“Concerning what did he reprove her?”
“He told her that she had lost quite enough at the tables, and that she had better not gamble any more.”
“What banker do the Wemysson’s patronise?”
“The National and Provincial Bank.”
“Thank you. I believe that is all I wish to ask you at present, Mr Wigan. I will look into the case, and let you know the results as soon as possible.”
When my client departed he did not look very hopeful of the results of my investigations, and although my plans were already laid, I was not at all sanguine as to their success.
But of two fundamental facts I felt certain. Mrs Wemysson had committed some indiscretion, in which the welfare of her step-daughter was involved. And Mr Jackson was not only cognisant of that indiscretion, but was determined to make capital out of it.
Now, whatever the indiscretion was, it had evidently had its origin at Monte Carlo. It was probably connected with Mrs Wemysson’s rashness at the gaming tables. But at this point the puzzle became more tangled. Even if she had been losing money heavily, this would not make marriage into her family desirable for an impoverished fortune-hunter, for that Mr Jackson had actually fallen in love with Alice Wemysson was, I concluded, hardly a likely supposition to entertain. I preferred to look upon his motives as entirely mercenary.
Suppose Miss Wemysson proved to be a greater matrimonial prize than she knew herself to be? This would explain the solicitor’s conduct in forcing his attentions upon an unwilling girl. But it made the widow’s behaviour all the more inexplicable.
With a view of satisfying myself as to Miss Wemysson’s financial position, I communicated with one of the employees of the bank in which her father had invested his money, and desired him to let me know how much of this money had been withdrawn. We make a point of having friends in all sorts of unlikely places, and their co-operation often simplifies our work wonderfully. In this case the information I got startled me considerably.
Of the twenty thousand pounds left by Mr Wemysson, there was barely five thousand left! Mrs Wemysson must have been completely carried away by the gambling demon, to risk her daughter’s little fortune as well as her own. Mr Jackson evidently knew of her breach of trust and was trading upon it. Now where did his profit come in?
I determined to know.
A few days later, having watched him leave his office, I interviewed the poor underpaid soul who served him as clerk. At first I could get little information from him. But, prompted by the promise of another situation, he showed me what a scoundrel his employer really was.
Mr Jackson knew that Mrs Wemysson had gambled her daughter’s money, and threatened to expose and ruin her if she did not insist upon Alice marrying him. He forebore to tell her that Mr Wemysson’s brother, of whom they had not heard for years, had died and left his niece a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. He, as the family solicitor, knew all about it, but was keeping the information back until he had secured the heiress for his wife.
My course was now plain. I paid a visit to Mrs Wemysson and proved to her that I knew more about her own and her daughter’s affairs than she did. She was very humble and repentant. She was also grateful when I undertook to smooth over the ruffled feelings of the injured lovers.
The latter are now happily married, and have sealed their forgiveness by augmenting Mrs Wemysson’s fortune to its original amount. They have, however, taken the precaution to place only the interest at her disposal. Every Christmas brings me some wonderful presents from Mr and Mrs Wigan, who will have it that I saved them from lifelong misery by exposing Mr Jackson’s schemes ere it was too late.
Mr Jackson himself has by this time discovered that shady ways don’t pay. He has been struck off the rolls, and Lincoln’s Inn Fields knows him no more.
“It cost more than two hundred pounds, Miss Bell. But that is not the worst of the matter. My aunt stipulated that I should always wear it as a perpetual reminder of her past kindness and her future good intentions, and if she misses it I shall lose favour with her altogether. To lose Miss Mainwaring’s favour means to lose the splendid fortune which is hers to bequeath, so you see how very serious the matter is for me. It is, indeed, little short of life and death, for poverty would kill me now. For God’s sake do your best for me.”
“But surely, if Miss Mainwaring knows that you could not possibly have foreseen your loss, she will not be unjust enough to disinherit you?”
“Indeed she will. She believes me to be vacillating and unreliable, because I broke off an engagement with a rich man to whom I had but given a reluctant acceptance, and united myself to the man of my choice. My husband was poor and therefore beyond the pale of forgiveness, and my own pardon is only based on the most unswerving obedience to all my aunt’s injunctions. The pendant came from India, and the stones in it are said to possess occult power – I wish they had the power to come back to their rightful owner.”
The speaker heaved a sigh of desperation as she spoke, and I glanced at her with considerable interest. She was tall, pale, dark-eyed, and handsome, but her appearance bore certain signs of that vacillation and carelessness of which her aunt accredited her with the possession.
The circumstances surrounding the loss of which she complained were peculiar. She had been spending the evening at the house of the German Ambassador, and was returning home in Miss Mainwaring’s carriage, when she became aware of the fact that she had lost the jewelled pendant which her aunt had given her as a token of reconciliation when she returned to her after being suddenly widowed.
A frantic search of the carriage bore no results, and Mrs Bevan hastily told the coachman to return to the embassy. But she prudently refrained from confiding the particulars of her loss to him, for she was not quite without hope that it might be remedied. Madame von Auerbach was, however, able to give her no comfort, for she had herself suffered in like manner with her guest.
She had lost a valuable diamond-studded watch, and when the most careful search failed to discover it, the conclusion arrived at was that some thief must have been present at the reception. It was an unpleasant conclusion to arrive at. But it was the only natural one. For the Ambassador’s wife had not left her guests, or gone beyond the reception rooms, from the time she entered them, wearing the watch, to the moment when, the last visitors having just gone, she thought of looking at her watch, and found that it had disappeared.
Mrs Bevan’s return a few moments later with the news that her pendant had disappeared, confirmed the supposition that some professional thief must have been at work, and the police were at once communicated with. They were also strictly enjoined to keep the matter a profound secret, for various reasons.
But Mrs Bevan was too anxious to rely entirely upon the exertions of the regular force, hence her application to our firm and her urgent entreaty that I would act with the utmost despatch.
Soon after my client’s departure I sought an interview with Madame von Auerbach, but could glean very little useful information. The invitations had been sent out with great care, but their exclusiveness was negatived by the fact that they were all sent to So-and-so and friend. The position of those invited by name had been considered sufficient guarantee of the perfect suitability of the friends whom they might select to accompany them to the embassy, and at least a score of people had been present of whom the hostess barely heard even their names.
Of course, no one could treat any single one of these individuals as suspects without some definite suspicion to work upon, and unfortunately for our prospects of success, there was not the slightest ground for suspecting anyone in particular.
I was about to quit Madame von Auerbach’s house when a servant entered with a card upon a waiter, and upon hearing that the name inscribed thereon was that of one of the guests of the previous evening, I hastily decided to stay a little longer, and requested Madame von Auerbach to keep my vocation a secret from her visitor.
The next minute a most bewitching little woman was ushered into the room.
“Oh, my dear madame!” she exclaimed, with a charming foreign accent. “Such an unfortunate thing! I lost my beautiful diamond clasp last night. Have your servants seen anything of it?”
Madame von Auerbach turned pale, and I looked with augmented interest at the harbinger of this new development of the previous evening’s mystery. The depredations had evidently been on a large scale, and the depredators had shown remarkably good taste in the choice of their spoil. The latest victim was a French lady named Madame Duchesne, and she waxed eloquent in lamentations over her loss when it was shown to her how little hope there was of recovering her diamond clasp.
“And do you know, I feel so terribly upset,” was her pathetic protest, “that I would give anything not to have had to go on with my own garden party to-morrow. And I don’t like to say it, but it is a fact that I may also have included the thief in my invitation, and it would be awful if more things were to be stolen. Whatever shall I do?”
As no practical advice seemed to be forthcoming, Madame Duchesne studied for a moment, and then announced her intention of employing a detective.
“Not a real, horrid policeman,” she averred, “but one of those extraordinary individuals who seem able to look through and through you, and who can find anything out. Private detectives, I think they call them.”
Madame von Auerbach looked up eagerly, but I gave her a warning glance which caused her to postpone the revelation of my identity which she had felt prompted to make.
“Do you know any of these people?” was the Frenchwoman’s appeal to me. “Can you help me to the address of one?”
“There are several firms of private detectives in London, if we are to judge from their advertisements,” I answered. “I have heard of Messrs Bell and White, of Holborn, spoken of as fairly good, but, of course, there are plenty of others equally good, or probably better.”
“Bell and White, Holborn. Yes, I will try them. Thank you so much for helping me. May I ask if you live in London?”
Seizing my cue, Madame von Auerbach promptly came to my assistance.
“I am very angry with Miss Gresham,” she averred. “Since she resigned her post as governess to the Duke of Solothurn’s children, she has hardly deigned to take any notice of the numerous friends she made in Germany. But I mean to make her stay a few days with me, now that she has come to see me.”
“Then you must bring her with you to my garden party,” said Madame Duchesne, and the invitation so cleverly angled for was accepted with a faint pretence of hesitation at the idea of inflicting myself upon the hospitality of a total stranger.
After Madame Duchesne’s departure I congratulated Madame von Auerbach very warmly upon her tact and presence of mind, and arranged to visit the garden party as her friend the next day.
In due course the interesting function was in full swing, and the fascinating hostess had quite a crowd of guests to look after. My “guarantor” had left me, at my own request, to my own devices. I wanted to look about me, and to note all that was going on, without being too much in evidence myself.
Presently Madame Duchesne approached me with a very mysterious air, and introduced a very handsome man to my notice. “Don’t be shocked,” she whispered, “But this is the private detective, Mr Bell. I communicated with him at once after leaving Madame von Auerbach’s yesterday, and he is here to watch that no pickpocket secures booty here. Isn’t it too dreadful to have to take such precautions? I will never give another party in London!”
I responded to this confidential communication with due sympathy, and gravely acknowledged the attention my new companion bestowed upon me for a few moments. And I had need of my gravity and presence of mind. For the man introduced to me was not my uncle, the detective. I knew that our firm had not been applied to by Madame Duchesne, in spite of her assertion to the contrary, and as this was certainly no one who had ever been in our office, I knew that certain suspicions that I had formed yesterday were likely to be verified. Since this stranger was certainly no detective, I concluded that he was merely posing as one for the sake of diverting suspicion from the offenders whom I was anxious to run to earth. The assumption that he was the associate and helpmate of the thieves was also a very natural one, although a glance at the lovely hostess and her dainty surroundings almost seemed to belie such a supposition.
But I knew that I was on the right track, and within the hour my vigilance was rewarded. The sham detective, whose pretended avocation had been disclosed to none but Madame von Auerbach and myself, sauntered from group to group, as if intent upon scrutinising their actions. His real object was to attach their jewellery, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him possess himself of a costly watch which Lady A. was wearing in somewhat careless fashion. Instant denunciation was not my intention. I mean to probe the matter to the root, and followed “Mr Bell’s” movements with apparent nonchalance. Presently he culled a couple of beautiful standard roses, and handed them to Madame Duchesne with a graceful compliment.
The thing was beautifully done, and none but a person keenly on guard would have noticed that the watch changed hands with the roses. This little comedy over, Madame sauntered towards the house, and, five minutes later, I came upon her, quite by accident, of course, just as she was relocking a dainty cabinet from which she had taken a fresh bottle of perfume, in the use of which she was very lavish.
There were two or three other people in Madame’s charming boudoir, among them being Madame von Auerbach, by whose side I seated myself with an air of sudden weakness. She was really startled by the development of events, but she had been previously cautioned, and played her part very well indeed, when I exclaimed that I felt dreadfully ill.
“What shall I do?” she cried. “I hope it is not one of your old attacks.”
“Yes, it is,” I whispered faintly. “Do send for my uncle. He is the only one who can help me.”
I was promptly placed on the couch, and dosed with all sorts of amateur remedies, pending the arrival of my uncle, who had been sent for in hot haste, and who, “entre nous,” was waiting with a police officer in private clothes for the expected urgent summons. No sooner did they appear than my indisposition vanished, and I astonished the bystanders by springing vigorously to my feet.
“Arrest Madame Duchesne,” I cried, “and her accomplice.” Pointing to the latter, I continued, “That man has stolen Lady A.’s watch, and it is locked in that cabinet.”
What a scene of confusion there was immediately! Not only Lady A., but several other people discovered that they had been robbed, and the cabinet was found to contain a great quantity of stolen valuables, among them being Mrs Bevan’s much-prized pendant.
My discovery was only made in the nick of time. In another twelve hours the birds would have flown, for the real Madame Duchesne, the lady from whom they had stolen the letters of introduction which had obtained them the entree to London society, had arrived in London that day. An accomplice had warned them of the fact, and as they knew that this garden party they were giving at the gorgeous house they had hired would be their last opportunity for some time, they had determined to make a large haul and decamp that same evening.
Luckily for many people, I was able to frustrate their intention. At present they are lodging in infinitely less luxurious quarters, and several members of the upper classes are much more careful than formerly as to whom they associate with by virtue of letters of introduction.
I wonder how many people have stood on Waterloo Bridge, looking down upon the ever-moving river, and feeling themselves irresistibly attracted by the weird fascination of its cruel waters! But one cannot wonder at the eerie influence it exerts upon the miserable. One moment’s nerve – one plunge – one splash – a short struggle – and the stress and anguish of life are left behind!
And the Hereafter, what of it? It is truly an inscrutable puzzle. But the sudden recollection that an account of earthly doings may be required of us in another world has nerved many a desperate victim of misery to further endurance, and cheated Father Thames of much of his prey.
It was different with Lucy Markham. She was so desperate, so despairing, so wildly reckless, that nothing but the forcibly detaining arms which I flung around her would have prevented her from jumping into the river, and putting an end to a young life that had only seen seventeen summers.
“Let me go!” she shrieked. “How dare you hinder me? Can I not do as I like with myself?”
“No,” I panted, as I vainly strove to avoid the blows with which the frantic girl sought to release herself from my grasp. “I will not let you go until you promise that you will not put an end to your life.”
“Let me go!” she repeated. “I will do as I like! All the world has forsaken me, and I owe it no duty now. You can’t hold me much longer, and you shall see how soon I will end it all.”
“Never! If I don’t get your promise, I will scream for help, and then you will be locked up until your senses come back to you.”
My determination had its effect. She ceased to struggle, and looked solemnly at me with big, lovely eyes, to which the pale light of the moon seemed to give an uncanny glitter.
“Who are you?” she asked, “that you should so concern yourself about the fate of a stranger?”
“I am a friend of humanity, I hope.”
“Humanity! My God! How much humanity has my short life met with? And what sort of a specimen of humanity do you suppose me to be?”
“Unfortunate; that is evident. Not naturally depraved, I am sure. The victim of some scoundrel, I imagine. A fitting subject for help and counsel. That is certain.”
“Help and counsel! Oh, how I have prayed for them! and now it is too late!”
But I saw that I had conquered. The fierceness of the girl’s frenzy had passed, and the crisis in her fate was over. Poor child! how my heart bled for her! It is sad to witness despair at any time. But saddest of all is it to recognise the insatiate ghoul on the face of those to whom life should just be opening wide its portals of joy.
“Perhaps I can afford you help and counsel,” I said soothingly. “People would never find themselves utterly forsaken if they only knew to whom to apply in their need. Tell me about yourself. It will relieve you. What is your name, and where do you live?”
“My name,” was the bitter answer, “has been disgraced, and I will not add to my folly by involving my family in my disgrace. As for my home, it is a truly magnificent one. The air, the sky, and the roaring noises of civilisation are all mine to enjoyad libitum. Why, I am quite rich!”
As the stranger made the last remark, she lost her self-restraint, and sobbed with hysterical violence. I felt very much relieved at this outburst, for I knew that though it would probably leave the girl faint and exhausted, it would also leave her in a more gentle and pliable frame of mind.
My judgment proved correct, and I was presently fully confided in. It was the old story of blind trust and deliberate betrayal, and is soon told. Lucy Markham had been well educated and delicately reared, but was without relatives or near friends at the time I found her. Her mother had died eighteen months before this. The penury consequent upon the previous death of the father had been partly met by disposing of the furniture and other effects, and when Lucy was left unprotected she was also quite without means.
But she meant to be very industrious and attentive to her duties, and quite expected to earn her living easily in London. So she migrated from the quiet little Surrey village where she had seen so much sorrow to seek and to find employment in one of the greatest hives of wickedness the world has ever known, to wit – London.
When her employer began to pay her little attentions, she felt flattered. When he requested her to observe the strictest secrecy regarding his stealthily bestowed attention, she believed his representation that her fellow employees would be spitefully jealous if they suspected which way the wind was blowing. When he took her to a pretty house, she never doubted his assertion that marriage would follow immediately upon her transference thither, and it was with a feeling of rapturous pride that she obeyed his injunctions to the letter, and allowed herself to be introduced to the servant as “Mrs Maynard,” “just for the look of the thing” as Mr Collinson said.
Asked what the servant would think of her being called “Mrs Collinson” soon, the specious schemer replied that the servant really knew all particulars, and that it was the neighbours for whose benefit the little temporary deception was intended.
But it soon transpired that Lucy herself was the object of deception. The self-styled Mr Maynard had ever some excuse ready for putting off the marriage until his victim felt herself hopelessly compromised. The servant was his willing tool; and when he got tired of his toys, he had no difficulty in getting the servant to help him further in his rascally work. The latter contrived to tell Lucy that all the neighbours already looked down upon her, and that she, being kept by a man to whom she was not married, was considered beyond the pale of respectability. Innocent the girl was. But who would believe her protestations to that effect? In the face of her apparent guilt, no one would do it.
“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” said the servant. “The master will be kind and generous to you as long as he likes you. But you will have to give up such a notion as marrying so rich a man as he is. Take my advice, and get all you can out of him while you have the chance. He’ll soon fall in love with somebody else.”
Lucy’s heartbroken threat to expose her betrayer only provoked the derision of the servant.
“You would very likely get locked up for attempted blackmailing,” she said. “He has been too careful for such a greenhorn as you to circumvent him. He has never been here to see either you or the house except after dark, and nobody would believe you if you said that Mr Maynard was Mr Collinson. For he is a great man at church, and subscribes to everything. He is supposed to have nearly broken his heart when his wife died, and if ever anybody was looked upon by the world as a pattern of virtue, it is the man whom you, a bit of a shopgirl, expected to marry you. You would only get yourself laughed at and despised. So take my advice and don’t be fool enough to fly in the face of fortune yet.”
Even after these revelations the poor child could hardly believe in the utter baseness of her betrayer. But in her next interview with him she was soon convinced of the fact that the man whom she, in common with the rest of the world, regarded as a pattern of virtue, was, in reality, a monster of deceit and vice.
That night she escaped from her pretty home, and from then until I saved her from self-destruction she had undergone all manner of rebuffs, disappointments, and privations, which were enough to drive any other modest girl to the refuge of the wretched.
I found a temporary home for Lucy, and promised to put an end to her troubles in some way or other. Nor did I doubt my ability to do this. Lucy believed an appeal or a threat of exposure to be equally vain weapons to use against Mr Collinson, but I was more worldly wise, and more sure of success. I saw that as yet the girl was not fit to cope with the world, and I determined to make the “Pattern of Virtue” provide for her comfort. In this determination Lucy’s own guileless and simple nature aided me. Though tenacious of her honour, she did not recoil from the idea of compelling Mr Collinson to pay for his deception, as many a girl of more vigorous mind whose feelings had been outraged would have done.
I confess to feeling more slightly malicious when I went to interview the great draper and clothier, who soon found that he had a much more experienced woman than simple little Lucy to deal with. His dismay, when I quietly laid the whole array of facts before him and proved the strength of my position, was comical to witness. At first he tried to frighten me with his bogie reputation as a pattern of virtue. But I had several cards up my sleeve, and as I played them, one by one, he realised that if I were to make public exposure of only one-half the seedy facts I had been able, with the aid of my colleagues, to rake up against him, the world would know him in all his carnal hideousness, and a vast number of people would take their custom elsewhere.
Before I had done with him I convinced him of the expediency of providing liberally for Lucy for at least five years to come, and I declined to be satisfied with less than three hundred per annum for that period. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he saw no other way out of the embrogliointo which his scoundrelly nature had brought him, and I carried my point.
Lucy has a rare taste for music, and her special gifts lie in the direction of operatic composition. She is talented, industrious, and ambitious, and she is having the best tuition obtainable. Her whole soul is in her art, and there is little fear that she will hearken to the flattery which her sweet looks, gentle nature, and future prospects evoke. When her five years of study are ended there will be another star added to our galaxy of genius, and I shall be more thankful than ever that the opportunity was given me to rescue a despairing soul from a watery grave, and that I had the ability to make a Pattern of Virtue pay liberally for his vices.
“If it is as I suspect, I will not marry him. You must use your utmost endeavours to find out the real state of the case, for it would drive me mad to discover that after all my care, I had become the dupe of a mercenary hypocrite.”
Such was the concluding portion of a communication made to me by Miss Iris Rankin, only child and sole heiress of the late John Graham Rankin, shipowner and millionaire.
The visit she paid me had its origin in a conversation which had taken place in her own drawing-room on the previous afternoon. A friend had paid her a call, and had regaled her with some gossip which had upset her considerably. This friend, Miss Cloudy, to wit, related how she, in the capacity of district visitor in connection with a very fashionable church, had met with a surprising experience.
“I was never so astonished in my life,” said Miss Cloudy, “as when I saw Mr Harold Gilbertson pass the open door of the room in which I was sitting talking to old Mrs Tweedy, one of the vicar’s parishioners. The old lady saw how surprised I was, and asked who had passed the door. In order that no mistake might be made I merely remarked that a young gentleman had gone upstairs, and that I thought it was somebody I knew.
“‘That is likely enough,’ said the old lady. ‘For though the Hansons are poor now, they haven’t always lived in a neighbourhood like this, and some of their old friends come to see them yet.’
“‘Who are the Hansons?’ I asked. ‘Do you know anything about them?’
“‘Nothing,’ I was told ‘except that they became poor when their father died. They are two very pretty young ladies, and I don’t mix much with the people hereabouts, though they have always a pleasant word for me. I’m not surprised that Mr Gilbertson is smitten, and that he comes to see them nearly every evening. I rather fancy that he is engaged to Miss Beatrice.’
“You see, Iris, it seems rather a cruel thing to tell you. But I know how you dread fortune-hunters, and I know also that you would be miserable with a man whose heart was given to another. It is much better to stop the mischief before it has become irrevocable.”
Miss Rankin fully endorsed the opinion thus expressed, although it was a bitter experience for her to be told that the man to whom she had in all confidence given her heart was merely courting her fortune, while his love was bestowed elsewhere.
Still, she never doubted the honesty of purpose of her friend, but was wise enough to subject her to a series of searching questions ere she was fully convinced that there was apparently a mistake. Even then she determined to have additional testimony before she decided upon condemning and humiliating the man to whom she was to have been married in one short month.
He was very handsome and very clever. But his income had hitherto not kept pace with his apparent popularity as a journalist, and his profession afforded him an easy excuse for spending his evenings away from his fiancée.
“I imagined him always to be hard at work every evening,” she said sadly, when consulting me. “But if my friend has really made no mistake, Mr Gilbertson has been spending his evenings in more congenial fashion than in working at his profession, or in visiting me. I cannot condescend to pursue further investigations myself. But it will not be a very difficult matter for you. You will lose no time over the business?”
“None whatever,” was my prompt assurance. And I kept my word, for that very afternoon saw me, very soberly attired and wearing my most philanthropic expression, wending my way towards the very quiet bye-street in which Mrs Tweedy lived. I was armed with all sorts of particulars, and was made aware of Mrs Tweedy’s particular foible. She only needed to scent a possible donation to become the most servile and plausible of individuals. She had always been poor, but not of the poorest, for she contrived to divert a great many gifts from indiscriminate philanthropists to herself that ought really to have been bestowed elsewhere. As I carried a neat parcel of groceries by way of make-weight to the bundle of tracts I was supposed to be distributing, I felt pretty sure of my position, and was soon chatting quite affably with the cunning old lady.
I was diplomatic enough to pave the way for the tract I had to offer by the gift of a quarter of tea and a tin of salmon, after which I might have learnt all there was to tell of the whole neighbourhood if I had wanted. We were soon chatting quite sociably together, and it was of course quite natural that, next to herself, the old lady should find her neighbours her readiest medium of gossip. As the sisters Hanson were the most interesting of these neighbours, it was equally natural that the conversation should be easily brought round to them.
I had carefully studied a photograph of Mr Gilbertson with which I had been supplied by Miss Rankin, and I purposely say opposite the open door as I chatted, in order that I might have a fair look at the Mr Gilbertson who visited the sisters every evening.
My visit was well timed, and I had not long to wait. The Misses Hansons’ Mr Gilbertson passed before my view, and I had not the slightest hesitation in judging him to be also Miss Rankin’s Mr Gilbertson. I was sorry for this, for he looked so frank and honest that anybody might have trusted him; and it is sad to have one’s ideals shattered, even if one be a detective, and, as such, already somewhat inured to the depressing influence of treacherous natures.
But my task was by no means finished. I had only seen and heard enough to corroborate the truth of Miss Cloudy’s statements, and there was too much at stake to permit any chance of blundering to survive. So when Mr Gilbertson went upstairs, I terminated my visit to the old lady, and stationed myself where he could not emerge from the house without being seen by me.
I had to wait above an hour, but it was not at all cold, and I was rewarded by seeing the gentleman come forth with one of the sisters, who certainly looked quite worthy of a man’s love. The couple walked slowly towards Hammersmith-road, followed unobtrusively by myself, who, in the gathering dusk, noticed that they appeared to be waiting for some one, as they sauntered backwards and forwards for awhile in the vicinity of St. Mary Abbott’s-terrace. Presently they were joined by another girl, who came out of a neighbouring house, carrying a music roll in her hand, and who was sufficiently like Mr Gilbertson’s companion to make me conclude that she was her sister.
Then the three retraced their step homeward, and I had no difficulty in deciding that the music teacher was the sister to whom Mr Gilbertson was supposed to be engaged. I was surprised at the openness with which he carried on his clandestine connection, for he seemed not to care who noticed him, and it was certainly running an apparent risk to show himself out of doors with Miss Rankin’s rival.
I will own to being very tired before I got to bed that night. But I was thoroughly satisfied, for I had traversed a great deal of ground, and learnt a great many important particulars of the case I was investigating. Next morning at eleven o’clock I called to see Miss Rankin at her sumptuous flat in Albert-gate Mansions, and induced her to write the following note to her fiancée: -
“I cannot see you before half-past eight this evening. But as it is absolutely necessary that I should see you then, I must ask you to put your work on one side for once, and be here at the time indicated without fail. “Iris.”
At eight-thirty that evening, having donned orthodox evening wear, I was sitting with Miss Rankin, waiting for the development of my little plot. The poor girl looked very pale, and I could see that the great anxiety was almost killing her. But I knew that it could not last much longer, and a little thrill of excitement ran through me when Miss Hanson and Mr Gilbertson were announced.
As they entered the room both looking somewhat mystified, the heiress sprang to her feet, and an angry flush suffused her face as she murmured: “This is too much!”
But in a moment she recovered her presence of mind, and haughtily addressed Mr Gilbertson: “I see you have brought your intended with you. But don’t you think you might have been off with the old love before you were on with the new?”
I am not sure who was the more astonished at this outburst, Miss Rankin herself, or the man whom she addressed. He, too, looked angry, and, bowing with studied politeness, replied, “There seems to be some mistake here. We have evidently come to the wrong house, and will wish you good evening.”
“Mr Gilbertson!” announced the butler, and, lo! the mystery was explained. There were two Romeos in the field, and Miss Rankin saw at a glance how the mistake had arisen.
The two men were actually twin brothers, and had been estranged for some time through an unjust will which had left the presumably younger son penniless, while the other had a large income. Wounded to the quick, Harold declined his brother’s friendly offers, and sought to make a name for himself in the world of letters.
I had discovered, on following the music-teacher’s admirer to his residence, that his Christian name was Gilbert, not Harold, and had arrived at a correct conclusion as to their relationship. My next proceeding was to plan a meeting of all the parties, feeling sure that it could have none but good results, and I requested the attendance of Mr Gilbert Gilbertson and Miss Hanson at Albert-gate Mansions, “to meet Mr Harold Gilbertson and his fiancée.”
As I expected, they did not fail to put in a punctual appearance, with the result that there was happiness and reconciliation all round.
Both weddings came off some time ago, and I hear that Miss Evelyn Hanson has become engaged to a very nice American, who is a millionaire – in dollars.
There are many experiences which fall to the lot of a detective that call forth for very little of the skill with which detectives are popularly supposed to be endowed, but which it would be a pity not to record, inasmuch as they sometimes probe the depths of pathos.
Of such a nature was my encounter with an actress, whose name was once on everybody’s tongue, but whose fame and popularity had declined with her beauty, until at last she found herself on the borderland of destitution and starvation.
I found her dying in St. George’s Hospital, whither I had gone to receive important information from the occupant of the next bed to hers. Her big, wistful eyes enlisted my sympathy, and the nurse fanned it by telling me as much as she knew about the poor soul, whose only prayer now was that she might die soon.
“She has been very rich,” she said. “She is no other than the once famous actress, Miss Winsome, whom all theatre-goers went mad after some years since. Trouble, as well as penury, have brought her to the sorry pass you now see her in. She has told me that she had two beautiful children, both of whom died of typhoid fever, and that the first intimation which she had of their illness was the news of their death. The shock nearly killed her, and she has never been the same since. She has given me a box of papers to take care of for her. If she gets better I am to give her the little box back again. If she dies, I am to burn all the letters, but I am to see that a manuscript, which she calls her confession, is published. She says it will be a warning to others. But I really don’t know who will take it for publication.”
“If she dies, give it to me,” I said, eagerly. “You know who I am. I am about to publish some of my experiences, and I will insert this among them.”
The nurse very willingly agreed to this, and, after going to the patient’s bedside, to ascertain if I could do anything for her, I quitted the hospital. The poor soul made a most curious request in response to my invitation to tell me what she would like best.
“I shan’t live above a day or two,” she said, “but I would just like to taste champagne again before I die.”
I was not sure that it was quite the thing to do. But I promised her some champagne, and took her a little bottle the next morning. Alas! I was too late! Her spirit had left its earthly casement, and bodily longings or desires would trouble her no more. The end had come much more swiftly than had been expected. But it could hardly be regretted, since a prolongation of life would only have been a prolongation of suffering for one with her shattered hopes and constitution.
“She just went to sleep,” said the nurse, and but for the fact that she ceased murmuring the names of her children, of whom she seemed to be dreaming happily, we could hardly tell when she passed away.”
It was better so, I thought, as I left the hospital again with the little box which the nurse had handed over to me. And after reading the M.S. that had been spoken of, I was all the more glad that her end had been painless. Here is her story, and I pray my readers not to judge her too harshly.
“Had any one ever told my mother that her daughter would live to be the most talked of and the most courted woman in London, she would have scouted the prediction as one that was impossible of fulfilment.
“For were we not miserably poor and obscure? Did not my estimable parents cultivate the habit of moonlight flitting, in order to evade the landlord’s just demands? Had I not an uncle in prison for housebreaking? And was it not a fact that my progenitors had never been joined in the bonds of holy wedlock?
“All these things were only too true! But, fortunately, the world doesn’t inquire too closely into the antecedents of successful people.
“There was also another circumstance greatly in my favour. My admirable mother, having been in the habit of patronising King Alcohol too freely, found herself unable to resist his insidious encroachments upon her constitution, and would have died young, even if her end had not been accelerated by a blow received from her ‘husband’ in a drunken quarrel.
“I was at this time about six years old, as nearly as I can judge, having had no definite information on the subject. My vagabond of a father promptly absconded, and quite forgot that he owned a lovely daughter. Certainly, dirt and coarse clothing then hid the charms which time and a knowledge of the art of ‘making-up’ have transformed into the irresistible tout-ensemble whose fame is now worldwide.
“When the local authorities, duly recognising my unprotected condition, transferred me to the Knockemabout Workhouse, I was not too promising a specimen of humanity, for the many kicks and blows bestowed upon me by my male parent had pretty nearly frightened the wits out of me. But I soon improved, for, since I never hungered and was at least decently clad, I was vastly better off than ever I had been before.
“Perhaps I might not now appreciate the food upon which I was fed in those days. But we judge by comparison, and as bread-and-scrape had hitherto been my great luxury, except when I once managed to crib a sheep’s trotter from a stall in the market, I was to be congratulated on the change in my fortunes.
“At the end of eight years the monotony of my life was broken. An old wardrobe dealer came to the workhouse in search of a cheap servant. Her fancy lighted on me, and as I had been taught to read, write, sum, knit, sew, wash, and scrub, I was considered to be sufficiently well equipped with worldly knowledge to start life’s battle on my own account. I was therefore transferred to Mrs Harridan’s keeping, and made to work from dawn till bedtime.
“But I am by nature industrious, and of a jolly, happy-go-lucky temperament, and I didn’t feel particularly miserable, even then.
“A trivial incident proved the turning point of my career. During one of my mistress’s many absences on business it struck me that I would don some of the tawdry things which surrounded me, so as to have a bit of fun on my own account.
“So I hurried through my work quicker than usual, and trusting that nobody would enter the shop just yet, I slipped into a short, rose-coloured tarlatan frock, cut low at the neck, and having mere straps for sleeves.
“The result astonished and delighted me. For the first time I realised that I was dowered with beauty, and I was admiring myself in front of the cracked looking-glass which adorned the shop, when I was transfixed with terror by the arrival of Mrs Harridan herself.
“But my mistress actually looked pleased, and speedily set my fears at rest by exclaiming, ‘Well, I’m blest if you ain’t cut out for a pantomime girl! You look spiffin, and I’ve more than half a mind to try it on.’
“A week later I had been engaged at a neighbouring theatre to perform in the ballet of the forthcoming pantomime. It was also arranged that I should live with Mrs Harridan, and help with some of her work, besides giving her the greater part of my earnings in exchange for my board and lodgings. But she wasn’t really hard on me, and gave me many a bit of useful finery.
“Indeed, I shall never forget that she was my first real friend, and I am glad to be able to make her a small weekly allowance, now that she is past work. Brevity will not permit me to dwell on my early professional struggles.
“Though I can honestly say that I was apt and industrious, it took me several years to achieve popularity. I was admittedly beautiful, and could act, sing and dance to perfection. But I was not able to make such a display as some of my less scrupulous fellow artistes. They boasted the ‘protection’ of this, that, or the other profligate, who invariably did his best to popularise the efforts of his favourite.
“For a long time I prided myself on my virtue. Then I came to understand the real cause of my failure, and accepted the attentions of Viscount S.
“He has provided quite handsomely for my two children, who are being educated in the belief that they are the orphans of a respectable couple called Mervyn.
“But even yet I failed to reach the pinnacle of fame which I coveted, although I had ample means of display, and I cast round for another mode of attaining my object. I found my social step-ladder in the person of young Lord F., who became desperately enamoured with me, and was for a while more than anxious to marry me. Of course, I forgot to tell him about my two children. But I made the best of my opportunities, knowing full well that Lord F.’s infatuation could not last, and when he really did show an inclination to fight shy of the engagement I had plenty of people to prove that it had been an existing fact.
“Three months later the ‘cause celebre’ of the day was the breach of promise action brought by Miss Winsome against Lord F. There was no vigorous attempt at a defence. I won my case ‘hands over,’ together with £5,000 damages.
“I also won the notoriety I craved for, and the photographs of the beautiful and ill-treated Miss Winsome were shown in every fancy shop window in the country.
“Managers ran after me.
“I could dictate my own terms.
“My audiences adored me, showered presents and bouquets upon me, and they have more than once unharnessed my horses and drawn me to my hotel in triumph.
“I have gained the summit of my ambition. But oh, God! how I do crave for a little, real honest love and sympathy! I would give the world to be able to retire with my beautiful innocent children to some place where they could never learn that their mother is anything but one of the best and purest of women!
“But how foolish I am! Why do I imagine vain things? I am quite happy – sometimes!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said old Miles Galbraith to me. “Yes, I can tell you as queer a tale as here and there a one. In fact, if you find one to beat it, I’ll forego that little acknowledgment you promised me.”
“Fie, Miles,” was my amused retort. “You have already received the little acknowledgement in question, and have spent part of it. So how can you forego it?”
“Indeed, ma’am, it’s all right. You see, I know the little ways of ladies and gentlemen. They always pay half when they make the bargain, and the other half at the end of the story.”
“H’m! you’re very cute, Miles. But it will all depend upon what you have to tell me.”
“Then we’ll consider it settled, ma’am, if you please, so here goes. When I first went to be Mr Milsom’s gardener and coachman, he had quite a staff of servants in the house, for he still kept considerable company. Among these servants was Jenny Pryce, the under housemaid, as canny a girl as ever went to place, and I thought myself lucky when she promised to marry me. But Mr Wright, the butler, didn’t half like it. He was fond of her himself, and both he and the housekeeper had a lot to say about how foolish she was to promise to marry anybody whose station was so inferior to a butler’s. All the same, Jenny had her own notions on the subject, and at last she had to shut him up somewhat sharply.
“When the master heard about our love affair he was very good indeed to us, and furnished the little cottage in which we live to this day. The butler was never friendly to us, and would have cleared me off the premises, if he could have done so. The master, however, soon after this, took to very queer ways. It was said that he had been crossed in love, and that he had vowed never to look in a woman’s face again.
“Be that as it may, he withdrew from all society, and by degrees even ceased to walk about in his own grounds. Then he made an arrangement with his solicitor, whereby we were all put on board wages, and very liberal they were, too. Jenny came in for them as well, as she was supposed to be the master’s laundress now that she was married, though it’s mighty little washing he ever gave her to do. There was henceforth no interference in anything we did, there being certain rules prescribed by the master, and as long as we conformed to these rules we were all to keep our comfortable places.
“For two or three years Mr Milsom lived on like that, never going out, and never seeing anybody. At last he wouldn’t even take his meals in the dining or breakfast-rooms, but had one end of the house disconnected from the other part, that we could only approach his rooms by one door. These rooms were very comfortably furnished with all sorts of beautiful things collected by the master’s orders, from other parts of the house. The room that he called his library had thousands of books in it.
“The first room that we entered from the corridor was the one in which he took all his meals, and after a time we were forbidden to go any further. We would enter this room, clean it, set out his food very elaborately on the table, and then retire, only returning when we heard his bell ring for us to clear the things away. There would always be a paper on the table containing various orders. But the master himself no longer appeared to give them in person. In fact for several years not one of us was permitted to see him, and he always kept his door locked when he was in his dining-room.
“At first these eccentricities caused a deal of comment. But by-and-by the neighbourhood found new sensations to talk about, and the ‘Recluse of Hallow Hall,’ as Mr Milsom came to be called, was by lots of people entirely forgotten.
“But although we were not permitted to look upon the master’s face, he did not allow us to forget his presence, for he was very particular about the food he ate. He liked several courses to each meal. And they had to be beautifully cooked, or he would tell us his opinion pretty plainly. The fruit I raised for him had to be of the very finest, too, or he would threaten to dismiss me. This, however, did not often happen, for we all knew that we would never get such another comfortable place, where we all did pretty nearly as we liked, and we were careful to see that the master had as little cause for complaint as possible.
“If any of us had an apology to make, or anything to ask him, we would write what we wanted to say on a piece of paper each. These papers would be put on the table with the master’s meals, and we would receive our answers soon after.
“The only body that ever seemed inclined to grumble at this queer state of affairs was Mr Wright, the butler, and he was never satisfied. First he growled about one thing, then about another, and he was altogether so ill-tempered that the rest of us threatened to complain of him in a body.
“‘I think the best thing you can do, Mr Wright, is to clear out. You have got too big for your place, to my thinking.’ This was what the housekeeper said to him one day, and you should have seen the evil look he put on his face as he shook his fist at her, and shouted, ‘Maybe I will leave the place mighty soon, and in a way you little expect, too.’
“And sure enough he disappeared that very night, and everything went to prove that it was a deliberately planned flight. None of us felt sorry at losing him. But we were all considerably dismayed to find that the greater part of the family plate had disappeared with him. He must have had enough to do to carry it away unnoticed and unheard. At first we didn’t know what to do. Then I suggested going for the police. But the housekeeper said, ‘No, we must do nothing without asking the master’s advice first.’
“To this we agreed, and an account of the butler’s disappearance, together with a list of things he had stolen, was written and taken in with the breakfast. Presently there was a furious peal at the bell, and the housekeeper asked me to fetch the note we felt sure the master had been writing.
“Be quick, Galbraith,’ said she, ‘I’m on tenterhooks to know how he’ll take it, and what we are to do. Perhaps he’ll come out of his shell now, and live more like a civilised human being. He used to set great store by the silver plate. It’s been in his family more than two-hundred years.
“But so far from coming out of his shell, the master became, if possible, a more confirmed recluse than ever. His instructions to us were brief and to the point. ‘Take no steps to discover Wright,’ was his order. ‘Let his greed be his own punishment. What he has stolen does not equal the legacy I would have left him. Henceforth, do not name him to me. Let him be as one dead, and do not expect a successor in his place. My wants become fewer as I get more feeble, and I cannot tolerate the idea of having new people about the house. But I never forget those who are faithful to me, and a word to the wise is sufficient.’
“We took this last to mean that he would remember us in his will if we served him well. But this we had always done, so well, indeed, that we couldn’t improve ourselves. Soon after this there was a letter to Mr Milsom’s solicitors to be forwarded. Then a very big one was sent, to which Mr Crowday, the lawyer, brought back an answer, and, being curious, he went and laid it on his master’s table himself. But all was as quiet as it generally was, and he went away no wiser for his pains. Before he went he told the housekeeper that the master had been making a new will. But he wouldn’t say what it was.
“Soon after this a queer rumour arose in the neighbourhood. It was said that the butler had been murdered, and that his ghost haunted the park belonging to Hallow Hall. I don’t know that we exactly believed this rumour, but we none of us cared to be out too late alone at night.
“After a while we began to think the master must be failing, for he was often a whole day without taking any of the food that was so carefully prepared for him. This made us anxious, and we used to listen more intently than ever for any sign of life within the rooms we were not allowed to enter. But this sort of thing went on for five years, and by that time the folks in the neighbourhood looked upon both the house and the grounds as uncanny and haunted.
“One day Jenny and I were both indoors helping the housekeeper, as she was having a thorough cleaning down. As was often the case, I took my turn at carrying some of Mr Milsom’s food into his dining-room. But I had no sooner set foot in it than I heard a terrible groaning in one of the inner rooms. For a moment I looked as scared as did Jenny, who was with me. Then I rushed at the door, and never rested till I had broken it down.
“At last I was inside the place I had often been so curious about. But I shall never forget how astonished I was at what I saw.
“On a rich Turkey carpet which covered the floor lay a man writhing in pain. I rushed to him, and raised on to the couch – not my master, as I had expected, but Wright, the ex-butler! He was in horrible agony, but he actually twisted his features into a grin when he saw my amazement.
“‘Yes, it’s me,’ he gasped; ‘I’ve been living here all these years in clover, and none of you fools any wiser for it, though I doubt I’m done for now.’
“‘But the master?’ I asked.
“‘Been dead more than five years. It can’t hurt me now to confess. I killed him and buried him under the blighted oak in the park.’
“I let go of Wright when I heard this. By that time all the rest of the household came flying in. Wright had accidentally swallowed some poison, and died that night. Before he died he told us how he managed to get at the old master and kill him. By means of a pass key he had had made for him, he was able to get into the inner room, and the rest was easy. He removed the silver, knowing that we would think he had stolen it. He had for months imitated the master’s writing, and effectually deceived everybody. The reputed ghost which had been seen in the park was himself. He got in and out through an old cellar, and when we thought he was ailing, because his food was not eaten, he was enjoying himself elsewhere. He had procured large sums of money through Mr Milsom’s solicitors, who certainly wondered, but did not hesitate to supply it. He meant to have made one more haul, ere leaving Hallow Hall for ever, when he made the fatal mistake which ended his life.
“Sure enough, we found the master’s body under the oak, and removed it, in a suitable coffin, to the family vault.
“Of course the will which Wright had written was useless. For this we were rather sorry, as it provided handsomely for us all. Still, we have no need to grumble, for the gentleman who succeeded to the estate as heir-at-law – there being no will – treated us all very well. In fact, we’re his servants to this day, and we’ve no notion of seeking fresh places. Thank you, ma’am; I knew you would like my tale.”
“Now, Miss Bell,” said my uncle to me one day, “I have a nice little job for you. A certain Mr Flowers, of Kite-street, City, has had no fewer than five different thefts from his house within three months. The thief seems to go very cunningly about his work, for so far he has proved absolutely undetectable, although the police have had the matter in hand from the first.”
“And of what nature are the things that have been stolen?” I asked.
“Well, their variety would be amusing, were it not so perplexing,” said Mr Bell. “The first thing that was missed was a small scrip-box, containing a recently executed will, and some important trust deeds. Mr Flowers, I should mention, is a solicitor, who resides in rooms over the premises on which he carries on his business. Of course, he was in a great state about losing such responsible property. But not the slightest clue to the perpetrators of the theft could be discovered.
“‘If it had been my own property that had been stolen I would not have minded so much,’ said Mr Flowers. ‘But trust deeds! it is too dreadful.’
“Various theories were promulgated as to the nature and motives of the thief, the most feasible one being that someone, hearing that a relative had made a will, had conceived that it was inimical to his interests, and had resolved to steal it from the solicitor with whom he believed it to have been deposited. As, however, the abstracted will was that of an old lady who had no relations or friends who could have expected her money, even this theory suffered from objections.
“In a few weeks it was exploded altogether, for a second robbery took place at the house of Mr Flowers. This time it was the greater part of the silver plate that was missing. Experts were all agreed that the thief knew the whole of the interior arrangements of the establishment. Clerks and servants were all subjected to rigid cross-questioning and watching, but came out of the ordeal with flying colours. Mr Flowers, in fact, considered them all above suspicion. But it was natural that, for a time, the detectives should hardly be of his opinion.
“Very soon robbery number three was discovered. Mrs Flowers’s watch and chain had disappeared. Two days later three bank notes of £10 each were missing. These Mr Flowers was sure he had first locked in a cashbox, then in the office safe. After watching the departure of his two clerks, and the office boy, he carefully looked to the safety of the windows, to which some patent burglar alarms had lately been attached, then he locked and double-locked the office door, taking all the keys upstairs with him, and putting them under his pillow.
“Yet, strange to say, on entering the office next morning, before the arrival of his clerks, he found the notes missing. All the doors and locks were exactly as he had left them, yet, on opening the cashbox, it was found to be empty. By this time both he and those in his employ were thoroughly scared, and one of the clerks told me this morning that he and his colleagues had only refrained from giving Mr Flowers notice to leave because they feared their reluctance to stay might be construed into a virtual admission of their own participation in the mysterious thefts.
“This morning matters reached a climax when Mr Flowers, on rising, discovered his own watch to have disappeared as completely as that of his wife had done. I was sent for to see if I could throw any light on this strange affair. I found Mr Flowers looking the picture of rage and mystification, and his clerks were sulkily proceeding with their work, their expressions almost indicating a dawning disbelief in the extent of their employer’s losses. The office boy struck me as looking rather jubilant. He evidently revels in the sensational.
“In the more private part of the establishment things looked no better. The lady of the house was in hysterics, and the housemaid was packing up her clothes, and vowing that if they locked her up for it she wouldn’t stay any longer in a place that was haunted. Asked if she had seen anything that could warrant her assertion that the house was haunted, she replied that nothing but a ghost could take the money and jewellery out of locked-up places without having been near the keys, the latter being invariably found where they had been put before the master went to bed.
“I managed to persuade the housemaid into a more pliant frame of mind by promising to bring her an associate to help in the work, and keep the cook and herself company until all the mystery had been made clear. The cook was easier to deal with, for she had arrived at a pitch of unbelief that was positively amusing.
“‘I’m about sick of all the fuss and bother there has been lately,’ she said. ‘And I won’t be worried any more over it. It’s my opinion that there ain’t never been a single thing stole, and that the master’s trying to get up a sensation all for nothing.’
“‘But where are the things, if they haven’t been stolen?’ I asked.
“‘Well, betwixt you and me, I think there ain’t two ways about it. I’ve lived in families before where they was pretty hard up for ready money sometimes, and were only too ready to do it.’
“‘Do what?’
“‘Why, pawn ‘em, to be sure.’
“‘What, pawn banknotes?’
“‘No, the banknotes haven’t been pawned. There’s no need of that. I expect they’ve been paid away for something on the quiet. The master wouldn’t be the first man that had secrets from his wife.’
“‘And how about the papers? You don’t imagine anybody would take them in pawn, do you?’
“‘Humph. As if that wasn’t a part of the bamboozlement. You don’t throw dust in my eyes too long.’
“With this remark the cook clenched the conversation, and I must confess that my thoughts had wandered for some time somewhat in the same direction. The incredulous looks of at least one of the clerks also bore out the cook’s reasoning. Still, if the object was merely to bamboozle his wife, why should the owner of the property said to be stolen make such a fuss, and go to such an expense to bring about an unravelment that could but be inimical to his own interests, if he were playing a double game? The whole case is as complex and awkward as any I have come across, and I want your help in it.”
I had listened very attentively to my uncle’s story, and had already framed my own idea of the duties expected of me.
“You wish me to keep a careful watch upon all the people in the Flowers establishment, while professing to discharge domestic duties?” I suggested.
“Precisely,” was the answer. “Both Mr and Mrs Flowers approve of the plan, and you are expected to-day.”
A few more preliminaries being settled, I prepared myself at once for my new duties, and found, on arriving at 15, Kite-street, that I was supposed to be a temporary housekeeper, vice Mrs Flowers herself, incapacitated through trouble and anxiety, consequent upon the mysterious series of robberies that had taken place in the house.
The poor woman’s incapacity for supervising the daily routine of her household was not feigned. She was really so ill and upset that I advised her to put herself under the care of the family doctor, who would give her something to quieten her nerves. Meanwhile, if she would lie down and rest, I told her, I would see that things were so conducted in the kitchen and elsewhere that Mr Flowers should miss none of his accustomed comforts.
It was with a sigh of satisfaction that she yielded herself to my arrangement, and I also found the servants easy to cope with. The principal topic of conversation both in parlours and kitchens was the facility with which it seemed possible for somebody or other to take what they pleased out of the house. Before bed time I had gleaned every possible item of information relating to the mystery, and had formed my theory as to the true state of things.
After office hours Mr Flowers fastened his lower premises up with all possible care, and as soon as I could do so without being observed by the servants, I carefully examined all the fastenings, and satisfied myself that the individual who entered from without would be very clever indeed. He would, in fact, have to be of the shadowy nature attributed to the thieves by the housemaid.
At twelve o’clock everyone in the house, except myself, had gone to bed. But so far from retiring to rest myself, I had resolved to keep careful watch all night. I had wrapped a thick woollen shawl round my shoulders, and stationed myself so that I commanded a full view of the doors leading from the various bedrooms. Lest I should be observed myself, I took advantage of a portiere which shrouded a recess used as a wardrobe, and anxiously kept the stairhead in sight.
I am not of a nervous disposition. But I confess I felt a “wee bit eerie” as the big hall clock chimed the hours and half hours, while all else in the house was as still as death. It was therefore with an intense feeling of thankfulness that I at last saw Mr Flowers emerge slowly but cautiously from his bedroom, carrying in one hand a bunch of keys, and in the other a lighted candle. He went straight downstairs, and, holding my very breath through fear of betraying my presence, I followed him from the bedroom floor, to the drawing-room floor, thence further downstairs to the basement. Finally, walking with a strange rigidity which would have struck me as awesome had I not conjectured its cause, he preceded me into the cellars which underlay the whole building.
A minute or two later he was opening an old disused cupboard, into which I saw him place two rings that he had brought downstairs with him. It was a clear case of somnambulism. But I dare not wake him there and then. Only pausing for an instant to consider what was best to be done next, I noiselessly hurried upstairs, entered Mrs Flowers’s bedroom, and roused her from a heavy slumber. I had scarcely succeeded in making her understand me when we heard her husband coming upstairs again. Almost beside herself with alarm, she jumped out of bed, and, in spite of my caution, gave a loud scream when she saw the glassy and expressionless look in her husband’s eyes.
A moment later there was a somewhat wild scene between the two, for Mr Flowers was rudely awakened, and could not understand my presence in his bedroom at first. When at last he was made to comprehend the state of affairs he expressed himself determined to get to the bottom of the mystery at once. I retired until the pair had arrayed themselves more decorously. Then the three of us explored the cellar cupboard together, and just as I had expected, we found all the precious things which Mr Flowers’s anxiety had caused his sleeping senses to put in a place of safety, of which he had no recollection when awake.
The shock of his sudden awakening did him no harm. But it cured his somnambulistic tendencies, and there have been no further supposed robberies from 15, Kite-street.
THE END