways. Just because he quitted the country at the time
somebody may have tried to throw the blame on him."
The theory was plausible, though Bruce could not ac-
cept it. Nevertheless, after Corbett had taken his de-
parture he could not help thinking about his references to
Mrs. Hillmer. That there was force in them he could not
deny, and with the admission came the unpleasant thought
that perhaps he, Bruce, was in some sense responsible for
the neglect to clear up her antecedents.
However, a few hours might explain much.
With unwonted impatience the barrister awaited the
coming of night. He tried every expedient to kill time,
and found each operation tedious.
He dined early, and as half-past seven came and passed
he wondered why the detective did not appear.
But his doubts on this point did not last long.
“White is looking at Charing Cross to make sure of
their arrival,” he said to himself.
At ten minutes to eight the detective came in hurriedly.
[207]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“They will be here directly,” he announced. “A ser-
vant has taken their luggage to Mrs. Hillmer's place, and
they are evidently driving straight here after taking some
refreshment at the station.”
“Have you no faith in human nature, Mr. White ?
Could you not trust their words ?”
“Well, sir, my experience of human nature is that you
can very seldom trust anybody's word.”
At last Smith announced Mrs. Hillmer and Mr. Mens-
more.
When they entered Bruce was for the moment at a loss
to know exactly how to receive them.
But Mrs. Hillmer settled the matter by greeting him
with a quiet “Good-evening," and seating herself. Mens-
more stood near the door, very pale and stern-looking.
“It appears, Mr. Bruce,” he said, “that we met in Monte
Carlo under false pretences. You were, it seems, a de-
tective on the track of a murderer, and you were good
enough to believe that I was the person you sought. It
would have saved some misconception on my part had
you explained our rôles earlier. However, I am here, to
meet the charge.”
Claude was not unprepared for this attitude on Mens-
more's part. But he was determined that it should not
continue if he could help it.
“When we parted at Monte Carlo, Mensmore," he
said, “we parted as friends."
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what has happened since to cause this
obvious change in your opinion of me?"
"Is it not true that you suspect me of murdering Lady
Dyke ?"
“No."
[ 208 ]


A Wilful Murder
“But why has my sister been told that I ran serious risk
of being apprehended on that account?”.
“Because we certainly did suspect a mysterious per-
sonage who called himself Sydney H. Corbett, and whose
behavior was so unaccountable that the authorities re-
quired a reasonable explanation of it.”
“Do I understand, Bruce, that we meet with no more
suspicion between us than when we last saw each other?”
“Most certainly.”
“Then I ask your pardon for my manner and words.
I have suffered keenly during the last three days from this
cruel thought. Let us shake hands on it.”
As their hands met they both heard Mrs. Hillmer stifle
a sob. Mensmore turned to her.
“Now, Gwen,” he said, “don't be foolish. We will
soon clear up this miserable business. So far as we are
concerned, all we need to do is to tell the truth and fear
nobody.”
“That's it,” said White. “If you adopt that course
the matter will soon he ended.”
Mensmore turned to the speaker. He guessed his
identity, but Bruce introduced the detective by name.
“Well,” said Mensmore, “I have come here to answer
questions. What is it you want to know ?”
Mr. White glanced at the barrister, and the other ex-
plained.
“I have, as you may already realize, taken more than a
passive interest in this inquiry, so the questioning largely
devolves on me. First, tell me why you adopted the name
of Corbett ?”
“Simply enough, though stupid, I now admit. When I
returned from the States I was very hard up, but managed
to pick up a subsistence by writing for the sporting press,
[ 209 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
and occasionally backing horses. But I knew this could
not last, so I tried to secure some financial interests in the
City. In doing so I made the acquaintance of a man
named Dodge, and committed myself to the underwriting
of a new venture named the Springbok Mine. This fell
through at the time, and with this collapse came other
demands. I hate being worried by creditors, so when my
sister offered to take and furnish a flat for me, near her
own, I thought I would live quietly for a time and conceal
my name so as to have peace there at any rate. Therefore,
I assumed the name of a friend in America, little thinking
that I should land both him and myself into such trouble
by doing it. That is the explanation, By the way, what
has happened to Corbett ?”
“He is all right. He expects to see you to-night. You
know Sir Charles Dyke, do you not ?"
“Yes.”
“Intimately ?”
“Well, no, not exactly. He and I were at school to-
gether at Brighton, at Childe's place.”
“At Brighton ?”
“Yes. I was a little chap when Dyke was a senior.
After he left, the headmaster changed the school to a place
called Seton Lodge, at Putney, on account of cramming
operations for Army exams.”
“Then you were at Putney ?”
“Yes, for two years.”
“And Dyke was not ?"
“No; that I am sure of."
“Have you and Sir Charles been friendly since ?"
Mensmore's face hardened somewhat as he answered,
“I have seen very little of him, and hardly ever spoken to
him.”
VIP
[210]


A Wilful Murder
“Why? Did you quarrel ?”
“N-no, but we just did not happen to meet. Bear in
mind, I was in business some years ago, and I am not yet
thirty."
“Did you know his wife ?”
“I have never, to my knowledge, seen her.”
“How, then, can you account for the fact that she visited
your flat at Raleigh Mansions on November 6."
“I say that such a statement is mere nonsense."
“But if it can be proved ?”.
“It cannot.”
“I assure you, on my honor, that it can.”
“But look here, Bruce. Why should she come to see
me? I question greatly if she knew of my existence.”
“Nevertheless, it is the fact.”
“I can only tell you it is not. I left London on Novem-
ber 8, and on the two previous evenings I dined alone.
Mrs. Robinson, my housekeeper, can tell you that not
another soul entered my flat for a week prior to my de-
parture, except my sister and — and — I had forgotten
— some workmen.”
“Some workmen ?”
“Yes; some fellows from a furniture warehouse.”
“What were they doing?”
“Well, don't you see, I told you I was not well off, and
my sister furnished my flat for me, in August last that was,
but the drawing-room was left bare for a time. Just be-
fore I left for France she decided to refurnish her drawing-
room, and she gave me the whole fit-out. The things
were brought in by the men who brought her purchases."
At this astounding revelation Bruce and the detective
were utterly taken aback. It was with difficulty that the
barrister enunciated his next words clearly.
[211]


A Wilful Murder
it was hardly likely I should mention such a trivial matter
to her.”
“May I ask what you quarrelled about ?"
“I have told her since that it ought to be made known,
but she has implored me not to reveal it, so I cannot. But
she will tell you herself that we agreed I should be at liberty
to make this guarded explanation.”
Bruce and the detective exchanged glances of wondering
comprehension.
“I do not think we need question Mr. Mensmore fur-
ther,” said the barrister to White.
“No," was the reply. “The matter is clear enough.
Mrs. Hillmer must tell us how that furniture came to be
transferred from her premises on the morning of the 7th.”
“If she chooses.”
The barrister's tone was sad, and its ominous signifi-
cance was not lost on his hearers.
Mrs. Hillmer raised her veil. Her face was deathly
pale and tense in its fixed agony. But in her eyes was a
light which gave a curious aspect of resolve to her other-
wise painful aspect of utter grief.
“I do not choose,” she said quietly, looking, not at
Bruce or the detective, but at her brother.
For a little while no one spoke. Mensmore at last broke
out eagerly:
“Don't act absurdly, Gwen. I cannot even guess
where all this talk about the furniture is leading us, but I
do know that you are as innocent of any complicity in
Lady Dyke's death as I am, so it is better for you to help
forward the inquiry than to retard it.”
“I am not innocent,” said Mrs. Hillmer, her words fall-
ing with painful distinctness upon the ears of the three
men. “Heaven help me! I am responsible for it!”
Ladow, that you are as insurniture is leading us guess
[213]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Her brother started to his feet, and caught her by the
shoulder.
“What folly is this,” he cried. “Do you know what
you are saying ?”
“Fully. My words are like sledge-hammers. I will
forever feel their weight. I tell you I am responsible for
the death of Lady Dyke.”
“Then how did she die, Mrs. Hillmer ?” said Bruce,
whose glance sought to read her soul.
"I do not know. I do not want to know. It matters
little to me.”
“In other words, you are assuming a responsibility you
should not bear. You were not even aware of this poor
lady's death until I told you. Why should you seek to
avert suspicion from others merely because Lady Dyke is
shown to have met her death in your apartments ?”
“But how is it shown ?” interrupted Mensmore vehe-
mently. He was more disturbed by his sister's unaccount-
able attitude than he had ever been by the serious charge
against himself.
“Easily enough,” said White, feeling that he ought to
have some share in the conversation. “A piece of the
damaged fender placed in your rooms, Mr. Mensmore, was
found in the murdered lady's head.”
“Was it ?” he cried. “Then, by Heaven, I refuse to
see my sister sacrificed for anybody's sake. She has borne
too long the whole burden of misery and degradation. I
tell you, Gwen, that if you do not save yourself I will save
you against your will. That furniture came to my room
because —”
“Bertie, I beseech you, for the sake of the woman you
love, to spare me.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on her knees before him and
[214]


A Wilful Murder
caught hold of his hands, while she burst into a storm of
tears.
Mensmore was unnerved. He turned to Bruce, and
said:
“Help me in this miserable business, old chap. I don't
know what to say or do; my sister had no more connection
with Lady Dyke's death than I had. This statement on
her part is mere hysteria, arising from other circumstances
altogether.”
“That I feel acutely,” said the barrister. “Yet some
one killed her, and, whatever the pain that may be caused,
and whoever may suffer, I am determined that the truth
shall come out."
“I tell you,” wailed Mrs. Hillmer between her sobs,
“that I must bear all the blame. Why do you hesitate ?
She was killed in my house, and I confess my guilt.”
“This is rum business,” growled Mr. White aloud, half
unconsciously.
At that moment the door opened unexpectedly, and
Smith entered.
Before Bruce had time to vociferate an order to his
astounded servitor the man stuttered an excuse:
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Sir Charles Dyke has
called, and wants to know if you will be disengaged soon.”
[215]


The Letter
foot to account for my disappearance on November 6.
This seems to convey to me the strange fact that you have
not received the explanation I sent you of my reasons for
leaving London so suddenly. Otherwise you must have
kept your own counsel very closely. However, I do not
now desire to reopen the question of motive; let it suffice
to say that no one save myself was responsible for my dis-
appearance, and that neither you nor any one acquainted
with me will ever see me again. Do not search for me; it
will be time wasted. If you have legal proof of my death
and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear up this letter
and forget it. I am dead — to you and to the world.
You can neither refuse to accept the genuineness of this
letter nor trace me by reason of it, as I have taken such
precautions that the latter course will be impossible. Let
me repeat — forget me.
ALICE.”
The barrister carefully refolded the sheet after scrutiniz-
ing the water-mark against the light, and noting that the
paper was British made; he then examined the envelope.
The obliterating postmark was “London, February 4,
9 P.M., West Strand.” The office of delivery was “Wens-
ley, February 6.”
“Posted at the West Strand Post-Office on Saturday,”
he said. “Detained in London all Sunday, and delivered
to you this morning in the North.”
"Exactly.”
“It was written three days earlier, if the date be accurate.
So the writer is somewhere in Europe.”
“That's how I take it,” said Sir Charles.
“Unless the whole thing is a fraud.”
“How can it be a fraud ? I am sure as to the hand-
[219]


A Mysterious Disappearance
writing. Why, even yourself, Bruce, must have a good
recollection of my wife's style.”
“Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this
was not Lady Dyke's production.”
“Well, what are we to do ?”.
“And what did Mrs. Hillmer mean by kicking up that
fuss when we spoke to her ?” interpolated White. “I'll
take my oath that some one was killed in her house, else
how comes it that a woman found in the Thames at Put-
ney is carrying about in her head some of Mrs. Hillmer's
ironwork? I wish she hadn't fainted just now. Why,
she said herself that she was the cause of Lady Dyke's
death, and here is Lady Dyke writing to say she is alive.
This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got to
explain a good deal yet before I am done with her.”
The detective's wrath at this check in the hunt after a
criminal did not appeal to the baronet.
“You can please yourself, Mr. White, of course," he
said coldly; “but so far as I am concerned, I will respect
my wife's wishes, and let the matter rest where it is.”
“My dear fellow,” said the barrister, “such a course is
impossible. Assuming that her ladyship is really alive,
why did she leave you ?”
“How can I tell? She herself refuses to give a reason.
She apparently stated one in a letter which never reached
me, as you know. She has selfishly caused me a world of
suffering and misery for three long months. I refuse to
be plagued in the matter further.”
Sir Charles was excited and angry. He was in bitter
revolt against circumstances.
“Do you intend to show this letter to Lady Dyke's
relatives ?” asked Bruce, at a loss for the time to discuss
the situation coherently.
[ 220 ]


The Letter
“I do not know. What would you advise? I trust
fully to your judgment. But is it not better to obey her
wishes ? — to forget, as she puts it ?”
“We must decide nothing hastily. I am perplexed
beyond endurance by this business. There is so much
that is wildly impossible in its irreconcilable features. I
must have time. Will you give me a copy of the letter ?”
“Certainly, keep it yourself. We have all seen it.”
“Thank you.” Bruce placed the envelope and its con-
tents in his pocket-book. Then, turning to the detective,
he said:
“Now, Mr. White, do me a favor. Do not worry Mrs.
Hillmer until you hear from me."
“By all means, Mr. Bruce. But am I to report to the
Commissioner that Lady Dyke has been found, or has, at
any rate, explained that she is not dead ?"
“There is no immediate necessity why a report of any
kind should be made.”
“None.”
“Then leave matters where they are at present.”
“But why,” put in Sir Charles. “Is it not better to
end all inquiries, at least so far as my wife is concerned ?
It is her desire, and, I may add, my own, now that I know
something of her fate."
“Of course, if you wish it, Dyke, I have no valid ob-
jection.”
“Oh, no, no. Do not look at it in that way. I leave
the ultimate decision entirely to you."
"In that case, I recommend complete silence in all quar-
ters at present.”
The detective left them, and as he passed out into Vic-
toria Street his philosophy could find but one compre-
hensive dictum. “This is a rum go,” he muttered, un-
[221]


A Mysterious Disappearance
consciously plagiarizing himself on many previous oc-
casions.
The baronet sat down, and meditatively chewed the
handle of his umbrella.
“What is this nonsense Mensmore's sister talked about
being responsible for my wife's death ?” he said.
“I do not pretend to understand," answered Bruce.
“Little more than a week ago she learned for the first time
of your wife's supposed murder. Of that I am quite
positive. She feared that her brother was implicated,
and, without trusting me with the reasons for her belief,
took the measures she thought best to safeguard him.”
“Took measures! What?” Sir Charles jerked the
words out impetuously.
"She followed him to the South of France, and found
him in Florence. What she said I cannot guess, but the
result was their visit here tonight. During our interview
it came out, quite by accident, that some furniture was
taken from her place to her brother's on the morning of
November 7, thus shifting the venue of Lady Dyke's death
— or imaginary death I must now say — from No. 12
Raleigh Mansions to No. 61. This discovery was as
startling to Mrs. Hillmer as to us, for she forthwith pro-
tested that the whole affair arose from her fault, and prac-
tically asked the detective to arrest her on the definite
charge of murder."
“Pooh! The mania of an hysterical woman!”
“Possibly!”
“Why' possibly'? No one was murdered in her abode.
Do you for a moment believe the monstrous insinuation ?"
“No, not in that sense. But her brother was about to
make some revelation regarding a third person when she
appealed to him not to speak. What would have hap-
cally at the poi filme
[ 222 ]


The Letter
pened finally I do not know. At that critical moment my
servant announced your arrival.”
“But what can Mrs. Hillmer have to conceal ? She
and her brother have been lost to Society since long before
my marriage. Neither of them, so far as I know, has ever
set eyes on my wife during the last seven years.”
“Yet Mrs. Hillmer must have had some powerful mo-
tive in acting as she did.”
"Is it not more than likely that she had a bad attack of
nerves ? "
"A woman who merely yields to nervous prostration
behaves foolishly. This woman gave way to emotion, it is
true, but it was strength, not weakness, that sustained her.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is but one force that sustains in such a crisis -
the power of love. Mrs. Hillmer was not flying from conse-
quences. She met them half-way in the spirit of a martyr.”
“'Pon my honor, Bruce, I am beginning to think that
this wretched business is affecting your usually clear brain.
You are accepting fancies as facts.”
“Maybe. I confess I am unable to form a logical con-
clusion tonight.”
“Why not abandon the whole muddle to time? There
is no solution of a difficulty like the almanac. Let us both
go off somewhere.”
“What, and leave Mrs. Hillmer to die of sheer pain of
mind? Let this unfortunate fellow, Mensmore, suffer no
one knows what consequences from the events of today?
It is out of the question.”
“Very well, I leave it to you. Every one seems to forget
that it is I who suffer most.” The baronet stood up and
dejectedly gazed into the fire.
“I, at least, can feel for you, Dyke," said Bruce sym-
acies as cting your inning to a martinse.
[223]


A Mysterious Disappearance
pathetically, “but you must admit that things cannot be
allowed to remain in their present whirlpool.”
“So be it. Let them go on to their bitter end. If my
wife was tired of my society she might at least have got.
rid of me in an easier manner.”
With this trite reflection Sir Charles quitted his friend's
house.
Bruce sat motionless for a long time. Then, as his
mind became calmer, he lit a cigar, took out the doubly
mysterious letter, and examined it in every possible way,
critically and microscopically.
There could be no doubt that it was a genuine produc-
tion. The condition of the ink bore out the correctness of
the date, and the fact that the note paper and envelope
were not of Continental style was not very material.
It did not appear to have been enclosed in another en-
velope, as the writer implied, for the purpose of being re-
posted in London. Rather did the slightly frayed edges
give rise to the assumption that it had been carried in some
one's pocket before postage. But this theory was vague
and undemonstrable.
The handwriting was Lady Dyke's; the style, allowing
for the strange conditions under which it was written, was
hers; yet Bruce did not believe in it.
Nothing could shake his faith in the one solid, concrete
certainty that stood out from a maze of contradictions and
mystery — Lady Dyke was dead, and buried in a pauper's
grave at Putney.
At last, wearied with thought and theorizing, he went to
bed; but Smith sat up late to regale his partner with the
full, true, and particular narrative of the “lydy a-cryin'
on her knees, and the strange gent lookin' as though he
would like to murder Mr. White.”
[ 224 ]


CHAPTER XXIV
THE HANDWRITING
LIKE most men, Claude took a different view of events
in the morning to that which he entertained over night.
Yesterday, the surprises of the hour were concrete em-
bodiments, each distinct and emphatic. To-day they
were merged in the general mass of contradictory details
that made up this most bewildering inquiry.
That matters could not be allowed to rest in their present
state was clear; that they would, in the natural course of
things, reveal themselves more definitely, even if unaided,
was also patent.
Mrs. Hillmer's partial admissions, her brother's evident
knowledge of some salient features of the puzzle, that utterly
strange letter in the admitted handwriting of Lady Dyke
herself, and bearing the prosaic testimony of dates stamped
by the Post-office — these sensational elements, when
brought into juxtaposition, could not avoid reaction into
clearer phases.
Long experience in criminal investigation told him that,
under certain circumstances, the best course of all was one
of inactivity.
On the basis of the accepted truism in the affairs of many
people that “letters left unanswered answer themselves,”
the barrister knew that there must be an outcome from the
queer medley of occurrences at his residence on the Mon-
day evening.
queer medle knew that the answered answ
[ 225]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Reviewing the history of the past three months several
odd features stood out from the general jumble.
In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to de-
duce any pertinent fact from the manner in which Mrs.
Hillmer's dining-room was furnished on the occasion of
his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.
He distinctly remembered noting his reception in an
unusual room littered with unusual articles, when the
luxurious and well-appointed suite of apartments was
considered as a whole. It was suggested to him at the
time that the drawing-room, which he saw during his
second visit, was dismantled earlier, but he did not con-
nect this trivial incident with the feature in Mensmore's
flat that he noted immediately — namely, the discrepan-
cies between the arrangement of the sitting-room and the
other chambers in the place.
These things were immaterial now, but he indexed them
as a guide for future use.
Lady Dyke's motive for that secret visit to Raleigh
Mansions — that was the key to the mystery. But how
to discover it? Who was her confidant? To whom
could he turn for possible enlightenment? It was useless
to broach the matter again to her husband. The baronet
and his wife had been friends sharing the same ménage
rather than husband and wife. Her relatives had already
been appealed to in vain. They knew nothing of the
slightest value in this search for truth.
In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding
cropped up. She was the personal maid of the deceased
lady. She had sharp eyes and quick wits. Her queer
antics shortly after the inquest were not forgotten. Here
at least was a possibility of light if the girl would speak.
If she refused what could be her motive ?
[ 226 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Well, I never,” she cried, “but London is a funny
place. Do you know me, sir ?"
“Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if
they did not take you for her elder sister,” he said. Bruce's
smile was irresistible.
“My daughter is not in just now, sir,” replied Mrs.
Harding, “but I expect her in to tea almost immediately.”
“Then may I come in and await her arrival ?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the preten-
tious but fairly comfortable nature of its appointments;
the ex-lady's maid's legacy must have been a nice one to
enable her to live in such style, as the poor pittance of a
coryphée would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover,
the presence of her mother in the establishment was a dis-
tinct factor in her favor.
Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-
room. She seated herself near the window and resumed
some sewing.
“Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding ?” he said,
by way of being civil.
“In London, do you mean, sir? About two months.
Ever since my daughter got along so well in her new pro-
fession. She's a good girl, is my daughter.”
"Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then ?".
“Oh yes, sir. Why, she's been earning £6 a week,
and last week she was sent for on a special engagement,
which paid her so well that she's going to buy me a new
dress out of the money."
“Really," said the barrister, “you ought to be proud
of her.”
“I am,” admitted the admiring mother. “I only wish
[ 228 ]


The Handwriting
her brother, who went off and 'listed for a sojer, had
turned out half as well.”
Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry
soldier in uniform on the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to
examine it, inwardly marvelling at the intelligence he had
just received. Was it reasonable that the girl could be the
recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother?
In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her
earnings? The story about “ £6 a week” was a myth.
Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large
plaque presentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory
of tights, wig, and make-up. Across it was written, in the
best theatrical style, “Ever yours sincerely, Marie le Mar-
chant.” And no sooner had Bruce caught sight of the
words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement.
The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke.
Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature
with his eyes. The resemblance was truly remarkable.
What on earth could be the explanation of this phenom-
enon.
“Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs.
Harding,” he said, turning the photograph towards her.
“Yes,” said the complacent mother, “she taught herself
when — before she went on the stage. She was always a
clever girl, and when she grew up she improved herself.
I wasn't able to afford her much schooling when she was
young.”
“I have seldom seen a nicer hand,” he went on. "Have
you any other specimens of her writing? I should like to
see them if they are not private.”
The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps
lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to make
quite sure that he was not mistaken.
[ 229 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“Oh yes. She's just copying out the part of Ophelia
in Hamlet. And she acts it beautiful.”
Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there,
written on the first page, was the name of the luckless
woman whose fatal passion has moved millions to tears.
He admired Miss Marie le Marchant's efforts in the
matter of self-culture, but he was determined, once for all,
to wrest from her some explanation of her actions.
The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to
throw aside the coveted “part," and the young lady her-
self entered. A few weeks of stage experience had given
her a more stylish appearance. There was a “profes-
sional” touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop
of her skirt.
She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger
to her mother's explanation that “this gentleman has just
called to see you, dear.”
"All right, mother,” she cried. “I see it is Mr. Bruce.
Will you get tea ready while I talk with him ? I shall be
ready in two minutes.” This with a defiant look at the
visitor.
When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said
in the crisp accents of ill-temper:
“What do you want with me, now ?”
“I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir
Charles Dyke in the name of your dead mistress."
The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its as-
sumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so
complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant's assur-
ance failed her.
She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast
heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate:
"I-I— why do you ask me that question ?”
[ 230 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
fingers to emphasize the words. “You can do and say what
you like, I will tell you nothing."
“You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles
Dyke last Saturday ?”
"I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can't ask you to
join me.”
“Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the
letter itself — your own production — written on paper
of which you have a quantity in this very room.”
The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark.
She was staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic
production of the original, and his clever guess at the
existence of similar notepaper in the house.
But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding
was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a French-
sounding name, and she would have died sooner than beat
a retreat.
"I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce," she
said.
There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as
possible, but the barrister was more than satisfied with
the result of his visit. He had now established beyond a
shadow of doubt that for some reason which he could not
fathom the ex-lady's maid not only knew of her mistress's
death, but wished to conceal it.
This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other
branch of the inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the
day when Lady Dyke was actually killed. What did it
all mean?
From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square,
and found Sir Charles on the point of going for a drive
in the Park.
He briefly told him his discovery.
[ 232 ]


CHAPTER XXV
MISS PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES
BRUCE was quite positive in his belief that Jane Harding
was the paid agent of some person who wished to conceal
the facts concerning Lady Dyke's death.
Her unexpected appearance in the field at this late hour,
no less than the bold rôle she adopted, proved this con-
clusively. But in England there was no torture-chamber
to which she might be led and gradually dismembered
until she confessed the truth.
So long as she adhered to the policy of pert denial she
was quite safe. The law could not touch her, for the
chief witness against her, Sir Charles Dyke, was obviously
more than half-inclined to admit the genuineness of the
letter, even in opposition to the superior judgment of his
friend.
Yet it was a matter which Bruce considered ought to be
made known to the police, so he sent for Mr. White and
told him of the strange result of his interview with Miss
Marie le Marchant.
“Dash everything!” cried the detective, when he heard
the news. “I made a note sometime ago that that girl
ought to be watched, but I clean forgot all about it.”
“Remember,” said Bruce, “that my discovery was the
result of pure accident. My object in visiting her was to
endeavor to induce her confidence with regard to Lady
[ 234 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
maid alike had drawn a false inference from Mrs. Hillmer's
words.
“We must find Colonel Montgomery,” he said, after a
slight pause.
“Find him!”
“Yes.”
“I hope neither of us is going his way for some time to
come, Mr. Bruce,” laughed the policeman.
“White, I shall never cure you from jumping at con-
clusions. Upon your present evidence Colonel Mont-
gomery is no more dead than you are.”
“But the maid said —”.
“I don't care if fifty maids said. There are many more
ways of ‘losing' a friend than by death. Pass me the
Army List, on that bookshelf behind you there."
A brief reference to the index, and Bruce said:
“I thought so. There is no Colonel Montgomery.
There are several captains and lieutenants, and a Major-
General who has commanded a small island in the Pacific
for the last five years, but not a single colonel. White,
you have blundered into eminence in your profession.”
“I'm glad to hear it, even as you put it, Mr. Bruce.
But I don't see — ”
“I know you don't. If you did, a popular novelist
would write your life and style you the English Lecocq.
Mrs. Hillmer 'lost’ the gallant colonel at the same time
that the world 'lost' Lady Dyke. Find the first, and I
am much mistaken if we do not learn all about the second.”
“Now I wonder if you are right.”
The detective's eyes sparkled with animation. It was
the first real clue he had hit upon, and Bruce's method of
complimenting him on the fact did not disconcert him.
“Of course I am right. You have done so well with
[238]


Miss Phyllis Browne Intervenes
the maid that I leave her in your hands. Try the coach-
man and the cook. But keep me informed of your
progress.”
White rushed off elated. So persistent was he in striv-
ing to elucidate this new problem that he paid no heed
during some days to the side-light furnished by Jane Hard-
ing and her exceedingly curious powers as a letter-writer.
Bruce purposely left the inquiry to the policeman.
He realized intuitively that the disappearance of Lady
Dyke would soon be explained, but he shrank from sub-
jecting Mrs. Hillmer to further questioning.
His abstinence was rewarded later in the week, for
Mensmore came to see him. The young man wore an
expression of settled melancholy which surprised the bar-
rister greatly.
“Have you prevailed on your sister to take us into her
confidence ?” he said, when Mensmore was ensconced in a
chair in his cosy sitting-room.
“No. She is more fixed than ever in her resolve to take
the whole blame on herself.”
“Surely this mistaken idea can be shaken ?”
“I fear not.”
“And you also share it ?”
“I do. Bear with us, Bruce. This is a terrible busi-
ness. It has broken me up utterly."
“Nonsense. You are in no way concerned save to
shield your sister, and no one credits her wild statements
regarding her complicity in this crime.”
“Look here, my dear fellow, I have come to ask you if
this investigation cannot be allowed to rest. It means a
lot of misery that you cannot foretell or prevent. Know-
ing what I do, I cannot believe that Lady Dyke was mur-
dered.”
[ 239 ]


Miss Phyllis Browne Intervenes
moment. Who ever threatened to put you or your sister
in the dock ?”
“You have done your best that way, you know.”
“I?— I have shielded you throughout!”
“I feel that. But your admission shows that I am
right. Shielded us from what? From arrest by the police,
of course.”
“But why take this precipitate action ? What has Lady
Dyke's death to do with your marriage to Miss Browne ?”
“That's it, Bruce. I cannot explain. I must endure
silently."
“Did you give her any reason for your absurd reso-
lution ?”
“Yes. I could have no secrets from her.”
“Did you inflict all this wretched story on a woman you
loved and hoped to marry ?”.
“You may be as bitter as you like. That is my idea of
square dealing, at any rate. What other pretext could
I invite for — for giving her up?"
Mensmore found it hard to utter the words. In his
heart Bruce pitied him, though he raged at this lamentable
issue of the only bright passage in the whole story of death
and intrigue.
“And what did Miss Browne say?".
“Oh, she just pooh-poohed the affair, and pretended to
laugh at me, though she was crying all the time.”
“A nice kettle of fish you have made of it,” growled the
barrister. “You help your sister in her folly of silence
and then proceed to give effect to it by ruining your own
happiness and that of your affianced wife. Have you
seen Miss Browne since ?"
“No.”
His visitor was so utterly disconsolate that Bruce was at
[ 241 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
a loss to know how to deal with him. He felt that if
Mensmore would but speak regarding Mrs. Hillmer's
strange delusion, and the cause of it, all these difficulties
and disasters would disappear. He resolved to try a
direct attack.
“Have you ever heard of a Colonel Montgomery ?” he
said suddenly, bending his searching gaze on the other's
downcast face.
The effect was electrical. Mensmore was so taken
back that he was spellbound. He looked at Claude, the
picture of astonishment, before he stammered:
“I — you — who told you about him ?”
“He was your sister's friend, adviser, and confidant,”
was the stern reply. “He it is who, in some mysterious
way, is bound up with Lady Dyke's disappearance."
Mensmore rose excitedly.
“I cannot discuss the matter with you,” he cried. “I
have given my sacred promise, and no matter what the
cost may be I will not break my word.”
“I do not press you. But may I see Mrs. Hillmer
again? When she is calmer I might reason with her.”
The other placed his hand on Bruce's shoulder, and his
voice was very impressive, though shaken by strong
emotion:
"Believe me,” he said, “it is better that you should not
see her. It will be useless. She is leaving London, not .
to avoid consequences, but to get away from painful mem-
ories. Her departure will be quite open, and her place of
residence known to any one who cares to inquire. One
thing she is immovable in. She will never reveal to a
living soul what she knows of Lady Dyke's death. She
would rather suffer any punishment at the hands of the
law.”
[ 242]


Miss Phyllis Browne Intervenes
Lady Dyke. As you say, it is time his capacity for doing
injury to others should be limited. Before many days
have passed Mr. Mensmore will come to you and beg
your pardon for his hasty and quite unwarranted resolve.”
“Do you hear that, Bertie ?” cried the girl. “Didn't I
tell you so ?”
Mensmore came forward to her side of the table.
“I need not wait, Phil, dear,” he said simply. “I ask
your pardon now. This business is in the hands of Provi-
dence. I was foolish to think that anything I could do
would stave off the inevitable."
“And if you have — to go — to China — you w-will
take me with you ?”.
Bruce looked out of the window, whistled, and said
loudly, addressing a beautiful lady in short skirts who
figured in a poster across the way:
“Let me ring for some tea. All this talk makes one
dry.”
[ 245 ]


CHAPTER XXVI
LADY HELEN MONTGOMERY'S SON
When the young people had gone — Mensmore ill at
ease, though tremuously happy that Phyllis had so demon-
strated her trust in him, Phyllis herself radiantly confident
in the barrister's powers to set everything right — Bruce
devoted himself to the task of determining a new line for
his energies.
The first step was self-evident. He must ascertain if
the Dykes knew a Colonel Montgomery.
He drove to the Club frequented by Sir Charles, but the
baronet was not there, so he went to Wensley House.
Sir Charles was at home, in his accustomed nook by the
library fire. He looked ill and low-spirited. The tem-
porary animation he had displayed during the past few
weeks was gone. If anything, he was more listless than
at any time since his wife's death.
“Well, Claude,” he said wearily, “anything to report ?”
“Yes, a good deal.”
“What is it?”
“I want to ask you something. Did you ever know a
Colonel Montgomery, or was your wife acquainted with
any one of that name to your knowledge ?”
“I do not think she was. Had she ever met such a man
I should probably have heard of him. Who was he?"
The baronet's low state rendered his words careless and
indefinite, but his friend did not wish to bother him unduly.
[ 246 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
task to lay hands on the gentleman should he be still
living."
“Suppose you succeed. How can you connect him
with my wife's death ?”
“At this moment I am unable to say. But the cabman
might be of some use.”
“The cabman. What cabman?”
“Did I omit that? I ought to have told you that I
have found the driver of the four-wheeler in which your
poor wife was taken, dead or insensible, from Sloane
Square to Putney.”
“What an extraordinary thing!”
“What is ?”
“That you should have forgotten to inform me of such
a striking fact."
“Not so. Now that I recollect, I have not had the op-
portunity. It was impossible to discuss anything else but
that forged letter on the last two occasions we met, and it
was only a few hours prior to your visit on Monday that I
got the cabman's story fully. By the way, do you now
see any reason why Jane Harding should have tried to de-
ceive you in such a manner ?”.
The barrister perceived that Sir Charles was nervous
and irritable, so he deemed it a needless strain to enlarge
on the history of his discovery of Foxey.
“I am tired of letters, and plots, and mysteries. My
life is resolving into one huge note of interrogation. Soon
the great question of eternity will dominate all others.”
Dyke's mood unfitted him for sustained conversation.
Bruce could but pity him, and hope that time would calm
his fevered brain, and soothe the unrest that shed this
gloom over him.
“Really,” said Claude, after a long interval, during
[ 248 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Beyond this, the other could not move him.
There was one link in the chain of evidence that would
be irrefragable if discovered. Was this “ Colonel Mont-
gomery” in any way connected with the house at Putney
where the murderer had disposed of the body? If this
could be established, the unknown visitor to Raleigh Man-
sions would experience a good deal of difficulty in clearing
himself of suspicion. Bruce was certain that, once the
“Colonel” was traced, much would come to light ex-
planatory of Mrs. Hillmer's, and her brother's, dread lest
his identity should he discovered.
An inquiry addressed to the house agents to whom pos-
sible tenants were referred elicited the information that
the present owner, a lady, was prepared to let the house
annually or on a lease. They enclosed an order to view,
which Bruce retained in case he should happen to need it.
A second letter gave him the address of the lady's so-
licitors, Messrs. Small & Sharp, Lincoln's Inn.
He called on them as a possible tenant, with a desire
to purchase the property outright if his proposal could be
entertained.
Mr. Sharp, the partner who dealt with the estate, be-
came very suave when the suggestion reached his ears.
“You will understand, Mr. Bruce, that your request
requires some consideration. The rent my client asks is
comparatively low, because the house is old-fashioned, but
the splended riparian position of the property, a free-hold
acre on the banks of the Thames at Putney, gives it a
highly increased future value. Any figure you may have
based on a rental calculation would therefore — "
"Not meet the case at all,” said the barrister, repressing
a smile at the familiar opening move in the game of bar-
gaining
[ 250 ]


Lady Helen Montgomery's Son
“Precisely."
“May I ask who the present owner is ?”
“Certainly, the lady's name is Small. In fact, she is
my partner's wife. Her father, the late Rev. Septimus
Childe, purchased the estate some years ago, largely be-
cause the house suited his requirements as the head of a
successful private school.”
“Has the estate changed hands frequently then ?”
“Oh, dear, no. Indeed, it is well understood that the
Rev. Mr. Childe acquired it more as a friendly transaction
than otherwise. The estate is a portion of the separate
estate of the late Lady Helen Montgomery, who married
Sir William Dyke, father of the present baronet, who per-
haps — good gracious, my dear sir, what is the matter ?"
Had Bruce been a woman he must have fainted.
As it was, the shock of the intelligence nearly paralyzed
him. Sir Charles Dyke! - Montgomery!— The house
at Putney the property of his mother! What new terror
did not this frightful combination suggest ?
Why did his friend conceal from him these most im-
portant facts? Why did he pretend ignorance not only
of the locality but of his mother's maiden name? Like
lightning the remembrance flashed through Bruce's
troubled brain that he had only heard of the earlier Lady
Dyke as a daughter of the Earl of Tilbury. A suspicion
- profoundly horrible, yet convincing—was slowly master-
ing him, and every second brought further proof not only of
its reasonableness, but of its ghastly and inflexible certainty.
Again the lawyer's voice reached his ears, dully and
thin, as though it penetrated through a wall.
"Surely, you feel ill? Let me get you some brandy."
“No - no," murmured the barrister. “It is but a
momentary faintness. I- I think I will go out into the
1-I thin arrister. «7. brandy."
[251]


CHAPTER XXVII
MR. WHITE'S METHOD
THE policeman spoke first. “Has Jane Harding been
here, then ?” he said.
His words conveyed no meaning to his hearer.
They were so incongruous, so ridiculously unreasoning,
that Bruce laughed hysterically.
“You must have seen her,” cried the detective excitedly.
“I know you have learned the truth, and in no other way
that I can imagine could it have reached you.”
“Learnt what truth ? "
“That Sir Charles Dyke himself is at the bottom of all
this business."
“Indeed. How have you blundered upon that solu-
tion ?”
“Mr. Bruce, this time I am right, and you know it. It
was Sir Charles Dyke who killed his wife. Nobody else
had anything else to do with it, so far as I can guess. But
if you haven't seen Jane Harding, I wonder how you
found out.”
“You are speaking in riddles. Pray explain yourself.”
“If Sir Charles Dyke had not been out of town, the
riddle would have been answered by this time in the easiest
way, as I should have locked him up."
“Excellent. You remain faithful to tradition.”
“Mr. Bruce, please don't try to humbug me, for the
[ 254 ]


Mr. White's Method
sake of your friend. I am quite in earnest. I have come
to you for advice. Sir Charles Dyke is guilty enough.”
“And what do you want me to do ?”
“To help me to adopt the proper course. The whole
thing seems so astounding that I can hardly trust my own
senses. I spoke hastily just now. I would not have
touched Sir Charles before consulting you. I was never
in such a mixed-up condition in my life.”
Whatever the source of his information, the detective
had evidently arrived at the same conclusion as Bruce
himself. There was nothing for it but to endeavor to
reason out the situation calmly and follow the best method
of dealing with it suggested by their joint intelligence.
Claude motioned the detective to a chair, imposed silence
by a look, and summoned Smith. He was faint from
want of food. With returning equanimity he resolved
first to restore his strength, as he would need all his powers
to wrestle with events before he slept that night.
Mr. White, nothing loth, joined him in a simple meal,
and by tacit consent no reference was made to the one en-
grossing topic in their thoughts until the table was cleared.
“And now, Mr. White," demanded the barrister, “what
have you found out?”
“During the last two days," he replied, “I have been
unsuccessfully trying to trace Colonel Montgomery. No
matter what I did I failed. I got hold of several of Mrs.
Hillmer's tradespeople, but she always paid her bills with
her own checques, and none of them had ever heard of a
Colonel Montgomery. That furniture business puzzled
me a lot — the change of the drawing-room set from one
flat to another on November 7, I mean. So I discovered
the address of the people who supplied the new articles to
Mrs. Hillmer —”
[ 255]


A Mysterious LOUS
rance
Disappearance
“How ?”
“Through the maid, Dobson. Mrs. Hillmer has given
her notice to leave, and the girl is furious about it, as she
appears to have had a very easy place there. I think it
came to Mrs. Hillmer's ears that she talked to me.”
“I see. Proceed.”
“Here I hit upon a slight clue. It was a gentleman
who ordered the new furniture, and directed the transfer
of the articles replaced from No. 61 to No. 12 Raleigh
Mansions. He did this early in the morning of Novem-
ber 7, and the foreman in charge of the job remembered
that there was some bother about it, as neither Mrs. Hill-
mer nor Mr. Corbett, as Mensmore used to be called,
knew anything about it. But the gentleman came the
same morning and explained matters. It struck the fore-
man as funny that there should be such a fearful hurry
about refurnishing a drawing-room, for the gentleman did
not care what the cost was so long as the job was carried
out at express speed. Another odd thing was that Mrs.
Hillmer paid for the articles, though she had not ordered
them nor did she appear to want them. The man was
quite sure that Mensmore's first knowledge of the affair
came with the arrival of the first batch of articles from
Mrs. Hillmer's flat, but he could only describe the mys-
terious agent as being a regular swell. He afterwards
identified a portrait of Sir Charles Dyke as being exactly
like the man he had seen, if not the man himself.”
“How did you come to have a portrait of Sir Charles in
your possession ?”.
“That appears later," said the detective, full of profes-
sional pride at the undoubtedly smart manner in which he
had manipulated his facts once they were placed in order
before him.
[ 256 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
“In what way?”
“I frightened her. Played off on her a bit of the stage
business she is so fond of. This afternoon I placed a pair
of handcuffs in my pocket and went to her place at Blooms-
bury, having previously prepared a bogus warrant for her
arrest on a charge of complicity in the murder of Lady
Dyke.”
“It was a dangerous game!”
“Very. If it had gone wrong and reached the ears of
the Commissioner or got into the papers, I should have
been reduced or dismissed. But what is a policeman to
do in such cases? I was losing my temper over this in-
fernal inquiry and never obtaining any real light, though
always coming across startling developments. It had to
end somehow, and I took the chance. The make-believe
warrant and the production of handcuffs for a woman
- they are never used, you know, in reality — have
often been trump-cards for us when everything else
failed.”
“This time, then, the properties' made up the show'
as Miss Harding would put it?”
“They did, and no mistake. I gave her no time to
think or act. I found her sitting with her mother, ad-
miring a new carpet she had just laid down. I said, 'Is
your name Jane Harding, now engaged at the Jollity
Theatre, under the alias of Marie le Marchant, but for-
merly a maid in the service of Lady Dyke ?' She grew
very white, and said ‘Yes,' while her mother clutched hold
of her, terrified. Then I whipped out the warrant and
the cuffs. My, but you should have heard them squeal
when the bracelets clinked together. What has my child
done ?' screamed the mother. 'Perhaps nothing, madam,'
I answered; ‘but she is guilty in the eyes of the law just
[ 258 ]


Mr. White's Method
Lady Dyke's hand so perfectly. She had copied it for
three years.”
“All this must have astonished you considerably ?"
“Mr. Bruce, astonished isn't the word. I was flabber-
gasted! Once she started talking I let her alone, only
rattling the handcuffs when she seemed inclined to stop.
But all the time I felt as if the top of my head had been
blown off.”
“I imagine she had not much more to tell you ?”
“She pitched into you as the cause of all the mischief,
and went so far as to say that she was sure it was not Sir
Charles who killed Lady Dyke, but you yourself.”
Bruce winced at Jane Harding's logic. Were he able
to retrieve the past three months the mystery of Lady
Dyke's death would have remained a mystery forever.
“Now about the photograph,” said the detective.
“After I had left Jane Harding with a solemn warning to
speak to no one until I saw her again, I made a round of
the fashionable photographers and soon obtained an ex-
cellent likeness of Sir Charles. I showed it to Dobson,
and she said: “That is Colonel Montgomery. I showed
it to the foreman of the furniture warehouse, and he said:
"That is the image of the man who ordered Mrs. Hillmer's
suite.' Now, what on earth is the upshot of this business
to be? I called at Wensley House, but was told Sir
Charles was not in town. Had he been in, I would
not have seen him until I had discussed matters with
you."
“That is very good of you, Mr. White. May I ask
your reason for showing him this consideration ?”
The policeman, who was very earnest and very excited,
banged his hand on the table as he cried:
“Don't you see what all this amounts to ? I have no
[ 261 ]


Sir Charles Dyke's Journey
In response to an imperative ring a footman appeared.
Instead of answering the barrister's question as to whether
Sir Charles was at home or not, he said: “You are Mr.
Bruce, sir, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Sir Charles is at home, but he retired to his room be-
fore dinner. He is not well, and he may have gone to bed,
but he said that if you came you were to be admitted. I
will ask Mr. Thompson.”
“Better send Thompson to me,” said Bruce decisively;
and in a minute the old butler stood before him.
“I hear that Sir Charles has retired for the night,” said
Claude.
Thompson had caught sight of the detective standing
on the steps. A few hours earlier he had himself told him
that the baronet was out of town. It was an awkward
dilemma, and he coughed doubtingly while he racked his
brains for a judicious answer.
But Bruce grasped his difficulty. “It is all right,
Thompson. Mr. White quite understands the position.
Do you think Sir Charles is in bed ?”.
“I will go and see, sir. He was very anxious that you
should be sent upstairs if you called. But that was when
he was in the library.”
Bruce and the detective entered the hall, the butler
closed the door behind them, and then solemnly ascended
the stairs to Sir Charles Dyke's bedroom, which was sit-
uated on the first floor along a corridor towards the back
of the house.
They distinctly heard the polite knock at the door and
Thompson's query, “Are you asleep, Sir Charles ?”
After a pause, there was another knock, and the same
question in a slightly louder key.
[265]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Then the butler returned, saying as he came down the
stairs:
“Sir Charles seems to be sound asleep, sir.”
Bruce and the detective exchanged glances. The bar-
rister was disappointed, almost perturbed, but he said:
“In that case we will not disturb him. Sir Charles
does not often retire so early."
“No, sir. I have never known him to go to his room so
early before. He told me not to serve dinner, as he wasn't
well. He would not let me get anything for him. He just
took some wine, and I have not seen him since.”
“Since when ?”
“About 7.30, sir.”
Bruce turned to depart, but Thompson, with the privi-
lege of an old servant when talking to one whom he knew
to be on familiar terms with his master, whispered:
“That there blessed maid turned up again this after-
noon, sir."
The barrister started violently.
“Not Jane Harding, surely ?”
“Yes, sir. She came at four o'clock and asked for Sir
Charles, as bold as brass.”
“Did he see her ?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Do you hear that, White ?”
The detective nodded.
“She must have reached the house about half-an-hour
before me,” he said, addressing the butler.
“That's about right, sir."
“But I understood,” went on Bruce, “that Sir Charles
was not at home to ordinary callers ?”.
Thompson shuffled about somewhat uneasily. He
wished now he had held his tongue.
[ 266 ]


Sir Charles Dyke's Journey
“I had my orders, sir,” he murmured, in extenuation of
his apparently diverse actions.
“Tell me what your orders were,” persisted Bruce.
The man hesitated, not wishful to offend his master's
friend, but too well trained to reveal the explicit instruc-
tions given him by Sir Charles Dyke.
“Do not be afraid. I will explain everything to Sir
Charles personally. We cannot best judge what to do —
whether to wake him or not — unless we know the posi-
tion,” went on the barrister.
Thus absolved from blame, Thompson took from his
waistcoat pocket a folded sheet of notepaper.
“I don't pretend to understand the reason, sir,” he said,
“but Sir Charles wrote this himself, and told me to be care-
ful to obey him exactly.”
The barrister eagerly grasped the note and read:
“If Mr. Bruce, Jane Harding, or Mrs. Hillmer should
call, admit any of them immediately. To all others say
that I have left town — some days ago, should they ask
you.
C. D.”
White, round-eyed and bullet-headed, gazed with goggle
orbs over Bruce's shoulder.
“That settles it, Mr. Bruce,” he said. “We must see
him.”
“Thompson,” said Bruce,“ does Sir Charles usually
lock his door ?"
“Never, sir.”
“Very well. Knock again, and then try the door. We
will go with you."
Something in the barrister's manner rather than his
words sent a cold shiver down the old butler's spine.
“I do hope there's nothing wrong, sir,” he commenced;
[ 267 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
but Bruce was already half-way up the stairs. Both he
and White guessed what had happened. They knew that
poor Thompson's repeated summons at the bedroom door
would remain forever unanswered — that the unfortunate
baronet had quitted the dread certainties of this world for
the uncertainties of the next.
They were not mistaken. A few minutes later they
found him listlessly drooping over the side of the chair in
which he was seated, partly undressed, and seemingly
overcome at the moment when he was about to take off
his boots.
On a table near him were two bottles, both half-emptied,
and an empty wineglass. Each of the bottles bore the
label of a well-known chemist. One was endorsed “Sleep-
ing-draught,” the other “Poison,” and “Chloral.”
The three men were pale as the limp, inanimate form in
the chair while they silently noted these details. Bruce
raised the head of his friend in the hope that life might not
yet be extinct. But Sir Charles Dyke had taken his
measures effectually. Though the rigor mortis had not
set in, he had evidently been dead some time.
Thompson, quite beside himself with grief, dropped to
his knees by his master's side.
“Sir Charles!” he wailed. “Sir Charles! For the love
of Heaven, speak to us. You can't be dead. Oh, you
can't. It ain't fair. You're too young to die. What
curse has come upon the house that both should go ?”
Bruce leaned over and shook the old butler firmly by
the shoulder.
“Thompson,” he said impressively, for now that the
crisis he feared had come and gone, he exercised full con-
trol over himself. “Thompson, if you ever wished to
serve Sir Charles you must do so now by remaining calm.
[ 268]


A Mysterious Disappearance
Bruce answered him:
“Yes, for some hours, I fear, but we wanted to avoid
spreading unnecessary rumors until —
“I understand. My poor friend! How came this to
happen ?”
The skilled practitioner merely lifted one of the dead
man's eyelids, and then turned to examine the bottles on
the table.
“My own prescription,” he said, after tasting the con-
tents of one phial. “Ah, this was bad; why did he not
consult me ? ” and he sadly shook his head as he tasted the
remaining liquid in the second.
“What do you make of it ?” said Bruce.
He looked the other steadily in the face and the doctor
interpreted the cause of his anxiety.
“A clear case of accidental poisoning,” he replied. “Sir
Charles has consulted me several times during the past
week on account of his extreme insomnia. I specifically
warned him against overdoing my treatment. Change of
air, exercise, and diet are the true specifics for sleepless-
ness, especially when induced, as his was, by a morbid
state of mind.”
“You mean – ”
“That Sir Charles has never recovered from the shock
of his wife's death. I did not know of it myself until it
was announced recently, and I gathered from him that the
manner of her demise was partly unaccounted for. Alto-
gether, it is a sad business that such a couple should be
taken in such a manner.”
Mr. White was industriously taking notes the while,
and the doctor regarded him with a questioning look.
“This gentleman is in the police,” explained Bruce.
“Indeed!”
[ 272]


Sir Charles Dyke's Journey
“Yes. We came here by mere accident. Mr. White
and I were engaged in an important inquiry — the cause
of Lady Dyke's disappearance, in fact — and we hurried
here at a late hour to consult with Sir Charles. Hence
our presence and this discovery."
“How strange!”
“There is no reason now," broke in the detective, “why
the body should not be moved ?”
Claude shuddered at the phrase. It suggested the
inevitable.
“Not in the least. I am quite satisfied as to the cause
of death.”
The despatch of telegrams and other necessary details
kept Bruce busily employed until two o'clock. Not until
he reached the privacy of his own library was he able to
break the seal of the packet left for him as the final act
and word of the late Sir Charles Dyke.
[ 273 ]


CHAPTER XXIX
HOW LADY DYKE DISAPPEARED
(Being the Manuscript left by Sir Charles Dyke, Bart., and
addressed to Claude Bruce, Esq., Barrister-at-law)
It is customary, I believe, for poor wretches who are
sentenced to undergo the last punishment of the law to be
allowed a three weeks' respite between the date of their
sentence and that on which they are executed. I am in
the position of such a one. The difference between me
and the convicted felon lies merely in environment; in most
respects I am worse situated than he. My period of agony
is longer drawn out, I am condemned to die by my own
hand, I am mocked by the surroundings of luxury, taunted
by the knowledge that though life and even a sort of hap-
piness are within my reach I must not avail myself of them.
There may come a time in the affairs of any man when
he is compelled to choose between a dishonored existence
and voluntary death. These unpleasant alternatives are
now before me. You, who know me, would never doubt
which of them I should adopt, nor will you upbraid me
because our judgments coincide. There is nothing for it,
Bruce, but quiet death — death in the least obtrusive
form, and so disposed that it may be possible for you,
chief among my friends and the only person I can trust to
fulfil my wishes, to arrange that my memory may be speed-
ily forgotten. My virtues, I fear, will not secure me im-
[274]


How Lady Dyke Disappeared
mortality; my faults, I hope, will not be spread broadcast
to cram the maws of the gaping crowd.
I do not shirk this final issue, nor do I crave pity. In
setting forth plainly the history of my wife's death and its
results, I am actuated solely by a desire to protect others
from needless suspicion. Having resolved to pay forfeit
for my own errors, I claim to have expiated them. This
document is an explanation, not a confession.
I have not much time left wherein fittingly to shape my
story so as to be just to all, myself included. If I am not
mistaken, the officers of the law are in hot chase of me, but
my statement shall not be made to an earthly judge. The
words of a man about to die may not be well chosen; they
should at least be true. I will tell of events as nearly as
possible in their sequence of time. If I leave gaps through
haste or forgetfulness you will, from your own knowledge
of the facts, readily fill them up once you are in possession
of the salient features.
Mensmore and his sister were the friends of my early
years. We played together as children. Gwendoline
Mensmore was two years younger than I, and I well re-
member making love to her at the age of eleven. Her
mother died when she was quite a baby, and her father
married again, so her step-brother Albert is her junior by
four years. I taught him how to ride and swim and play
cricket. My father's place in Surrey — we did not ac-
quire the Yorkshire property until the death of my grand-
father — adjoined the estate General Mensmore occupied
after his retirement from the army.
We children always called Gwendoline “Dick,” to
avoid the difficulty of her long-sounding name, I suppose,
and I honestly believe that our respective parents enter-
tained the idea that a marriage between us was quite a
[ 275]


A Mysterious Disappearance
natural thing. I went to school at Brighton, and Mens-
more, being a somewhat precocious lad, joined the same
school before I left. The headmaster, the Rev. Septimus
Childe, was an old friend of my father's, and when he
wished to purchase a house at Putney — the terrible house
which has figured in my dreams for the past three months
as a Place of Skulls — my parents put pressure on my
mother's trustees to make the transaction an easy one.
Of course, I knew it well. We regarded it in those early
days as a town house, and always lived there during the
season.
My father's succession to the title and estates changed
all that. We quitted Surrey for Yorkshire, and Wensley
House, Portman Square, was a step upwards from the
barrack-like building which so admirably suited Mr.
Childe's requirements.
When I was at Sandhurst General Mensmore got into
difficulties. He quitted Surrey, and we gradually lost
sight of him and his children. Afterwards I knew that he
struggled on for a few years, placed his son in the army,
and then came a complete collapse, ending in his death
and the boy's resignation of his commission. Of Gwen-
doline Mensmore's whereabouts I knew nothing. Her
memory never quitted me, but the new interests in my life
dulled it. I imagined that I could laugh at a childish
infatuation.
Then I married. I did so in obedience to my father's
wishes, and Alice was, I suppose, an ideal wife — far too
ideal for a youngster of my lower intellectual plane. I
know now that I never had any real affection for her. I
was always somewhat awed by her loftier aspirations. My
interests lay in racing, hunting, sports generally, and hav-
ing what I defined as “a good time.” She, though an ex-
[ 276 ]


How Lady Dyke Disappeared
cellent horsewoman, and in every sense an admirable
hostess, thought Newmarket vulgar, treated Ascot as a
social necessity, and turned up her eyebrows at me when
I failed to see any utility in schemes for the reclamation
of the submerged tenth.
Thus, though we never quarrelled, we gradually drifted
apart. She knew she bored me if she asked me to inspect
a model dwelling; I knew she hated the people who were
the companions of a coaching tour or a week at Goodwood.
Unfortunately, we were not blessed with offspring. Had
it been otherwise, we might have found a common object
of interest in our children.
Insensibly, we agreed to a separate existence. We lived
together as friends rather than as husband and wife. We
parted without regret and met without cordiality. Do
not think we were unhappy. If our marriage was not
bliss, it was at least comfortable. I think my wife was
proud of my successes on the turf in a quiet kind of way,
and I certainly was proud of her and of the high reputa-
tion she enjoyed among all classes of society. I even
reverenced her for it, and I well knew that the enthusiastic
receptions given us by our Yorkshire tenantry were not
due to my efforts in their behalf, but to hers.
So we lived for nearly six years, and so we might have
continued for sixty had I not met Gwendoline Mensmore
again, under vastly changed circumstances. She was a
chorus-girl in a variety theatre, earning a poor living under
wretched conditions. I discovered the fact by mere chance.
I met her, and she told me her story — how she had
married a man named Hillmer, whom her father had
trusted, and whom she believed to be able to save them
from ruin. Then the crash came. Her father died; her
husband also broke down financially, took to drink and
[277]


A Mysterious Disappearance
ill-treated her; her brother was swallowed up somewhere
in the Far West. She had no alternative but to live apart
from her husband and try to support herself by the first
career that suggests itself to a young, talented, and beauti-
ful woman. But she was already weary of the stage and
its distasteful surroundings. Her nature was too delicate
for the rude friendships of the dressing-room. She shud-
dered at the thought of a mild carousal in a bar when the
labors of the night were ended
In a word, were I differently constituted, were she cast
in more common mould, there was apparently ready to
hand all the material for a vulgar liaison.
My respect for my wife, however, no less than Mrs. Hill-
mer's fine disposition, saved both of us from folly. Yet I
could not leave her exposed to the exigencies of a life in
which she was rapidly becoming disillusioned. Away in
the depths of my heart I knew that this sweet woman was
my true mate, separated from me by adverse chance.
There was nothing unfair to Alice in the thought. Were
she questioned at any time, I suppose, she must have ad-
mitted that we were, in some respects, as ill-matched a
couple as we were well-matched in others. You will say
that I understood but little of feminine nature — nothing
at all of my wife's.
How best to help Mrs. Hillmer — that was the question.
It was at this stage I made the initial mistake to which I
can, too late, trace a host of succeeding misfortunes. I
did not consult my wife. Trying now to analyze my rea-
sons for this lamentable error of judgment I imagined that
it arose from some absurd disinclination on my part to
admit that I went to the stage-door of a theatre to inquire
about the identity of a young woman whom I had recog-
nized from the front of the house.
[ 278 ]


How Lady Dyke Disappeared
Don't you see, my dear Bruce, it is almost as bad to fear
your wife as to suspect her.
As, at that time, my own life was free from the slightest
cloud of sorrow, I took keen interest in the troubles of Mrs.
Hillmer, and I amused myself by playing, in her behalf,
the part of a modern magician. I felt intuitively that she
would resent any direct attempt on my part to place funds
at her disposal, and I found a greal deal of harmless fun
in helping her with her consent, but without her actual
knowledge.
I am, as you know, a rich man. At this hour I cannot
sum up my available assets to within £100,000. Alto-
gether I must be worth nearly a million sterling — yet my
money cannot purchase me another's day existence such
as I would tolerate. Strange, is it not?
Well, the close of the year before last was a period of
unexampled activity on the Stock Exchange, and, by way
of a joke, I made some purchases on Mrs. Hillmer's ac-
count, with the intention of pretending to pay myself out
of the profits, while handing her such balances as might
accrue. She is a shrewd woman, and quick at figures, so
I might have experienced some difficulty in deceiving her.
But the mad record of the past twelve months was in no
wise belied by its inception. My purchases were those of
a man inspired by the Goddess of Fortune. Stocks which
I bought commenced suddenly to inflate. I astounded
my brokers by the manner in which I ferreted out neg-
lected bonds, mines which struck the mother lode next
week, railway companies whose directors were even then
secretly conspiring to water the stock.
Mrs. Hillmer became infected with the craze like my-
self. Twice we plunged heavily in American Rails and
came out triumphantly. To end this part of my story,
[279 ]


How Lady Dyke Disappeared
Occasionally, when opportunities offered, we went out
together. It was foolish, you will say, and I agree with
you. If folly were not pleasant it would not be so fashion-
able. But, to this hour, the relations between us are those
only of close friendship. Never in my life have I addressed
her by other than her married name, never have I touched
her arm save by way of casual politeness.
I really think I flattered myself upon my superior vir-
tues. I could see all the excellence but none of the stupid-
ity of my behavior.
About this time, Mrs. Hillmer's husband died. Thence-
forth she became slightly reserved in manner. When life
was a defiance she fought convention, but with safety came
prudence. In fact, she told me that my frequent visits to
her house would certainly be ill-construed if they became
known. I was seeking for a pretext to introduce her
to her own set in society, when a double catastrophe
occurred.
My wife discovered, as she imagined, that I was clan-
destinely occupied with another woman, and Mrs. Hill-
mer's brother returned from America.
It will best serve my hurried narrative if I relate events
exactly as they happened, and not as they look in the light
of subsequent knowledge.
Mensmore was naturally astounded to find his sister so
well provided for, and gratefully accepted the help she
gave him towards resuscitating his own fortunes. But it
did not occur to either of us that he would take the ordinary
view of the bond existing between us, and I shall never
forget his rage when he found out that I was not known to
his sister's servants by my right name. It was an awk-
ward position for all three. He was loth to allege that
which we did not feel called upon to deny. But between
[ 281 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
him and me there was a marked coolness, arising from
suspicion on his part and resentment on mine, coupled, I
must add, with an unquiet consciousness that his attitude
was not wholly unreasonable.
Mrs. Hillmer and he discussed the matter several times.
He urged that this compromising friendship should be
discontinued. She — a determined woman when her
mind was made up — fought the suggestion on the ground
of unfairness, though, like myself, she would have been
glad of any accident which would alter the position of
affairs.
He interpreted her opposition to different motives.
Finally, as his financial position was a dangerous one, as
we afterwards learned, and he despaired of setting things
straight in Raleigh Mansions — judging them from his
own point of view — he resolved to leave England again.
And now I come to the night of November 6.
It was, as you will remember, a foggy and unpleasant
day. I had some business in the city which detained me
until darkness set in. I had not seen Mrs. Hillmer for
two days, so I resolved to drive to Sloane Square — travel-
ling by the Underground was intolerable in such weather
— and have tea with her.
I did not know then that she had gone with her maid to
Brighton — intending to return that evening. It was a
sudden whim, she told me subsequently, and she had not
even informed the other servants of her intention.
The pavements in the City were slimy with the damp-
ness of the fog, and as an empty four-wheeler passed
through Cornhill I hailed it, a most unusual choice on my
part. The cabman, I noticed, was fairly elevated, but as
these fellows often drive better when drunk than sober, I
simply told him to be careful, and jumped in. I reached
[ 282]


How Lady Dyke Disappeared
Sloane Square all right, and detained the cab for my in-
tended journey home in time for dinner.
At the door of Mrs. Hillmer's flat I met the cook and
housemaid, both going out to do some shopping, probably,
in the spare hour before it was time to prepare dinner.
They knew me well, of course, and admitted me to the
drawing-room, telling me that Mrs. Hillmer was out, but
would surely return very soon.
I had not been in the room a minute before the sharp
double knock of a telegraph messenger brought the coach-
man, whom the girls left in charge of the house, to the door,
and I startled the man by appearing in the hall, as he did
not know of my presence.
“What is it, Simmonds ?” I said, as I correctly guessed
the message to be from Mrs. Hillmer.
“The missus is in Brighton, sir,” he answered. “She
wants the carriage to meet her at Victoria at seven o'clock.
It's six now, and I ought to go around to the stables at
once, but both these blessed girls have gone out. I'm in
a fair fix.”
“No fix at all,” I said. “I want to see Mrs. Hillmer, so
I will wait here until she arrives — or, at all events, till the
servants come back.”
The man scratched his head, but he could think of no
better plan, so he, too, went off, and I was left alone, for
the first time in my life, in Mrs. Hillmer's abode. It is
the small events that govern our lives, Claude, not those
that stand out prominently. The shopping expedition of
a couple of servant girls, intent on securing a new cap or a
few yards of calico, brought about my wife's death, caused
misery to many people, and ends, I sincerely hope, in my
own speedy leap into oblivion.
I picked up a novel, “Tess of the D'Urbervilles,” hit
[ 283 ]


A Mysterious Disappearance
clearly that every circumstance which contributed to
Alice's suspicions in the first instance were now magnified
a hundred-fold by the manner and scene of her death.
Before me, in ghostly panorama, moved the dread
crowd of witnesses against me, the degradation of my
family, the bitter and vengeful feelings of my wife's rela-
tives, the suffering of poor, unconscious Mrs. Hillmer, the
whole avalanche of horror and misery which this unfor-
tunate accident had precipitated upon every person who
claimed my relationship or friendship.
My mental attitude was quite altruistic. Could I have
undone the past, I would cheerfully have undergone a
painful and protracted death forthwith.
But no possible atonement on my part would restore
Alice to life. I knew it was quite improbable that I
should be convicted of murdering her, strong as the cir-
cumstantial testimony against me must be. The mere
legal consequences did not, however, weigh with me for a
second. From that awful hour I felt that I was doomed
personally. My only thought was to seek oblivion, not
only for myself, but for all whom Alice's death might affect.
Reasoning in this way, I rapidly resolved to make a bold
effort to conceal forever the time and place of the fatality.
If I failed, I could tell the truth; if I succeeded, I might, at
my own expense, save a vast amount of unnecessary sorrow.
The desperate expedient came to me of carrying off the
body to the untenanted house at Putney where my old
master had resided until his death, utilizing the four-
wheeled cab with its half-drunken driver for the purpose.
If I reached Putney unhindered, I could dispose of my
terrible burden easily, for the river flowed past the grounds,
and every inch of the locality was known to me.
It occurred to me that perhaps the body might be found
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Sir Charles Dyke Ends His Narrative
and recognized. Our personal linen was never marked,
by reason of the fact that our laundry work was done upon
our Yorkshire estate, but as a temporary safeguard I re-
solved to take some different and less valuable outer clothes
from Mrs. Hillmer's residence.
Her maid was of a similar build to my wife, so I hastened
to the girl's room, and laid hands upon a soiled coat and
skirt which were relegated to the recesses of the wardrobe.
I glanced at my watch as I came along the corridor. It
was 6.15 P.M. All the incidents I have related to you had
happened within a quarter of an hour. Oh, heaven! it
seemed longer than all the preceding years of my life.
Having resolved upon a line of conduct, I pursued it
with the sang-froid and accuracy of one of the superior
scoundrels delineated by Du Boisgobey. The door of the
flat was locked. If the servants, hardly due yet, returned
unexpectedly, I would send them off to Victoria Station
on some imaginary errand of their mistress's.
I knelt beside my poor wife's body once more, and with
great difficulty took off her costume and loosely fastened on
the maid's garments.
In her purse there were some bulky documents, which
I afterwards discovered to be the reports furnished by a
firm of private detectives, detailing all my movements
with reference to Raleigh Mansions with surprising ac-
curacy. But she had concealed her name. These men
themselves only knew me as “Colonel Montgomery.”
How Alice first came to suspect me I can only guess.
Perhaps my indifference, my absence from home at definite
hours, a chance meeting in the street unknown to me —
any of these may have supplied the initial cause, and led
her to verify her doubts before taxing me with my supposed
iniquity.
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Sir Charles Dyke Ends His Narrative
or of a daring Chat this late hour;
lined to think
poses, I had murdered my wife, and that I was now dis-
posing of the visible signs of my guilt in the most approved
manner of a daring criminal. Whether I did right or
wrong I cannot, even at this late hour, decide. Should
my death induce forgetfulness, I am still inclined to think
that I acted for the best. My wife was dead; I was self-
condemned. Why, then, allow others, wholly innocent,
to be dragged into the vortex ?
This was my line of thought. If you, reading this
ghastly narrative, shudder at my deeds, I pray you never-
theless to weigh in the balance the good and ill that re-
sulted from my actions.
At last we reached Putney, and drew up at the end of
the disused lane which runs down by the side of the house
to the river.
Here, again, the road was deserted. I lifted my wife
out, carried her to the postern-gate, and returned to give
the driver his note. The man was so amazed at the amount
that he whipped up his horse instantly, fearing lest I should
change my mind.
I was about to force open the old and rickety door into
the garden when I remembered the drain-pipe jutting into
the Thames — a place where, as a child, I often caused
much alarm by surreptitious visits for the purpose of catch-
ing minnows. I quickly took off my coat and boots,
turned up my trousers and shirt-sleeves, and examined
the pipe with my hands.
It exactly suited my purpose. In half a minute I had
firmly wedged my wife's body beneath it. This was the
most horrible portion of my task. The chill water, the
desolation of the river bank, the mud and trailing weeds
- all these things seemed so vile and loathsome when
ds.
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A Mysterious Disappearance
strain. The cord of existence has snapped, and I cannot
bring myself to believe it will be mended again. In bid-
ding you farewell I ask one thing. If you take a charitable
view of my deeds, if you consider that my penalty is com-
mensurate with my faults, then you might take my dead
hand and say, “This was my friend. I pity him. May
the spirit of his wife be merciful unto him should they meet
in the regions beyond the grave.”
And so, for the last time, I sign myself
CHARLES DYKE.
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A Mysterious Disappearance
left his estates to his wife's nephew, joined to the impor-
tant position Bruce occupied as one of the trustees and
joint guardian, with the boy's mother, of the young heir,
smoothed over many difficulties.
After a harassing and anxious week Bruce had the mel-
ancholy satisfaction of seeing the remains of the unfor-
tunate couple laid to rest in the stately gloom of the family
vault.
The newspapers, of course, scented a mystery in the
proceedings, but definite inquiry was barred in every direc-
tion. Even the exhumation order gave no clue to the rea-
sons of the authorities for granting it, and in less than the
proverbial nine days the incident was forgotten.
Sir Charles had made it a condition precedent to the
succession that his heir should bear his name, and should
live with his widowed mother on the Yorkshire estate, or
in the town house, for a certain number of months in each
year, until the boy was old enough to go to school.
The stipulation was intended to have the effect of more
rapidly burying his own memory in oblivion. Bruce, too,
was given a sum of £5,000, “to be expended in bequests
as he thought fit.”
Claude understood his motive thoroughly. Jane Hard-
ing had been loyal to her master in her way, so he arranged
that she should receive an annual income sufficient to se-
cure her from want. Thompson, too, was provided for
when the time came that he was too feeble for further em-
ployment at Portman Square, and Mr. White received a
handsome douceur for his services.
Mrs. Hillmer did not even know of Sir Charles Dyke's
death until weeks had passed. Acting on Bruce's advice
her brother simply told her that everything had been
settled, and that the authorities concurred with the bar-
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A Mysterious Disappearance
m
"
proposition. He said you probably wished me to know
the whole story of Sir Charles Dyke, but felt kinder shy of
telling me yourself. He will get it off his chest if you give
him permission, and then I can come along in a hansom
and fix things. What do you say?' There was no an-
swer, so I shouted, 'Are you there ?' and she said, 'Yes,'
faint-like. “Don't let me hurry you,' said I, “but if you
agree straight-away I can catch Bruce at home, for I've
just left him.' With that she said, 'Very well. You can
see Mr. Bruce.' And here I am.”
“Having accomplished the whole thing satisfactorily.”
“As how ? ”
“Don't you see you have proposed to the lady and prac-
tically been accepted ?”
“Jehosh! It does look something like it. Say, I'm
off! This story of yours will keep until to-morrow."
He would have gone, but Bruce jumped after him.
“Not so fast, Mr. Corbett. You must not sail into the
Savoy flying a false flag. Kindly oblige me with your at-
tention for the next half-hour.”
With that, he unlocked a safe and took from its recesses
Sir Charles Dyke's “confession.” He read the whole of
its opening passages, explaining the relations between
Mrs. Hillmer and her unfortunate but abiding friend.
The straightforward, honest sentences sounded strangely
familiar at this distance of time. Bruce was glad of the
opportunity of reading them aloud. It seemed a fitting
thing that this testimony should come, as it were, from
the tomb.
Corbett listened intently to the recital and to the bar-
rister's summary of the events that followed.
“Poor chap!” he said, when the sad tale had ended.
“I hope you shook hands with him as he asked you to do ?”
[302]