“My Dear Bruce,—My wife’s maid has vanished. She has not been near the house for three days. The thing came to my ears owing to gossip amongst the servants. There is something maddening about these occurrences. I really cannot stand any more. Do come to see me, there’s a good fellow.”
“My Dear Bruce,—My wife’s maid has vanished. She has not been near the house for three days. The thing came to my ears owing to gossip amongst the servants. There is something maddening about these occurrences. I really cannot stand any more. Do come to see me, there’s a good fellow.”
“Well, I’m jiggered!” said the detective. “The blessed girl must have been spirited away a few hours after I saw her. Maybe, Mr. Bruce, we are all wrong. Has she gone to join her mistress?”
“Possibly—in the next world.”
Nothing would shake the barrister’s belief that Alice, Lady Dyke, was dead.
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 Buttons, 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 bedroom; 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,“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. Gwendoline Hillmer. She lives in good style, rents a brougham and a victoria, and is either a wealthy widow or maintained 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 gentleman who looked like an officer in the Guards, and,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.”
“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. Gwendoline Hillmer. She lives in good style, rents a brougham and a victoria, and is either a wealthy widow or maintained 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 gentleman who looked like an officer in the Guards, and,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 colorlessness 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 aboutonniere, he communicated his bewilderment to the hall-porter.
“My guv’nor’s going out on the mash,” he said confidentially. “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 hansom, 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. 61Raleigh 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 gavehim, 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, excellent. 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 inferences 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.”
“No apology is necessary. But I am going out. Perhaps 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 physique 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 mysterious 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?”
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 companion 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 unnecessary 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?”
“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 explained, “and the account for them is dated November 15. I had not seen my—” She blushed, became confused,laughed a little, and went on. “I had not seen Mr. Corbett for at least a week before that date—say November 8th or 9th.”
Lady Dyke disappeared on the evening of the 6th!
Bruce swallowed his astonishment at the odd coincidence 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 beinga 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 represent?”
“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 restaurant. I am quite tired of being alone.”
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?”
By tacit consent, Claude and his fair companion dropped for the hour the rôles 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 expected 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 behavior, he volunteered a lively account of a recentcause 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 prominently in the affair; and Mrs. Hillmer laughed with unrestrained 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 is this brother of yours?”
“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 areconnuof all the world. She was obviously wealthy and refined, with more than a spice of unconventionality. At times,too, beneath her habitual expressions of lively and vivacious 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 investigations 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 acquaintance 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 bysilent 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 conclusions. 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-principled 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 mentalanalysis 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 requisite 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 muchnotice 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 imperious 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 eyesand 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.
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 cavaliershelped 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 companions. “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.
“’Pon my soul, Bruce, old chap, haven’t seen you for an age. Where have you bin? An’ what’s the little game now?”
Mr. Sadler was fully aware of the barrister’s penchant for investigating mysteries. The two had often foregathered in the past.
“Are you ‘busy’”? said Bruce.
“Not a bit. By-bye, Jack. See you at luncheon to-morrow at the Gorgonzola. Well, what is it?”
“I want you to come with me to the ‘Duke’s.’ There’s a young lady there I’m interested in.”
Billy squeezed round in the hansom, which was now bowling across a corner of Trafalgar Square.
“You,” he cried. “After a girl! Is she in the profession? Is mamma frightened about her angel? The correct figure for a breach just now, my boy, is five thou’.”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. I will tell you all about it when matters have cleared a bit. It is a mere item in a really big story. But, here we are. Take me straight to the supper-room.”
As they entered the comfortable, brightly lit club the strains of a band came pleasantly to their ears, and in a minute they were installed at a corner table in the splendid room devoted to the most cheery of all gatherings—a Bohemian meal when the labors of the night are past.
Bruce soon marked his quarry. Jane Harding was in great form—eating, drinking, and talking at the same time.
“Who is that, Billy?” he said, indicating the girl.
Sadler carefully balanced hispince-nezon his well-defined nose, gazed, and laughed: “Goodness knows. She’s a new-comer, and not much at the best. Do you know where she carries a banner?”
“At the Jollity.”
“Oh! then here’s our man”—for a Mephistophelian gentleman was passing at the moment. “Say, Rosenheim, 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, attended by their swains, discussed coffee and cognac in thefoyer.
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 thosesteadfast, penetrating eyes. Moreover, it was not an ill thing for such a well-bred, well-dressed man to acknowledge 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?”
“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 necessary to create a further scandal in addition to the disappearance 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 informed 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 investigation. 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 temporized. “If you are anxious to quarrel with me, by allmeans do so,” he said; “but that was not my motive in speaking to you here to-night.”
Miss le Marchant shot a suspicious glance at him. “Then what was your motive,” she said.
“Chiefly to reassure my friend, your former master, concerning you; and, perhaps, to learn the cause of your very strange conduct.”
“Why should Sir Charles bother his head about me?”
“As I have told you. Because of the coincidence between your departure and Lady—”
“Oh yes, I know that.” Then she added testily: “I was a fool not to manage differently.”
“So you refuse me an explanation?”
“No, I don’t. I have no reason to do so. I came in for some money, and as I have longed all my life to be an actress I could not wait an hour, a moment, before I—before I—”
“Before you tried to gratify your impulse.”
“Yes, that is what I wanted to say.”
“But why not at least have written to Sir Charles, telling him of your intentions?”
The fair Marie was silent for a moment. The question confused her. “I hardly know,” she replied.
“Will you write to him now?”
“I don’t see why I should.”
“Indeed. Not even when it was you who gave some of your mistress’s underclothing to Mr. White, by which means he was able to identify the body found at Putney as that of Lady Dyke?”
“Mr. White told you that, did he?”
“He did.”
“Then you had better get him to give you all furtherinformation, 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.”
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 situated, 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 importance—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 designation 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 considerable size. At the farther end, seated in front of a gorgeous American desk, was a young man who ostentatiouslyfinished a letter and then motioned the barrister to a seat.
Bruce was curious on the question of the age of the head of the firm.
“Are you Mr. Dodge, or the son?” he said, with the utmost gravity.
The other was taken back by this unexpected method of opening the conversation. It annoyed him.
“I am the representative of the firm, sir, and fully able to deal with your business, whatever it may be,” he replied.
“No doubt. But it will simplify matters if I know exactly to whom I am addressing myself.”
After an uneasy shuffling in his seat—he could not guess what this keen-faced, earnest-eyed lawyer might want—the representative of Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) explained that he was Dodge, and the name of the firm had been adopted for general purposes.
“Then there is no ‘son,’ I take it.”
“Yes, there is, sir,”—this with a snort of anger.
“How old is he?”
“What the Dickens has that got to do with it? Will you kindly tell me what you want, sir, as my time is fully occupied?”
“Just now I want to know how old the ‘son’ is?”
This calm persistence irritated Mr. Dodge beyond endurance.
“Three years, confound you, and his sister is four months. Can I oblige you with any more details concerning my family affairs?”
Having purposely raised this man to boiling point by this harmless method of examination, Claude tackled the real business in hand. He was quite sure that a financial sharper in a temper was far more likely to blurt out thetruth 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?”
“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 differently. 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 marketto 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 dividends within twelve months.”
“There is a whiff of scent on this trail,” said Claude tohimself. 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 unconcerned way imaginable, yet upon the answer depended the whole success or otherwise of this hitherto unproductive 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.
“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 themselves 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 documents, 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 perturbation.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.
Bruce did not go to Bournemouth.
He quitted London by the next mail, and after a wearisome journey of thirty-six hours, found himself in the garden courtyard of the Hotel du Cercle at Monte Carlo.
Refreshed by a bath and an excellentdéjeuner, he decided to go quietly to work and search the visitors’ book for himself without asking any questions. The Hotel du Cercle was a popular resort, and it took him some time, largely devoted to the elucidation of hieroglyphic signatures, before he was quite satisfied that no one even remotely suggestive of the name of Sydney H. Corbett had recorded his presence in the hotel since the first week in November.
The barrister, for the first time, began to doubt Mrs. Hillmer. Twice had her statements not been verified by facts. It was with an expression of keen annoyance at his own folly in trusting so much to a favorable impression that he turned to the hotel clerk to ask if the name of Mr. Sydney H. Corbett was familiar to him.
The courteous Frenchman screwed up his forehead into a reflective frown before he answered: “But yes, monsieur. Me, I have not seen the gentleman, but he exists. There have been letters—two, three letters.”
“Ah, letters! Has he received them?”
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-addressed 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 itshabitués, awaiting developments in the chase of Corbett. In January, when London alternatesbetween 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 promenades, 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 consequence 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 Englishman 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 interest in the slaughter of the pigeons by the Englishman.
Her eyes spoke her thoughts. It was as if they said:“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 powersof observation. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have seen that Mensmore had not slept well. Bruce was assured that, for some reason, the other’s brain was dominated by some overwhelming idea, and one which might eventuate in a tragic manner were it to be allowed to go unchecked.
For some reason he took a good deal of interest in his unfortunate fellow-countryman, and determined to help him if the opportunity presented itself.
It came, with dramatic rapidity.
During dinner he noticed that Mensmore was in such a state of mental disturbance that he ate and drank with the air of one who is feverishly wasting rather than replenishing his strength.
Soon after eight o’clock, at the hour when frequenters of the Casino go there in order to secure a seat for the evening’s play, Mensmore quitted the dining-room. Bruce followed him unobstrusively, and was just in time to see him enter the lift.
The barrister waited in the hall, having first secured his hat and overcoat from the bureau, where he happened to have left them.
Even while he noted the descending lift, in which he could see Mensmore, who had donned a light covert coat, the breast of which bulged somewhat on the left side, the hotel clerk came to him, triumphantly holding a letter.
“And now, monsieur,” cried the clerk, “we shall see what we shall see.”
The missive was addressed to the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett, and had been forwarded by the Sloane Square Post-Office.
With a clang the door of the lift swung open and Mensmore hastened out. Bruce had to decide instantly betweenthe 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 interested 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 Mensmore’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 spaciousfoyerwas 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 bondage that would keep any one from the gambling saloon that night; but Mensmore heeded none of these things.