“Mrs. Hillmer will be at home at four o’clock if Mr. Bruce cares to call then.”
“Mrs. Hillmer will be at home at four o’clock if Mr. Bruce cares to call then.”
“Whew!” he whistled. “What’s in the wind there? This is an uncommonly stiff invitation. That rascal White has upset her, I’ll be bound. Imustchoke him off somehow. Suppose he were to find that damaged bracket! He would have Mensmore under trial at the Old Bailey in double-quick time. After I leave Mrs. Hillmer I must visit No. 12 again, and carry off that pair of brackets before White discovers them, as he will haunt the place in future.”
Bruce had a set of skeleton keys in his possession.
They were in his pocket when he approached Raleigh Mansions at the appointed hour.
The same trim maid opened the door for him andushered him into the drawing-room. On the occasion of his first visit he was taken to the dining-room. It was a small matter, but Bruce paid heed to such.
Mrs. Hillmer appeared, very stately and undemonstrative. She greeted him coldly, seated herself at a distance, and said, in a cold, well-controlled voice:
“I did not expect the honor of another visit from you, Mr. Bruce.”
“Why not?”
There was a fight brewing, and he would let the enemy open fire. The glitter in her eyes showed that the batteries were ready to be unmasked. He was not mistaken.
“Why not? Because I believed you to be a gentleman. Once you had stooped to sending your myrmidons to pester me I imagined that you would keep yourself in the background.”
There was an indignant ring in her words as she concluded. When a woman is angry her own speech acts as a trumpet-call and fires her blood. Mrs. Hillmer began, as she intended, in icy disdain. She ended in tremulous anger.
“You allude to Mr. White?” said the barrister, looking steadily at her.
“Yes, that is the man. Some hireling from Scotland Yard. Howcouldyou so meanly induce my confidence at our first meeting? I have never been so deceived in a man in my life, and I have had a surfeit of bitter experience already.”
“Brother and sister are alike. They have led queer lives,” mused Bruce. Aloud he said:
“Your experience, Mrs. Hillmer, should at least lead you not to condemn any one unheard. May I explainthat which is to you incomprehensible at this moment?—justly so, I admit.”
“Explanations! I am a child in the hands of such as you. How can I hope to fathom your real intent? Presumably, if I accept your apologies now, it will be a prelude to further visits by impudent police officers.”
“I am not here to apologize, Mrs. Hillmer.”
“What then, pray?”
“To plead with you. For Heaven’s sake do not distrustme. It may ruin those whom you hold dear. Listen to me first, and try to believe me afterwards.”
He was so thoroughly in earnest, so impressive in manner, that she did not know what to make of him. In her despair, she adopted a woman’s chief resource—her eyes filled with tears.
But he anticipated her.
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he cried, “let us act like sensible people. Compose yourself, order in some tea, and after an interlude I will tell you all about it. Candor is an indispensable element of confidence.”
Mrs. Hillmer rose, made an effort to choke back her agitation, went out, and called to the maid for tea. She returned in a few moments. When they were alone Bruce said, with a smile:
“A littlepoudre de risis an excellent corrective for signs of grief.”
The lady blushed, and there was a perceptible return to her former pleasant manner.
“You are incorrigible, I fear,” she cried.
“Not a bit. Impressionable, rather. Now, I am going to startle you considerably, so be prepared. And do not jump at conclusions. Though startling, my news is not alarming. All may yet end well.”
Mrs. Hillmer was manifestly anxious, but she promised to try to understand him fully before she formed any judgment.
“Then,” said he, “I can clear the air a good deal by a simple statement. Mr. White is no agent of mine, and I have seen your brother, Albert Mensmore, at Monte Carlo.”
Mrs. Hillmer gave a little gasp of surprise. “You have seen Bertie?”
“Yes; your brother, is he not?”
“My half-brother, to be exact. My father was married twice. I—I am the elder of the two by four years.”
“Apart from the compliment, you do not look it. But what you say explains the total absence of likeness between you.”
“Possibly. People said we each resembled our mother. And Bertie, you know, has led a somewhat adventurous career. He roughed it a good deal in America. But what has all this got to do with detectives, and recent inquiries, and that sort of thing?”
“Much. The last time we met I told you that your brother was mixed up in some little affair with a lady.”
Mrs. Hillmer laughed, a trifle constrainedly. “If you knew Bertie as well as I do, you would not harbor suspicions concerning him. He never had a love affair in his life. Indeed, he is something of a woman-hater.”
“No doubt he was. But he has changed his opinions. He is in love, and is engaged to be married to a very charming girl. Thus far, his beliefs and his good fortune have pulled against each other.”
“Bertie engaged to be married! Good gracious! Who is she? And how can he support a wife? He is poor, and in debt, and he won’t even let me help him.”
“I have stated the facts, nevertheless. The lady is adaughter of Sir William Browne, and they are now yachting with a large party in the Mediterranean.”
“Are her people against the match? Is that why this Scotland Yard man—?”
“No. Mensmore is on board Sir William’s yacht. But there is another lady, missing from her home for nearly three months, who is believed to be dead—murdered, the police say—and with whom your brother was in some indefinable way associated.”
“Do they dare to say that Bertie killed her?” Mrs. Hillmer’s color rose and her eyes flashed fire again.
“They say nothing. They are simply doing their duty in trying to discover the truth. And you may take it from me, as an undoubted fact, that the last place this lady visited before her death was one of the flats in these mansions. All present indications point to your brother’s residence as being that place. Now, I pray you, be calm, and try to help me, for I have acted in this matter as your friend and as your brother’s friend. At this very moment I am concealing his identity and his whereabouts from the police, who are searching for him under the assumed name of Corbett. If he is guilty of this crime, then I must hand him over to justice, for the murdered woman was a dear and good friend of mine. If he is innocent, as, indeed, I believe him to be, I will strive to help him and save his good name from the tarnish of being arrested on such an odious charge.”
During this recital Mrs. Hillmer became deathly pale. Her agitation was the greater inasmuch as she forcibly controlled herself. But she could not remain seated. She sprang to the window and looked out, in the vain effort to seek inspiration from the gathering gloom of the street. Then she turned, and spoke very slowly:
“I think I understand. I must have faith in you, Mr. Bruce. Who—was—the lady?”
The barrister thought deeply before replying. He had previously decided upon this supreme step, but he hesitated now that it was imminent. There was no help for it.
“Her name,” said he, “is one which is well known to the world. Lady Dyke, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, is missing from her home since the evening of November 6 last. She met with a violent death that night, and I—not the police—have good reason to believe that she was killed in your brother’s residence.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on a lounge, buried her white face in her hands and moaned, in a perfect agony of terror:
“Oh, my God! What shall I do? What shall I do?”
This outburst astounded Bruce. He did not know what to make of it. His intelligence had certainly taken his hearer by surprise. What interpretation was he to place upon her words and her unrestrained actions?
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she broke in vehemently, running to him and clutching him by the arm:
“He is innocent, Mr. Bruce. Hemustbe innocent. He could not lift his finger to any woman. You must save him—do you hear?—save him, or you will have his blood on your soul. Itwastrue, then, that you came here to hunt for him. Save him, if you hope for mercy yourself when you are dying.”
In her passion she shook him violently, and for an instant they looked intently at each other—the woman tensely piteous, entreating; the man amazed and questioning.
“Do you not see,” he said at last, “that your vehemencereveals your thoughts? For anything you know to the contrary, your brother may have committed the crime. Nay, it requires but slight knowledge of human nature to read your suspicions lest it be true. At this moment I am convinced that you are, in your heart, less sceptical than I of his guilt.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself again upon the lounge, silent, tearful, torn with violent emotion, which she vainly tried to suppress.
He tried to reason with her.
“It will, perhaps, serve to clear up a mystery that deepens each moment if you place your trust in me,” he said. “Tell me fully and openly any cause you may have for fearing that your brother may be implicated in this terrible business. I ask you to adopt this course in all faith. I have seen your brother under most trying circumstances; I have been with him at an hour when it would be impossible for him to conceal his burden if the weight of Lady Dyke’s death lay upon him. Yet I think him innocent. I think that chance has contributed to gather evidence against him. If I can learn even a portion of the truth it will enable me to quickly dispel the barrier of uncertainty that now hinders progress.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Mrs. Hillmer’s voice was hollow and broken. The barrister was shocked at the effect of his revelation, but he was forced to go on with the disagreeable task he had undertaken.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that you will answer my questions?”
“So far as I can.”
“Would it not be better to tell me in your own words what you have to say?”
Mrs. Hillmer looked up, and the agony in her face filled him with keen pity.
“Oh, Heaven help me to do what is right!” she cried.
“Your prayer will surely be answered. I am certain of that. A great wrong has been committed by some one, and the innocent must not suffer to shield the guilty.”
Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head and did not utter a word for some minutes. She appeared to be reasoning out some plan of action in a dazed fashion. When decision came she said in low tones:
“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have time. When I am ready I shall send for you.”
He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead with her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.
“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.
“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving you. When I have determined something which is not now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either case I only can judge—and suffer.”
“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we part. Did you know of Lady Dyke’s death before to-day?”
She came to him and looked him straight in the face, and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”
Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of this painful interview did not prevent him from noting the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some one hurried into the interior of a room.
In their excitement they forgot that their voices might attract attention, and ladies’ maids are proverbially inquisitive.
The keen, cold air of the streets soon restored the man to his habitual calm. He felt that a quiet stroll would do him good.
As he walked he pondered, and the more critically he examined Mrs. Hillmer’s change of attitude the less he understood it.
“For some ridiculous reason,” he communed, “the woman believes her brother guilty. Now I shall have endless trouble at getting at the truth. She will not be candid. She will only tell me that which she thinks will help him, and conceal that which she considers damaging. That is a woman’s way, all the world over. And a desperately annoying way it is. Perhaps I was to blame in springing this business too hastily upon her. But there! I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate using her as one juggles with a self-conceited witness. In future I shall trouble her no more.”
A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square Station gave him a glimpse of the barrier, and he recognized the collector who had taken Lady Dyke’s ticket on that fatal night when she quitted the Richmond train.
Rather as a relief than for other cause he entered into conversation with the official.
“Do you remember me?” he said.
“Can’t say as I do, sir.” The man examined his questioner with quick suspicion. The forgotten “season” dodge would not work withhim.
“Maybe you remember these?” said Bruce, producing his cigar-case.
“Now, wot’s the gyme?” said the collector to himself. But he smiled, and answered: “Do you mean by the look of ’em, sir?”
“Good!” laughed Claude. “Take three or four home with you. Meanwhile I am sure you remember me coming to see you last November concerning a lady who alighted here from Victoria one foggy evening and handed you a ticket to Richmond?”
“Of course I do, sir. And the cigars areallright. There was a lot of fuss about that lydy. Did she ever turn up?”
“Not exactly. That is to say, she died shortly after you saw her.”
“No! Well, of all the rummy goes! She was a fine-looking woman, too, as well as I rec’llect. Looked fit for another fifty year. Wot ’appened to ’er.”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“An’ ’ave you been on the ’unt ever since, guv’nor?”
“Yes, ever since.”
“She’s dead, you s’y?”
“Yes.”
“But ’ow’d you know she’s dead, if you ’ain’t seen ’er since?”
“I have seen her. I saw her dead body at Putney.”
“At Putney! Well, I’m blowed!”
A roar from beneath, the slamming of many doors, and the quick rush of a crowd up the steps, announced the arrival of a train. “Pardon, sir,” said the man, “this isthe 5.41 Mansion House. But don’t go aw’y. There’s somethin’—Tickets,ifyou please.”
In a minute the collector had ended his task. While sorting his bundles of pasteboards he said:
“Nobody ever tell’d me that before. An’ you ain’t the only one on ’er track. Are you in the police?”
“No.”
“I thought not. But some other chaps who kem ’ere was. None of ’em ever said the lydy was dead.”
“Why; what matter?”
“Oh, nothin’, but two ’eads is better’n one, if they’re only sheep’s ’eads.”
“Undoubtedly. The rule is all the more reliable when one of them belongs to a shrewd chap like you.”
The collector grinned. He understood that he was being flattered for a purpose, yet he liked it.
“That’s one w’y of lookin’ at it,” he said, “but if this affair’s pertickler, why, all I can s’y is it’s worth somethin’ to somebody.”
“Certainly. Here’s a sovereign for a start. If you can tell me anything really worth knowing I will add four more to it.”
“Now, that’s talkin’. I’m off duty at eight o’clock, an’ I can’t ’ave a chat now because I expect the inspector any minute.”
“Suppose you call and see me in Victoria Street at nine?”
“Right you are, sir.”
Bruce gave the man his address and recrossed the square. Few people were abroad, so he walked straight to the first door of Raleigh Mansions and made his way to the fourth floor.
Had he been a moment later he must have seen Mrs.Hillmer, closely wrapped up, leave her residence unattended. Her carriage was not in waiting. She walked to the cabstand in the square and called a hansom, driving back up Sloane Street.
Her actions indicated a desire to be unobserved even by her servants, as in the usual course of events the housemaid would have brought a cab to the door.
But the barrister, steadily climbing up the stairs, could not guess what was happening in the street. He soon opened Mensmore’s door, and noted, as an idle fact, that the expected gust of cold air was absent.
There was no light on this landing, so he was in pitch darkness once he had passed the doorway. There was no need to strike a match, however, as he remembered the exact position of the electric switchboard—on the left beyond the dining-room door.
He stepped cautiously forward, and stretched forth his hand to grope for the lever. With a quick rush, some two or three assailants flung themselves upon him, and after a fierce, gasping struggle—for Bruce was a strong man—he was borne to the floor face downwards, with one arm beneath him and the other pinioned behind his back.
“Look sharp, Jim,” shouted a breathless voice. “Turn on the light and close the door. We’ve got him safe enough.”
They had. Two large hands were clutched round his neck, a knee was firmly embedded in the small of his back, another hand gripped his left wrist like a vice, while some one sat on his legs.
He could not have been collared more effectually by a Rugby International team.
The third man found the electric light and turned it on.
“Now, get up,” said some one, “and don’t give us any more trouble. It’s no use.”
The barrister, who had had his wind knocked out of him, rose to his knees. Then, as the light fell upon the horrified face of Mr. White, he vainly essayed to keep up the pretence of indignation. Once fairly on his feet, he nearly collapsed with laughter. He leaned against the wall, and, as his breath came again, he laughed until his sides ached.
Meanwhile the detective was crimson with rage and annoyance. His two assistants did not know what to make of the affair.
“What’s wrong, Jim?” said one at last. “Isn’t this Corbett?”
“No, of course it’s not,” was his angry growl.
“Then who the —— is it?”
“Oh, ask me another! How on earth could I guess, Mr. Bruce, that you’d come letting yourself in here with a latchkey?”
Claude was still holding his sore ribs and could not answer; but the policeman who had questioned White caught the name. He recognized it, and grinned at his companion.
“What did you want here, anyhow?” snarled the infuriated detective, as he realized that his greatcoupwould be retailed with embellishments through every police station in the metropolis.
“I w-wanted you to ar-r-rest me, W-White,” roared Claude. “I s-said you would, and you have.”
“Confound it, how could you know I was here?”
“You were sure to wait here for a man who probably will not return for months.”
“Was I, indeed? Well, you have yourself to blame ifyou are hurt. I hope my mates did not treat you too badly?”
“What?” cried the one who had not yet spoken. “He gave me such a punch on the bread-basket that I’ve only just recovered my speech.”
“I think we’re about quits,” said the other, surveying a torn waistcoat and broken watch-chain.
“I shall be black and blue all over to-morrow,” said Bruce; “but if you are satisfied I am. Come, Mr. White, bring your friends and we will open a bottle of wine. We all want it. Corbett won’t be here to-night. Just now he is in Wyoming.”
“How do you know?”
“By intuition. I am seldom mistaken.”
“But why didn’t you call out just now when you came in?”
“I hadn’t a chance. You were on me like a thousand of bricks. I must confess that if Corbett were in my shoes he would be a doomed man.”
White didn’t know whether to believe Bruce or not. He was genuinely angry at the incident, but the barrister did not want to convert him into an enemy, and he vaguely felt that a catastrophe was imminent, and a false move by the police might do irretrievable mischief.
“Well, inspector,” he said, “I must confess that this time you have got the better of me. I did not know you were here. I looked in for the purpose of quietly studying the ground, as it were, and I was never more taken by surprise in my life. Moreover, your plan was a very clever one, in view of the fact that Corbett might return at any moment.”
The detective became more amiable at this praise fromthe famous amateur, for Bruce’s achievements were well known to his two colleagues.
“I suppose you wondered what had happened,” he said with a smile.
“I thought my last hour had come. I am only sorry that Corbett himself did not have the experience.”
“Do you really believe he is in the States, sir?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then he must have returned there since he wrote that letter.”
“That is the only solution of the difficulty.”
“Hum. It’s a pity.”
“Why?”
“I would sooner prefer to arrest him on this side. To get him by extradition is a slow affair, and probably means a trip across the Atlantic.”
Good-humor being now restored, the party quitted the flat and adjourned to a neighboring hotel, where the barrister started White on the full, true, and particular account of his pursuit and capture of the Winchmore Hill burglars, an exploit which was the pride of the detective’s life.
At the end of a bottle of champagne and a cigar they all parted excellent friends, but Bruce did not attempt to revisit Raleigh Mansions that night.
Instead, he partook of a quiet meal at a restaurant, and hurried to his chambers to await the advent of the ticket-collector.
Punctual to the hour, this new witness arrived, and was admitted by Smith in obedience with previous instructions. The man was somewhat awed by the surroundings and the appearance of a servant in livery, but Bruce quickly put him at his ease.
“Come, sit near the fire. Do you drink whisky and soda? That box contains your favorite cigars. Now, tell me all you know about this business.”
“I can’t s’y as I know anythink about it, sir, but by puttin’ two and two together it makes four sometimes—not always.”
“Quite right. You’re a philosopher. Let me hear the two two’s. We will see about the addition afterwards.”
“Well, sir, this yer lydy was a-missin’ early in November. She tykes a ticket at Victoria Station on the District for Richmond; she gives it up to me at Sloane Square, arsks a newsboy the w’y to Raleigh Mansions, for ’e tell’d me so after you’d bin to see me, an’ from what you s’y, ’as bin swallered up ever since.”
“The Lord Chief couldn’t state the case more simply.”
“That’s the first two. Now, for the second two, an’ you won’t forgit as I knew nothink about the lydy bein’ dead, or I should ’ave opened my mouth long afore this.”
“Go on. No one can blame you.”
“There’s an old chap—Foxey they calls ’im, but I don’t know ’is right nyme—who drives a four-wheeler around Chelsea, an’ ’e ’ad tyken a fare from the Square to the City. It might be four o’clock or it might be five, but ’e was on ’is w’y back from Cornhill when a gent, a tall, good-looking gent, a youngish, military chap, ’ails ’im and says: ‘Cabby, drive me to Sloane Square. There’s no ’urry, but tyke care, because it’s foggy.’ Old Foxey nearly jumped out of ’is skin at this bit of good luck. ’E was pretty full then, for ’e’s a regular beer-barrel, ’e is, but ’e made up ’is mind to ’ave a fair old skinful that night. Well, Foxey drives ’im all right to the Square. The gent gives ’im five bob and says: ‘Wite ’ere for me,cabby. You can drive me ’ome in about an hour’s time.’ This was at 5.30. Foxey drew up near the stytion, tells me all about it, an’ stan’s me two beers, ’e was that pleased with ’isself. ’E goes to give ’is ’oss the nose-bag, in comes the Richmond train, and out pops the lydy with the Richmond ticket. D’ye follow me?”
“Every word.”
“An’ you see now ’ow it is I can fix the d’y?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, I sees no more of Foxey. I missed ’im about the Square, so one d’y I axes at the rank,—‘Where’s Foxey?’ An’ where d’ye think ’e was?”
“I can not tell.”
“In quod.”
“In jail. Why?”
“That’s hit. That’s number two of the twos. Pardon me, but I’m gettin’ a bit mixed. Well, it seems that that very night, comin’ back from Putney as drunk as a lord, old Foxey runs over a barrer. ’E an’ the coster ’as a fight. The police come, and Foxey dots one bobby in the blinkers and another on the boko. You wouldn’t think it was in ’im. ’E must ’ave bin paralytic.”
“So he was locked up?”
“Locked up! ’E was dragged there by the ’eels. Next mornin’ ’e comes before the beak. ‘We was all drunk together, your wurshup,’ ’e says. ‘I took a fare from the City to Sloane Square, an’ ’e left me for more’n an hour. ’E comes back excited like—bin boozin’ ’ard, I suppose—brings my keb up to a ’ouse, carries in a lydy who was that ’toxicated she couldn’t stand, an’ tells me to drive to Putney. We gits there, an’ I says ‘you’ve nearly killed my ’oss, guv’nor.’ With that ’e tips me a fiver—a five-pun note, your wurshup.’ ‘What has that got to do withthe charge?’ says the beak. ‘Wot?’ says Foxey. ‘If a chap give you a fiver for drivin’ ’im to Putney wouldn’t you get drunk?’ With that the magistrate gives ’im three months for assaulting the police, and fines ’im the balance of the fiver for bein’ drunk in charge of a ’oss and keb.”
The ticket collector took a long drink after this recital.
“I hope you will not follow Foxey’s example,” said Bruce, rising.
“’Ow do you mean, sir?”
“Because I am going to keep my word. Here are the four sovereigns I owe you. In your case your two and two have made five.”
“Thank you, sir. You’re a brick. No fear of me meltin’ this little lot. The missus will be on ’em like a bird w’en I tell her.” And the man spat upon the coins with evident relish as he handled them.
“One word more,” said Bruce. “Where was this man tried?”
“At the West London Police Court.”
“You can get me his real name and post it to me?”
“Sure, sir. Anyway, I’ll try.”
“I am greatly obliged to you.”
“An’ ’as my yarn bin of any use to you, sir?”
“The greatest. It has solved a puzzle. However, I will see you again. Good-bye. Don’t forget to write.”
“Cornhill is the direct line from Leadenhall Street,” mused Claude, when he was alone. “Any one coming to Sloane Square from Dodge & Co.’s office would pass through it. Upon my word, things look very black against Mensmore. Yet I cannot believe it.”
Bruce now had several lines of inquiry open.
Apart from the main and vital question as to the exact method of Lady Dyke’s death, and the identity of the person responsible for it, a number of important matters required attention.
Why had Jane Harding quitted her situation so suddenly?
Whence did she obtain the money that enabled her to blossom forth as Marie le Marchant?
Who was Sydney H. Corbett?
Why did Mensmore adopt a false name; and, in any case, why adopt the name of Corbett?
Why did Mrs. Hillmer exhibit such sudden terror lest her brother might be guilty?
Whom did Mrs. Hillmer marry? Was her husband alive or dead?
Was the man who conveyed Lady Dyke’s body from Raleigh Mansions to Putney responsible also for her death?
Finally, why did he select that particular portion of the Thames banks for the bestowal of his terrible burden?
Many other minor features suggested themselves for careful attention, but the barrister knew that if he elucidated some of the major questions the rest would answer themselves.
The last query promised to yield a good crop of information should it be satisfactorily dealt with. Turning to his notes, he found that the former owner of the Putney house was a tutor or preparatory schoolmaster, named the Rev. Septimus Childe.
Could it be that this was the school in which both Sir Charles Dyke and Mensmore were fellow-students? If so, Bruce failed to see why he should not forthwith place the whole of the facts in his possession at the service of the police, and allow the law to take its course.
On this supposition, the case against Mensmore was very black; not, indeed, incapable of explanation—for circumstantial evidence occasionally plays strange pranks with logic—but of such a grave nature that no private individual would be justified in keeping his knowledge to himself.
The deduction was intensely disagreeable; but Bruce resolved to coerce his thoughts, and do that which was right, irrespective of consequences.
He did not possess a Clergy List. No letter came from Mrs. Hillmer, so he walked across the Park to his club in Pall Mall to consult the appropriately bound black and white volume which gives reference to the many degrees of the Church of England.
Septimus Childe was a distinctive, though simple, name. And it was not there. There was not a Childe with a final “e” in the whole book. Without that important letter, as his informant might be mistaken, there were several. Close scrutiny of each man’s designation and duties convinced him that though any of these might be one of the particular Childe’s children, none answered to the description of the gentleman he sought.
Of course, he could always apply to Sir Charles Dyke,but he dreaded approaching the grief-stricken baronet on this matter. Now there was no help for it. The barrister was beginning to feel impatient at the constant difficulties which barred progress in each direction. After all, it was a small thing merely to ask his friend if he ever knew a reverend gentleman named Childe.
Bruce was sure that Sir Charles would not be acquainted with Mr. Childe, and also with the fact that the Putney house had served as his school, for it would be strange beyond credence if it were so that he had not mentioned it.
The weather was still clear and cold, and a wintry sun made walking pleasant. Claude, on quitting his club, set out again on foot. He crossed St. James’s Square, Jermyn Street, and Piccadilly, and made his way to Oxford Street up New Bond Street.
Not often did he frequent these fashionable thoroughfares, and he had an excellent reason. When walking, he was given to abstraction, and seldom saw his acquaintances if he encountered them in unusual quarters. He would thus cut dead a woman at whose house he had dined the previous evening, or, when he was in practice at the Bar, fail to notice the salutation of his own leader.
To Claude himself this short-coming was intolerable; consciousness of it when in the West made him the most alert man in the crowd to note anybody whom he knew, except on the rare occasions when he forgot his failing.
This morning Bond Street was pleasantly full. People were beginning to return to town. Parliament re-assembled in a few days, and he passed many who were on his visiting list.
Outside a well-known costumer’s he saw a brougham, into which a lady had just been assisted by the commissionaire.
It is no uncommon thing to recognize an acquaintance by the color of his horse, or the peculiar cut of the coachman’s whiskers. This time Bruce knew the driver as well as the equipage, but the lady was not Mrs. Hillmer.
Instantly he was at the door, with his hat lifted; he assumed an expression of polite regret as he saw Dobson, the maid, in her mistress’s place.
“Sorry,” he said, “I knew the carriage, and thought that Mrs. Hillmer was inside. She is well, I trust.”
“Not very, sir,” answered the maid with an angry pout.
“Indeed, what is the matter?”
“Madame is going away, and has put us all on board wages.”
Dobson had some of the privileges of a companion, and resented this relegation to the servants’ hall.
“Going away?” cried Bruce. “A sudden departure, eh?”
The girl was arranging some parcels on the seat in front of her. She was not disinclined for a conversation with this good-looking gentleman, so she smiled archly, as she said: “Didn’t you know, sir? I thought you would know all about it.”
What he might have ascertained by a longer chat the barrister could not tell, for an interruption occurred. The coachman was more loyal to his mistress than the maid.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he cried, “but the missus told us to hurry”; and he whipped his steed into the passing stream of carriages.
“More complications,” murmured Claude. “Mrs. Hillmer contemplates a bolt. Shall I pay her another visit and surprise her? No, confound it, I will not. Let her go, and let things take their course.”
Not in the most amiable frame of mind at this discovery, he pursued his walk to Portman Square.
Sir Charles Dyke was at home. He always was, now.
“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Bruce,” whispered Thompson in the hall, “try to persuade Sir Charles to quit smokin’, and readin’, and thinkin’. He sits all day in the library and ’ardly has anything to eat.”
Claude reproached himself for having neglected his resolution to stir his friend into something like animation. He was wondering what he should do in the matter, when the baronet rose at his entrance, saying, with a weary smile:
“Well, old fellow, what news?”
The other suddenly decided to throw all questioning to the winds for the moment. “I have come to bring you out. I won’t hear of a refusal. Let us walk to the club and have lunch and a game of billiards.”
Sir Charles protested. He had slept badly and was tired.
“All the more reason that you should sleep well to-night. Come, now, be advised. You will allow yourself to become a hopeless invalid if you go on in this way.”
Dyke unwillingly consented, and they left the house. The older man brightened up considerably amidst the bustle of the streets. His color returned, he talked with some degree of cheerfulness, and even laughed as he said:
“I never understood you were a doctor, Claude, in addition to your other varied acquirements. For the first time since—since November last, I feel hungry.”
“Why don’t you take my advice, and go away for some shooting? It is not too late, even now, to go after a hare.”
“I will think of it. I wonder who we shall meet at the club.”
“Lots of fellows, no doubt. And, by the way, you must be prepared for one little difficulty. Suppose they ask about your wife?”
The baronet’s momentary gaiety vanished. He stopped short, and clutched Bruce’s arm. “Don’t you see,” he almost moaned, “that this is the reason I have remained indoors for so long? What shall I say?”
“You must make the best of it. Say, off-handedly, you don’t know where she is—either with relations or in Italy. Anything will do, and it will create a false impression.”
“I am sick of false impressions. I cannot do it.”
“You must.”
The stronger will prevailed, and they entered the doors of the Imperial, where, of course, Dyke was hailed at once by a dozen men.
“Hallo, Charlie! Been seedy?”
“Good gracious, Dyke! have you had influenza? I’ve missed you for months, now I come to think of it.”
“I haven’t seen your wife for quite a time. How is she?”
In the multitude of questions there was safety.
Sir Charles answered vaguely, and a chance arrival created a diversion by announcing that the favorite had broken down in his preparation for the Grand National.
Later in the afternoon, the two found themselves ensconced in a quiet corner of the smoking-room. Bruce seized the opportunity.
“You told me,” he said, “that Mensmore and you were at school together?”
“Did I?” said the baronet.
“Yes; don’t you remember?”
“I get mixed up in thinking about things. But it is all right. We were.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Oh, a private establishment kept by an old chap called Septimus Childe,—Lucky Number was our nickname for him.”
Bruce betrayed no surprise at this startlingly simple statement. He said casually:
“I mean where was the school situated?”
“At Brighton in my time. But afterwards he shifted to some place near London—something to do with examinations, I fancy.”
“But don’t you know where?”
“How should I? I was at Sandhurst then. I believe the old boy is dead. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it has something to do with the inquiry. I won’t trouble you now with the details.”
“Go on, I can stand it.”
“But where is the good in paining you needlessly?”
“That stage has passed, old chap. My wife’s memory has almost become a dream to me.”
“Well, it is an extraordinary thing, but that place where—that house at Putney, you know, must have been the new school of the Rev. Septimus Childe.”
“How did you learn that?”
“I have known it for months, ever since the inquest.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“True, but at the time it seemed of no consequence. Now that Mensmore turns out to be a pupil of his, and probably passed the remainder of his early school days at that very establishment, the incident assumes a degree of importance.”
Sir Charles looked earnestly at his friend as he put his next question: “Tell me, Claude, do you seriously believe that Mensmore had anything to do with my wife’s death?”
“I cannot honestly give you a satisfactory answer.”
“But what do you think?”
“If you press me I will try to put my opinion into words. Mensmore was in some mysterious way associated with the crime; but the degree of association, and whether conscious or unconscious, I do not know.”
“What do you mean by ‘conscious or unconscious’?”
“I am sure that Lady Dyke met her death in his residence; but it is impossible to say now if he was aware of her presence. He was in London at the time, that is quite certain.”
“Do the police know all this?”
“No.”
“I am glad of it. Mensmore did not kill my wife. The suggestion is absurd—wildly absurd.”
“Things look black against him, nevertheless.”
“I tell you it is nonsense. You are on the wrong track, Bruce. What possible reason could he have had to decoy my wife to his flat and there murder her?”
“None, perhaps.”
“Then why do you hesitate to agree with me?”
“Because there is a woman in the case.”
“Another woman?”
“Yes; Mensmore’s sister, or half-sister, to be exact. She also lives in Raleigh Mansions.”
“Indeed. So all kinds of things have been going on without my knowledge. Yet you promised faithfully to keep me informed of every incident that transpired.”
“I am sorry, Dyke; but you were so upset—”
“Upset, man. Don’t you realize that this affair is all I have to think about in the world?”
The baronet was so disturbed that Claude at once made up his mind to tell him as little as possible in the future. These constant possibilities of rupture between them must be avoided at all hazard.
To change the conversation he said: “Never mind; this time you must pardon my inadvertence. How do your wife’s people bear the continued mystery of her disappearance?”
“At first they were awfully cut up. But lately they have been reconciled to her death, which they say must have resulted from accident, and that her identity must have been mixed up with that of some other person. Such things do happen, you know. Anyway, her sister has gone into mourning for her. You didn’t hear, I suppose, that I have made my little nephew my heir?”
“Was that step necessary at your time of life?”
“I shall never marry again, Bruce.”
“Well, let us drop the subject. You have done right as regards the boy under present circumstances; but, as a man of the world, I only point out that it is an unwise thing to bring up a youngster in expectation of something which chance might determine differently.”
“Chance! There is no chance! My wife cannot return from the grave!”
“True. You have done right, no doubt. But the suddenness of the thing caused me to speak unwittingly.”
They were silent for a little while, when Sir Charles returned to the subject nearest his heart.
“Has your search developed in other directions?”
Bruce fenced with the query. “To be candid,” he said, “I am now most busily engaged in the not verydifficult task of throwing dust in the eyes of the police. My motives are hardly definite to myself, but I do not want this unfortunate man, Mensmore, to be arrested until I have personally become convinced of his guilt.”
“You are right. Your instinct seldom fails you. I question if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife.”
“Ah! You see you have hit upon the difficulty. Show me her reason for making that secret journey, and I will tell you how she met her death.”
His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old friend of Dyke’s had entered the room and came toward them.
A few minutes later Bruce quitted the Imperial and drove to his chambers, where he found a note from the ticket collector stating that Foxey’s name was William Marsh.
The day was still young, and the barrister paid a visit to the West London Police Court, where the records soon revealed the conviction of the cab-driver and the period of his sentence.
“Let me see,” said the resident inspector, “his time at Holloway is up on February 6. That is a Monday, and as Sunday doesn’t count, he will be liberated on the 4th, about 8A.M.That is the habit, sir, in the matter of short sentences. If you want to see him when he leaves the jail you can either wait at the gates or at the nearest public-house, where the prisoners go for their first drink. They seldom or never miss.”
Bruce thanked the official and returned home.
He was on the point of going out to drive, when he received a letter from Sir Charles Dyke. It ran: