He passed the barrier, closely followed by Bruce, crossed thefoyer, 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 vacatedby 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 thecroupier’smonotonous cry—“Vingt-sept,rouge,impair,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 tightening 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 thousandfrancs 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 unmoved, but slightly pallid.
He passed out into thefoyerand 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 moment. 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 miserable lives these English lead!”
And so the two vanished into the blackness of the foliage, while, within the brilliantly lighted building, thefrou-frouof 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.
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 addressed by name, wheeled about, stared at the new-comer, and said, very stiffly:
“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 dangerous 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.
“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 business?”
“Not exactly that, old chap. Please don’t think me rude. I am very sorry, but Ican’ttalk much to-night.”
“So I understand. That is why I think it is best for you to have company, even such disagreeable companionship 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?”
“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 mancaught 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 negligence. 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-countryman’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.”
“Possibly. Meanwhile I want you to give me your word of honor that you will not make any further attempt 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 starvation. 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 backing 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.
“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 inquired:
“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—whetherthirteen 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 discover 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 absolutely dead broke.”
“Now listen to me. I will pay your fare back to London 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.”
Mensmore puffed his cigarette in silence for fully a minute. Then he said:
“You are a very decent sort, Mr.—”
“Bruce—Claude Bruce is my name.”
“Well, Mr. Bruce, you propose to hand me £10 for my railway fare, and, say, £5 for my existence, until we meet again in London, in exchange for which you purchase the rights in my life indefinitely, accidents and reasonable wear and tear excepted.”
“Exactly!”
“Make it £20, with five louis down, and I accept.”
“Why the stipulation?”
“I want to back my dream. The number is twenty-three. It evidently was not thirteen. I want to see that thing through. I will back the red after twenty-three turns up, and if I lose I shall be quite satisfied.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then I don’t care a bit what happens during the next seven days. After that,au revoir, should we happen to meet across the divide. Please make up your mind quickly. That run on the red may come and go while we are sitting here.”
Bruce opened his pocket-book. “Here,” he said with a smile, “I will give you four hundred francs. You will reach the maximum more quickly if you are right.”
Mensmore’s face lit up with excitement. “By Jove, you are a brick,” he said. “So you really trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then give me back my revolver.”
Without a word, Bruce handed him the weapon.
Mensmore extracted the cartridges and threw them into a clump of shrubs.
“Come,” he cried; “come with me to the Casino. Youwill see something. This is not my own luck; it is borrowed. 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 thecroupier’smonotonous 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 Mensmore’s shoulders as though to steady him.
Mensmore staked his ten louis on the red. They became 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.
At the fifth coup the sum to Mensmore’s credit was £256. He would have left it all on the table had not Bruce withdrawn £16 in notes, as the maximum is £240.
When Mensmore won the sixth and seventh coups a buzz of animated interest passed around the board. People began to note the run on the red, together with the fact that a man was staking the maximum each time. Even thecroupierscast fleeting glances at the new-comer, when, several times in succession, the long rake pushed across the table the little pile of money and notes.
Thenceforth Mensmore sat in a state of stupor more pronounced now that he was playing and awake than when he dreamt he was playing.
Each time he mechanically staked the maximum and received back twice as much, while the eager onlookers now burst into cries of wonder that brought others running from all parts of the room.
But Bruce did not lose count.
When the red had turned up seventeen times, and the amount to Mensmore’s credit was £3,128, he shook the latter violently as he was about to shove forward another maximum, and, of his own volition, placed the money on the black.
“Douze,noir,pair et manque,” sang out thecroupier, and Bruce hissed into Mensmore’s ear:
“Get up at once.”
His strangely made acquaintance obeyed, gathered up his gold and notes, fastened them securely in an inner pocket, and the pair quitted the Casino amid extravagant protestations of good-will and friendship from all the voluble foreigners present, having attracted not a little attention from the less demonstrative Americans and English in the room.
It was some time before the roulette tables began their orderly round again, for Mensmore’s sensational performance 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 reasonable requirements.
The pace was rapid and almost fatal.
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:
“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 notepaper, bearing the crest of the Hotel du Cercle, dated it, and wrote:
“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.”
“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 residence 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.”
“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 instance, 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 theyapprove 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 tournament. 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 totry 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 toldmother 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.”
“Dearest One,—You must forgive me, but we are both so miserable about that wretched money that I toldmother 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 awhirlwind. “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.
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’sménage—standing on the platform 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 Cockney 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 gladwithin 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 ineffaceable 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 sorrowful 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 concerning 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, differentiate 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 hadfound her at some theatre, and she volunteered an explanation 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 belongings 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:
“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 employers? Would there not have been the display of a splendid departure—in a hansom—with voluble directions 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 believing that her departure from this house had some connection, however remote, with Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”
“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 awaywhile 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 question. 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 canhebe? 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.”
“I sympathize with you, but you must not jump at me in that fashion. One hypothesis is as wildly impossible as the other. I did not say that Lady Dyke went to Raleigh Mansions on account of some present or bygone transgression of her own. I would as soon think of my mother in such a connection. But a pure, good woman will often do on behalf of others what she will not do for herself. Really, Dyke, you must not be unjust to me, especially when you force me to tell you what may prove to be mere theories.”
“Others? What others?”
“I cannot say. I wish I could. If I once lay hold of the reason that brought Lady Dyke to Raleigh Mansions, I will, within twenty-four hours, tell you who murdered her. Of that I am as certain as that the sun will rise to-morrow.”
And the barrister poked the fire viciously to give vent to the annoyance that his friend’s outburst had provoked.
“Pardon me, Bruce. Do not forget how I have suffered—what I am suffering—and try to bear with me. I never valued my wife while she lived. It is only now that I feel the extent of my loss. If my own life would only restore her to me for an instant I would cheerfully give it.”
If ever man meant his words this man did. His agitation moved the kindly hearted barrister to rise and place a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“I am sorry, Dyke,” he said, “that the conversation has taken this turn. These speculative guesses at potential clues distress you. If you took my advice, you would not worry about events until at least something tangible turns up.”
“Perhaps it is best so,” murmured the other. “In any event, it is of little consequence. I cannot live long.”
“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.”
“Did you find him?”
“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 araconteur, gave him the history of the Casino incident, and the thrillingdénouementso 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 sensational 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 Mensmore.”
“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.”
“What an extraordinary thing! Yet I never remember hearing you mention his name.”
“Probably not. I have hardly seen him since my marriage. We were schoolboys together, though I was so much his senior that we did not chum together until later, when we met a good deal on the turf. Then he went off, roughing it in the States. It must be he. It is just one of his pranks. And he is going to marry, eh? Is she a nice girl?”
The baronet was thoroughly excited. He talked fast, and helped himself liberally to stimulants.
“Yes, unusually so. But I cannot help marvelling at this coincidence. It has upset you.”
“Not a bit. I was interested in your yarn, and naturally I was unprepared for the startling fact that an old friend of mine filled the chief part. What a fellow you are, Claude, for always turning up at the right time. I have never been in a tight place personally, but if I were I suppose you would come along and show me the way out. Sit down again and give me all the details. I am full of curiosity.”
Bruce had never before seen Sir Charles in such a hysterical mood. The anguish of the past three months had changed the careless, jovial baronet into a fretful, wayward being, who had lost control of his emotions. Undoubtedly he required some powerful tonic. The barrister resolved to see more of him in the future, and not to cease urging him until he had started on a long sea voyage, or taken up some hobby that would keep his mind from brooding upon the everlasting topic of his wife’s strange death.
Dyke’s fitful disposition manifested itself later. After he had listened with keen attention to all that Bruce hadtold 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.
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. Whitehadthought of it.
“Inexorable Fate!” is a favorite phrase with the makers of books; but Fate, being feminine according to the best authorities, is also somewhat fickle in disposition. Not only is she not invariably inexorable, but at times she delights to play with her poor subjects, to dazzle them with surprise, as it were, to stupefy them with the sense of their sheer inability to foresee or understand her vagaries.
It was Bruce’s turn to receive the sharpest lesson in this respect that he ever remembered.
At breakfast the next morning he selected from a packet of unimportant letters one which required immediate attention. The financiers to whom he had written in conformity with his implied promise to Mr. Dodge had replied favorably with reference to the reconstruction of the Springbok Mine.
They informed Bruce confidentially that a thoroughly reliable man in Johannesburg, to whom they had cabled, reported very strongly in favor of the property. They would await his written statement before finally committing themselves. Meanwhile, if Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) were anxious to get the business advanced a stage, there was no reason why he (Bruce) should not assure them that, subject to the first satisfactory report being confirmed, his clients would underwrite the shares. The whole thing would thus go through in about threeweeks. 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. However, 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.”
“Then thatwasthe 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-s-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 thousand 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 turnup 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 backing I could have. This is a good turn, Mr. Bruce, and I shan’t forget it. You see, we’re a young firm, and association 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 mybest 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 confidentially, 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 knewto 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 somebody. Where is his letter?”
Mr. Dodge looked on his table. “Oh, here it is. Addressed from ‘YachtWhite 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.
“Ifyouthink 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. Mensmore 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 hehimself had helped this man to escape the punishment of Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed, pitifully amusing 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 indefinitely 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—”
“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 wondered why the barrister was so perturbed, and resolved to strike while the iron was hot. So he, too, vanished into the interior.