“Did he? Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure it was a shawl?”
A vacuous smile spread over Foxey’s countenance as he answered, “I ain’t sure of anythink that ’appened that night.”
“But were you not surprised when a man hired your cab under such peculiar circumstances, and paid you such a high fare?”
“We four-wheelers are surprised at nothink, sir. You don’t know all wot goes on in kebs. Why, once crossin’ Waterloo Bridge—”
“Never mind Waterloo Bridge, Foxey,” put in the detective. “Keep your wits fixed on as much as you can remember of November 6.”
“Where did he tell you to drive to?” went on Bruce.
“Just Putney. I was to drive my’ardest. I recollect wantin’ to pull up at the Three Bells, but ’e put ’is ’ead out an’ said, ‘Go on, driver. I am awfully late already.’ So on I went.”
“Where did you stop?”
“I don’t know no more than the child unborn. By that time the drink was yeastin’ up in me. The fare kept me on the road ’e wanted by shoutin’. When we pulled up, ’e carries ’er into a lane. There was a big ’ouse there. I know that all right. After a bit ’e comes back and tips me a fiver. With that I whips up the old ’oss and gets back to the Three Bells. You know the rest, as the girl said when she axed the Bench to—”
“Yes, we know the rest,” interrupted Bruce, “but I fear you are not able to help us much.”
“This isn’t a five-pun’ job, eh, guv’nor?” said Foxey anxiously.
“Hardly at present. We shall see. Can you say exactly where you drew up your cab when the lady was carried into it?”
“Sure as death,” replied the cabman, in the hope that his information might yet be valuable. “It was outside Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”
“We know that—”
“It seems to me, sir, as ye know as much about the business as I do,” broke in Marsh.
“Were you in the Square or in Sloane Street?”
“In Sloane Street, of course. Right away from the Square.”
“Not so very far away, surely.”
Foxey was doubtful. His memory was hazy, and he feared lest he should be mistaken. “No, no,” he said quickly, “not far, but still well in the street.”
“Were there many people about?”
“You could ’ardly tell, sir; it was that foggy and nasty. If the lydy ’ad bin dead nobody would ’ave noticed ’er that night.”
“Did any one besides yourself see the gentleman carrying the lady into the cab?”
“I think not. I don’t remember anybody passin’ at the time.”
“Did the gentleman keep your cab waiting long at the kerb before he brought the lady out?”
“It might ’a’ bin a minute or two?”
“No longer?”
“Well, sir, it’s ’ard for me to say, especially after bein’ away for a change of ’ealth, so to speak.”
“Did not the lady speak or move in any manner?”
“Not so far as I know, sir.”
“And do you mean to tell me that, although you had been drinking, you were not astonished at the whole business?”
“I never axes my fares any questions ’cept when they says ‘By the hour.’ Then I wants to know a bit.”
“Yes; but this carrying of a lady out of a house in such fashion—did not this strike you as strange?”
“Strange, bless your ’eart, sir. You ought to see me cartin’ ’em off from the Daffodil Club after a big night—three and four in one keb, all blind, paralytic.”
“No doubt; but this was not the Daffodil Club at daybreak. It was a respectable neighborhood at seven o’clock, or thereabouts, on a winter’s evening.”
“It ain’t my fault,” said Foxey doggedly. “Wot was wrong with the lydy? Was it a habduction?”
“The lady was dead—murdered, we believe.”
The cabman’s face grew livid with anxiety.
“Oh, crikey, Mr. White,” he cried, addressing the detective, “I knew nothink about it.”
“No one says you did, Foxey,” was the reply. “Don’t be frightened. We just want you to help us as far as you can, and not to get skeered and lose your wits.”
Thus reassured, Marsh mopped his head and said solemnly:
“I will do wot lies in my power, gentlemen both, but I wish I ’adn’t bin so blamed drunk that night.”
“You say you would not recognize your fare if you saw him,” continued Bruce. “Could you tell us, if you were shown a certain person, that he wasnotthe man? You might not be sure of the right man, but you might be sure regarding the wrong one.”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t Mr. White, andit wasn’t a lot of other people I know. I think if I saw the man who really got into my keb, I would be able to swear that ’e was like him, at any rate.”
“All right. That will do for the present. Leave us your address, so that we may find you again if necessary. Here is a sovereign for you.”
When Marsh had gone, Bruce turned to the detective.
“Well,” he said, “if Mensmore were here now, I suppose you would want to lock him up.”
“No,” admitted White sadly; “the more I learn about this affair the more mixed it becomes. Still, I don’t deny but I shall be glad to have Mensmore’s explanation of his movements at that time. And so will you, Mr. Bruce.”
Bruce sent a telegram to Mrs. Hillmer at Paris. “Matters satisfactorily arranged pending your arrival,” he wired, and early on Monday morning he received a reply:
“Due Charing Cross 7.30P.M.Will drive straight to your chambers with my brother.“Gwendoline Hillmer.”
“Due Charing Cross 7.30P.M.Will drive straight to your chambers with my brother.
“Gwendoline Hillmer.”
He forwarded the message with a note to the detective, asking him to be present.
About one o’clock Corbett turned up.
“Guess I slept well last night after the excitement,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You seemed to skeer those chaps more with a few words, Mr. Bruce, than I did with a revolver.”
“The English police are not so much afraid of revolvers as they are of making mistakes,” was the answer.
“Now, is that so? On our side they wouldn’t have stopped to argy. Both of ’em would have drawn on me at once.”
“Then I am glad, for everybody’s sake, Mr. Corbett, that the affair happened in London.”
“Why, sure. But tell me. Has my friend Mensmore been getting himself into trouble?”
“Not so much as it looks. Others appear to have involvedhim without his knowledge, and he has lent color to the accusations by involuntary actions of a suspicious nature.”
“Well, if it is permissible, I should like to hear the straight story.”
Under the circumstances, Bruce thought that this stranger from America had a right to know why he was in danger of being arrested during his first twenty-four hours’ residence in the country, so he gave him a succinct narrative of theprima faciecase against Mensmore.
Corbett listened in silence to the recital. When it ended he said:
“Mr. Bruce, my friend was incapable of murdering any woman. He was equally incapable of conducting any discreditableliaisonwith any woman. I have known him for years, and a straighter, truer, more honorable man I never met. I don’t know what his reason was for assuming my name, which he undoubtedly did, as the agent called this morning, and I find the flat is taken in my name.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, just that Mensmore had acted for me. The man seemed a bit puzzled, but he didn’t kick when I offered to pay up the rent owing since Christmas, and another quarter in advance.”
“I don’t suppose he did. The rent was due, then?”
“Yes. It seems that Mensmore, writing in my name, sent a letter from Monte Carlo a month ago, saying he would return about this time and settle up.”
“Thus proving his intention all along to come back to London. It is a queer muddle, Mr. Corbett, is it not?”
“Very; but you will pardon me, as an outsider, saying one thing—you all appear to have overlooked a clear trail.”
“And what is that?”
“What about Mrs. Hillmer? Who is she? Who are her friends? Who maintains her in such style? Bertie was with me four years and never mentioned her name. She could not have been rich by inheritance, as it was on account of their father going broke that Mensmore had to leave the Army and come to the States. It strikes me, Mr. Bruce, that the woman knows more about this affair than the man.”
“You may be right. But do not forget the absolute proofs we possess that the crime occurred in Mensmore’s chambers, and the extraordinary coincidence that he left England immediately afterwards.”
“I am not forgetting anything. Those facts tell both ways. Just because he quitted the country at the time somebody may have tried to throw the blame on him.”
The theory was plausible, though Bruce could not accept it. Nevertheless, after Corbett had taken his departure he could not help thinking about his references to Mrs. Hillmer. That there was force in them he could not deny, and with the admission came the unpleasant thought that perhaps he, Bruce, was in some sense responsible for the neglect to clear up her antecedents.
However, a few hours might explain much.
With unwonted impatience the barrister awaited the coming of night. He tried every expedient to kill time, and found each operation tedious.
He dined early, and as half-past seven came and passed he wondered why the detective did not appear.
But his doubts on this point did not last long.
“White is looking at Charing Cross to make sure of their arrival,” he said to himself.
At ten minutes to eight the detective came in hurriedly.
“They will be here directly,” he announced. “A servant has taken their luggage to Mrs. Hillmer’s place, and they are evidently driving straight here after taking some refreshment at the station.”
“Have you no faith in human nature, Mr. White? Could you not trust their words?”
“Well, sir, my experience of human nature is that you can very seldom trust anybody’s word.”
At last Smith announced Mrs. Hillmer and Mr. Mensmore.
When they entered Bruce was for the moment at a loss to know exactly how to receive them.
But Mrs. Hillmer settled the matter by greeting him with a quiet “Good-evening,” and seating herself. Mensmore stood near the door, very pale and stern-looking.
“It appears, Mr. Bruce,” he said, “that we met in Monte Carlo under false pretences. You were, it seems, a detective on the track of a murderer, and you were good enough to believe that I was the person you sought. It would have saved some misconception on my part had you explained ourrôlesearlier. However, I am here, to meet the charge.”
Claude was not unprepared for this attitude on Mensmore’s part. But he was determined that it should not continue if he could help it.
“When we parted at Monte Carlo, Mensmore,” he said, “we parted as friends.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what has happened since to cause this obvious change in your opinion of me?”
“Is it not true that you suspect me of murdering Lady Dyke?”
“No.”
“But why has my sister been told that I ran serious risk of being apprehended on that account?”
“Because we certainly did suspect a mysterious personage who called himself Sydney H. Corbett, and whose behavior was so unaccountable that the authorities required a reasonable explanation of it.”
“Do I understand, Bruce, that we meet with no more suspicion between us than when we last saw each other?”
“Most certainly.”
“Then I ask your pardon for my manner and words. I have suffered keenly during the last three days from this cruel thought. Let us shake hands on it.”
As their hands met they both heard Mrs. Hillmer stifle a sob. Mensmore turned to her.
“Now, Gwen,” he said, “don’t be foolish. We will soon clear up this miserable business. So far as we are concerned, all we need to do is to tell the truth and fear nobody.”
“That’s it,” said White. “If you adopt that course the matter will soon be ended.”
Mensmore turned to the speaker. He guessed his identity, but Bruce introduced the detective by name.
“Well,” said Mensmore, “I have come here to answer questions. What is it you want to know?”
Mr. White glanced at the barrister, and the other explained.
“I have, as you may already realize, taken more than a passive interest in this inquiry, so the questioning largely devolves on me. First, tell me why you adopted the name of Corbett?”
“Simply enough, though stupid, I now admit. When I returned from the States I was very hard up, but managed to pick up a subsistence by writing for the sporting press,and occasionally backing horses. But I knew this could not last, so I tried to secure some financial interests in the City. In doing so I made the acquaintance of a man named Dodge, and committed myself to the underwriting of a new venture named the Springbok Mine. This fell through at the time, and with this collapse came other demands. I hate being worried by creditors, so when my sister offered to take and furnish a flat for me, near her own, I thought I would live quietly for a time and conceal my name so as to have peace there at any rate. Therefore, I assumed the name of a friend in America, little thinking that I should land both him and myself into such trouble by doing it. That is the explanation. By the way, what has happened to Corbett?”
“He is all right. He expects to see you to-night. You know Sir Charles Dyke, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Intimately?”
“Well, no, not exactly. He and I were at school together at Brighton, at Childe’s place.”
“At Brighton?”
“Yes. I was a little chap when Dyke was a senior. After he left, the headmaster changed the school to a place called Seton Lodge, at Putney, on account of cramming operations for Army exams.”
“Then you were at Putney?”
“Yes, for two years.”
“And Dyke was not?”
“No; that I am sure of.”
“Have you and Sir Charles been friendly since?”
Mensmore’s face hardened somewhat as he answered, “I have seen very little of him, and hardly ever spoken to him.”
“Why? Did you quarrel?”
“N-no, but we just did not happen to meet. Bear in mind, I was in business some years ago, and I am not yet thirty.”
“Did you know his wife?”
“I have never, to my knowledge, seen her.”
“How, then, can you account for the fact that she visited your flat at Raleigh Mansions on November 6.”
“I say that such a statement is mere nonsense.”
“But if it can be proved?”
“It cannot.”
“I assure you, on my honor, that it can.”
“But look here, Bruce. Why should she come to see me? I question greatly if she knew of my existence.”
“Nevertheless, it is the fact.”
“I can only tell you it is not. I left London on November 8, and on the two previous evenings I dined alone. Mrs. Robinson, my housekeeper, can tell you that not another soul entered my flat for a week prior to my departure, except my sister and—and—I had forgotten—some workmen.”
“Some workmen?”
“Yes; some fellows from a furniture warehouse.”
“What were they doing?”
“Well, don’t you see, I told you I was not well off, and my sister furnished my flat for me, in August last that was, but the drawing-room was left bare for a time. Just before I left for France she decided to refurnish her drawing-room, and she gave me the whole fit-out. The things were brought in by the men who brought her purchases.”
At this astounding revelation Bruce and the detective were utterly taken aback. It was with difficulty that the barrister enunciated his next words clearly.
“Can you tell me with absolute certainty the date of this change of the furniture?”
“Oh yes. It was the day before I started for the Riviera; that must have been November 7.”
“Are you positive of this?”
“Undoubtedly. Is it a matter of importance? Gwen, you know all about it. Besides, the bills for your new furniture will show the exact date of delivery, and it was the same day.”
Mrs. Hillmer’s face was hidden by her veil, but she nodded silently.
Three people in the room knew the significance of Mensmore’s straightforward words; he alone was unaware of the direction towards which the investigation now tended.
“Let us analyze the matter carefully,” said Bruce, who had recovered his self-possession, though he was almost terrified at the possibilities of the situation. “Did the whole of the contents of your drawing-room come from your sister’s flat?”
“Every stick. There was nothing there before but the bare boards.”
“Do you remember a handsome ornamental fender being among these articles?”
“Perfectly. My housekeeper said the men broke it during the transit. They denied this, and looked for the piece chipped off, but could not find it. She told me about it that night.”
“Did you mention it to Mrs. Hillmer?”
“No. To tell the honest truth, Gwen and I had quarrelled a couple of days before. That is to say, we disagreed seriously about a certain matter, and it was this which led to my making off to Monte Carlo. Thereforeit was hardly likely I should mention such a trivial matter to her.”
“May I ask what you quarrelled about?”
“I have told her since that it ought to be made known, but she has implored me not to reveal it, so I cannot. But she will tell you herself that we agreed I should be at liberty to make this guarded explanation.”
Bruce and the detective exchanged glances of wondering comprehension.
“I do not think we need question Mr. Mensmore further,” said the barrister to White.
“No,” was the reply. “The matter is clear enough. Mrs. Hillmer must tell us how that furniture came to be transferred from her premises on the morning of the 7th.”
“If she chooses.”
The barrister’s tone was sad, and its ominous significance was not lost on his hearers.
Mrs. Hillmer raised her veil. Her face was deathly pale and tense in its fixed agony. But in her eyes was a light which gave a curious aspect of resolve to her otherwise painful aspect of utter grief.
“I do not choose,” she said quietly, looking, not at Bruce or the detective, but at her brother.
For a little while no one spoke. Mensmore at last broke out eagerly:
“Don’t act absurdly, Gwen. I cannot even guess where all this talk about the furniture is leading us, but I do know that you are as innocent of any complicity in Lady Dyke’s death as I am, so it is better for you to help forward the inquiry than to retard it.”
“I am not innocent,” said Mrs. Hillmer, her words falling with painful distinctness upon the ears of the three men. “Heaven help me! I am responsible for it!”
Her brother started to his feet, and caught her by the shoulder.
“What folly is this,” he cried. “Do you know what you are saying?”
“Fully. My words are like sledge-hammers. I will forever feel their weight. I tell you I am responsible for the death of Lady Dyke.”
“Then how did she die, Mrs. Hillmer?” said Bruce, whose glance sought to read her soul.
“I do not know. I do not want to know. It matters little to me.”
“In other words, you are assuming a responsibility you should not bear. You were not even aware of this poor lady’s death until I told you. Why should you seek to avert suspicion from others merely because Lady Dyke is shown to have met her death in your apartments?”
“But how is it shown?” interrupted Mensmore vehemently. He was more disturbed by his sister’s unaccountable attitude than he had ever been by the serious charge against himself.
“Easily enough,” said White, feeling that he ought to have some share in the conversation. “A piece of the damaged fender placed in your rooms, Mr. Mensmore, was found in the murdered lady’s head.”
“Was it?” he cried. “Then, by Heaven, I refuse to see my sister sacrificed for anybody’s sake. She has borne too long the whole burden of misery and degradation. I tell you, Gwen, that if you do not save yourself I will save you against your will. That furniture came to my room because—”
“Bertie, I beseech you, for the sake of the woman you love, to spare me.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on her knees before him andcaught hold of his hands, while she burst into a storm of tears.
Mensmore was unnerved. He turned to Bruce, and said:
“Help me in this miserable business, old chap. I don’t know what to say or do; my sister had no more connection with Lady Dyke’s death than I had. This statement on her part is mere hysteria, arising from other circumstances altogether.”
“That I feel acutely,” said the barrister. “Yet some one killed her, and, whatever the pain that may be caused, and whoever may suffer, I am determined that the truth shall come out.”
“I tell you,” wailed Mrs. Hillmer between her sobs, “that I must bear all the blame. Why do you hesitate? She was killed in my house, and I confess my guilt.”
“Thisisrum business,” growled Mr. White aloud, half unconsciously.
At that moment the door opened unexpectedly, and Smith entered.
Before Bruce had time to vociferate an order to his astounded servitor the man stuttered an excuse:
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Sir Charles Dyke has called, and wants to know if you will be disengaged soon.”
Quick on the heels of the footman’s stammered explanation came the voice of Sir Charles himself:
“Sorry to disturb you, Bruce, if you are busy, but I must see you for a moment on a matter of the utmost importance.”
There was that in his utterance which betokened great excitement. He was not visible to the occupants of the room. During the audible silence that followed his words, they could hear him stamping about the passage, impatiently awaiting Bruce’s presence.
Mrs. Hillmer quietly collapsed on the floor. She had fainted.
The barrister rushed out, calling for Mrs. Smith, and responding to Sir Charles Dyke’s proffered statement as to the reason for his presence by the startling cry:
“Wait a bit, Dyke. There’s a lady in a faint inside. We must attend to her at once.”
Mrs. Smith, fortunately, was at hand, and with the help of her ministrations, Mrs. Hillmer gradually regained her senses.
After a whispered colloquy with White, the barrister said to Mensmore:
“You must remove your sister to her residence as quickly as possible. She is far too highly strung to bear any furtherquestioning to-night. Perhaps to-morrow, when you and she have discussed matters fully together, you may be able to send for us and clear up this wretched business.”
For answer Mensmore silently pressed his hand. With the help of the housekeeper he led his sister from the room, passing Sir Charles Dyke in the hall. The baronet politely turned aside, and Mensmore did not look at him, being far too engrossed with his sister to pay heed to aught else at the moment. As for Mrs. Hillmer, she was in such a state of collapse as to be practically unconscious of her surroundings.
She managed to murmur at the door:
“Where are you taking me to, Bertie?”
“Home, dear.”
“Home? Oh, thank Heaven!”
They all heard her, and even the detective was constrained to say:
“Poor thing, she needn’t have been afraid. She is suffering for some one else.”
Sir Charles Dyke grasped Bruce’s arm.
“What on earth is going on?” he said.
“Merely a foolish woman worrying herself about others,” replied Bruce grimly.
“But those people were my old friends, Mensmore and his sister?”
“Yes.”
“What are they doing here?”
“Mensmore has been brought back to London by Mrs. Hillmer to face the allegations made against him with regard to your wife’s disappearance. They came here by their own appointment, and—”
“Did I not tell you that this charge against Mensmore was wild folly on the face of it?”
“So it seems, when we have just discovered that your wife was killed in his sister’s house, and Mrs. Hillmer persists in declaring that she was responsible for the crime.”
“Look here, Bruce. Don’t lose your head like everybody else mixed up in this wretched business. My wife is not dead.”
“What!” The cry was a double one, for both Bruce and White gave simultaneous utterance to their amazement.
“It is true. She is alive all the time. I have had a letter from her.”
“A letter. Surely, Dyke—”
“I am neither mad nor drunk. The letter reached me by this morning’s post. I came here with it as fast as I could travel. I have been in the train all day, and am nearly fainting from hunger.”
“Where is it?” cried White. “Is it genuine?”
“I could swear to her writing amidst a thousand letters. Here it is. I have brought some old correspondence of hers for the purpose of comparison, as I could hardly believe my eyes when I first received it.”
Bruce was so dumfounded by this remarkable development that he could but mutely take the document produced by the baronet and read it.
He himself recognized Lady Dyke’s handwriting, which he had often seen—a clear, bold, well-defined script, more like the caligraphy of a banker than of a fashionable lady.
The letter was dated February 1, bore no other superscription, and read as follows:
“My Dear Charles,—I have just seen in the newspapers the announcement of my death, and the theories set onfoot to account for my disappearance on November 6. This seems to convey to me the strange fact that you have not received the explanation I sent you of my reasons for leaving London so suddenly. Otherwise you must have kept your own counsel very closely. However, I do not now desire to reopen the question of motive; let it suffice to say that no one save myself was responsible for my disappearance, and that neither you nor any one acquainted with me will ever see me again. Do not search for me; it will be time wasted. If you have legal proof of my death and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear up this letter and forget it. I am dead—to you and to the world. You can neither refuse to accept the genuineness of this letter nor trace me by reason of it, as I have taken such precautions that the latter course will be impossible. Let me repeat—forget me.“Alice.”
“My Dear Charles,—I have just seen in the newspapers the announcement of my death, and the theories set onfoot to account for my disappearance on November 6. This seems to convey to me the strange fact that you have not received the explanation I sent you of my reasons for leaving London so suddenly. Otherwise you must have kept your own counsel very closely. However, I do not now desire to reopen the question of motive; let it suffice to say that no one save myself was responsible for my disappearance, and that neither you nor any one acquainted with me will ever see me again. Do not search for me; it will be time wasted. If you have legal proof of my death and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear up this letter and forget it. I am dead—to you and to the world. You can neither refuse to accept the genuineness of this letter nor trace me by reason of it, as I have taken such precautions that the latter course will be impossible. Let me repeat—forget me.
“Alice.”
The barrister carefully refolded the sheet after scrutinizing the water-mark against the light, and noting that the paper was British made; he then examined the envelope. The obliterating postmark was “London, February 4, 9P.M., West Strand.” The office of delivery was “Wensley, February 6.”
“Posted at the West Strand Post-Office on Saturday,” he said. “Detained in London all Sunday, and delivered to you this morning in the North.”
“Exactly.”
“It was written three days earlier, if the date be accurate. So the writer is somewhere in Europe.”
“That’s how I take it,” said Sir Charles.
“Unless the whole thing is a fraud.”
“How can it be a fraud? I am sure as to the handwriting.Why, even yourself, Bruce, must have a good recollection of my wife’s style.”
“Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this was not Lady Dyke’s production.”
“Well, what are we to do?”
“And what did Mrs. Hillmer mean by kicking up that fuss when we spoke to her?” interpolated White. “I’ll take my oath that some one was killed in her house, else how comes it that a woman found in the Thames at Putney is carrying about in her head some of Mrs. Hillmer’s ironwork? I wish she hadn’t fainted just now. Why, she said herself that she was the cause of Lady Dyke’s death, and here is Lady Dyke writing to say she is alive. This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got to explain a good deal yet before I am done with her.”
The detective’s wrath at this check in the hunt after a criminal did not appeal to the baronet.
“You can please yourself, Mr. White, of course,” he said coldly; “but so far as I am concerned, I will respect my wife’s wishes, and let the matter rest where it is.”
“My dear fellow,” said the barrister, “such a course is impossible. Assuming that her ladyship is really alive, why did she leave you?”
“How can I tell? She herself refuses to give a reason. She apparently stated one in a letter which never reached me, as you know. She has selfishly caused me a world of suffering and misery for three long months. I refuse to be plagued in the matter further.”
Sir Charles was excited and angry. He was in bitter revolt against circumstances.
“Do you intend to show this letter to Lady Dyke’s relatives?” asked Bruce, at a loss for the time to discuss the situation coherently.
“I do not know. What would you advise? I trust fully to your judgment. But is it not better to obey her wishes?—to forget, as she puts it?”
“We must decide nothing hastily. I am perplexed beyond endurance by this business. There is so much that is wildly impossible in its irreconcilable features. I must have time. Will you give me a copy of the letter?”
“Certainly, keep it yourself. We have all seen it.”
“Thank you.” Bruce placed the envelope and its contents in his pocket-book. Then, turning to the detective, he said:
“Now, Mr. White, do me a favor. Do not worry Mrs. Hillmer until you hear from me.”
“By all means, Mr. Bruce. But am I to report to the Commissioner that Lady Dyke has been found, or has, at any rate, explained that she is not dead?”
“There is no immediate necessity why a report of any kind should be made.”
“None.”
“Then leave matters where they are at present.”
“But why,” put in Sir Charles. “Is it not better to end all inquiries, at least so far as my wife is concerned? It is her desire, and, I may add, my own, now that I know something of her fate.”
“Of course, if you wish it, Dyke, I have no valid objection.”
“Oh, no, no. Do not look at it in that way. I leave the ultimate decision entirely to you.”
“In that case, I recommend complete silence in all quarters at present.”
The detective left them, and as he passed out into Victoria Street his philosophy could find but one comprehensive dictum. “Thisisa rum go,” he muttered, unconsciouslyplagiarizing himself on many previous occasions.
The baronet sat down, and meditatively chewed the handle of his umbrella.
“What is this nonsense Mensmore’s sister talked about being responsible for my wife’s death?” he said.
“I do not pretend to understand,” answered Bruce. “Little more than a week ago she learned for the first time of your wife’s supposed murder. Of that I am quite positive. She feared that her brother was implicated, and, without trusting me with the reasons for her belief, took the measures she thought best to safeguard him.”
“Took measures! What?” Sir Charles jerked the words out impetuously.
“She followed him to the South of France, and found him in Florence. What she said I cannot guess, but the result was their visit here to-night. During our interview it came out, quite by accident, that some furniture was taken from her place to her brother’s on the morning of November 7, thus shifting the venue of Lady Dyke’s death—or imaginary death I must now say—from No. 12 Raleigh Mansions to No. 61. This discovery was as startling to Mrs. Hillmer as to us, for she forthwith protested that the whole affair arose from her fault, and practically asked the detective to arrest her on the definite charge of murder.”
“Pooh! The mania of an hysterical woman!”
“Possibly!”
“Why ‘possibly’? No one was murdered in her abode. Do you for a moment believe the monstrous insinuation?”
“No, not in that sense. But her brother was about to make some revelation regarding a third person when she appealed to him not to speak. What would have happenedfinally I do not know. At that critical moment my servant announced your arrival.”
“But what can Mrs. Hillmer have to conceal? She and her brother have been lost to Society since long before my marriage. Neither of them, so far as I know, has ever set eyes on my wife during the last seven years.”
“Yet Mrs. Hillmermusthave had some powerful motive in acting as she did.”
“Is it not more than likely that she had a bad attack of nerves?”
“A woman who merely yields to nervous prostration behaves foolishly. This woman gave way to emotion, it is true, but it was strength, not weakness, that sustained her.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is but one force that sustains in such a crisis—the power of love. Mrs. Hillmer was not flying from consequences. She met them half-way in the spirit of a martyr.”
“’Pon my honor, Bruce, I am beginning to think that this wretched business is affecting your usually clear brain. You are accepting fancies as facts.”
“Maybe. I confess I am unable to form a logical conclusion to-night.”
“Why not abandon the whole muddle to time? There is no solution of a difficulty like the almanac. Let us both go off somewhere.”
“What, and leave Mrs. Hillmer to die of sheer pain of mind? Let this unfortunate fellow, Mensmore, suffer no one knows what consequences from the events of to-day? It is out of the question.”
“Very well, I leave it to you. Every one seems to forget that it is I who suffer most.” The baronet stood up and dejectedly gazed into the fire.
“I, at least, can feel for you, Dyke,” said Bruce sympatherically,“but you must admit that things cannot be allowed to remain in their present whirlpool.”
“So be it. Let them go on to their bitter end. If my wife was tired of my society she might at least have got rid of me in an easier manner.”
With this trite reflection Sir Charles quitted his friend’s house.
Bruce sat motionless for a long time. Then, as his mind became calmer, he lit a cigar, took out the doubly mysterious letter, and examined it in every possible way, critically and microscopically.
There could be no doubt that it was a genuine production. The condition of the ink bore out the correctness of the date, and the fact that the note paper and envelope were not of Continental style was not very material.
It did not appear to have been enclosed in another envelope, as the writer implied, for the purpose of being re-posted in London. Rather did the slightly frayed edges give rise to the assumption that it had been carried in some one’s pocket before postage. But this theory was vague and undemonstrable.
The handwriting was Lady Dyke’s; the style, allowing for the strange conditions under which it was written, was hers; yet Bruce did not believe in it.
Nothing could shake his faith in the one solid, concrete certainty that stood out from a maze of contradictions and mystery—Lady Dyke was dead, and buried in a pauper’s grave at Putney.
At last, wearied with thought and theorizing, he went to bed; but Smith sat up late to regale his partner with the full, true, and particular narrative of the “lydy a-cryin’ on her knees, and the strange gent lookin’ as though he would like to murder Mr. White.”
Like most men, Claude took a different view of events in the morning to that which he entertained over night.
Yesterday, the surprises of the hour were concrete embodiments, each distinct and emphatic. To-day they were merged in the general mass of contradictory details that made up this most bewildering inquiry.
That matters could not be allowed to rest in their present state was clear; that they would, in the natural course of things, reveal themselves more definitely, even if unaided, was also patent.
Mrs. Hillmer’s partial admissions, her brother’s evident knowledge of some salient features of the puzzle, that utterly strange letter in the admitted handwriting of Lady Dyke herself, and bearing the prosaic testimony of dates stamped by the Post-office—these sensational elements, when brought into juxtaposition, could not avoid reaction into clearer phases.
Long experience in criminal investigation told him that, under certain circumstances, the best course of all was one of inactivity.
On the basis of the accepted truism in the affairs of many people that “letters left unanswered answer themselves,” the barrister knew that there must be an outcome from the queer medley of occurrences at his residence on the Monday evening.
Reviewing the history of the past three months several odd features stood out from the general jumble.
In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to deduce any pertinent fact from the manner in which Mrs. Hillmer’s dining-room was furnished on the occasion of his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.
He distinctly remembered noting his reception in an unusual room littered with unusual articles, when the luxurious and well-appointed suite of apartments was considered as a whole. It was suggested to him at the time that the drawing-room, which he saw during his second visit, was dismantled earlier, but he did not connect this trivial incident with the feature in Mensmore’s flat that he noted immediately—namely, the discrepancies between the arrangement of the sitting-room and the other chambers in the place.
These things were immaterial now, but he indexed them as a guide for future use.
Lady Dyke’s motive for that secret visit to Raleigh Mansions—that was the key to the mystery. But how to discover it? Who was her confidant? To whom could he turn for possible enlightenment? It was useless to broach the matter again to her husband. The baronet and his wife had been friends sharing the sameménagerather than husband and wife. Her relatives had already been appealed to in vain. They knew nothing of the slightest value in this search for truth.
In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding cropped up. She was the personal maid of the deceased lady. She had sharp eyes and quick wits. Her queer antics shortly after the inquest were not forgotten. Here at least was a possibility of light if the girl would speak.
If she refused what could be her motive?
Anyhow it was worth while to make a fresh effort. Early in the afternoon he called at the stage-door of the Jollity Theatre.
“Is Miss Marie le Marchant still employed here?” he asked the attendant.
“I dunno,” was the careless answer.
“Well, think hard,” said the barrister, laying a half-crown on the battered blotting-pad which is an indispensable part of the furniture in the letter bureau of a theatre.
“Yes, sir, I believe she is, but she has been away on a week’s leave.”
“Indeed. Has she returned?”
“I was off last night, sir, but if you will pardon me a moment I’ll inquire from the man who took my place.”
The stage-doorkeeper disappeared into the dark interior, to return quickly with the information that Miss le Marchant had appeared as usual on Monday night.
“She was away most part of last week, sir,” added the man, “and I believe it wasn’t a holiday, as she was a-sort of flurried about it as if some one was ill.”
“Thank you. Do you know where she lives?”
A momentary hesitation was soon softened by another half-crown.
“It’s against the rules, sir. If you were to find yourself near Jubilee Buildings, Bloomsbury, you would not be far out.”
The information was sound. Miss Marie le Marchant’s name was painted outside a second-floor flat.
Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly woman whom he had no difficulty in recognizing.
“Is your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?” he said.
For a moment she could not speak for surprise.
“Well, I never,” she cried, “but London is a funny place. Do you know me, sir?”
“Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if they did not take you for her elder sister,” he said. Bruce’s smile was irresistible.
“My daughter is not in just now, sir,” replied Mrs. Harding, “but I expect her in to tea almost immediately.”
“Then may I come in and await her arrival?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pretentious but fairly comfortable nature of its appointments; the ex-lady’s maid’s legacy must have been a nice one to enable her to live in such style, as the poor pittance of a coryphée would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover, the presence of her mother in the establishment was a distinct factor in her favor.
Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-room. She seated herself near the window and resumed some sewing.
“Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?” he said, by way of being civil.
“In London, do you mean, sir? About two months. Ever since my daughter got along so well in her new profession. She’s a good girl, is my daughter.”
“Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then?”
“Oh yes, sir. Why, she’s been earning £6 a week, and last week she was sent for on a special engagement, which paid her so well that she’s going to buy me a new dress out of the money.”
“Really,” said the barrister, “you ought to be proud of her.”
“I am,” admitted the admiring mother. “I only wishher brother, who went off and ’listed for a sojer, had turned out half as well.”
Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry soldier in uniform on the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling at the intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable that the girl could be the recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother? In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her earnings? The story about “£6 a week” was a myth.
Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large plaque presentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory of tights, wig, and make-up. Across it was written, in the best theatrical style, “Ever yours sincerely, Marie le Marchant.” And no sooner had Bruce caught sight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement.
The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke.
Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature with his eyes. The resemblance was truly remarkable. What on earth could be the explanation of this phenomenon.
“Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs. Harding,” he said, turning the photograph towards her.
“Yes,” said the complacent mother, “she taught herself when—before she went on the stage. She was always a clever girl, and when she grew up she improved herself. I wasn’t able to afford her much schooling when she was young.”
“I have seldom seen a nicer hand,” he went on. “Have you any other specimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are not private.”
The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was not mistaken.
“Oh yes. She’s just copying out the part of Ophelia inHamlet. And she acts it beautiful.”
Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on the first page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal passion has moved millions to tears.
He admired Miss Marie le Marchant’s efforts in the matter of self-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from her some explanation of her actions.
The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside the coveted “part,” and the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stage experience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a “professional” touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of her skirt.
She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother’s explanation that “this gentleman has just called to see you, dear.”
“All right, mother,” she cried. “I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea ready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes.” This with a defiant look at the visitor.
When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp accents of ill-temper:
“What do you want with me, now?”
“I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke in the name of your dead mistress.”
The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant’s assurance failed her.
She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate:
“I—I—why do you ask me that question?”
“Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a very dangerous game.”
That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming to read the secrets of her heart.
Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of bursting into tears, she snapped viciously:
“I will tell you nothing. Go away.”
“You are obstinate, I know,” said Bruce, “but I must warn you that you are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to conceal Lady Dyke’s death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the question in a court of law.”
“You have no right to come here annoying me!” she retorted.
“I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal to you not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authorities information which they ought to possess.”
“What information?”
“The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke’s house so suddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you, doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to use your ability to imitate her ladyship’s handwriting in order to spread the false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, and your wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave indictment.”
“I don’t carethatfor you, Mr. Bruce,” replied the girl, her face set now in a scarlet temper, while she snapped herfingers to emphasize the words. “You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing.”
“You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles Dyke last Saturday?”
“I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can’t ask you to join me.”
“Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself—your own production—written on paper of which you have a quantity in this very room.”
The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She was staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of the original, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper in the house.
But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she would have died sooner than beat a retreat.
“I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce,” she said.
There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, but the barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. He had now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason which he could not fathom the ex-lady’s maid not only knew of her mistress’s death, but wished to conceal it.
This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of the inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady Dyke was actually killed. What did it all mean?
From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found Sir Charles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.
He briefly told him his discovery.
The baronet at first was sceptical. “Do you mean to say, Claude,” he cried, fretfully, “that I do not know my wife’s writing when I see it?”
“You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly, of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable, was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than that Jane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal of excellence. Don’t harbor any delusions in the matter, Dyke. The letter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I am sure of that from her manner no less than from the accidental resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find out was her motive for the deceit.”
“It is a queer business altogether,” said Sir Charles wearily; “I wish it were ended.”
Bruce was quite positive in his belief that Jane Harding was the paid agent of some person who wished to conceal the facts concerning Lady Dyke’s death.
Her unexpected appearance in the field at this late hour, no less than the boldrôleshe adopted, proved this conclusively. But in England there was no torture-chamber to which she might be led and gradually dismembered until she confessed the truth.
So long as she adhered to the policy of pert denial she was quite safe. The law could not touch her, for the chief witness against her, Sir Charles Dyke, was obviously more than half-inclined to admit the genuineness of the letter, even in opposition to the superior judgment of his friend.
Yet it was a matter which Bruce considered ought to be made known to the police, so he sent for Mr. White and told him of the strange result of his interview with Miss Marie le Marchant.
“Dash everything!” cried the detective, when he heard the news. “I made a note sometime ago that that girl ought to be watched, but I clean forgot all about it.”
“Remember,” said Bruce, “that my discovery was the result of pure accident. My object in visiting her was to endeavor to induce her confidence with regard to LadyDyke’s former life and habits. Indeed, I handled the business very badly.”
“I don’t see that, sir. You got hold of a very remarkable fact, and thus prevented the success of a bold move by some one which, in my case at any rate, nearly choked me off the inquiry.”
“True. Thus far, chance favored me. But I ought to have been content with the assumption. There was no need to frighten her by pressing it home.”
“Oh, from that point of view—” began the detective.
But Bruce was merely thinking aloud—rough-shaping his ideas as they grouped themselves in his brain.
“Perhaps I am wrong there too,” he went on. “If this girl is working to instructions she would have refused to help me in any way, and she already knows that I am on the trail. There is one highly satisfactory feature in the Jane Harding adventure, Mr. White.”
“And what is that?”
“The person, or persons, responsible for Lady Dyke’s death know that the matter has not been dropped. They are inclined to think that the circle is narrowing. In some of our casts, Mr. White, we must have come so unpleasantly close to them, that they deemed it advisable to throw us off the scent by a bold effort.”
“No doubt you are right, sir, but I wish to goodness I knew when we were ‘warm,’ as I am becoming tired of the business. Every new development deepens the mystery.”
The detective’s face was as downcast as his words.
“Surely not! The more pieces of the puzzle we have to handle the less difficult should be the final task of putting them together.”
“Not when every piece is a fresh puzzle in itself.”
“Why, what has disconcerted you to-day?”
“Mrs. Hillmer.”
“What of her?”
“I have had another talk with the maid,—her companion, you know,—a girl named Dobson. It struck me that it was advisable to know more about Mrs. Hillmer than we do at present.”
Bruce made no comment, but he could not help reflecting that Corbett, the stranger from Wyoming, had entertained the same view.
“Well,” continued the detective, “I went about the affair as quietly as possible, but the maid, though willing, could not tell me much. Mrs. Hillmer, she thinks, married very young, and was badly treated by her husband. Finally, there was a rumpus, and she went on the stage, while Hillmer drank himself to death. He died a year ago, and they had been separated nearly five years. He was fairly well-to-do, but he squandered all his money in dissipation and never gave her a cent. Three years last Michaelmas she set up her present establishment at Raleigh Mansions, and there she has been ever since.”
“Then where does the money come from? It must cost her at least £2,000 a year to live.”
“That’s just what the maid can’t tell me. Her mistress led a very secluded life, and was never what you could call fast, though a very pretty woman. During this time she had only one visitor—a gentleman.”
“Ah!”
“It sounds promising, but it ends in smoke, so far as I can see.”
“Why?”
“This gentleman was a Colonel Montgomery—an old friend—though he wasn’t much turned thirty, the maid says. He interested himself a lot in Mrs. Hillmer’s affairs,looked after some investments for her, and was on very good terms with her, and nobody could whisper a word against the character of either of them. He was never there except in the afternoon. On very rare occasions he took Mrs. Hillmer, whose maid always accompanied them, to Epping Forest, or up the river, or on some such journey.”
“Go on!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the chase is over. He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. The maid doesn’t know how, or when, exactly, but one day she found her mistress crying, and when she asked her what was the matter, Mrs. Hillmer said, ‘I’ve lost my friend.’ The maid said, ‘Surely not Colonel Montgomery, madam?’ and she replied, ‘Yes.’ She quite took on about it.”
“Had the maid no idea as to the date of this interesting occurrence?”
“Only a vague one. Sometime in the autumn or before Christmas. By Jove, yes; it escaped me at the time, but she said that soon after the Colonel’s death another gentleman called and took her mistress out to dinner. I was so busy thinking about the colonel that I slipped the significance of that statement. It must have been you, Mr. Bruce.”
“So it seems.”
The barrister’s active brain was already assimilating this new information. If a woman like Mrs. Hillmer had lost a dear and valuable friend—one who practically formed the horizon of her life—she would certainly have worn mourning for him. It was a singular coincidence that Mrs. Hillmer “lost” Colonel Montgomery about the same time that Lady Dyke disappeared. Detective andmaid alike had drawn a false inference from Mrs. Hillmer’s words.
“We must find Colonel Montgomery,” he said, after a slight pause.
“Find him!”
“Yes.”
“I hope neither of us is going his way for some time to come, Mr. Bruce,” laughed the policeman.
“White, I shall never cure you from jumping at conclusions. Upon your present evidence Colonel Montgomery is no more dead than you are.”
“But the maid said—”
“I don’t care if fifty maids said. There are many more ways of ‘losing’ a friend than by death. Pass me the Army List, on that bookshelf behind you there.”
A brief reference to the index, and Bruce said:
“I thought so. There is noColonelMontgomery. There are several captains and lieutenants, and a Major-General who has commanded a small island in the Pacific for the last five years, but not a single colonel. White, you have blundered into eminence in your profession.”
“I’m glad to hear it, even as you put it, Mr. Bruce. But I don’t see—”
“I know you don’t. If you did, a popular novelist would write your life and style you the English Lecocq. Mrs. Hillmer ‘lost’ the gallant colonel at the same time that the world ‘lost’ Lady Dyke. Find the first, and I am much mistaken if we do not learn all about the second.”
“Now I wonder if you are right.”
The detective’s eyes sparkled with animation. It was the first real clue he had hit upon, and Bruce’s method of complimenting him on the fact did not disconcert him.
“Of course I am right. You have done so well withthe maid that I leave her in your hands. Try the coachman and the cook. But keep me informed of your progress.”
White rushed off elated. So persistent was he in striving to elucidate this new problem that he paid no heed during some days to the side-light furnished by Jane Harding and her exceedingly curious powers as a letter-writer.
Bruce purposely left the inquiry to the policeman.
He realized intuitively that the disappearance of Lady Dyke would soon be explained, but he shrank from subjecting Mrs. Hillmer to further questioning.
His abstinence was rewarded later in the week, for Mensmore came to see him. The young man wore an expression of settled melancholy which surprised the barrister greatly.
“Have you prevailed on your sister to take us into her confidence?” he said, when Mensmore was ensconced in a chair in his cosy sitting-room.
“No. She is more fixed than ever in her resolve to take the whole blame on herself.”
“Surely this mistaken idea can be shaken?”
“I fear not.”
“And you also share it?”
“I do. Bear with us, Bruce. This is a terrible business. It has broken me up utterly.”
“Nonsense. You are in no way concerned save to shield your sister, and no one credits her wild statements regarding her complicity in this crime.”