CHAPTER XXVI

“Look here, my dear fellow, I have come to ask you if this investigation cannot be allowed to rest. It means a lot of misery that you cannot foretell or prevent. Knowing what I do, I cannot believe that Lady Dyke was murdered.”

“Knowing what I do, I cannot accept any other conclusion. A worthy and estimable lady leaves her home suddenly, without the slightest imaginary cause, and she is found in the Thames with a piece of iron driven into her brain, while the medical evidence is clear that death was not due to drowning. What other inference can be drawn than that she was foully done to death?”

“Heaven help me, I cannot tell. Yet I appeal to you to let matters rest where they are if it is possible.”

“It is not possible. I cannot control the police. I am merely a private agent acting on my own responsibility and on behalf of Lady Dyke’s relatives.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Bruce. I am not asking this thing on account of my sister or myself.”

“On whose account, then?”

Mensmore did not answer for a moment. He looked mournfully into the fire for inspiration.

“Perhaps I had better tell you,” he said, “that I have broken off my engagement with Miss Browne.”

The other jumped from his chair.

“What the dickens do you mean?” he cried.

“Exactly what I have said. When we met on Monday night, I did not mention that Sir William and Lady Browne and their daughter travelled back to England with us. On Tuesday I saw Phyllis. In view of the shadow thrown on me by this frightful charge I thought it my duty to release her from any ties. If my sister has to figure in a court of law as a principal, or accomplice, in a murder case—and possibly myself with her—I could not consent to associate my poor Phyllis’s name with mine. So I took the plunge.”

“You are a beastly idiot,” shouted Bruce. “If I had the power I would give you six months’ hard labor thismoment. Who ever threatened to put you or your sister in the dock?”

“You have done your best that way, you know.”

“I?—I have shielded you throughout!”

“I feel that. But your admission shows that I am right. Shielded us from what? From arrest by the police, of course.”

“But why take this precipitate action? What has Lady Dyke’s death to do with your marriage to Miss Browne?”

“That’s it, Bruce. I cannot explain. I must endure silently.”

“Did you give her any reason for your absurd resolution?”

“Yes. I could have no secrets from her.”

“Did you inflict all this wretched story on a woman you loved and hoped to marry?”

“You may be as bitter as you like. That is my idea of square dealing, at any rate. What other pretext could I invite for—for giving her up?”

Mensmore found it hard to utter the words. In his heart Bruce pitied him, though he raged at this lamentable issue of the only bright passage in the whole story of death and intrigue.

“And what did Miss Browne say?”

“Oh, she just pooh-poohed the affair, and pretended to laugh at me, though she was crying all the time.”

“A nice kettle of fish you have made of it,” growled the barrister. “You help your sister in her folly of silence and then proceed to give effect to it by ruining your own happiness and that of your affianced wife. Have you seen Miss Browne since?”

“No.”

His visitor was so utterly disconsolate that Bruce was ata loss to know how to deal with him. He felt that if Mensmore would but speak regarding Mrs. Hillmer’s strange delusion, and the cause of it, all these difficulties and disasters would disappear. He resolved to try a direct attack.

“Have you ever heard of a Colonel Montgomery?” he said suddenly, bending his searching gaze on the other’s downcast face.

The effect was electrical. Mensmore was so taken back that he was spellbound. He looked at Claude, the picture of astonishment, before he stammered:

“I—you—who told you about him?”

“He was your sister’s friend, adviser, and confidant,” was the stern reply. “He it is who, in some mysterious way, is bound up with Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”

Mensmore rose excitedly.

“I cannot discuss the matter with you,” he cried. “I have given my sacred promise, and no matter what the cost may be I will not break my word.”

“I do not press you. But may I see Mrs. Hillmer again? When she is calmer I might reason with her.”

The other placed his hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and his voice was very impressive, though shaken by strong emotion:

“Believe me,” he said, “it is better that you should not see her. It will be useless. She is leaving London, not to avoid consequences, but to get away from painful memories. Her departure will be quite open, and her place of residence known to any one who cares to inquire. One thing she is immovable in. She will never reveal to a living soul what she knows of Lady Dyke’s death. She would rather suffer any punishment at the hands of the law.”

“Don’t you understand that this man, Montgomery, is now known to the police. Sooner or later he will be found and asked to explain any connection he may have had with the crime. Why not accomplish quietly that which will perforce be done through the uncompromising channels of Scotland Yard?”

“Your reasoning appears to be good, but—”

“But folly must prevail?”

“Put it that way if you like.”

“So this wretched imbroglio may cost you the love of a charming and devoted girl?”

“Heaven help me, it may—probably will.”

“I swear to you,” cried the barrister, who was unusually excited, “that I will tear the heart out of this mystery before the week expires.”

Mensmore bowed silently and would have left the room, but Smith entered. In their distraction they had not heard the bell ring. Smith handed a card to his master. Instantly Bruce controlled himself. His admiration for the dramatic sequence of events overcame his eagerness as an actor. It was with an appreciative smile that he said, without the slightest reference to Mensmore:

“Show the lady in.”

Mensmore was passing out, but the sight of the visitor drove him back as though he had been struck. It was Phyllis Browne.

Her recognition of him was a bright smile. She advanced to Bruce, saying pleasantly:

“I am glad to meet you, though the manner of my call is somewhat unconventional. I heard much of you from Bertie in the Riviera, and more since my return to town.”

He suitably expressed his delight at this apparition.Mensmore, not knowing what to do, stood awkwardly at the other end of the room.

Neither of the others paid the least heed to him.

“Of course I had a definite object in coming to see you, Mr. Bruce,” went on the young lady. “I have been coolly told that, because somebody killed somebody else some months ago, a young gentlemen who asked me to be his wife, is not only not going to marry me but intends to spend the rest of his life in Central Africa or China—anywhere in fact but where I may be.”

“A most unwise resolve,” said the barrister.

“So I thought. You appear to hold the key to the situation; and, as it is an easy matter to trace you through the Directory, here I am. My people think I am skating at St. James’s.”

“Well, Miss Browne,” said Claude, “I am neither judge nor jury nor counsel for the prosecution, but there is the culprit. I hand him over to you.”

“Yes; but that goose didn’t kill anybody, did he?”

“No.”

“And I am sure his sister did not; from what little I saw of her she would not hurt a fly.”

“Quite true.”

“Then why don’t you find the man who caused all the mischief—and—and—lock him up at least, so that he cannot go on injuring people?”

Miss Phyllis was very brave and self-confident at the outset. Now she was on the verge of tears, for Mensmore’s saddened face and depressed manner unnerved her more than his passionate words at their last interview.

“You ask me a straight question,” replied Bruce, though his eyes were fixed on Mensmore, “and I will give you a straight answer. Iwillfind the man who killedLady Dyke. As you say, it is time his capacity for doing injury to others should be limited. Before many days have passed Mr. Mensmore will come to you and beg your pardon for his hasty and quite unwarranted resolve.”

“Do you hear that, Bertie?” cried the girl. “Didn’t I tell you so?”

Mensmore came forward to her side of the table.

“I need not wait, Phil, dear,” he said simply. “I ask your pardon now. This business is in the hands of Providence. I was foolish to think that anything I could do would stave off the inevitable.”

“And if you have—to go—to China—you w-will take me with you?”

Bruce looked out of the window, whistled, and said loudly, addressing a beautiful lady in short skirts who figured in a poster across the way:

“Let me ring for some tea. All this talk makes one dry.”

When the young people had gone—Mensmore ill at ease, though tremuously happy that Phyllis had so demonstrated her trust in him, Phyllis herself radiantly confident in the barrister’s powers to set everything right—Bruce devoted himself to the task of determining a new line for his energies.

The first step was self-evident. He must ascertain if the Dykes knew a Colonel Montgomery.

He drove to the Club frequented by Sir Charles, but the baronet was not there, so he went to Wensley House.

Sir Charles was at home, in his accustomed nook by the library fire. He looked ill and low-spirited. The temporary animation he had displayed during the past few weeks was gone. If anything, he was more listless than at any time since his wife’s death.

“Well, Claude,” he said wearily, “anything to report?”

“Yes, a good deal.”

“What is it?”

“I want to ask you something. Did you ever know a Colonel Montgomery, or was your wife acquainted with any one of that name to your knowledge?”

“I do not think she was. Had she ever met such a man I should probably have heard of him. Who was he?”

The baronet’s low state rendered his words careless and indefinite, but his friend did not wish to bother him unduly.

“The police have discovered,” he said, “that Mrs. Hillmer formed a close intimacy with some one whom she designated by that name and rank, though I have failed to trace any British officer who answers to his description. He disappeared, or died, as some people put it, about the same time as your wife.”

“Is it not known what became of him, then?”

“No.”

“Won’t Mrs. Hillmer tell you?”

“She absolutely refuses to give any help, whatever.”

“On what ground?”

“That is best known to herself. My theory is that a man she loves is implicated in the affair, and she is prepared to go to any lengths to shield him.”

“Ah!”

Sir Charles bent over and poked the fire viciously. Then he murmured: “Women are queer creatures, Bruce. We men never understand them until too late. My wife and I did not to all appearance care a jot for one another while she lived. Yet I now realize that she loved me, and I would give the little remaining span of existence, dear as life is, to see her once more.”

This was a morbid subject; the younger man tried to switch him off it.

“It is almost clear to me,” he said, “that Colonel Montgomery’s name was assumed. Few people realize the use of thealiasmade in modern life. I have a notion that the custom among otherwise honorable people has arisen from the publicity given to the fact that Royal and other distinguished personages frequently choose to conceal their identity under less known territorial titles.”

“The idea is ingenious. We are all slaves to fashion.”

“However that may be, it should not be a difficulttask to lay hands on the gentleman should he be still living.”

“Suppose you succeed. How can you connect him with my wife’s death?”

“At this moment I am unable to say. But the cabman might be of some use.”

“The cabman. What cabman?”

“Did I omit that? I ought to have told you that I have found the driver of the four-wheeler in which your poor wife was taken, dead or insensible, from Sloane Square to Putney.”

“What an extraordinary thing!”

“What is?”

“That you should have forgotten to inform me of such a striking fact.”

“Not so. Now that I recollect, I have not had the opportunity. It was impossible to discuss anything else but that forged letter on the last two occasions we met, and it was only a few hours prior to your visit on Monday that I got the cabman’s story fully. By the way, do you now see any reason why Jane Harding should have tried to deceive you in such a manner?”

The barrister perceived that Sir Charles was nervous and irritable, so he deemed it a needless strain to enlarge on the history of his discovery of Foxey.

“I am tired of letters, and plots, and mysteries. My life is resolving into one huge note of interrogation. Soon the great question of eternity will dominate all others.”

Dyke’s mood unfitted him for sustained conversation. Bruce could but pity him, and hope that time would calm his fevered brain, and soothe the unrest that shed this gloom over him.

“Really,” said Claude, after a long interval, duringwhich both men sought inspiration from the dancing flames in the fireplace, “really this is too bad of you, Dyke. You showed a marked improvement for a little space, and now you are letting yourself slip back into a state of lonely and unoccupied moping again.”

“My thoughts find me both occupation and company,” was the despondent reply.

“There is nothing for it,” continued Bruce cheerfully, “but a tour round the world. You must start immediately. A complete change of scene and surroundings will soon pull you back to a normal state of mind and health.”

“I have been thinking of a long journey for some time past.”

The barrister glanced sharply at his friend. Thedouble ententewas not lost on him. Dyke was in a depressed and nervous condition. The uncertainty regarding his wife’s fate was harassing him unduly and it was with a twinge of conscience that Bruce reflected upon his own eagerness to pursue a quest which, by very reason of its indefiniteness, attracted him as an intellectual pursuit.

“Look here,” he cried, on the spur of the moment, “I have long desired to see the Canadian Pacific route. Will you arrange to start West with me a fortnight hence? We can return when the spirit moves us.”

“We will see. We will see. To-day I feel unable to decide anything.”

“Yes, I know, but the mere fact that you take the resolution will serve to reanimate you.”

“It is very good of you, Claude, to trouble so about me. Had you asked me earlier I might have gone straight away. But let it rest for a little while. When I have recovered my spirits somewhat I will come to you to ask you to sail next day, or something of the sort.”

Beyond this, the other could not move him.

There was one link in the chain of evidence that would be irrefragable if discovered. Was this “Colonel Montgomery” in any way connected with the house at Putney where the murderer had disposed of the body? If this could be established, the unknown visitor to Raleigh Mansions would experience a good deal of difficulty in clearing himself of suspicion. Bruce was certain that, once the “Colonel” was traced, much would come to light explanatory of Mrs. Hillmer’s, and her brother’s, dread lest his identity should be discovered.

An inquiry addressed to the house agents to whom possible tenants were referred elicited the information that the present owner, a lady, was prepared to let the house annually or on a lease. They enclosed an order to view, which Bruce retained in case he should happen to need it.

A second letter gave him the address of the lady’s solicitors, Messrs. Small & Sharp, Lincoln’s Inn.

He called on them as a possible tenant, with a desire to purchase the property outright if his proposal could be entertained.

Mr. Sharp, the partner who dealt with the estate, became very suave when the suggestion reached his ears.

“You will understand, Mr. Bruce, that your request requires some consideration. The rent my client asks is comparatively low, because the house is old-fashioned, but the splendid riparian position of the property, a free-hold acre on the banks of the Thames at Putney, gives it a highly increased future value. Any figure you may have based on a rental calculation would therefore—”

“Not meet the case at all,” said the barrister, repressing a smile at the familiar opening move in the game of bargaining.

“Precisely.”

“May I ask who the present owner is?”

“Certainly, the lady’s name is Small. In fact, she is my partner’s wife. Her father, the late Rev. Septimus Childe, purchased the estate some years ago, largely because the house suited his requirements as the head of a successful private school.”

“Has the estate changed hands frequently then?”

“Oh, dear, no. Indeed, it is well understood that the Rev. Mr. Childe acquired it more as a friendly transaction than otherwise. The estate is a portion of the separate estate of the late Lady Helen Montgomery, who married Sir William Dyke, father of the present baronet, who perhaps—good gracious, my dear sir, what is the matter?”

Had Bruce been a woman he must have fainted.

As it was, the shock of the intelligence nearly paralyzed him. Sir Charles Dyke!—Montgomery!—The house at Putney the property of his mother! What new terror did not this frightful combination suggest?

Why did his friend conceal from him these most important facts? Why did he pretend ignorance not only of the locality but of his mother’s maiden name? Like lightning the remembrance flashed through Bruce’s troubled brain that he had only heard of the earlier Lady Dyke as a daughter of the Earl of Tilbury. A suspicion—profoundly horrible, yet convincing—was slowly mastering him, and every second brought further proof not only of its reasonableness, but of its ghastly and inflexible certainty.

Again the lawyer’s voice reached his ears, dully and thin, as though it penetrated through a wall.

“Surely, you feel ill? Let me get you some brandy.”

“No—no,” murmured the barrister. “It is but a momentary faintness. I—I think I will go out into thefresh air. Are you—quite sure—that Mr. Childe bought the property from Lady Helen Montgomery’s trustees?”

“Quite sure. If you wait even a few moments I will show you the title-deeds.”

“No, thank you. I will call again. Pray excuse me.”

Somehow Bruce crossed the quiet square of the Inn, and plunged into the turmoil of the street. Amid the bustle of Holborn he had a curious sensation of safety. The fiend so suddenly installed in his consciousness was less busy here suggesting strange and maddening thoughts.

Why—why—why—fifty questions beat incessantly against the barrier of agonized negation he strove to set up, but the noise of traffic made the attack confused. Each incautious bump against a passer-by silenced a demand, each heavy crunch of a ’bus on the gravel-strewed roadway temporarily silenced a doubt.

He was so unmanned that he felt almost on the verge of tears. He absolutely dared not attempt to reason out the fearful alternative which had so fiercely thrust itself upon him.

At last he became vaguely aware that people were staring at him. Fearful lest some acquaintance should recognize and accost him he hailed a hansom and drove to Victoria Street.

All the way the heavy beat of the horse’s feet served to distract his thoughts. He forced himself to count the quick paces, and tried hard to accommodate the numerals of two or more syllables to the rapidity of the animal’s trot. He failed in this, but in the failure found relief.

Nevertheless, though the horse was willing and the driver eager to oblige a fare who gave a “good” address, the time seemed interminable until the cab stopped in front of his door.

Once arrived there, he slowly ascended the stairs to his own flat, told Smith to pay the cabman half-a-crown and to admit no one, and threw himself into a chair.

At last he was face to face with the troublous demon who possessed him in Lincoln’s Inn, struggled with him through the crowd, and travelled with him in the hansom. Phyllis Browne should have her answer sooner than he had expected.

The man who murdered Lady Dyke was her own husband.

“Oh, heavens!” moaned Bruce, as he swayed restlessly to and fro in his chair, “is it possible?”

He sat there for hours. Smith entered, turned on the lights and suggested tea, but received an impatient dismissal.

After another long interval Smith appeared again, to announce that Mr. White had called.

“Did you not say I was out?” said Claude, his hollow tones and haggard air startling his faithful servitor considerably.

“Yes, sir—oh yes, sir. But that’s no use with Mr. White. ’E said as ’ow ’e were sure you were in.”

“Ask him to oblige me by coming again—to-morrow. I am very ill. I really cannot see him.”

Smith left the room only to return and say: “Mr. White says, sir, ’is business is of thehutmosthimportance. ’E can’t leave it; and ’e says you will be very sorry afterwards if you don’t see ’im now.”

“Oh, so be it,” cried Bruce, turning to a spirit-stand to seek sustenance in a stiff glass of brandy. “Send him in.”

Quite awed by circumstances, Smith admitted the detective and closed the door upon the two men, who stood looking at each other without a word of greeting or explanation.

The policeman spoke first. “Has Jane Harding been here, then?” he said.

His words conveyed no meaning to his hearer.

They were so incongruous, so ridiculously unreasoning, that Bruce laughed hysterically.

“You must have seen her,” cried the detective excitedly. “I know you have learned the truth, and in no other way that I can imagine could it have reached you.”

“Learnt what truth?”

“That Sir Charles Dyke himself is at the bottom of all this business.”

“Indeed. How have you blundered upon that solution?”

“Mr. Bruce, this time I am right, and you know it. It was Sir Charles Dyke who killed his wife. Nobody else had anything else to do with it, so far as I can guess. But if you haven’t seen Jane Harding, I wonder how you found out.”

“You are speaking in riddles. Pray explain yourself.”

“If Sir Charles Dyke had not been out of town, the riddle would have been answered by this time in the easiest way, as I should have locked him up.”

“Excellent. You remain faithful to tradition.”

“Mr. Bruce, please don’t try to humbug me, for thesake of your friend. I am quite in earnest. I have come to you for advice. Sir Charles Dyke is guilty enough.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“To help me to adopt the proper course. The whole thing seems so astounding that I can hardly trust my own senses. I spoke hastily just now. I would not have touched Sir Charles before consulting you. I was never in such a mixed-up condition in my life.”

Whatever the source of his information, the detective had evidently arrived at the same conclusion as Bruce himself. There was nothing for it but to endeavor to reason out the situation calmly and follow the best method of dealing with it suggested by their joint intelligence. Claude motioned the detective to a chair, imposed silence by a look, and summoned Smith. He was faint from want of food. With returning equanimity he resolved first to restore his strength, as he would need all his powers to wrestle with events before he slept that night.

Mr. White, nothing loth, joined him in a simple meal, and by tacit consent no reference was made to the one engrossing topic in their thoughts until the table was cleared.

“And now, Mr. White,” demanded the barrister, “what have you found out?”

“During the last two days,” he replied, “I have been unsuccessfully trying to trace Colonel Montgomery. No matter what I did I failed. I got hold of several of Mrs. Hillmer’s tradespeople, but she always paid her bills with her own cheques, and none of them had ever heard of a Colonel Montgomery. That furniture business puzzled me a lot—the change of the drawing-room set from one flat to another on November 7, I mean. So I discovered the address of the people who supplied the new articles to Mrs. Hillmer—”

“How?”

“Through the maid, Dobson. Mrs. Hillmer has given her notice to leave, and the girl is furious about it, as she appears to have had a very easy place there. I think it came to Mrs. Hillmer’s ears that she talked to me.”

“I see. Proceed.”

“Here I hit upon a slight clue. It was a gentleman who ordered the new furniture, and directed the transfer of the articles replaced from No. 61 to No. 12 Raleigh Mansions. He did this early in the morning of November 7, and the foreman in charge of the job remembered that there was some bother about it, as neither Mrs. Hillmer nor Mr. Corbett, as Mensmore used to be called, knew anything about it. But the gentleman came the same morning and explained matters. It struck the foreman as funny that there should be such a fearful hurry about refurnishing a drawing-room, for the gentleman did not care what the cost was so long as the job was carried out at express speed. Another odd thing was that Mrs. Hillmer paid for the articles, though she had not ordered them nor did she appear to want them. The man was quite sure that Mensmore’s first knowledge of the affair came with the arrival of the first batch of articles from Mrs. Hillmer’s flat, but he could only describe the mysterious agent as being a regular swell. He afterwards identified a portrait of Sir Charles Dyke as being exactly like the man he had seen, if not the man himself.”

“How did you come to have a portrait of Sir Charles in your possession?”

“That appears later,” said the detective, full of professional pride at the undoubtedly smart manner in which he had manipulated his facts once they were placed in order before him.

“Of course,” he went on, “I jumped at the conclusion that the stranger was this Colonel Montgomery. Then, while closely questioning the maid about the events of November 7, she suddenly remembered that she lost an old skirt and coat about that time. They had vanished from her room, and she had never laid eyes on them since. This set me thinking. I confronted her with the clothes worn by Lady Dyke when she was found in the river, and I’m jiggered if Dobson didn’t recognize them at once as being her missing property. Now, wasn’t that a rum go?”

“It certainly was,” said Bruce, who was piecing together the story of the murder in his mind as each additional detail came to light.

“Naturally I thought harder than ever after that. It then occurred to me that Jane Harding must have had some powerful reasons for so suddenly shutting up about the identification of her mistress’s underclothing. She was right enough, as we know, in regard to the skirt and coat, but she admitted to me that the linen on the dead body was just the same as Lady Dyke’s. Curiously enough, it was not marked by initials, crest, or laundry-mark, and I ascertained months ago that owing to some fad of her ladyship’s, all the family washing was done on the estate in Yorkshire. This explained the absence of the otherwise inevitable laundry-mark.”

“Thus far you are coherence itself.”

“Well,” said Mr. White complacently, “I was a long time getting to work, Mr. Bruce, and had it not been for your help I should probably never have got at the truth, but I flatter myself that, once on the right track, I seldom leave it. However, as I was saying, I felt that Jane Harding knew a good deal more than she would tell, except under pressure, so I decided to put that pressure on.”

“In what way?”

“I frightened her. Played off on her a bit of the stage business she is so fond of. This afternoon I placed a pair of handcuffs in my pocket and went to her place at Bloomsbury, having previously prepared a bogus warrant for her arrest on a charge of complicity in the murder of Lady Dyke.”

“It was a dangerous game!”

“Very. If it had gone wrong and reached the ears of the Commissioner or got into the papers, I should have been reduced or dismissed. But what is a policeman to do in such cases? I was losing my temper over this infernal inquiry and never obtaining any real light, though always coming across startling developments. It had to end somehow, and I took the chance. The make-believe warrant and the production of handcuffs for a woman—they are never used, you know, in reality—have often been trump-cards for us when everything else failed.”

“This time, then, the ‘properties’ made up the ‘show,’ as Miss Harding would put it?”

“They did, and no mistake. I gave her no time to think or act. I found her sitting with her mother, admiring a new carpet she had just laid down. I said, ‘Is your name Jane Harding, now engaged at the Jollity Theatre, under the alias of Marie le Marchant, but formerly a maid in the service of Lady Dyke?’ She grew very white, and said ‘Yes,’ while her mother clutched hold of her, terrified. Then I whipped out the warrant and the cuffs. My, but you should have heard them squeal when the bracelets clinked together. ‘What has my child done?’ screamed the mother. ‘Perhaps nothing, madam,’ I answered; ‘but she is guilty in the eyes of the law justthe same if she persists in screening the guilty parties.’ Jane Harding was trembling and blubbering, but she said, ‘It is very hard on me. I have done nothing.’ I trembled myself then, as I feared that she might offer to come with me to the police station, in which case I should have been dished. But the mother fixed the affair splendidly. ‘I am sure my daughter will not conceal anything,’ she said, ‘and it is a shame to disgrace her in this way without telling what it is you want to know.’ I took the cue in an instant. ‘I am empowered,’ I said, ‘to suspend this warrant, and perhaps do away with it altogether, if she answers my questions fully and truthfully.’ ‘Why, of course she will,’ said the mother, and the girl, though desperately upset, whimpered her agreement. With that I got the whole story.”

“Sir Charles Dyke inspired her actions, I suppose.”

“From the very beginning almost. At first Jane Harding herself believed, when she gave evidence at the inquest, that the body she saw was not that of Lady Dyke; but afterwards she changed her opinion, especially when she recalled the exact pattern and materials of the underclothing. Then my inquiries put her on the scent. Being rather a sharp girl, she jumped to the conclusion that Sir Charles knew more about the matter than he professed. In any case, her place was gone, and she would soon be dismissed, so she resolved on a plan even bolder than mine in threatening to lock her up. She watched her opportunity, found Sir Charles alone one day, and told him that from certain things within her knowledge, she thought it her duty to go to the police-station. He was startled, she could see, and asked her to explain herself. She said that her mistress had been killed, and she might be able to put the police on the right track. He hesitated, not knowingwhat to say; so she hinted that it would mean a lot of trouble for her, and she would prefer, if she had £500, to go to America, and let the matter drop altogether. He told her that he did not desire to have Lady Dyke’s name brought into public notoriety. Sooner than to allow such a thing to occur he would give her the money. An hour later he handed her fifty ten-pound notes.”

“What a wretched mistake,” cried Bruce involuntarily. This unmasking of his unfortunate friend’s duplicity was the most painful feature of all to him.

“Perhaps it was,” replied the detective, “but the thing is not yet quite clear to me. That is why I am here. But to continue. The girl admitted that she lost her head a bit. Instead of leaving the house openly, without attracting comment, she simply bolted, thus giving rise to the second sensational element attending Lady Dyke’s disappearance. But she resolved to be faithful to her promise. When you found her she held her tongue, and even wrote to Sir Charles to assure him that she had not spoken a word to a soul. He sent for her, and pitched into her about not going to America, but took her address in case he wished to see her again.”

“He recognized her letter-writing powers, no doubt.”

“Evidently. She was surprised last Thursday week to receive a telegram asking her to meet him at York Station. When she arrived there he asked her to write the letter he handed to you and to post it in London on Saturday evening. He explained that his action was due to his keen anxiety to shield his wife’s name, and that this letter would settle the affair altogether. As he handed her another bundle of notes, and promised to settle £100 a year on her for life, she was willing enough to help him. During your interview with her you guessed the reason why she wroteLady Dyke’s hand so perfectly. She had copied it for three years.”

“All this must have astonished you considerably?”

“Mr. Bruce, astonished isn’t the word. I was flabbergasted! Once she started talking I let her alone, only rattling the handcuffs when she seemed inclined to stop. But all the time I felt as if the top of my head had been blown off.”

“I imagine she had not much more to tell you?”

“She pitched into you as the cause of all the mischief, and went so far as to say that she was sure it was not Sir Charles who killed Lady Dyke, but you yourself.”

Bruce winced at Jane Harding’s logic. Were he able to retrieve the past three months the mystery of Lady Dyke’s death would have remained a mystery forever.

“Now about the photograph,” said the detective. “After I had left Jane Harding with a solemn warning to speak to no one until I saw her again, I made a round of the fashionable photographers and soon obtained an excellent likeness of Sir Charles. I showed it to Dobson, and she said: ‘That is Colonel Montgomery.’ I showed it to the foreman of the furniture warehouse, and he said: ‘That is the image of the man who ordered Mrs. Hillmer’s suite.’ Now, what on earth is the upshot of this business to be? I called at Wensley House, but was told Sir Charles was not in town. Had he been in, I would not have seen him until I had discussed matters with you.”

“That is very good of you, Mr. White. May I ask your reason for showing him this consideration?”

The policeman, who was very earnest and very excited, banged his hand on the table as he cried:

“Don’t you see what all this amounts to? I have nooption but to arrest Sir Charles Dyke for the murder of his wife.”

“That is a sad conclusion.”

“And do you believe he killed her?”

“Strange as it may seem to you, I do not.”

“And I’m jiggered if I do either.”

“I—I am greatly obliged to you, White.”

Claude bent his head almost to his knees, and for some minutes there was complete silence. When he again looked at the detective there were tears in his eyes.

“What can we do to unravel this tangled skein without creating untold mischief?” he murmured.

“It beats me, sir,” was the perplexed answer. “But when I came in I imagined that Jane Harding or some one had been to see you. Surely, you had learned something of all this before my arrival?”

“Yes, indeed. I had reached your goal, but by a different route. Unfortunately, my discovery only goes to confirm yours.”

Bruce then told him of his visit to the lawyer’s office, and its result. Mr. White listened to the recital with knitted brows.

“It is very clear,” he said, when the barrister had ended, “that Lady Dyke was killed in Mrs. Hillmer’s flat, that Sir Charles knew of her death, that he himself conveyed the body to the river bank at Putney, and that ever since he has tried to throw dust in our eyes and prevent any knowledge of the true state of affairs reaching us.”

“Your summary cannot be disputed in the least particular.”

“Well, Mr. Bruce, we must dosomething. If you don’t like to interfere, thenImust.”

“There is but one person in the world who can enlightenus as to the facts. That person obviously is Sir Charles Dyke himself.”

“Unquestionably.”

Bruce looked at his watch. It was 10.30P.M.He rose.

“Let us go to him,” he said.

“But he is not in London.”

“He is. I expect you will find that he gave orders for no one to be admitted, and told the servants to say he had left town to make the denial more emphatic.”

“It will be a terrible business, I fear, Mr. Bruce.”

“I dread it—on my soul I do. But I cannot shirk this final attempt to save my friend. My presence may tend to help forward a final and full explanation. No matter what the pain to myself, I must be present. Come, it is late already!”

The streets were comparatively deserted as they drove quickly up Whitehall and crossed the south side of Trafalgar Square. It is a common belief, even among Londoners themselves, that the traffic is dense in the main thoroughfares at all hours of the night until twelve o’clock has long past.

But to the experienced eye there is a marked hiatus between half-past nine and eleven o’clock. At such a time Charing Cross is negotiable, Piccadilly Circus loses much of its terror, and a hansom may turn out of Regent Street into Oxford Street without the fare being impelled to clutch convulsively at the brass window-slide in a make-believe effort to save the vehicle from being crushed like a walnut shell between two heavy ’buses.

Such considerations did not appeal to the barrister and his companion on this occasion.

For some inexplicable cause they both felt that they were in a desperate hurry.

A momentary stoppage at the turn into Orchard Street caused each man to swear, quite unconsciously. Now that the supreme moment in this most painful investigation was at hand they resented the slightest delay. Though they were barely fifteen minutes in the cab, it seemed an hour before they alighted at Wensley House, Portman Square.

In response to an imperative ring a footman appeared. Instead of answering the barrister’s question as to whether Sir Charles was at home or not, he said: “You are Mr. Bruce, sir, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Sir Charles is at home, but he retired to his room before dinner. He is not well, and he may have gone to bed, but he said that if you came you were to be admitted. I will ask Mr. Thompson.”

“Better send Thompson to me,” said Bruce decisively; and in a minute the old butler stood before him.

“I hear that Sir Charles has retired for the night,” said Claude.

Thompson had caught sight of the detective standing on the steps. A few hours earlier he had himself told him that the baronet was out of town. It was an awkward dilemma, and he coughed doubtingly while he racked his brains for a judicious answer.

But Bruce grasped his difficulty. “It is all right, Thompson. Mr. White quite understands the position. Do you think Sir Charles is in bed?”

“I will go and see, sir. He was very anxious that you should be sent upstairs if you called. But that was when he was in the library.”

Bruce and the detective entered the hall, the butler closed the door behind them, and then solemnly ascended the stairs to Sir Charles Dyke’s bedroom, which was situated on the first floor along a corridor towards the back of the house.

They distinctly heard the polite knock at the door and Thompson’s query, “Are you asleep, Sir Charles?”

After a pause, there was another knock, and the same question in a slightly louder key.

Then the butler returned, saying as he came down the stairs:

“Sir Charles seems to be sound asleep, sir.”

Bruce and the detective exchanged glances. The barrister was disappointed, almost perturbed, but he said:

“In that case we will not disturb him. Sir Charles does not often retire so early.”

“No, sir. I have never known him to go to his room so early before. He told me not to serve dinner, as he wasn’t well. He would not let me get anything for him. He just took some wine, and I have not seen him since.”

“Since when?”

“About 7.30, sir.”

Bruce turned to depart, but Thompson, with the privilege of an old servant when talking to one whom he knew to be on familiar terms with his master, whispered:

“That there blessed maid turned up again this afternoon, sir.”

The barrister started violently.

“Not Jane Harding, surely?”

“Yes, sir. She came at four o’clock and asked for Sir Charles, as bold as brass.”

“Did he see her?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Do you hear that, White?”

The detective nodded.

“She must have reached the house about half-an-hour before me,” he said, addressing the butler.

“That’s about right, sir.”

“But I understood,” went on Bruce, “that Sir Charles was not at home to ordinary callers?”

Thompson shuffled about somewhat uneasily. He wished now he had held his tongue.

“I had my orders, sir,” he murmured, in extenuation of his apparently diverse actions.

“Tell me what your orders were,” persisted Bruce.

The man hesitated, not wishful to offend his master’s friend, but too well trained to reveal the explicit instructions given him by Sir Charles Dyke.

“Do not be afraid. I will explain everything to Sir Charles personally. We cannot best judge what to do—whether to wake him or not—unless we know the position,” went on the barrister.

Thus absolved from blame, Thompson took from his waistcoat pocket a folded sheet of notepaper.

“I don’t pretend to understand the reason, sir,” he said, “but Sir Charles wrote this himself, and told me to be careful to obey him exactly.”

The barrister eagerly grasped the note and read:

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