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XI
XITT.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.

XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
SOCULT:
XXIV.
XXV.

   

CONTENTS

“Last SEEN AT VICTORIA!”
INspecTOR WHITE, OF THE C. I. D.
THe Lapy’s MAID

No. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS

At THE JOLLITY THEATRE

Miss Marre LE MARCHANT .

IN THE CITY

Tue Hotert pu CERCLE

BREAKING THE BANK

SomE Goop RESOLUTIONS
THEORIES ;

Wuo Corsett WAS

A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE

No. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS

Mrs. Hir~tMER HESITATES

FOREV 0s) *. ce. oe

A PossIBLE EXPLANATION «. -
Wuat HappENED ON THE RIVIERA
Wuere Mrs. HILLMER WENT

Mr. SypNEY H. CORBETT cee ie
How Lapy DENE Lert RALEIGH MANSIONS
A Wirrut MuRDER

THE LETTER

THE HANDWRITING

PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES

V

PAGE

20
30
38
49
56
64
8I
94

102

LNs

121

131

143

155wa
CHAPTER

XXVI.
XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX,
XXX,
XXXT,

CONTENTS

Lapy HELEN MOoNnTGOMERY’s Son

Wauite’s MetHop ...
Str CHartes DENE’s JOURNEY

How Lapy Dene DisappEarep

Sir Cartes DenE Enps His NARRATIVE

VALEDICTORY Si aed, ee ie eeeA MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCEH
ri
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evr seri edr py etey eeey ove aneee teesA
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

CHAPTER I

“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA!”

Autsta, Lady Dene, puckered her smooth forehead
into a thoughtful frown as she drew aside the window-
curtains of her boudoir and tried vainly to peer into the
opaque blacknesss of a November fog in London. Be-
hind her was cheerfulness—in front darkness and un-
certainty. Electric lights, a bright fire reflected from
gleaming brass, the luxury of carpets and upholstery,
formed an alluring contrast to the dull yellow glare of
a solitary street-lamp in the outer obscurity. Even
the lamp was visible only because it stood directly in
front of the window.

But Lady Dene was a strong-minded woman. There
was no trace of doubt in the wrinkled brows and re-
flective eyes. She held back the curtains with her left
hand, while arranging a gauntlet glove at the wrist with
the other. Fog or no fog, she would venture forth,
and she was dressed for the weather in tailor-made cos-
tume, fur wrap and winter hat.

She was annoyed but not disconcerted by the fog.
Too long had she allowed herself to take things easily.
The future was as murky and threatening as the at-
mosphere; the past was dramatically typified by the
pleasant surroundings on which she turned her back
so resolutely. Lady Dene was quite determined as to

910 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

her actions, and the dullness of a November night was
most unlikely to restrain her from following a course
already mapped out.

Moving to the light again, she took from her hand-
bag a long, closely-typed letter. Its details were fa-
miliar, but her face hardened as she ran through it
hastily in order to find a particular passage. At last
she gained her object—to make quite sure of an ad-
dress. Then she replaced the document, and touched
an electric bell.

“James,” she said, to the answering footman, “I am
going out.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Sir Charles is not at home?”

“No, milady.”

“I am going to Richmond—to see Lady Talbot. I
shall probably not return in time for dinner. Tell Sir
Charles not to wait for me.”

“Shall I order the car for your ladyship?”’

“Will you please listen to me and remember what I
have said?”

“Yes, milady.”

James ran downstairs, opened the door, bowed as
Lady Dene passed into Portman Square, and then con-
fidentially informed Buttons that “the missus” was in
a “rare old wax” about something.

“She nearly jumped down my bloomin’ throat when
I asked her if she would have the car,” he grumbled.

Her ladyship’s mood did not soften when she drifted
from the fixed tenure of Wensley House, Portman
Square, into the chaos of Oxford-street plus a dense fog
at 5.30 o'clock on a November evening. Though not
a true “London particular,” the fog was chilly, exas-
perating, tedious. People bumped against each other“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA!” 11

without apology, *buses crunched through the traffic
with deadly precision, heavy vans lumbered around
corners with magnificent carelessness, taxies and pri-
vate cars, mere wraiths in the mist, became dragons
when pedestrians wanted to cross the roadway.

In the result, Lady Dene, who meant to walk, as she
was somewhat in advance of the time arranged for
this very important engagement, took a taxi. In her
present mood slight things annoyed her. Usually, the
London taxi is an antiquated vehicle which cannot
hurry lest it fall to pieces. This one was an exception,
and the driver knew it. He raced down Park Lane,
skidded around Hyde Park Corner, and drew up
against the kerb outside Victoria station on the Under-
ground Railway within eight minutes. In other words,
her ladyship, if she would obey the directions contained
in the voluminous letter, was compelled to kill time.

As she alighted and halted beneath a lamp to take
a half-crown from her purse, a tall, ulster-wrapped
gentleman, walking rapidly into Victoria-street, caught
a glimpse of her face. Instantly his hat was off.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Dene,” he
said. “Can I be of any service?”

She bit her lip, not unobserved, but the social law
compelled a bright smile.

“Oh, Mr. Bruce, is it you? I’m hurrying to my
sister’s place at Richmond. Isn’t the weather horrid?
I shall be so glad if you will put me into the right
train.”

Mr. Claude Bruce, barrister and man-about-town,
whose clean-cut features and dark, deep-set eyes made
him as readily recognizable as this good-looking and
well-dressed woman, knew that she would have been
much better pleased had he passed without greeting12 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

her. Like the footman, he wondered why she did not
drive in her limousine rather than travel by the Under-
ground Railway on such a night. He guessed that
she was perturbed—that her voluble explanation was
an excuse. He reflected that he could ill afford any
real delay in.dressing for a distant dinner—that good
manners oft entail inconvenience—but, of course, he
Said:

“Delighted! Have you any wraps?”

“No, I am just going for a chat, and shall be home
early.”

He bought. her a: first-class ticket, noting as an odd
coincidence that it bore the number of the year, 1926,
descended to.the.barrier, found that the next train for
Richmond passed through in ten minutes, fumed in-
wardly for an instant, explained ‘his presence to the
ticket-collector, and. paced the platform with his com-
panion.

Having condemned the fog, and the last play, and
the latest book, they were momentarily silent. News-
paper placards .on.a bookstall announced that a “Grave
Society Scandal”: was on the tapis. “The Duke in the
Box” formed a telling line, and the eyes of both people
chanced on it simultaneously.

Thought the woman: “He is a man of the world,
and an experienced lawyer. Shall I tel] him?”

Thought the man: “She wants to take me into her
confidence, and. I.am too busy to be worried by some
small family squabble.”

Said she: ‘Are you much occupied at the Courts
just now, Mr. Bruce?”

“No,” he replied; “not at all, in fact. My practice
is more consultative than active. Many people seek my
advice about matters of little interest, never thinking“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA” 13

that they would best serve their ends by acting deci-
sively and promptly on their own account.”

Lady Dene set her lips. She could be both prompt
and decisive. She resolved to keep her troubles, what-
ever they were, locked in the secrecy of her heart;
when she turned to some trivial topic the barrister knew
he had been spared a recital.

He regretted it afterwards. At almost any other
moment in his full and varied life he would have en-
couraged her. Even now, a few seconds too late, he
was sorry, because his disclaimer had been brusque and
tactless. He strove to bring her back to the verge of
explanations, but failed, for her ladyship was proud
and self-reliant—a woman who would never dream of
risking a rebuff.

A train came, with “Richmond” staring at them from
an indicator on the platform.

“Good-bye!” he said.

“Good-bye!”

“Shall I see you again soon?”

“T fear not. Probably I shall leave for the Riviera
quite early.”

And she was gone. Her companion rushed to the
street, and almost ran to his Victoria-street chambers.
It was six o’clock. He had to dress and go by tube all
the way to Hampstead for dinner at 7.30.

At ten minutes past nine Sir Charles Dene entered
Wensley House. A handsome, quiet, gentlemanly man
was Sir Charles. He was rich—a Guardsman until the
baronetcy devolved on him, a popular figure in Society,
regarded as “one of the lads” prior to his marriage, but
sobered down by the War and the subsequent cares
of a great estate and a heavily-taxed fortune.14 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Unfortunately, he and his wife were not well
matched. She was too earnest, too prim, for the easy-
going baronet. He respected her, that was all. A man
of his volatile temperament could hardly be expected
to realize that the depths of passion may be coated
over with ice. Their union was irreproachable, like
their marriage settlements; but there are more features
in matrimony than can be disposed of by broad seals
and legal phrases. Unfortunately, too, they were child-
less, and were thus deprived of the one great bond
which unites when others may fail.

Sir Charles looked hurried, if not flurried. His boots
were muddy and his clothes splashed by the mire of
passing vehicles.

“T fear I am very late for dinner,” he said to the
footman who took his hat and overcoat. ‘But I shall
not be five minutes in dressing. Tell her ladyship—”

“Milady is not at home, Sir Charles.”

“Not at home?”

“Milady went out at half-past five, saying that she
was going to Richmond to see Lady Talbot, and that
you were not to wait dinner if she was late in return-
ing.”

Sir Charles was surprised. He looked steadily at the
man as he said:

“Are you quite sure of her ladyship’s orders?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“Did she take the limousine?”

“No, sir. She would not let me order Ibe?

The baronet, somewhat perplexed, hesitated a mo-
ment. ‘Then he appeared to dismiss the matter as
hardly worth discussion, Saying, as he went up stairs:

“Dinner almost immediately, James.”

During the solitary meal he was preoccupied, but ate“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA!” 15

more than usual, in the butler’s judgment. Finding his
own company distasteful, he discussed the November
Handicap with the butler, and ultimately sent for an
evening paper.

Opening it, the first words that caught his eyes were,
‘Murder in the West End.” He read the paragraph,
the record of some tragic orgy, and turned to the
butler.

“A lot of these beastly crimes have occurred recently,
Thompson.”

“Ves Sir Charles. There’s bin three since the be-
ginning of the month.”

After a pause. ‘Did you hear that her ladyship had
gone to Richmond?”

‘eves. sir.”

“Do you know how she went?”

SING, SIT.”

“T wanted to see her tonight, very particularly. Or-
der the car in ten minutes. I am going to the Travel-
lers’ Club. I shall be home soon—say eleven o’clock—
tell her ladyship when she arrives.”

The baronet was driven to and from the club, but on
returning to Wensley House was informed by the foot-
man that his wife was still absent.

“No telegram or phone message?”

“No, Sir Charles.” 7

“T suppose she will stay with her sister all night, and
I shall have a note in the morning to say so. Just like
a woman. Now, if I did that, James, there would be
a devil of a row. Natural anxiety, and that sort of
thing—eh, what? Call me at 8.30.”

An hour later Sir Charles Dene left the library and
went to bed.

At breakfast next morning the master of the house16 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

scanned the letters near his plate for the expected mis-
sive from his wife. There was none. A maid was
waiting. He sent her to call the butler.

“Look here, Thompson,” he cried, “her ladyship
has not written. Don’t you think I had better wire?
As you know, Lady Talbot’s house has no telephone.
It’s curious, to say the least, my wife going off to Rich-
mond in this fashion, in a beastly fog, too.”

Thompson was puzzled. He had examined the let-
ters an hour earlier. But he agreed that a telegram
was the thing.

Sir Charles wrote: ‘Expected to hear from you.
Will you be home to lunch? Want to see you about
some hunters’; and addressed it to his wife at her
sister’s residence.

“There,” he said, turning to his coffee and sole.
“That will fetch her. We're off to Leicestershire next
week. By the way, I’m going to a sale at Tattersall’s.
Send a groom there with her ladyship’s answer when
it comes.”

He had not been many minutes at the sale yard when
a servant arrived with a telegram.

“Ah, the post-office people are smart this morning,”
he smiled. Opening the envelope he read:

“Want to see you at once.—Dick.”

He was so surprised by the unexpected nature of the
message that he read the words aloud mechanically.
But he soon understood, and smiled again.

“Go back quickly,” he said to the man, “and tell
Thompson to send along the next telegram.”

A consignment of Waterford hunters was being sold
at the time, and the baronet was checking the animals’
descriptions on the catalogue, when he was hailed

cheerfully.“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA!” ay

“Hello, Dene, getting ready for the shires?”

Wheeling round, the baronet shook hands with
Claude Bruce.

“Yes—that is, I’m looking for a couple of nice-man-
nered ones for my wife. I have six of my own eating
their heads off at Market Harborough.”

Bruce hesitated. ‘Will Lady Dene hunt this win-
ter?” he asked.

“Well, hardly that. But she likes to dodge along
the lanes with the parson and the doctor.”

“I only inquired because she told me last night that
she was planning a trip to the Riviera.”’

“Told you—last night—Riviera!” Sir Charles
Dene positively gasped in a crescendo of surprise.

“Why, yes. I met her at Victoria. She was going
to Richmond to see her sister, she said.”

“At Victoria?”

“The Underground station, you know.”

“Why not Waterloo? Anyhow, I’m jolly glad to
hear it.”

“Glad! Why?”

‘Because I have not seen her myself since yesterday
morning. She went off mysteriously, late in the after-
noon, leaving a message with the servants. Naturally
I am glad to hear from you that she got into the train
all right.”

“TI put her in a carriage myself. Haven’t you heard
from her?”

“No. I wired this morning, and expect an answer
at any moment. But what’s this about the South of
France? We go to Leicestershire next week.”

“I can’t say, of course. Your wife seemed to be a
little upset about something. She only mentioned her18 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

intention casually—in fact, when I asked if we were
likely to meet soon.”

The other laughed, a little oddly in the opinion of
his astute observer, and dismissed the matter by the
remark that the expected message from his wife would
soon clear up the slight mystery attending her move-
ments during the past eighteen hours.

The two men set themselves to the congenial task of
criticizing the horses trotting up and down the straw-
covered track, and Sir Charles had purchased a nice
half-bred animal for forty guineas when his groom
again saluted him.

“Please, sir,” said the man, “here’s another telegram,
and Mr. Thompson told me to ask if it was the right
one.”

Sir Charles frowned at the interruption—a second
horse of a suitable character was even then under the
hammer—but he tore open the envelope. At once his
agitation became so marked that Bruce cried:

“Good heavens, Dene, what is it? No bad news, I
hope?”

The other, by a strong effort, regained his self-con-
trol.

“No, no,” he stammered; “it’s all right, all right!
It simply must be! She has gone somewhere else. See.
This is from her sister. Still I wish Alisia would con-
sider me a bit. Dash it all! Jolly careless of her!
Now, isn’t it?”

Bruce read:

“I opened your message. Alisia nof here. I have
not seen her for over a week. What do you mean by
wire? Am coming to town at once.—Edith.”

The baronet’s pale face and strained voice betrayed“LAST SEEN AT VICTORIA!” 19

the significance of the thought underlying that natural
outbreak.

“What do you make of it, Claude?” he went on.

Bruce, too, looked concerned.

“The affair seems rather puzzling,” he said, “though
the explanation may be trifling enough. Come, I'll
help you. Let’s hop it to your house. That is the only
practicable centre for inquiries.”

They were whirled off to Portman Square. Neither
man said much. Each felt that the puzzle might not
be solved so easily and satisfactorily as might be ex-
pected.CHAPTER II
INSPECTOR WHITE, OF THE C. I. D.

Lapy DENE had disappeared.

Whether dead or alive, and if alive, whether detained
by force or absent of her own free will, this handsome
and well-known leader of Society had vanished utterly
from the moment when Claude Bruce placed her in a
first-class carriage of a Richmond-bound train at Vic-
toria Underground Station.

At first her husband and relatives hoped against
hope that some extraordinary combination of events
had contributed to the building up of a mystery which
would prove to be no mystery. Yet the days fled,
and there was no trace of her whereabouts.

At the outset, the inquiry was confined to the circle
of friends and relatives. Telephone messages, tele-
grams and letters in every possible direction suggested
by this comparatively restricted field showed conclu-
sively that not only had Lady Dene not been seen, but
no one had the slightest clue to any motive which might
induce her to leave her home purposely.

So far as her distracted husband could ascertain, she
did not owe a penny in the world. She was wealthy
in her own right, and her banking account was in per-
fect order. A woman of the domestic temperament,
she was always in close touch with the members of her
family, and those who knew her best scouted the notion
of any petty intrigue which might induce her, by fear
or passion, to abandon everything she held dear in life.

20INSPECTOR WHITE, OF THE C.I. D. 21

The stricken baronet confided the search to his
friend Bruce alone. He admitted brokenly that he had
not sufficiently appreciated his wife while she was with
him.

“She was of a superior order to me, Claude,” he said.
“T am hardly a home bird. Her ideals were lofty and
humanitarian. Too often I was out of sympathy with
her, and laughed at her notions. but, believe me, we
never had the shadow of a serious dispute. Perhaps I
went my own way a little selfishly, but at the time, I
thought that she, on her part, was somewhat straight-
laced. I appreciate her merits when it is too late.”

“But you must not assume that she is dead!”

The barrister was certain even yet that some day
the affair would be cleared up without scandal, the
feminine complex being capable of far more fantastic
actions than vanishing temporarily.

“She is,” muttered the other. “I feel certain I shall
never see her on earth again.”

“Oh, nonsense, Dene! Far more remarkable occur-
rences have been explained in ridiculously common-
place ways.”

“Tt’s very good of you, old chap, to take this cheer-
ing view. Only, you see, I know my wife’s character
so well. She would die a hundred deaths, if it were
possible, rather than cause the misery to her people
and myself which, if living, she knows must ensue from
this terrible uncertainty as to her fate.”

“Scotland Yard is still hopeful, I hear.”

“Oh, naturally. But something tells me that my
wife is dead, whether by accident or design it is impos-
sible to say. The police will cling to the belief that she
is in hiding in order to conceal their own inability to

find her.”22 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“A highly probable theory. Are your servants to be
trusted?”

“¥—es. They have all been with us some years.
Why do you ask?”

“Because I am anxious that nothing of this should
get into the newspapers. I have caused paragraphs to
be inserted in the fashionable intelligence columns that
Lady Dene is visiting friends in the Midlands. For
her own sake, if she is living, it is best to choke scandal
at its source.”

“Well, Bruce, I leave everything to you. Make
such arrangements as you think fit.”

The barrister’s strong face softened with pity as he
looked at his afflicted friend. In four days Sir Charles
Dene had aged many years in appearance. No one
acquainted with him in the past would have imagined
that the loss of his wife could so affect his happy-go-
lucky disposition.

“I have done everything possible, yet it is very lit-
tle,” said Bruce, after a pause. “You know I am sup-
posed to be an adept at solving criminal investigations
of an unusual type. But in this case, partly, I suspect,
because I myself am the last person who, to our com-
mon knowledge, saw Alisia alive on Tuesday night, I
am faced by a dead wall of negation through which
my experience cannot pierce. Yet I am sure that some
day this wretched business will be made intelligible, I
shall find her if living; I’ll find her murderer if she is
dead.”

Not often did Claude Bruce allow his words to
betray his thoughts. Both men were so absorbed by
the thrilling sensations of the moment that they were
positively startled when a servant announced:INSPECTOR WHITE, OF THE C. I. D. 23

“Inspector White, of the Criminal Investigation De-
partment.”

A short, thick-set man entered. He was absolutely
round in limbs and figure. His sturdy frame was sup-
ported on stout, well-moulded legs. His bullet head,
with close-cropped hair, gave a suggestion of strength
to a rotund face, and a pair of small bright eyes
looked suspiciously on the world from beneath well-
arched eyebrows.

Two personalities more dissimilar than those of
Claude Bruce and Inspector White could hardly be
brought together in the same room. People who are
fond of tracing resemblances to animals in human be-
ings, would liken the one to a grey-hound, the other to
a bull-dog.

Yet each was a master in the art of detecting crime
—the barrister subtle, analytic, introspective; the po-
liceman direct, pertinacious, self-confident. Bruce lost
all interest in a case when the hidden trail was laid
bare. White regarded investigation as so many hours
on duty until his man was transported or hanged. The
detective was well acquainted with his unprofessional
colleague, and had already met Sir Charles in the early
stages of his present quest.

“JT have an important clue,” he said, smiling with
assurance.

“What is it?” The baronet was for the moment
aroused from his despondent lethargy.

‘Her ladyship did not go to Richmond on Tuesday
night.”

Inspector White did not wait for Bruce to speak,
though the barrister nodded with the air of one who
knew already that Lady Dene had not gone to Rich-
mond.24 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

White continued: ‘Thanks to Mr. Bruce’s re-
membering the number of the ticket, we traced it at
once in the clearing office. It was given up at Sloane
Square immediately after the Richmond train passed
through.”

Bruce nodded again. He was obstinately silent, so
the detective addressed him directly.

“By this discovery the inquiry is narrowed to a local-
ity—eh, Mr. Bruce?”

“Yes,” said the other, turning to poke the fire.

White was sure that his acuteness was displeasing to
a clever rival. He smiled complacently, and went on:

“The ticket-collector remembers her quite well, as
the giving up of a Richmond ticket was unusual at that
station. She passed straight out into the Square, and
from that point we lose sight of her.”

“You do, Inspector?” said Bruce.

“Well, sir, it’s something gained to have determined
her movements so far, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. To save time I may tell you that Lady
Dene returned to the station, entered the refreshment
room, ordered a cup of tea, which she hardly touched,
sat down, and waited some fifteen minutes. Then she
quitted the room, crossed the Square, asked a news-
vendor where Raleigh Mansions were, and gave him
sixpence for the information.”

His hearers were obviously astounded.

“My hat, Claude, how did you lear all*this?” cried
the baronet.

“That part of the affair was simplicity itself. On
Wednesday evening, when no news could be obtained
from your relatives, I started from Victoria, intending
to call at every station until I found the place where
she left the train. The railway clearing office was tooINSPECTOR WHITE, OF THE C. I. D. 25

slow in action for me, White. Naturally, the hours
being identical in the same week, the first ticket-col-
lector I spoke to gave me the desired clue. The rest
was a mere matter of steady persistence.”

“Then you are the man for whom the police are now
searching?” blurted out the detective.

“From the railway official’s description? How price-
less! Do let me see the details of my appearance as
issued to the force. They should be most interesting.”

The inspector was saved from further indiscretions
by Sir Charles Dene’s plaintive cry:

“Why did you not tell me these things sooner,
Claude?”

“What good was there in torturing you? What I
have ascertained is the mere A. B. C. of our search.
We are at a loss for the motive of your wife’s disap-
pearance. Victoria, Sloane Square, Richmond—does
it matter which? My belief is that she actually in-
tended going to Richmond that night. Why, other-
wise, should she make the same unvarying statement
to the footman and myself? Perhaps she did go
there.”

“But these houses, Raleigh Mansions? What of
them?”

““Ah, there we may be forwarded a stage. But there
are six main entrances and no hall-porters. There are
twelve flats at each number, seventy-two in all, and
all occupied. That means seventy-two separate inquir-
ies into the history and attributes of a vastly larger
number of persons, in order to find some possible con-
nection with Lady Dene and her purposely concealed
visit. She may have remained in one of those flats
five minutes. She may be in one of them yet. Any-
how, I have taken the necessary steps to obtain the96 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

fullest knowledge of the inhabitants of Raleigh Man-
sions.”

‘Where you are concerned, Scotland Yard appears
to be an unnecessary institution, Mr. Bruce,” snapped
the detective angrily.

“By no means. I find it most useful once I have
discovered a criminal. And it amuses me.”

‘Listen, Claude, and you, too, Mr. White,” pleaded
the baronet. “I implore you to keep me informed in
future of developments in your search. The knowledge
that progress is being made will sustain me. Promise,
I ask you.”

“I promise readily enough,” answered Bruce. “I
only stipulate that you prepare yourself for many dis-
appointments. Forgive my chaff, White. Even a
highly skilled detective like you must admit that the
failures are more frequent than the successes.”

“True enough, sir. But I must be going, gentle-
men.”

He wanted to work the new seam provided by
Raleigh Mansions before even his superiors were aware
of its significance in the hunt for the lost lady. Though
annoyed with Bruce he was ready enough to pick his
brains. When the detective went out there was silence
for some time. Dene was the first to speak.

“Have you formed any sort of theory, even a wildly
speculative one?” he asked.

“Nilo; none whatever. The utter absence of motive
is the most puzzling element in the whole situation.”

“Whom can my wife have known at Raleigh Man-
sions? What sort of places are they?”

“Quite fashionable, but not too expensive. The ab-
sence of elevators and hall-porters cheapens them. I
am sorry now I mentioned them to White.”INSPECTOR WHITE, OF THE C.1.D. 27

“Why?”

“He will disturb every one of the residents by inju-
dicious inquiries. Each householder who opens a door
will be to him a suspicious individual, each butcher’s
boy an accomplice, each tenant a principal in Alisia’s
abduction. If I have a theory of any sort, it is that
the first reliable news will come from Richmond.
There cannot be the slightest doubt that she was going
there on Tuesday night.”

“It will be very odd if you should prove to be right,”
said Sir Charles.

Again they were interrupted by the footman, this
time the bearer of a telegram, which he handed to his
master. The latter opened it at once. He read:

“What is the matter? Are you ill? I certainly am
angry.—Dick.”’

He frowned with real annoyance, crumpling up the
message and throwing it in the fire.

“People bothering one at such a time!” he growled.

Soon afterwards Bruce left the house. True to his
prophecy, Inspector White made life miserable for the
denizens of Raleigh Mansions. He visited them at all
hours, and, in some instances, several times. Although,
in accordance with his instructions, he never mentioned
Lady Dene’s name, he so pestered the occupants with
questions concerning a lady of her general appearance
that half-a-dozen residents wrote complaining letters
to the company which owned the block of flats, and the
secretary lodged a sarcastic protest with Scotland Yard.

Respectable citizens object to detectives prowling
about their abodes, particularly when they question all
and sundry concerning indefinite ladies in tailor-made
dresses, fur ties and smart hats.

At the end of a week, however, White was non-28 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

plussed; even Claude Bruce confessed that his more
carefully conducted inquiries had yielded no result.
Then, towards the end of the month, events took a
sensational turn. The body of a woman, terribly dis-
figured from long immersion in the water and other
causes, was found in the Thames at Putney.

It had been discovered under peculiar circumstances.
A drain pipe emptying into the river below the surface
was moved because of some sanitary alterations, and
the workmen entrusted with the task were horrified at
finding a corpse wedged tightly underneath.

Official examination revealed that although the body
had been in the water fully three weeks, the cause
of death was not drowning. The woman had been
murdered, beyond a shadow of a doubt. A sharp iron
spike was driven into her brain with such force that a
portion of it had broken off, and remained imbedded
in the skull.

If this were not sufficient, there were other convinc-
ing proofs of foul play. Although her skirt and coat
were of poor quality, her linen was of a class that could
only be worn by some one who paid as much for a
single under-garment as most women can afford for a
serviceable costume; but there were no laundry marks,
such as is usual, nor any maker’s name.

On the feet were a pair of strong walking shoes,
bearing the stamped address of a fashionable boot-
maker in the West End. Among a list of customers to
whom the tradesman supplied footgear of this size and
character appeared the name of Lady Dene.

Not highly convincing clues, but sufficient to bring
Sir Charles to the Putney mortuary in the endeavour
to identify the remains as those of his missing wife.
In this he failed utterly. Not only was this misshapenINSPECTOR WHITE, OF THE C. I. D. 29

lump of humanity wholly unlike his Alisia, but the
colour of her hair was different.

Her ladyship’s maid, called to identify the linen—
even the police admitted that the outer clothes could
not be Lady Dene’s—was so upset by the repulsive na-
ture of her task that she went into hysterics, protesting
loudly that it was not her mistress she was looking at.

Bruce differed from both husband and maid. He
urged Sir Charles to consider the fact that a great
many ladies give a helping hand to Nature in the mat-
ter of hair tints. The chemical action of water would
explain a good deal. At that the baronet nearly lost
his temper.

“Really, Bruce, you carry your theorizing rather
far,” he cried. ‘My wife had none of these vanities.
I am sure this is not she. The mere thought that such
a thing could be possible makes me ill. Let us get
away, quick.”

So a coroner’s jury found an open verdict, and the
poor unknown was buried in a pauper’s grave. The
newspapers dismissed the incident in a couple of para-
graphs, though the iron spike planted in the skull af-
forded good material for a telling headline, and within
a couple of days the affair was forgotten.

But Claude Bruce, barrister and amateur detective,
was quite sure in his own mind that the nameless
woman was Alisia, Lady Dene. He was so certain—
though identification of the body was impossible—that
he resented the scant attention given the matter by the
authorities, and vowed solemnly that he would not
rest until he had discovered his ill-fated friend’s de-
stroyer and brought the wretch to the bar of justice.

But it is one thing to keep a vow, and quite another to
be pleased with the result when it has been kept.CHAPTER III
THE LADY’S MAID

THE first difficulty he experienced in a task now
practically self-imposed was the element of mystery
purposely contributed by Alisia Dene herself. To a
man of his intelligence, with wits sharpened and clari-
fied by legal training, it was easy to arrive at the posi-
tive facts underlying the trivial incidents of his meet-
ing with the missing lady at Victoria.

Briefly stated, his summary was this: Lady Dene
intended to go to Richmond at a later hour than that at
which his unexpected presence had caused her to set
out. She had resolved on a secret visit to some one
who lived in Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square—some
person whom she knew so slightly that she was un-
acquainted with the exact address, and, as the result
of this visit, she desired subsequently to see her sister
at Richmond.

Her husband, apparently, was in no way concerned
in her movements, nor had she thought fit to consult
him, beyond the mere politeness of announcing her
probable absence from home at the dinner hour.

To Bruce’s analytical mind the problem would be
more simple were it, in a popular sense, more complex.
In these days, it is a strange thing for a woman of
assured position in Society to be suddenly spirited out
of the world without leaving trace or sign. Even if she
contrived her own disappearance the pretence could
hardly be maintained indefinitely. He approached his

inquiry with less certainty owing to Lady Dene’s own
30THE LADY’S MAID

negative admissions than if she had been swallowed
up by an earthquake, and he were asked to determine
her fate by inference and deduction.

It must be remembered that he believed she was
dead—murdered—and that her body had been lodged
by human agency beneath an old drain-pipe at Putney.
Yet, what possible motive could any one have in so
foully killing a beautiful, high-minded, and charming
woman, whose whole life was known to her associates,
whom the breath of scandal had never touched?

The key to the mystery might, indeed, be found in
Raleigh Mansions, but Bruce decided that this branch
of his quest could wait until other more transient inci-
dents were dealt with. He practically opened the cam-
paign of investigation at Putney. Mild weather had
permitted the workmen to conclude their operations
the day before he reached the spot where the body had
been found—that is to say, some forty-eight hours
after he had resolved neither to pause nor deviate in
his search until the truth was revealed.

A large house, untenanted, occupied the bank, a
house with Georgian front facing the road and a lawn
running from the drawing-room windows to the river
at the back. Down the right side of the grounds jthe
boundary was marked by a narrow lane, probably an
ancient way to a disused ferry, and access to this thor-
oughfare was obtained from the lawn by a garden gate.
A newly-made ridge in the roadway showed the line
of the drainage work. Bruce did not even glance at
the point where the pipe entered the Thames, as the

structural features here were recent.

He went to the office of the contractor who had car-
ried out the alterations. An elderly foreman answered
questions readily enough.32 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Ves, sir. I was in charge of the men who were on
the job. It was an easy business. Just an outlet. for
rain from the road. An old-fashioned affair; been there
thirty or forty years, I should think; all the pipes were
crumbling away.”

“Why were the repairs effected at this moment?”

‘Well, sir, the house was empty quite a while. You
see, it used to to be a school, a place where young gents
were prepared for the army. It was closed about a
year ago, and it isn’t everybody as wants so many bed-
rooms. I do hear as how the new tenant has sixteen
children.”

“The incoming people have not yet arrived?”

IN Six.”

“Can you tell me the name of the schoolmaster?”

“Oh, yes. When I was younger I did a lot of car-
penter’s work for him. He was the Reverend Septimus
Childe.”

Bruce made a note of the name, and next sought the
local police-inspector.

“No, nothing fresh,” said the latter, in reply to a
query concerning the woman “found drowned.”

“T suppose these things are soon lost sight of?” said
Bruce casually.

“Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren’t.
It’s wonderful occasionally how a real mystery is ex-
plained years later. Of course, we keep all the records
of a case, so that the affair can be looked into if any-
thing turns up.”

‘“‘Ah, that brings me to the most important object of
my visit. A small piece of iron was found imbedded in
the woman’s skull.”

The inspector smiled as he admitted the fact.THE LADY’S MAID oo

“May I see it? I want either the loan of it for a
brief period, or an exact model.”

Again the policeman grinned.

“T don’t mind telling you you are too late, sir.”

“Too late! How too late?”

“Tt’s been gone to Scotland Yard for the best part
of a week.”

So others besides the barrister thought that the Put-
ney incident required more attention than had been
bestowed on it.

Bruce concluded his round by a visit to the surgeon
who gave evidence at the inquest. The doctor had no
manner of doubt that the woman was dead long before
being placed in the water. Even after so many weeks
the state of the lungs supplied positive proof on that
point. It was equally indisputable that she was done
to death deliberately. A small iron spike had been
absolutely driven into the brain through the hardest
part of the skull.

“Was that the vital injury?”

“Unquestionably. The iron penetrated the occipital
bone and injured the cerebellum, damaging all the great
nerve centres at the base of the brain.”

“Would death ensue instantly?”

“Ves. Such a blow would have the effect of a high
voltage electric current. Total paralysis of the nerve
centres means the end.”

“Then I take it that great force must have been
used?”

“Not so much, perhaps, as the nature of the wound
seems to imply; but considerable—sufficient, at any
rate, to break the piece of iron.”

“It was broken, you say? Was it cast-iron?”34 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Yes, of good quality. Off some ornament or de-
sign, I should imagine. But it snapped off inside the
head at the moment of the occurrence.”

“Curious, is it not, for a person to be killed in such
a manner by such an instrument?” |

“T have never before heard of or met with such a
case. Were it not for the way in which the body was
jammed beneath a hidden drain-pipe, and the effective
means taken to conceal identity, I should have inclined
to the belief that some strange accident had happened.
At any rate, the murderer must have committed the
crime on the spur of the moment, seizing the first
weapon to hand.”

“You say she was placed forcibly where found?”

“Yes: the workmen’s description left no other expla-
nation.”

“Could not the tide have done it?”

“Hardly. One cannot be quite emphatic, as such
odd things do happen. But it seems to be almost im-
possible for the tide at Putney to pack a body beneath
a jutting drain-pipe in such a manner that the waist, or
narrowest part, should be beneath the pipe and the
body remain securely held.”

“Vet it is not so marvellous as the coincidence that
this particular drain should need repair at the precise
period when this tragedy happened.”

“Quite so. It is exceedingly strange. Are you inter-
ested in the case? Have you reason to believe that this
poor woman—?”’

“T hardly know,” broke in Bruce. “I have no data
to go upon, but I feel convinced that I shall ultimately
establish something definite. You, doctor, can help me
much by telling me your surmises in addition to the
known facts.”THE LADY’S MAID

The other man looked thoughtfully through the win-
dow. Evidently, he was willing to assist, but anxious
not to go beyond the bounds of reasonable opinion.

“T am certain that the woman found in the Thames
came from the upper walks of life,” he said at last.
“Notwithstanding the disfiguring effects of the water
and rough usage, any medical man can appreciate what
I may call the caste of his subject. She was, I should
say, a woman of wealth and refinement, one who led
an orderly, well-regulated life, whose surroundings
were normal and healthy.”

Bruce thanked his informant and hurried back to
London. A telegram to Inspector White preceded him.
He had not long reached his Victoria-street chambers
when the detective was announced. Bruce soon made
known his wishes.

“T want you to lend me that small piece of iron found
in the head of the woman at Putney,” he said. “Ii
necessary, I will return it in twenty-four hours.”

White’s face showed some little sign of annoyance.

“Tt is against the rules,” he began; but Bruce inter-
rupted rather curtly.

“Very well, I must apply to the Commissioner.”

“T was going to say, Mr. Bruce, that although not
strictly in accordance with orders, I’ll make an excep-
tion in your case.”

Straight-way the detective produced the piéce de
conviction from a large pocket-book. In sober fact, he
was somewhat jealous of the astute lawyer who saw
so quickly through complexities which puzzled his
slower brain. He was in nowise eager to help Bruce,
though always ready to benefit by his discoveries, and
follow out his theories when they were defined with
sufficient clearness.36 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Bruce did not at first take the bit of metal, though
his fingers itched for its possession.

“Let me understand the exact position, White,” he
said quickly. ‘Do you object to my participation in
this inquiry? Are you going to hinder or help? It
will save much future misunderstanding if we have that
point settled now.”

The detective flushed. He hardly expected to be
tackled so directly.

“Pll be candid as you ask for it,” he said. “It is
true I have been vexed at times when you have over-
reached me; but I regret it immediately afterwards.
It is foolish of me to try and solve problems by your
methods. Kindly forget a momentary disinclination to
hand over the only genuine link in the case.”

“Tn what case?”

“Tn the case of Lady Dene’s disappearance.”

“Ah! Then you think it is in some way connected
with the woman found at Putney?”

“I’m sure of it. The woman at Putney, whether
Lady Dene herself or not I cannot tell, wore some of
her ladyship’s underclothing. When we have ascer-
tained the means and the manner of the death of the
woman buried at Putney we shall not be far from learn-
ing what has become of Lady Dene.”

“How have you identified the clothes?”

“T managed to gain the confidence of the lady’s maid
who gave evidence at the inquest. She, of course, is
quite positive that the body was not that of her mis-
tress, but when I had examined some of Lady Dene’s
linen I began to doubt.”

“Tf you knew all this, how comes it that more did not
transpire at the coroner’s inquiry?”

“Tn such affairs an inquest is a good deal of a hin-THE LADY’S MAID 37

drance to the police. It is better to lull the guilty per-
son or persons into the belief that the crime has passed
into oblivion. They know as well as we do that Lady
Dene is buried at Putney. We have failed to establish
her identity by the evidence of the husband and serv-
ants. The linen and clothes, our sole effective testi-
mony, remain in our possession; so, taking everything
into consideration, I prefer that matters should remain
as they are for the present.”

“Really, White, I congratulate you. You will par-
don me for saying that some of your colleagues do not
usually take so sensible a view.”

The policeman smiled at the compliment.

“Perhaps I am picking up your methods,” he said.

As he spoke, Smith entered with a note endorsed
“Urgent.”

It was in Sir Charles’s handwriting, and even the
unemotional barrister could not restrain an exclama-
tion of amazement when he read:

“My wife’s maid has vanished. She has not been
near the house for three days. The thing came to my
ears owing to gossip among the servants. There is
something maddening about these occurrences. I
really cannot stand any more. Do come and see me,
there’s a good scout.”

“Well, I’m jiggered!” cried the detective when he
heard of this new development. “The blessed girl must
have been spirited away a few hours after I saw
her. Maybe, Mr. Bruce, we’re all wrong. Has she
gone to join her mistress?”

“Possibly—in the next world.”

Nothing would shake the barrister’s conviction that
Alisia Dene was dead.CHAPTER IV
NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS

REALLY, the maid deserved to have her ears pulled.

People in her walk in life should not ape their bet-
ters. Lady Dene, owing to her position, might be en-
titled to some degree of oddity or mystery in her be-
haviour. But for a lady’s maid to upset the entire
household at Wensley House, Portman Square, was
quite intolerable.

Sir Charles became, if possible, more miserable; the
butler fumed; the housekeeper said that the girl was
always a forward minx, and the footman winked at
Buttons, as much as to hint that he knew a good deal
if he cared to talk.

The police were as greatly baffled by this latter inci-
dent as by its predecessor. ‘The movements of the
maid were completely unknown. No one could tell
definitely when she left the house. Her fellow-servants
described the dress she probably wore, as all her other
belongings were in her bedroom; but beyond the fact
that her name was Jane Harding, and that she had not
returned to her home in Lincolnshire, the police could
find no further clue.

So, in brief, Jane Harding quickly joined Lady Dene
in the limbo of forgetfulness.

Bruce, however, forgot nothing. Indeed, he rejoiced
at this new development.

“The greater the apparent mystery,’ he communed,

“the less it is in reality. We now have two tracks to
38NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS 39

follow. They are both hidden, it is true, but when we
find one, it will probably intersect the other.”

The new year was a few days old when Bruce first
broke through the bewildering maze which seemed to
bar progress on every side. He received a report from
the agent, a pensioned police-officer, who had con-
ducted a painstaking search into the history and occu-
pation of every inhabitant of Raleigh Mansions.

Two items the barrister fastened onto at once.

“No. 12, top floor right, entrance by first door on
Sloane Square side, is a small flat occupied by a man
named Sydney H. Corbett. He passes as an American,
but is probably an Englishman who has resided in the
United States. He does not mix with other Americans
in London, and is of irregular habits. He frequents
race meetings and sporting clubs, is reported to belong
to a Piccadilly club where high play is the rule, and
has no definite occupation. He occasionally visits a
lady who lives at No. 61, same mansions, ground floor,
and sixth door. They have been heard to quarrel seri-
ously, and the dispute appears always to have con-
cerned money. Corbett went to Monte Carlo about
the middle of November. His address there is ‘Hotel
du Cercle,’ and the local post-office has a supply of
stamped and addressed envelopes in which to forward
his correspondence.

“At No. 61, as already described, resides Mrs. Gwen-
doline Hillmer. She lives in good style, runs a limou-
sine, and is either a wealthy widow or maintained by
some one of means. She dresses well, and goes out a
good deal to concerts and theatres, but otherwise leads
a rather lonely life. Her most frequent visitor is, or
was, a gentleman who looked like a retired officer, and,

much less often, the aforesaid Sydney H. Corbett. Her40 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

servants, except the chauffeur, live in the flat. The
lady’s maid, who is a sort of companion, is talkative,
but does not know much, or, if she does, will not
speak.”

Bruce weighed these statements carefully. They did
not contain any positive facts that promised well for
the elucidation of Lady Dene’s visit to the mansions on
that fateful November evening, but the absolute colour-
lessness of the reports concerning the other occupants
seemed to put them out of court. After an hour of
puzzled thought he decided on a course of action. He
would visit Mrs. Gwendoline Hillmer, and trust to luck
in the way of discoveries.

A quiet smile lit up his handsome, regular features
as he proceeded to array himself in the most fashion-
able clothes he possessed, paying the utmost attention
to detail. Incidentally, he surprised his valet.

When at last that worthy was despatched to the
nearest florist’s for a boutonniére, he communicated
his bewilderment to the hall-porter.

“My guv’nor’s goin’ out on the razzle-dazzle,”’ he
said confidentially. “TI thought he’d never look at any
woman; but, bless yer ’art, Jim, we’re all alike. When
our special bit o’ fluff shows up we’re one as dotty as
the other.”

It was nearly six o’clock when Bruce walked down
Victoria-street. For some reason, he did not call a
taxi, and it was almost with a start that he found him-
self purchasing a ticket to Sloane Square on the Under-
ground. At this precise hour and place he had last
seen Alisia Dene on earth. The memory nerved him
to his purpose.

A few minutes later he pressed the electric bell of
No. 61, Raleigh Mansions. As he listened to the slightNO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS 41

jar of the indicator within, he smiled at the apparent
fatuity of his mission. He had one card, perhaps a
weak one, to play. He could only hope that circum-
stances might prevent it from being tabled too early in
the game.

The door opened, and a youthful housemaid stood be-
fore him, the simple wonder in her eyes showing that
such visitors were rare.

“Ts Mrs. Hillmer at home?” he said.

“T’ll see, sir, if you give me your name.”

“Surely you know whether or not she is at home?”

The girl stammered and blushed at this unexpected
query.

“Well, sir,” she said, “my mistress is in, but I do
not know if she can receive any one. She is dressing
to go out.”

“Ah! that’s better. Now, take her my card, and say
that while I will not detain her, my business is very
important.” This with a sweet smile that put the flur-
ried maid entirely at her ease.

The girl withdrew, after hesitating for a moment to
decide the important question as to whether she should
close the door in his face. Another smile, and she did
not.

He was thus free to note the luxurious and tasteful
air of the general appointments, because an entrance
hall can reveal much of human characteristics. Here
was every evidence of refinement and wealth. All the
occupant’s artistry had not been lavished on the draw-
ing-room.

As he waited, conscious of the fact that his talk with
the servant had been overheard, a lady crossed from
one room to the other at the end of the passage. Her
smart but simple dress, and the quick scrutiny she gave42 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

him, as though discovering his presence accidentally,
caused him to believe—rightly, as it transpired—that
this was the maid-companion described by his assistant.

Not only had she obviously made her appearance
in order to look at him, but the housemaid had carried
his message to a different section of the flat.

The girl returned. ‘My mistress will see you in a
few minutes,” she said. “Will you kindly step into
the dining-room?”

He followed her, sat down in a position where the
strong glare of the electric lamps would fall on any one
who stood opposite, and waited developments.

The furniture was elegant yet appropriate, the car-
pet rich, and the pictures, engravings for the most part,
excellent. This pleasant room, warmed by a cheerful
fire, impressed Bruce as a place much used by the
household. ‘There was a work-basket. Books were
scattered about, and a piano, littered with music, filled
a corner. Some photographs of persons and places
caught his eye, but he had not time to examine them
before the lady of the house entered.

Her appearance, for some reason inexplicable at the
moment, took him by surprise. She was tall, graceful,
extremely good-looking, and dressed in a quietly dis-
tinctive style. Just the sort of woman one would ex-
pect to find in such a well-appointed abode, yet more
refined in manner than Bruce, from his knowledge of
the world, thought he would meet, judging by certain
hasty inferences drawn from his subordinate’s report.
She was self-possessed, too. With calm tone and
slightly questioning eyebrows, she said:

“You wish to see me, I understand?”

“Ves. Allow me first to apologize for the hour at
which I have called.”NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS 43

“No apology is necessary. But I am going out.
Perhaps you will be good enough not to detain me
longer than is absolutely necessary.”

She stood between the table and the door. Bruce,
who had risen at her entrance, was at the other side of
the room. Her words, no less than her attitude, showed
that she desired the interview to be brief. But the
barrister was not one who could be quelled so easily.

Advancing, with a bow and that fascinating smile of
his, he said, pulling forward a chair:

“Won’t you be seated?”

The lady looked at him wonderingly. She saw a man
of fine physique and undoubted good breeding. She
hesitated. ‘There was no reason to be rude, so she sat
down. He drew a chair to the other side of the hearth-
rug, and commenced:

“T have ventured to seek a personal interview in or-
der to make some inquiries.”

“T thought so. Are you a policeman?”

The words were blurted out impetuously, a trifle
complainingly, but Bruce gave no sign of the direct
interest they aroused.

“J? A policeman? Good gracious, no!” he cried.
“Why should you think that?”

“Because two detectives have been bothering me,
and every other person in these mansions, about some
mysterious lady who called here two months ago.
They don’t know where she called nor will they state
her name; as if any one could possibly know anything
about it. So I naturally thought you were on the same
errand.”

“Confound that blundering fellow, White!” growled
Bruce to himself.

But Mrs. Hillmer went on:44 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Tf that is not your business, would you mind telling
me what is?”

Now, Bruce’s alert brain had not been idle during
the last few seconds. This woman was not the clever,
specious adventuress he had half expected to meet. It
seemed more than ever unlikely that she could have
any knowledge of Lade Dene or the causes that led to
her disappearance. He was tempted to frame some
excuse and take his departure. But the certainty that
his unfortunate friend had visited Raleigh Mansions,
and the necessity there was for exploiting every line of
inquiry, impelled him to adopt a last resource.

“It is not a missing lady, but a missing gentleman in
whom I am interested,” he said.

The shot went home. Why, he could not tell for the
life of him, but his companion was manifestly dis-
turbed.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

Then, after a little pause: ‘May I ask his name?”

“Certainly. He is known as Mr. Sydney H. Cor-
bett.”

She was genuinely worried now.

“Why do you put it in that way? Isn’t that his
right name?” she said nervously.

“T have reason to believe it is not.”

By this time Mrs. Hillmer was so obviously dis-
tressed that Bruce reviled himself inwardly for causing
her so much unnecessary suffering. In all probability,
the cause of her emotion had not the remotest bearing
on his quest.

Then came the pertinent query, after a glance at his
card, which she still held in her hand:

“Who are you, Mr.—Mr. Claude Bruce?”
“I am a member of the Bar, of the Inner Temple.NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS 45

My chambers are at No. 7, Paper Buildings, and my
private residence is given there.”

“And why are you so interested in Mr. Sydney Cor-
bette”

“Ah in that respect I am unable to enlighten you.”

“Unable, or unwilling?”

He indulged in a bit of lawyer-like fencing:

“Really, Mrs. Hillmer,” he said, “I am not here in
any sense hostile to you. I merely want some detailed
information with regard to this gentleman, information
which you may be able to give. That is all.”

All this time he knew that the woman was scrutiniz-
ing him narrowly—trying to weigh him up as it were,
not because she feared him, but rather to discover the
true explanation of his presence.

He felt he had never faced a more difficult task than
this make-believe investigation. He could have
laughed at the apparent want of connection between
Lady Dene’s ill-fated visit to Raleigh Mansions and
this worrying of a beautiful, pleasant-mannered
woman, who was surely neither a principal nor an ac-
complice in a ghastly crime. Yet his ruse succeeded.

“Well, I suppose I may consider myself in the hands
of counsel—tell me what it is you want to know!”
Mrs. Hillmer pouted, with the air of a child about to
undergo a scolding.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Corbett’s present ad-
dress?” he said.

“No. I have neither seen him nor heard from him
since early in November.”

“Can you be more precise about the period?”

“Ves, perhaps.”

She rose, took from a drawer in the sideboard a
packet of bills—receipted, he observed—searched46 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

through them, and found the document she sought.

“T purchased a few articles about that time,” she
explained, “and the account for them is dated Novem-
ber 7th. I had not seen my—” She blushed, became
confused, laughed a little, and went on. “I had not
seen Mr. Corbett for at least a week before that date
—say November ist, at any rate.”

Lady Dene disappeared on the evening of the 6th!

Bruce swallowed his astonishment at the odd coinci-
dence of dates, but he only said, with an encouraging
laugh :—

“Out with it, Mrs. Hillmer. You were about to de-
scribe Mr. Corbett correctly when you recollected
yourself.”

Mrs. Hillmer, still colouring and becoming saucily
cheerful, cried: ‘Why should I trouble myself when
you, of course, know all that I can tell you, and prob-
ably more? He is my brother, and a pretty tiresome
sort of relation, too.”

“T am obliged by your candour. In return, I am
free to state that your brother is now in the South of
France.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “As you are here,
Mr. Bruce, I may as well get legal advice gratis. Can
people writ him in the South of France? Can they ask
me to pay his debts?”

“Under ordinary circumstances they can do neither.
Certainly not the latter.”

“T hope not. But they sometimes come very near
to it, as I know to my cost.”

“Indeed! How?”

Mrs. Hillmer hesitated. Her smile was a trifle
scornful, and her colour rose again.

“People are not averse from taking advantage of cir-NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS 47
cumstances,” she said. “I have had some experience
of this trait in debt-collectors. But they must be care-
ful. You, as a lawyer, ought to know that demands
urged on account of personal reasons may come peril-
ously near to levying blackmail.”

“Surely, Mrs. Hillmer, you do not suspect me of be-
ing a dun. Perish the thought!”

“Don’t you represent those people in Leadenhall
Street, then?” :

“What people?”

“Messrs. Dodge & Co.”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because my brother entered into what he called a
‘deal’ with them. He underwrote some shares in a
South African mine, as a nominal affair, he told me,
and now they want him to pay a heap of money because
the company was not supported by the public.”

“No, I do not represent Dodge & Co.”

“Ts there something else then? Whom do you rep-
resent?”

“To be as precise as permissible, I may say that my
inquiries in no sense affect financial matters.”

“What then?”

‘Well, there is a woman in the case.”

Mrs. Hillmer was evidently both relieved and im-
mensely interested.

“You don’t say!” she cried. ‘Tell me all about it.
I never knew Bertie to bother his head about a girl. I
am all curiosity. Who is she?”

Bruce did not take advantage of the mention of a
name which in no way stood for Sydney. Besides, per-
haps the middle initial in Corbett’s name stood for Her-
bert. He resolved to try another tack.

Glancing at his watch he said:48 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Tt is nearly seven o’clock. I have already detained
you an unconscionable time. You were going out.
Permit me to call again, and we can discuss matters
more at leisure.”

He rose, and the lady sighed.

“You were just beginning to be entertaining,’ she
protested. “I was only going to dine at a restaurant.
I am quite tired of being alone.”

Was it a hint? He would see.

“Are you dining by yourself, then, Mrs. Hillmer?”

“T hardly know. I may bring my maid.”

This time he made up his mind.

“May I venture,” he said, “after such an informal
introduction, to ask you to dine with me at Prince’s
Restaurant, and afterwards, perhaps, look in at the
Jollity Theatre?”

The lady was unfeignedly pleased. She arranged to
call for him in her car within twenty minutes, and
Bruce hurried off to Victoria-street in a taxi to dress
for this thoroughly unexpected phase of the detective
business.

When he told his valet to telephone to the restaurant
and the theatre respectively for a reserved table and
a couple of stalls, the man chuckled. When his mas-
ter entered a limousine in which was seated a fur-
wrapped lady, and drove off with her, he grinned
broadly.

“T knew it,” he said. ‘The guv’nor’s fairly on the
job. Now, who’d ever have thought it of him?”CHAPTER V
AT THE JOLLITY THEATRE

By tacit consent, the two dropped for the hour the
roles of inquisitor and witness. Each was a ready and
entertaining talker, they were mutually interested, and
found in their present escapade a spice of that romance
not so lacking in the humdrum life of London as is
generally supposed.

Bruce did not ask himself what tangible result he
expected from this quaint outcome of the visit to Sloane
Square. It was too soon yet. He must trust to chance
to elucidate many things now hidden. Meanwhile a
good dinner, a bright theatre, and the society of a
smart, nice-looking woman, were more than tolerable
substitutes for progress in the sombre quest which oc-
cupied his mind to the exclusion of nearly every other
interest in life.

As a partial explanation of his somewhat eccentric
behaviour he volunteered a lively account of a recent
cause célébre, in which he had taken a part, but the
details of which had been hidden from the public. He
more than hinted that Mr. Sydney Corbett figured
prominently in the affair; and Mrs. Hillmer laughed
with unaffected mirth at the unwonted appearance of
her brother in the réle of a gay Lothario.

“Tell me,” said Bruce confidentially, when a couple
of glasses of Moét ror had consolidated friendly re-
lations, “what sort of lad is this brother of yours
really?”

4950 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Not in any sense a bad boy, but a trifle wild—a
born adventurer. He refuses to live in an ordinary
way, and at times has been hard pressed to live at all.
As a matter of fact, it is this scrape he blundered into
with Messrs. Dodge & Co. which led him to masquer-
ade temporarily under an assumed name.”

“What is his real name?’

“Ah, now you are pumping me again. The well of
information is dried up.”

“But there are generally serious reasons when a man
adopts an alias?”

“The reason he gave me was that he dreaded being
writted for liability regarding the shares I mentioned
earlier. It was enough. Now you come with this story
of meddling with somebody else’s wife. Surely that is
an additional reason. I supplied him with funds until
we quarrelled, and then he went off in a huff.”

“What did you quarrel about?”

“That concerns me only.”

Mrs. Hillmer’s voice grew so emphatic that Bruce
dropped the subject suddenly. This woman looked
frivolous, but was nothing of the kind. She knew ex-
actly what she meant to say, and said no more. When
they drove to the theatre she added another deft touch
to the portrait forming in the barrister’s mind. On
alighting at the entrance, she said to her chauffeur:
“You may return home now, and bring Dobson to meet
me at 11.15.”

“May I venture to inquire who Dobson is?” said
Bruce amusedly.

“Certainly. Dobson is my maid.”

The more he saw of Mrs. Hillmer the more she puz-
zled him. By this time he was certain that she was
clinging to the fringe of Society, and not altogetherAT THE JOLLITY THEATRE 51

successfully. At best, her position was dubious. Yet
he had never heard of her before, nor met her in public.
None of his friends were known to her, and she men-
tioned no one beyond those popular personages who are
connu of all the world. She was obviously wealthy and
refined, with more than a spice of unconventionality.
Occasionally, too, beneath her habitual expression of
liveliness and vivacity, there was a touch of melan-
choly.

For an instant her face grew sad when her eyes
rested on a typical family party of father, mother,
and two girls who occupied seats in the row of stalls
directly in front. Here was something she had missed
in life.

For some reason Bruce felt sorry for Mrs. Hillmer.
He regretted that the exigencies of his mission forced
him to make her his dupe, and he resolved that, if by
unhappy chance her scapegrace brother were con-
cerned in Lady Dene’s death, the sister, at least, should
be spared personal humiliation or disgrace.

Indeed, he had formed such a favourable opinion of
this new acquaintance that he had made up his mind
to conduct future investigations without causing her to
assist involuntarily in putting a halter around “Cor-
bett’s” neck. Nevertheless, it was impossible to avoid
making some little progress, since she herself paved
the way. Her comments betrayed such an accurate
acquaintance with the technique of the stage that he
could not help saying:—

“You must have acted a good deal?”

“No,” she said, “nothing to write home about. But
I was stage-struck when young.”

“Have you appeared in public?”

“Ves, some six years ago. I worked so hard that I52 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

fell ill, and then—then I had a stroke of luck—so—
things are different.”

“Do you go out much to theatres, nowadays?”

“Ves. It is lonely by oneself, yet there are so few
plays worth seeing.”

Bruce wondered why she insisted so strongly on the
isolation of her existence. In his new-found sympathy
he forebore to question, and she continued:

‘When I do visit a theatre I amuse myself mostly by
silent criticism of the actors and actresses. Not that
I could do better than many of them, or half so well,
but it passes the time.”

“T hope you don’t regard killing time as the main
object in life?”

“Tt is so, I fear, however hard I may strive against
that most wearisome of occupations.”

And again that shadow of regret darkened the fair
face.

Some one in front turned and glared at them angrily,
for the famous comedian, Mr. Prospect Ricks, was
singing his deservedly famous song, “It was all because
I buttoned up her gaiters.”

So the conversation flagged. Bruce focussed his
opera-glasses on the stage. While his eyes wandered
idly over the pretty faces and shapely limbs of the
chorines his brain was busy piecing together all he had
heard. The odd coincidence of the dates of Lady
Dene’s murder and the speedy departure of the self-
styled Sydney Corbett for the Riviera might call for
analysis.

True, it was not the barrister’s habit to jump at con-
clusions. There might be a perfectly valid motive for
the journey. If the man did not desire his whereaboutsAT THE JOLLITY THEATRE 53

to be known, why did he leave his address at the post-
office?

And, then, what possible motive could have actuated
Alisia Dene in visiting him voluntarily and secretly
at his chambers in Raleigh Mansions? That sedate
and Lama lady could have nothing in com-
mon with a careless adventurer, taking the most lenient
view of a sister’s description. And as Bruce’s subtle
intellect strove vainly to assemble the broken frag-
ments of the puzzle, his keen eyes roved the stage in
aimless activity.

Suddenly they paused. Neither his sight nor his
trick of intense concentration was wholly adequate to
the new and startling fact which had obtruded itself,
brazenly and unsought, on his dazzled senses.

Among the least prominent of the chorus girls, pos-
turing and moving with the stiffness and visible anxiety
of a novice not yet accustomed to the glare of the
footlights on undraped limbs, was one in whose every
gesture Bruce took an absorbing interest.

He was endowed in full measure with that prime
requisite for the detection of criminals, an unusually
retentive memory for faces, together with the artistic
faculty of catching the habitual expression. Hence,
when the whirl of a dancing chorus had for a few
seconds brought this particular member of the com-
pany close to the footlights, Bruce was quite sure that
one branch of his ‘inquiry was within’ measurable dis-
tance of solution.

The girl on the stage-was i Jane HWarding.’Lady Dene’s
vanished maid!*’ » me

When her features first flashed on his conscious gaze
he could hardly credit the discovery. But each in-
stant of a prolonged scrutiny placed the fact further54 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

beyond doubt. Not even the make-up and an elab-
orate head-dress could conceal the contour of a pretty
if insipid face. A slight trick the girl had of droop-
ing the left eyelid when intent on her work confirmed
his first hardly believable discovery.

So astounded was he at this sequel to his visit to the
theatre that he utilized every opportunity given by a
full stage to examine still further the appearance and
style of this strange apparition.

When the curtain fell, and Jane Harding was no
longer visible, he was startled back to actuality by
Mrs. Hillmer’s voice.

“Really, Mr. Bruce, you are taking altogether too
much notice of one of the fair ladies in front. Which
one was it? ‘The statuesque blonde or the little girl
who pirouetted so gracefully?”

“Neither, I assure you. I was taken up by wonder-
ing how a young woman manages to secure employ-
ment in a theatre for the first time.”

“T think I can tell you. Influence goes a long way.
Talent counts occasionally. Then, a well-known agent
may, for a nominal fee, get an opening for a hand-
some, well-built girl who has taken lessons from either
himself or some of his friends in dancing or singing, or
both.”

“Ts such a thing possible for a domestic servant?”

“Tt all depends on the domestic servant’s gifts and
circle of acyudintances, AS -acrule;. I should say not.
A theatre like this aii a Tigher average of intelli-
gence.”

This, and: chore, Bree wall. Rite: put he was only
making conversation, while his thoughts were fixed to
the exclusion of all else on this latest phase of the
Dene mystery.AT THE JOLLITY THEATRE 58

During the third act he contrived to pay more at-
tention to Mrs. Hillmer. If that sprightly dame were
a little astonished at the celerity with which he con-
ducted her to her car and the waiting Dobson, it was
banished by the nice way in which he thanked her for
the pleasure she had conferred.

“The enjoyment has been mostly on my side,” she
cried, as she stood near the door of the limousine.
“Come and see me again soon. You have aroused my
curiosity, you know.”

He bowed. and would have said something if an im-
perious policeman had not ordered the chauffeur to
clear a space for the next car. So Mrs. Hillmer was
whisked away.

By force of habit, he glanced casually at the crowd
struggling through the various exits from the theatre,
and caught sight of Inspector White, who, too late,
averted his round eyes and strove to shield his rounded
form behind the portico of a neighbouring restaurant.
Bruce did not want to be bothered by the detective
just then. He lit a cigarette, and White slid off quietly
into the stream of traffic, finally crossing the road and
jumping onto a Charing Cross ’bus.

“So.” communed Bruce, “White has been watching
Raleigh Mansions, and watching me, too. ’"Pon my
honour, I shouldn’t wonder if he suspected me of the
murder! I’m glad I spotted him just now. For the
next couple of hours I want to be free of him, at any
rate!”

Waiting a few minutes to make sure that White had
not detailed an aide-de-camp to carry on, he buttoned
his overcoat to the chin, tilted his hat forward, and
strolled to the stage door of the Jollity Theatre.CHAPTER VI
MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT

THE uncertain rays of a weak lamp, struggling
through panes dulled by dirt and black letters, cast a
fitful light about the precincts of the stage-door.

Elderly women and broken-down men, slovenly and
unkempt, kept furtive guard there, waiting for some
friendly stage hand to come forth who would propose
the hoped-for adjournment to a favourite public-house.
Some smart cars, several two-seaters, and a few taxies
formed a close line beside the pavement, which was
soon crowded with the hundred odd hangers-on of a
theatre—scene-shifters, gasmen, limelight men, mem-
bers of the orchestra, dressers, and attendants—min-
gling with the smaller stream of artists constantly pour-
ing out into the chilly street after a casual inquiry for
letters at the doorkeeper’s office.

This being a fashionable place of amusement there
were not wanting representatives of gilded youth, some
obviously ginger-bread or “unleavened” imitations,
others callow specimens of the genuine article.

Bruce paid little heed to them as they impudently
peered beneath each close-fitting hat to discover the
charmer honoured by such chivalrous attentions.

Yet the presence of this brigade of light-headed
cavaliers helped the barrister far more than he could
have foreseen or even hoped. At last the ex-lady’s
maid appeared, dressed in a showy winter costume and
jaunty hat. She was on most friendly terms with two

56MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT 57

older girls, on whom the stage had set its ineffaceable
seal, and the reason was soon apparent.

“Come along!”’ she cried, evidently bent on creating
an effect with others in the throng less favoured than
those she addressed; “let’s hop into a taxi and go to
Scott’s for supper. Here, driver!”

Her hand was on the door of a cab when a tall, good-
looking boy, faultlessly dressed, with something of
Sandhurst or Woolwich in his bearing, darted forward.

“Hello, Millie,’ he said to one of Jane Harding’s
companions. “How goes it? Are you free? A couple
of fellows are up with me for the night. Come and pick
a bone at Duke’s,” thereby indicating a well-known
night club usually patronized by higher class artistes
than this trio.

After a series of introductions by Christian names,
among which Bruce failed to catch the word “Jane,”
the party went off in three cabs, a pair in each.

Claude was not a member of “Duke's,” though he
had often been there. But there was a man close at
hand who was a member of every institution in Lon-
don that in any way pertained to things theatrical.
Every one knew Billy Sadler and Billy Sadler knew
every one. A brief run in a cab to a theatre, a res-
taurant, and another restaurant, revealed the large-
hearted Billy, drinking a whisky and soda and relating
to a friend, with great gusto and much gesticulation,
the scandalous details of the latest quarrel between
the stage-manager and the leading lady. He hailed
Bruce with enthusiasm.

“Well, well! See who’s here! Bruce, old top, I
haven’t set eyes on you for an age. Where you bin?
An’ what’s the little game now?”

Mr. Sadler was fully aware of the barrister’s pen-58 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

chant for investigating mysteries. The two had often
foregathered in the past.

“Are you busy?” said Bruce.

“Not a bit. Bye-bye, Jack. Turn up for luncheon
tomorrow at the Gorgonzola. . . . Well, what is it?”

“T want you to take me to ‘Duke’s.’ There’s a
young lady I’m interested in.”

Billy, the fattest theatrical man in London, squeezed
round in the taxi, which was now bowling across a
corner of Trafalgar Square.

“Vou?” he cried. “After a bit o’ fluff! Is she in
the profesh? Is momma frightened about her angel?
The correct figure for a breach just now, my gay
youth, is five thou’.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. I’ll tell you all about it
when the air is clearer. This is a mere item in a really
big story. But, here we are. Force your way into the
supper-room.”

As they entered the comfortable, brightly lighted
club the strains of a tango came pleasantly to their
ears, and in a minute they were installed at a corner
table in a spacious room devoted to that most cheery
of all gatherings—a Bohemian meal when the labours
of the night are past.

Bruce soon marked his quarry. Jane Harding was
in great form—eating, drinking, and talking at the
same time.

“Who is that, Billy?” he said, indicating the girl.

Sadler balanced his pince-nez on a well-defined nose,
gazed, and laughed.

“Goodness only knows! She’s a new-comer, and not
much at that. Do you know where she shakes a leg?”
“At the Jollity.”

“Oh! then here’s our man”—for a Mephistophelian-MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT 59

looking gentleman was passing at the moment. “Say,
Rosenheim, who’s the new chorus-lady over there?”

Mephistopheles halted, looked at Jane and laughed,
too.

“Her name is Marie le Marchant; but as she hap-
pened to be born a Cockney she pronounces it Mahrie
lee Mahshunt, with the accent on the ‘Mahs.’ Any-
thing else you want to know?”

“Yes, I’m dead stuck on her! Where did you pick
her up?”

“She’s a housemaid, or something of the sort. Came
into money. Wants to knock ’em on the ‘stige.’ The
rest is easy.”

‘Fas she been with you long?” put in Bruce, as
their informant was the under-manager of the Jollity.

Mr. Rosenheim glanced at him. Sadler, of course,
had not the slightest interest in the girl, and the bar-
rister did not quite possess the juvenile appearance
that warranted such solicitude.

“She joined us just before Christmas. What’s up?
Is she really worth plenty of ’oof?”

“T should imagine not,” laughed Bruce; and Mr.
Rosenheim joined another group.

Supper ended, Marie and Millie, and eke Flossie,
attended by their swains, discussed coffee and cognac.

A fox-trot separated Miss le Marchant, as she may
now be known, momentarily from the others, and
Bruce darted forward.

“Good-evening,” he said. ‘How jolly to meet you
here!”

The girl recognized him instantly. She would have
denied her identity, but her nerve failed her before
those steadfast, penetrating eyes. Moreover, it was60 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

not an ill thing for such a well-bred, well-dressed man
to acknowledge her so openly.

“Good-evening, Mr. Bruce,” she said with a smile
of assurance, though her voice faltered a little.

He tried to make the situation easy.

“We have not met for such a long time,” he said;
“and I am simply dying to have a talk with you. I am
sure your friends will pardon me if I carry you off for
five minutes to a quiet corner.”

With a simper, Miss le Marchant rose. They danced
around the room until they found an unoccupied table.

“Now, Jane Harding,” said he, with some degree of
sternness in his manner, ‘“‘be good enough to explain
why you are passing under a false name, and the rea-
sons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dene’s house
in such a peculiarly disagreeable way.”

“Disagreeable? I only left in a hurry. Who had
any right to stop me?”

“No one, in a sense, except that Sir Charles Dene
may feel inclined to prosecute you.”

“For what, Mr. Bruce?”

This emancipated servant girl was not such a sim-
pleton as she looked. It was necessary to frighten her,
and at the same time force her to admit the facts with
reference to her sensational flight from Wensley House.

“You must be well aware,” he said, “that Sir Charles
Dene can proceed against you in the County Court to
recover wages in lieu of notice, and this would be far
from pleasant for you in your new surroundings.”

“Yes, I know that. But why should Sir Charles
Dene, or you, or any other gentleman, want to dish.
any girl’s prospects in that way?”

“Surely, you must feel that some explanation is due
to us for your extraordinary behaviour?”MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT 61

“No, I don’t feel a bit like it.”

“But why did you go away?”

“To suit myself.”

“Could you not have given notice? Why was it
necessary to create a further scandal in addition to the
disappearance of your unfortunate mistress?”

“T’m sorry for that. It was thoughtless, I admit.
If I had to act over again I should have done differ-
ently. But what does it matter now?”

“Tt matters this much—that the police must be in-
formed of your existence, as they are searching for you,
believing that you are in some way mixed up with Lady
Dene’s death.”

The girl started violently, and she flushed, rather
with anger than alarm, Bruce thought, watching her
narrowly.

“The police, indeed,” she snorted; “what have the
police to do with me? A nice thing you’re saying, Mr.
Bruce.”

“T am merely telling you the naked truth.”

“All right! Tell them! I don’t care a pin for them
or you. Have you anything else really pally to say,
because I wish to join my friends?”

The girl’s language and attitude mystified him more
than any preceding feature of this remarkable investi-
gation. She was, of course, far better educated than
he had imagined, and the difference between the hys-
terical witness who might have given evidence at the

coroner’s inquiry and this pert, self-possessed young
woman was phenomenal.

Rather than risk an open rupture, the barrister tem-
porarized.

“Tf you are anxious to quarrel with me, by all means62 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

do so,” he said; “but that was not my motive in speak~
ing to you here to-night.”

Miss le Marchant shot a suspicious glance at him.
“Then what was your motive,” she said.

“Chiefly to reassure my friend, your former master,
concerning you; and, perhaps, to learn the cause of
your strange conduct.”

“Why should Sir Charles bother his head about me?”

“As T have told you. Because of the coincidence
between your departure and Lady—”

“Qh, yes, I know that.” Then she added testily:
“T was a fool not to manage differently. But I was
just crazy to get away.”

“So you refuse any explanation?”

“No, I don’t. I have no reason to cut up rough.
I came in for some money, and as I have wanted all my
life to be an actress I could not wait an hour, a mo-
ment, before I—before I—”

“Before you tried to gratify your longing.”

“Yes, that is what I wanted to say.”

“But why not at least have written to Sir Charles
telling him of your intentions?”

The fair Marie was silent for a moment. The ques-
tion confused her. “I hardly know,” she replied.

“Will you write to him now?”

“T don’t see why I should.”

“Indeed. Not even when it was you who gave some
of your mistress’s underclothing to Inspector White,
by which means he was able to identify the body found
at Putney as that of Lady Dene?”

“Mr. White told you that, did he?”

“He did.”
“Then you had better get him to give you all fur-MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT 63

ther particulars, Mr. Bruce, because not another word
will you get out of me.”

She bounced up, fiery red, pluming herself for the
fray.

“Will you not communicate with Sir Charles?” he
said, utterly baffled by Miss le Marchant’s uncompro-
mising attitude.

“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t . . . Inspector
White, indeed! That fat toad!” And she made off
in a huff.

The night was fine, so Bruce strolled homeward
quietly. This was his summary of the evening’s
events:

“T have found two women. When I know all about
them, I shall be able to lay my hands on the beast who
killed Alisia.”CHAPTER VII
IN THE CITY

Messrs. Dopcr & Co, of Leadenhall Street, occu-
pied business premises of greater pretensions than
Bruce had pictured to himself from Mrs. Hillmer’s de-
scription of their transactions with her brother. Not
only were their offices commodious and well situated,
but a liberal display of gold lettering, intermingled
with official brass plates marking the registered offices
of many companies, gave evidence of some degree of
importance—whether fictitious or otherwise Bruce
could not determine by merely scrutinizing the exterior
of the building on the following morning.

Moreover, workmen were even then busy in substi-
tuting the title “Dodge, Son & Co., Ltd., for “Messrs.
Dodge & Company,” the suggestive nature of the latter
designation having perhaps proved a stumbling-block
in the way of the guileless investor.

When the barrister entered the office, a busy place,
a hive of many clerks, and adorned with gigantic maps
of the Rand, West Australia, Colorado, and India, he
asked for “Mr. Dodge.”

His card procured him ready admission. He was
shown into an elaborately upholstered apartment of
considerable size. At the farther end, seated in front
of a gorgeous American desk, was a young man who
finished reading a letter ostentatiously and then mo-
tioned the barrister to a seat.

Bruce was interested as to the age of the head of

the firm.

64IN THE CITY 65

“Are you Mr. Dodge, or the Son?” he said, with the
utmost gravity.

The other was taken back by this unexpected
method of opening the conversation. It annoyed him.

“T am the representative of the firm, sir, and fully
able to deal with your business, whatever it may be,”
he replied.

“No doubt. But it will simplify matters if I know
exactly to whom I am addressing myself.”

After an uneasy shuffling in his seat—he could not
guess what this keen-faced, earnest-eyed intruder
might want—the representative of Messrs. Dodge, Son
& Co. (Limited) explained that Ae was Dodge, and
the name of the firm had been adopted for general pur-
poses.

“Then there is no ‘Son,’ I take it.”

“Yes, there is, sir’—this with a snort of anger.

“How old is hee”

“What the devil has that to do with you? Will you
kindly tell me what you want, sir, as my time is fully
occupied?”

“Just now I want to know how old the ‘Son’ is?”

This calm persistence irritated Mr. Dodge beyond
endurance.

“Three years, confound you, and his sister is four
months. Can I oblige you with any more details con-
cerning my family affairs?”

Having purposely raised the man to boiling point by
this harmless method of cross-examination, Bruce
tackled the real business in hand. He was quite sure
that a financial sharper in a temper was far more likely
to blurt out the truth than if he were approached in a
matter-of-fact manner.

“To begin with,” he explained, never taking his eyes66 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

off the furious face of Mr. Dodge, “I have called to
ask for information with regard to your dealings with
Mr. Sydney H. Corbett, of Raleigh Mansions, Sloane
Square.”

‘Never heard of him in my life.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Well, nearly so. However, I can tell you in a mo-
ment, as it is impossible for me to carry in my memory
every name connected with several companies.”

Mr. Dodge recovered his temper now that he saw a
chance of disconcerting his caustic visitor. He touched
an electric bell, and told the answering youth to send
Mr. Hawkins.

“My correspondence clerk,” he explained loftily.
“Are we in communication with any one named Sydney
H. Corbett, Mr. Hawkins?”

No, Sir”

“Ever heard the name?”

“No, sir.”

“That will do. You may go. You're in the wrong
shop, Mr. Bruce.”

«Ves, so I see.”

The barrister kept looking at the back of Mr.
Dodge’s head, but made no move.

Mr. Dodge was frankly puzzled, so he tried irony.

“Now, Mr. Bruce,” he cried, “you know the age of
my son, and the extent of my information about Mr.
Corbett. Is there anything else in which I may be of
service?”

“Yes. You doa fair amount of underwriting, mostly
for the flotation of gold-mining companies?”

‘“VY_—_yes. That is a branch of our business.”

“T am interested in this class of undertaking, and I
was given to understand that Mr. Corbett has had someIN THE CITY 6%

dealings with you in a similar respect for a considerable
sum of money.”

“The name is absolutely unknown to me.”

“Of course. So I gather. I am sorry to hear it.
Several clients of mine have money to invest in that
way, and I naturally came to a firm whose name ap-
parently figured largely in the transactions of Mr.
Corbett.”

It was good to see the manner in which Mr. Dodge
metaphorically kicked himself for his earlier attitude.
His emotion was painful. For quite an appreciable
time he could not trust his sentiments to words.

At last he struggled to extricate himself from the
morass.

“Really, Mr. Bruce, if you had only put things dif-
ferently! Don’t you see, it rather upset me when you
came in and began jawing about the youngsters. And
then you spring Mr. Corbett’s name on me—a man
of whom I have no sort of knowledge. It must have
been my firm of which your friends heard. There is
absolutely no other Dodge in Leadenhall Street. In-
deed, we are the only financial Dodges—that is—er—
Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) are the only firm
of the name dealing with financial matters—in the
Gity.””

By this time Bruce had assured himself that Mr.
Dodge did not know Corbett’s identity, and if Mrs.
Hillmer’s brother had changed his name to conceal
himself from Dodge, he was likely to succeed.

“Anyhow, I am here, Mr. Dodge,” he said cheer-
fully, “so I may as well enter into negotiations with
you. Have you any good things in hand at this mo-
ment?”

“Some of the best. We are just waiting for the mar-68 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

ket to ease a bit, and we shall have at least five splen-
did properties to place before the public. By the way,
do you smoke?”

Bruce did smoke; Mr. Dodge produced a box of ex-
cellent cigars. Then he warmed to his work.

“Here is the prospectus of the Golden Halo Mine,
capital £150,000, for which the vendors are asking
£140,000 in cash, with a working capital of £10,000.
The ore now in sight is estimated to produce two mil-
lions sterling, and the mine is not one-tenth developed.
We are offering underwriters ten per cent in cash, and
there is not the slightest risk, as the shares will stand
at a high premium within a few days after the lists—”

“It sounds most promising,’ said Bruce; “but my
principals are more interested in taking up concerns
already established, but in which, for want of sufficient
capital, the vendors’ shares have, by a process of re-
construction, come on the market. If you have any-
thing of that kind—”

“The very thing,” interrupted Dodge excitedly.
“The Springbok Mine will just suit ’em. After all is
said and done, Golden Halos are a bit in the air, strictly
between you and me, of course. But the Springbok is
a genuine article. It was capitalized for a quarter of a
million, and then the directors went to allotment on
a subscription list of about £14,000. This money has
been expended, but twice the amount is necessary to
develop the property. A call was made on the shares,
and no one paid up, and there is a talk of compulsory
liquidation. Believe me, money put into it now will
yield two hundred per cent. in dividends within twelve
months.”

“There is a whiff of scent on this trail,” said BruceIN THE CITY 69

to himself. He added aloud: ‘That looks promising.
Can you give me details?”

“By all means. Here is the original prospectus.”

Bruce glanced through the document, which dealt
with the Springbok claims on the Rand with more can-
dour than is usually exhibited in such compilations.
Judging from the reports of several mining engineers
of repute it really looked as though, this time, Mr.
Dodge were speaking with some degree of accuracy.

“This reads well,” said Bruce. “What proportion of
share capital is falling in on the reconstruction
scheme?”’

“T hold fifty thousand shares myself,” cried Dodge,
“and though my money is locked up just now I am so
convinced about the value of this mine that Ill man-
age to pay the call. Roughly speaking, there are one
hundred and fifty thousand shares to be underwritten
at, say, three shillings each.”

‘And who are the present holders?”

The barrister asked the question in the most uncon-
cerned way imaginable, yet on the answer depended the
success or failure of this hitherto unproductive mission.

Mr. Dodge was manifestly anxious.

“T take it we are talking with a view to definite busi-
ness?” he said.

The barrister hesitated. Even in the detection of a
crime a man does not care to tell a deliberate lie, and
Dodge’s attitude so far had been candid enough. The
Springbok Mine honestly looked to be a good specula-
tive investment, so he resolved to place the proposition
before one or two friends who dealt in such undertak-
ings, and were able to look after their own interests.

“Ves,” he answered, “I am here for that purpose. If
my principals like this thing they will go in for it.”70 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Then here is the vendors’ list,” said Mr. Dodge,
taking a foolscap sheet from a drawer.

Bruce perused it nonchalantly. His quick eyes took
in each name and address out of half-a-dozen, and re-
jected all as being in no way connected with the man
whose antecedents he was seeking.

Yet, where possible, he left nothing to chance.

‘‘Have you any objection to a copy being made?” he
asked.

Mr. Dodge hummed doubtfully.

‘You see,” went on the barrister, “it is best to be
above board with people whom you wish to bring into
risky if apparently promising ventures. I presume
these gentlemen are moneyless. If so, it is a factor
in favour of your scheme. Should any of them be men
of means, my principals would naturally ask why they
did not themselves underwrite the shares.”

Mr. Dodge was convinced.

“From that point of view,” he cried emphatically,
“they are above suspicion. Jot ’em down, sir.”

The barrister armed himself with the necessary docu-
ments, and they parted with mutual good wishes. It
was only after reflection that Mr. Dodge saw how re-
markably little he had got out of the interview.

“He’s a jolly smart chap,” communed the company
promoter. “I wonder what he’s really after. And who
the dickens is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett? Anyhow, the
Springbok business will stand looking into. How can
I raise the wind for my little lot?”

If Mr. Bruce had probed more deeply Mr. Dodge’s
holding, he would have been saved much future per-
turbation. But, clever as he was, he did not know all
the methods of financial juggling practised by experts
on the Stock Exchange.IN THE CITY i

A taxi brought him quickly to Portman Square. In
fulfilment of his promise, he was about to place Sir
Charles Dene in possession of his recent discoveries.
When the door of Wensley House opened, the butler,
Thompson, who happened to be in the hall, anticipated
the footman’s answer to Bruce’s inquiry.

“Sir Chawles left yesterday for Bournemouth, sir.
He was that overcome by the weather an’ his trouble
that he has gone for a few days’ rest at the seaside.
If you called, sir, 1 was to tell you he would be glad
to see you there should you find it convenient to run
down. And, sir, you'll never guess who kem ’ere this
morning, as bold as brass.”

“Jane Harding.”

The butler, who looked like an archdeacon in mufti,
and kept his birth in Camberwell under rigid control
as a rule, became dreadfully cockney when ruffled.

“Now ’ow on earth can you ‘it on things that way,
sir? It was ’er, ’er very self. And you ought to ’ave
seen her airs. ‘Thompson,’ sez she, ‘is Sir Chawles at
>o5me?’? ‘No,’ ’e isn’t,’ sez I, ‘but you're wanted at the
polis station.’ She was in a keb, and she ’ad asked a
butcher’s boy to pull the bell, so ‘im and the taximan
larfed. ‘Thompson,’ she sez, very red in the face, ‘Vl

‘ave you dismissed for your impidence.’ An’ orf she
went. Did you ever ear anythink like its Sines

“No, Thompson, Miss Harding is certainly a cool
hand.”

Bruce walked to his chambers, and his stroll through
the parks was engrossed by one subject of thought.
It was not Mrs. Hillmer, nor Corbett, nor Dodge who
troubled him. What puzzled him more than all else

was the quite remarkable ‘“Gmpidence” of Jane Harding.CHAPTER VIII
THE HOTEL DU CERCLE

Bruce did not go to Bournemouth.

He left London by the next Continental mail train,
and after a wearisome journey of thirty-six hours found
himself in the garden courtyard of the Hotel du Cercle
at Monte Carlo.

Refreshed by a bath and an excellent déjeurner, he
examined the visitors’ book without asking any ques-
tions. The Hotel du Cercle was a popular resort, and
it took him some time, largely devoted to the elucida-
tion of hieroglyhpic signatures, before he was quite
satisfied that no one whose name was even remotely
suggestive of “Sydney H. Corbett” had recorded his
presence in the hotel since the first week in November.

The barrister began now to doubt Mrs. Hillmer’s
good faith. Twice had her statements not been veri-
fied by facts. It was an expression of annoyance at his
own folly in trusting so much to a favourable first im-
pression that he turned to the hotel clerk to ask if he
knew of a Mr. Sydney H. Corbett.

The courteous Frenchman screwed up his forehead
into a reflective frown before he answered:

“But yes, monsieur. Me, I have not seen the gen-
tleman, but he exists. There have been letters—two—
three letters.”’

“‘Ah, letters! Has he received them?”

The clerk glanced at a green-baize-covered board,

crisscrossed with diamonds of tape, in which was stuck
72THE HOTEL DU CERCLE 73

an assortment of correspondence, mostly addressed to
American tourists.

“They were here! They have gone! Then he has
taken them!”

“Yes,” agreed Bruce; “but surely you know some-
thing about him?”

“Nothing. This hall is open to all the world. Let-
ters for residents are not put there.”

“Do you mean to tell me that any one can come in
here and grab any letters which may be stuck in that
rack?”

“Will the gentleman be pleased to consider? Many
persons give their address here days and weeks before
they come to arrive. Some persons, after the manner
of Monte Carlo, do not wish their names to be known
of everybody. We cannot distinguish. We do not al-
low the address of the hotel to be used improperly, if
we know it; but there are no complaints.”

The barrister did not argue the matter further. He
only said:

“Perhaps you can help me thus far, as I am very
anxious to meet Mr. Corbett. About how long is it
since the last letter came for him?”

“But certainly. It came yesterday. It was re-ad-
dressed from some place in London. If possible, with
the next one I will keep watch for this Monsieur
Corbett.”

So Mrs. Hillmer had not misled him. The so-called
Corbett was in Monte Carlo, but had possibly dis-
guised himself under yet another name. Again did

Bruce consult the hotel register, this time with the aid
of the vendors’ list in the Springbok Mine, but without
result.
There was nothing for it but to familiarise himself74: A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

with Monte Carlo and its hebitués, awaiting develop-
ments in the hunt for an elusive Corbett. In January,
when London alternates between fog and sleet, it is
not an intolerable thing to loiter in forced idleness amid
the sunshine and flowers of the Riviera. There are
two ways of “doing” Monte Carlo. You may live riot-
ously, lose your substance at the Casino, and go home
on a free ticket supplied grudgingly by the proprietors
of the gambling saloons, or you may enjoy to the ut-
most the keen air, magnificent scenery, fine prome-
nades, and excellent music—the two latter provided by
the same benevolent agency, and the rest by Provi-
dence.

It is needless to say which of these alternatives ap-
pealed to Claude Bruce. Being a rich man, it was of
no consequence if he won or lost a few louis in backing
numbers for five minutes of mild excitement. Being a
sensible one, he then quitted the Casino and went for
a stroll in the gardens.

Fashion, supported by the doctors, has decreed that
no longer shall the northern littoral of the Mediter-
ranean be a haven of rest for those afflicted with pul-
monary complaints. Weak-chested and consumptive
people are now banished to the windless and sunlit and
icy valleys of the High Alps. Of recent years a walk
through Nice, Cannes, or Monte Carlo itself in Janu-
ary means that one meets half the well-known people
of the world.

A pigeon-shooting match was in progress, and, as
Bruce fell in with a friend who took a prominent part
in local life, the two entered the club grounds to watch
the contest. At the moment a handsome, well-set-up
young Englishman was shooting off a tie with a Russian
émigré. A very pretty girl, whose delicate and refinedTHE HOTEL DU CERCLE 75

beauty was enhanced by a pleasant expression, was
taking a most unfeminine interest in the slaughter of
the pigeons by the Englishman.

Her eyes spoke her thoughts. It was as though they
said:

“T do not want to see the poor birds killed, but I do
very greatly want a certain person to win.”

Nine birds had been grassed, and the Russian was
growing impatient. The Englishman was cool, his fair
backer keenly excited. The Count fired and missed
his tenth. Up rose the Englishman’s bird, and the girl
could not. restrain an impetuous “Now!”

So the Englishman missed also!

Amid the buzz of comment which arose, Bruce said
to his companion:

“What's going on?”

“The final tie in the International. It’s a big prize,
and each man has backed himself heavily. The two
are Albert Mensmore and Count Bischkoff. That
blessed girl has taken all the ginger out of Mensmore.
Bar accident, he’s a goner!”’

The cynic was right. In the thirteenth round the
Count alone scored, and smiled largely in response to
his antagonist’s quiet congratulations. As for the girl,
it was with difficulty she restrained her tears.

“Dm afraid we have witnessed a tragedy,” said
Bruce’s acquaintance as they walked off; and the bar-
rister agreed. He was sorry for Mensmore and his
pretty supporter. Mayhap the loss of the match meant
a great deal to both.

That night he learned by chance that Mensmore
lived at the Hotel du Cercle. He met him in the bil-
liard-room and tried to inveigle him into conversation.

But the young fellow was too miserable to meet his16 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

friendly advances. Beyond a merely civil acknowledg-
ment of some slight act of politeness, he was not to be
drawn.

Next morning Bruce saw Mensmore again. If the
man looked haggard the previous evening his appear-
ance now was positively startling, that is, to one gifted
with real observation. Ninety-nine men out of a hun-
dred would have seen that Mensmore had not slept
well. Bruce saw more than that. He was assured
that, for some reason, the other’s brain was dominated
by some overwhelming idea, an obsession which might
have a tragic sequel were it allowed to go unchecked.
For some reason he took a good deal of interest in his
unlucky fellow-countryman, and determined to help
him if the opportunity presented itself.

It came, with dramatic rapidity. During dinner he
noticed that Mensmore was in such a state of mental
disturbance that he ate and drank with the air of one
who is feverishly wasting rather than replenishing his
strength.

Soon after eight o’clock, at the hour when frequent-
ers of the Casino hurry there to secure a seat for the
evening’s play, Mensmore quitted the dining-room.
Bruce followed him unobtrusively, and was just in time
to see him enter the lift.

The barrister waited in the hall, having first secured
his hat and overcoat from the vestiare, where he hap-
pened to have left them. Even while he noted the de-
scending lift, in whichiwas Mensmore, who had donned
a light covert coat the breast of which bulged some-
what on the left side, the hotel clerk came to him, tri-
umphantly holding a letter.

“Tiens, monsieur!” cried the clerk, ‘now we shall
see what we shall see.”THE HOTEL DU CERCLE 17

The missive was addressed to the mysterious Syd-
ney H. Corbett, and had been forwarded by the Sloane
Square Post-Office.

With a clang the door of the lift swung open and
Mensmore hastened out. Bruce had to decide instantly
between the chance of meeting Corbett in the flesh and
pursuing the fanciful errand he had mapped out in im-
agination with reference to the stranger who so inter-
ested him.

“Thank you,” he said to the clerk. “I am going to
the Casino for an hour. You will oblige me greatly by
keeping a sharp look-out for any one who claims the
letter.”

“Monsieur, it shall have my close regard.”

The barrister had not erred in his guess as to Mens-
more’s destination. The young man walked straight
across the square and entered the grounds of the fa-
mous Casino. Indoors, an excellent band was playing
“Prince Igor.” The spacious foyer was fast filling
with a fashionable throng; without, the silver radiance
of the moon, lighting up gardens, fore-shore, buildings
and sea, might well have added the last link to the
pleasant bondage that would keep any one from the
gaming tables that night. But Mensmore heeded none
of these things. He passed the barrier, closely followed
by Bruce, crossed the atrium, and disappeared through
the baize doors which guard the first magnificent room
in which roulette is played.

A fairly large crowd had gathered around some of
the tables already. The more the merrier is the rule
of the Casino. There is something curiously fascinat-
ing for the gambler in the presence of others. It would
seem to be an almost ridiculous thing for a man to stalk
solemnly up to a deserted board and stake his money78 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

on the chances of a spinning wheel merely for the edi-
fication of the croupiers in charge.

Bruce, having already gone through the formalities
which attend the purchase of a monthly ticket, entered
the Casino soon after Mensmore. He saw the latter
elbowing his way toward the Salle Privé. A seat at a
roulette table was about to be vacated by a stout Span-
ish lady, who had lost the sum she allowed herself to
stake each day.

She was one of those numerous players who bring to
the Casino a certain sum of money daily, and stop
playing when their money is gone, or they have won a
pre-determined amount. This method, in fact, when
combined with a carefully devised system, is the only
one whereby even a rich individual can indulge in a
costly pastime and at the same time escape speedy ruin.
With a fair share of luck it may be made to pay; with
continuous bad fortune the loss is spread over such a
period that common sense has some opportunity to
rescue the victim before it is too late.

Bruce took up a position from which he could note
the actions of the stranger in whom he was so inter-
ested. At first, Mensmore staked nothing. He placed
a small pile of counters in front of him; he seemed to
listen expectantly to the croupier’s monotonous cry—
“Vingt-sept, rouge, impair, et passe,” or “Dix, noir,
pair, et manque,” and so on, while the little ivory ball
whirred around the bowl and the long rakes, with un-
erring skill, drew in or pushed forward the sums lost or
won.

The dominant expression of his face as he sat and
listened was one of disappointment. Something for
which he waited did not happen. At last, with a tight-
ening of his lips and a gathering sternness in his eyes,A

  

THE HOTEL DU CERCLE 49

he placed a five louis plaque on 20, the number pre-
viously called being 13.

Some other number won.

For the next half-dozen coups, each time with a five
louis stake on the board, Mensmore backed the red,
but black was having a sequence.

Next to him, an Italian, letting a thousand francs
accumulate, had reached the maximum of 12,000
francs, and drew in three of these in succession.

Both men rose simultaneously, the Italian grinning
delightedly at a smart Parisienne, who joyously nodded
her congratulations, the Englishman quiet, utterly un-
moved, but slightly pallid.

He passed out into the foyer and stopped to light a
cigarette. Bruce noticed that his hand was steady, and
his air showed no trace of excitement. These were ill
signs. There is no man so calm as he who has delib-
erately resolved to take his own life. That Mensmore
was ruined, that he was hopelessly in love with a
woman whom he could not marry, and that he was
about to commit suicide, Bruce was as certain as
though these facts had been proved before a coroner.

But this stupid thing should not happen if he could
prevent it.

The band was now playing ‘“Depuis le Jour.”
Mensmore listened to the fascinating melody for a
moment. He hesitated at the door of the writing-room
but passed on, puffing furiously at the cigarette. Evi-
dently his gorge rose at the thought of a farewell let-
ter. A guard watched him as he turned to the right of
the entrance, and made for the shaded terraces over-
looking the sea.

“A silent Englishman!” mused the man. Then he80 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

caught sight of Bruce, also smoking, preoccupied, and
solitary.

“Another silent Englishman! Misére de Dieu!
What sad lives these English lead!”

And so the two vanished into the blackness of the
foliage, while, within the brilliantly-lighted building,
the strident voices of the croupiers and the chatter of
lively parties meeting in the atrium mingled with the
sweet strains of music.

If it be true that extremes meet, then this was a stage
set for a tragedy!CHAPTER IX
BREAKING THE BANK

THERE were not many people in that part of the
Casino gardens. A few love-making couples and a
handful of others who preferred the chilly quietude
of Nature to the stuffiness and heat of the crowded
rooms, made up the occupants of the winding paths
which cover the seaward slope.

Mensmore swung unhesitatingly through the small
clump of trees at the eastern end of the building, and
emerged into the almost deserted terrace overlooking
the Tir au Pigeons. There was no one in front; he
turned to see if the way were clear behind. Then he
caught sight of Bruce, but did not recognize him, and
leant against a low wall, ostensibly to gaze at the moon-
lit Mediterranean until the other had passed.

Bruce came up and cried cheerily:

“Hello! That you, Mr. Mensmore?”

Mensmore, startled at being thus unexpectedly ad-
dressed by name, wheeled about and stared at the new-
comer.

‘““Yes,” he said stiffly.

“A bit hipped, aren’t you?”

“T felt rather seedy in the Casino, so I came out for
a breather—and to be alone.”

“Of course,”’ answered the barrister. “You look out
of sorts. Perhaps got a chill, eh? It’s a dangerous

climate, particularly on these cold nights in January.
8182 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Come back with me to the hotel, and have a bracer—
a stiff brandy and soda for choice.”

Mensmore probably flushed a little at this persist-
ence. His voice showed that he was annoyed.

“T tell you,” he growled, “that I only require to be
left in peace, and I shall soon recover from my indispo-
sition. I am awfully obliged, but—”

“But you wish me to walk on and mind my own
damn business?”

“Not exactly that, old chap. Please don’t think me
rude. I’m very sorry, but I simply can’t talk much
to-night.”

“So I understand. That is why I think it is best for
you to have company, even such disagreeable compan-
ionship as my own.”

“Dash it all, man!” cried the other, now thoroughly
irritated; “tell me which way you are going, and Pil
try the other. Why on earth can’t you take a hint, and
leave me to myself?”

“Tt is just because I am good at taking hints that I
positively refuse to leave you until you are safely
landed in your hotel. Indeed, I may stick to you then
for some hours.”

“May the devil bite you! What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say.”

“Tf you don’t quit this instant Pll punch your bally
head!”

“Splendid! You are recovering already. But be-
fore you start anything serious take your overcoat off.
That revolver in the breast pocket might slip a cog
accidentally, you know. Besides, as I shall hit back,
I might fetch my knuckles against it, and that would be
hardly fair. Otherwise, I’m your man! I can do as
much as you in the punching line any day.”BREAKING THE BANK 83

This reply disconcerted Mensmore more than ever
It was the last thing he expected.

“Look here,” he said, avoiding Bruce’s steadfast
eyes, “what are you talking about? What have my
affairs got to do with you, anyhow?”

“Oh, heaps. My business consists principally in
looking after other people’s affairs. Just now it is my
definite intention to prevent you from blowing out
your brains, or what passes for them.”

“Then all I can say is that I wish you were in Jeri-
cho. It’s your own fault if you get into trouble. Had
you gone about your business I would have waited.
As it is—”

It so happened that the gardien, having no other oc-
cupation, strolled to the terrace by the path which
Mensmore and Bruce had followed. The first sight
that met his astonished eyes, when in the flood of moon-
light he discovered their identity, was the spectacle of
these two springing at each other like a pair of wild
cats.

“Parbleu!” he shouted, “the solitary ones fight!”

He ran forward, drawing his short sword, ready to
stick the weapon into either of the combatants if the
majesty of the law in his own person were not re-
spected at once.

In reality, the affair was simple enough. Mensmore
made an ineffectual attempt to draw a revolver, and
Bruce pinioned him before he could get his hand to
the pocket. Both men were equally matched, and it
was difficult to say how the struggle might have ended
had not the sword-brandishing guard appeared on the
scene.

Bruce, even in the sudden excitement, kept his
senses. Mensmore, blind with rage and the madness84 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

of one who would plunge voluntarily into the Valley
of the Shadow, took heed of naught save the effort to
rid himself of the restraining clutch.

“Pyt away your sword! Seize his arms from be-
hind! He is a suicide!” shouted the barrister to the
gesticulating and shrieking Monegasque.

Fortunately, Bruce spoke French intelligibly. The
man caught Mensmore’s arms, put a knee in the small
of his back, and doubled him backwards with a force
that nearly dislocated a rib or two. In the same in-
stant Bruce secured the revolver, which he pocketed.

“Tt is well,” he said to the guard, producing a fifty-
franc note. “Say nothing, but leave us.”

“But Monsieur will understand—”

“T understand that if a report is made to the authori-
ties you will be dismissed for negligence. Had this
lunatic been left in your care he would now have been
lying here dead. Do you doubt me?”

The guard hesitated.

“Come, now,” smiled Bruce. “The affair arranges
itself perfectly, does it not?”

The man thought it did, and went off.

Mensmore was twisting himself awkwardly to ascer-
tain if his spine was all right.

“Vou are not hurt, I hope?” said Bruce.

‘What matter if I am? Why couldn’t you let me
finish the rotten business in my own way?”’

‘Because the world has some use for a youngster
like you. Because you have been a moral coward, and
will be heartily ashamed of yourself in five minutes.
Because I did not want to think of that girl crying her
eyes out to-morrow when she read of your death, or
heard of it, as she certainly would have done.”
Mensmore, though still furious at his fellow-coun-BREAKING THE BANK 85

tryman’s interference, was visibly astounded by this
final reference.

“What do you know about her?” he cried.

“Nothing, except what my eyes tell me.”

“They seem to tell you a hell of a lot about my
affairs.”

“Possibly. Meanwhile I want you to give your word
of honour that you will not make any further attempt
on your life during the next seven days.”

“The word of a disgraced man! Will you accept
it?”

“Of course.”

‘You are a queer chap, and no mistake. Very well,
I give in. At the same time, I can’t help dying oi star-
vation. I lost my last cent to-night at roulette. I am
hopelessly involved in debts which I cannot pay. I
have no prospects and no friends. You are doing me
no kindness in trying to keep me alive, even for seven
days.”

“Vou might have obtained your fare to London from
the authorities of the Casino?”

“Hardly. I lost very little at roulette. I am not
such a fool. My losses are nearly all in bets over
a pigeon-shooting match which I ought to have won.
I was backing myself at a game where I was apparently
sure to succeed.”

“Until you were beaten by a woman’s voice.”

“Ves, wizard. I am too dazed to wonder at you suf-
ficiently. Yet I would have lost fifty times for her
sake, though it was for her sake that I wanted to win.”

“Come, let us smoke. Sit down, and tell me all
about it.”

They took the nearest seat, lighting cigarettes. The86 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

guard, watching them from the shadow of a palm-tree,
murmured:

“Grand Dieu! what madmen are these English!
They move apart, silent and unknown; they fight; they
fraternize; they consume tobacco—all within five
minutes!”

And he felt in a pocket for the fifty to assure himself
that he was not dreaming.

“Tt is not much of a story,” said Mensmore, who had
practically recovered his self-control, and was now try-
ing to sum up the interloper who had so curiously en-
tered his life at the moment when he had decided to
do away with it. “I came here, being a poor blighter
living mainly on his wits, to go in for the pigeon-
shooting tournaments. I won one, and several sweep-
stakes, and was in fair funds. Then I fell in love. The
girl is rich, well-connected, and all that sort of thing.
She is the first woman I have ever cared for, so I
thought that perhaps my luck was now going to turn. I
backed myself for all I was worth, and more, to win the
championship. If it came off I would have pulled in
over £3,000. As it is, I owe £500, which must be paid
on Monday. My total assets, after I settled my hotel
bill and sent a cheque to a chum who took some of my
bets in his own name, was £16. Now I have nothing.
So you see—”

“Ves,” interrupted Bruce, “it’s a hard case. But
death is no settlement. Nobody gets paid, and every-
body is tremendously worried. Moreover, suicide is the
last resource of a coward.”

“My life may be in your keeping for seven days,
but I don’t remember anything being said about my
having to endure your offensive platitudes. That’sBREAKING THE BANK 87

twice you’ve used an ugly word. Do it again, and I'll
set about you without delay.”

The barrister took thought for a while. His cap-
tive’s sarcasm was pardonable in the conditions.

“Why did you go to the Casino to-night, if you don’t
patronize the tables as a rule?” he went on.

The other coloured somewhat, and laughed harshly.

“Just a final bit of folly. I dreamt that my luck had
turned.”

“Dreamt?”

“Yes last night. Three times did I imagine that I
was playing roulette, and that after a certain number—
whether 13 or 23 I was uncertain—the next to turn up
was 20. Then followed 17, 11, and 26—all blacks,
as you may know. After that came a run of seventeen
on the red. Oddly enough, I remembered the run when
I awoke, but could not recall any of the red numbers,
not even the one which began it. Mind you, I was not
playing in my dream. I was just a looker-on, watching
the game at that table in the Salle des Trois Graces
where you saw me. Well, I need hardly waste breath
by telling you that I went there to-night with my re-
maining sixteen quid, took a seat and waited. As soon
as 13 turned up I planked a hundred-franc chip on 20.
Of course, 21 came along. That dished me. Just for
the sake of getting rid of my silly counters I ran them
off on red, but there seemed to be nothing but blacks

in the wheel . . . So, here I am!”
“Yes. Luckily I was watching you.”
“Why?”

“T came to the conclusion yesterday, and was even
more convinced to-day, that you had reached the end
of your tether—were giving up in despair, in fact.”
“Have you been keeping tab on me all the time?”}

88 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Ves, in a sort of way.”

“You are a queer chap. I suppose I ought to say I
am obliged to you. But it won’t do any good. I’m
absolutely dead broke.”

“Now listen! I will pay your fare back to London
and give you something to live on until I return there
in a week’s time. Then you must come and see me,
and I’ll help you into some sort of situation. But, once
and for all, you must abandon this notion of suicide.”

“What about my debts?”

“Confound your debts! Tell people to wait until
you’re able to pay.”

““And—and the girl?”

“Tf she is worth having she will give you a chance
of making an income sufficient to enable you to marry
her. She is of age, I suppose, and can stick to you if
she likes.”

Mensmore puffed his cigarette in silence for fully a
minute. Then he said:

“Vou’re really a good sort of scout, Mr. Ms

“Bruce—Claude Bruce is my name.”

“Well, Mr. Bruce, you propose to hand me £1o for
my railway fare, and, say, £5 subsistence allowance,
until we meet again in London, in exchange for which
you purchase the rights in my life indefinitely, acci-
dents and reasonable wear and tear excepted?”

“Exactly!”

“Make it £20, with a fiver down, and I accept.”

“Why the stipulation?”

“TI want to try out my dream. The number is 23.
It evidently was not 13. I want to see that thing
through. I'll back 20 after 23 turns up, and if I lose
I shall be quite satisfied.”

“What if I refuse?”BREAKING THE BANK 89

“Then I don’t care a hang what happens during the
next seven days. After that, aw revoir, should we hap-
pen to meet across the divide. Please make up your
mind quickly. That particular run may come and go
while we’re jawing here.”

Bruce opened his pocket-book. ‘Here,’ he said
with a smile, “I’ll stake you!”

Mensmore’s face lit up with excitement. “By Jove,
you certainly are a brick!” he said huskily. “So you
actually trust me?”

Ves,’

“Then give me back my revolver.”

Without a word, Bruce handed over the weapon.

Mensmore put it in his pocket.

“Come!” he cried. ‘You'll see something, I do be-
lieve. This is not my own luck—it’s borrowed. Come,
quick!”

They raced off, Bruce himself being more fired with
the zest of the thing than he cared to admit. Within
the Casino all the tables were crowded now, but Mens-
more hurried to the Salle des Trois Graces, halting
only to change the five-pound note at a Caisse.

He edged through the onlookers around his chosen
table, closely followed by Bruce. Neither cared for the
scowls and injured looks cast at them by the people
whom they elbowed out of the way. The Italian, the
winner of half an hour ago, had come back like a moth
to the candle. Now he was getting his wings singed.
At last, with a groan, he rose, as a final effort flinging
the maximum, twelve thousand francs, on the black.

The disc whirled and slackened pace, the ball rattled
around merrily until it flopped into one of the little
squares, and the croupier’s monotonous cry came:

“Vingt-trois, rouge, impair, et passe!”90 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Out bounced the Italian, and Mensmore seized the
vacant chair, turning to Bruce with set face as he mur-
mured:

“You hear! Twenty-three!”

The barrister nodded, and placed his hands on
Mensmore’s shoulders as though to steady him. But
this curiously-acquired friend hardly needed such sup-
port. A man who had proved himself a first-class shot
in an international contest must necessarily be endowed
with nerves of steel, even though a woman’s anxiety
had tested them to breaking-point. With all the cool-
ness of a born gambler, Mensmore placed the maxi-
mum, 18 louis, on 20. Bruce felt not the slightest
quiver in his body when the wheel spun, reduced speed,
and the dancing white ball came to rest in 20!

Mensmore, speaking in French with calm fluency,
asked to be paid in units of 1,000 francs. He received
twelve of these, and 600 francs more, as a bet of a
maximum en plein provides the only occasion on which
the bank disgorges more than the given limit.

Now, it is the custom of every real “sport” who wins
on a number to give it another run, trusting to luck
that it might repeat. Not so Mensmore! He changed
the original stake to 17, and then plastered the chevaux
and the carrés of that number practically to the limit.
A light buzz of interested comment ran round the table,
since the abitués were witnessing a novelty in such a
departure from the unwritten law of roulette. The
hum of talk, however, rose to excited comment when
17 won. |

The next shift, of course, was to 11, and this time
the seemingly imperturbable Englishman increased the
attack to nearly every possible maximum offered by the
board except the dozens and the even chances. Evenpa

BREAKING THE BANK 9

the spinning croupier’s voice cracked when he an-
nounced:—“Onze, noir, impair et manque!” while the
yell from the crowd around the table brought others
hurrying from all parts of the room.

It took nearly five minutes for the bank to pay out.
Mensmore gathered a bundle of plaques and handed
them over his shoulder to Bruce, who understood ex-
actly, and went to the other tableau governed by the
same wheel. Here he proceeded to decorate 26 in the
approved style, but his comparatively modest effort
passed unnoticed in the veritable howl which greeted
a sort of headlong plunge by the ball into the 26 slot.
Of course, by this time, public excitement was intense.
Even the case-hardened chefs de partie looked a trifle
worried, because this blue-bottle in the spider’s web
had gathered in four coups nearly all the winnings of
a successful day.

Mensmore, faithful to the directions supplied by his
dream, collected his counters, stakes and all. There
was nothing remarkable in this, because he had done
the same thing with each change of bets. Several
shrewd persons among the spectators, prepared now to
follow his phenomenal luck, watched eagerly for his
next choice of a number, so a sort of groan of disap-
pointment hailed his decision to limit the coup to a
maximum on red. This was by way of being an anti-
climax to the spectacular play of the past quarter of
an hour. Even the chefs and the croupiers relaxed,
and the speed of the coups quickened. But people be-
gan to take notice again when red repeated five, ten,
fifteen times, and at every spin the bank was knocked

for a maximum.

At last, after red had appeared seventeen times,

Mensmore sat back in his chair and with both hands92 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

and arms safeguarded his pile. He did not know, and
hardly cared, perhaps, that had he carried out his
dream to its logical conclusion, and placed a maximum
on black for the next coup, he would have broken the
bank!

“Douze, noir, pair et manque!” came the cry.

At that moment Bruce hissed in his ear:—

“Get up at once! An attendant will help us to carry
this stuff to a Caisse!”

He obeyed, almost mechanically. He was deaf to the
extravagant congratulations showered on him by the
voluble Latins present, while not a few fellow-coun-
trymen and Americans joined in as heartily if less effu-
sively. It was not that he had won a very large sum,
the exact total being £3,128, but rather his way of
winning it that evoked this demonstration. Neverthe-
less, stated in francs at 125 to the pound sterling, the
figure was big enough to give a shock to the first cashier
in his queer little wooden box to whom they applied for
real money. The man did his best, but had to seek
help from a neighbouring caisse before the full tale of
notes was made up.

Some time elapsed before the roulette tables in the
Salles Privés began their orderly round again, for
Mensmore’s sensational performance was in every-
body’s mouth.

The highest recorded sequence is twenty-three on
the black, but a run of seventeen on the red is suffi-
ciently remarkable to keep Monte Carlo in talk for a
week, to say nothing of the initial display of fireworks
on the numbers.

Albert Mensmore certainly could not complain that
life was dull on that particular evening. During one
hour at least he dwelt in the fire that consumes, for heBREAKING THE BANK 93

stepped back from the porch of dishonoured death to
find himself in possession of a sum more than sufficient
for all reasonable requirements for many a day.

The pace was rapid. At one stage of the game it had
nearly become fatal, and, as the time-honoured sport-
ing adage has it: “It is not the miles we travel but the
pace that kills!”CHAPTER X
SOME GOOD RESOLUTIONS

ONCE safe in the seclusion of Bruce’s sitting-room
Mensmore at last yielded to the strain. It had been a
heavy one. Now he had to pay the penalty by way of
reaction.

Bruce forced him to swallow a stiff brandy and soda,
and then wanted him to go straight to bed, but the
young man protested with some show of animation.

“Let me sit up and jaw a bit, for goodness’ sake!” he
cried. “I can’t stick being alone. You’ve seen me
through a heap of trouble to-night. Carry on for an-
other hour, there’s a good chap.”

“Well, perhaps it’s the best thing you can do, after
all. What about taking care of your money?”

Mensmore laughed naturally for the first time in two
days—ever since he missed that thirteenth pigeon, in
fact.

“T don’t believe the man lives who can take it off me
now,” he cried. ‘Besides, Ill shove it into Smith’s
bank first thing to-morrow. And that reminds me.
We’ve got to settle up.”

“‘All you owe me is five pounds,” said Bruce.

“Oh, tell that to the marines! After paying every
penny I owe in the world, bets and all, and keeping
something to go on with, there’s a clear two thousand
to divide, if you think that fair. Otherwise, Pll hand
over the other thousand as well.”

Bruce was genuinely pleased by the offer. It im-

pressed him most favourably. Whatever Mensmore’s
94SOME GOOD RESOLUTIONS 95

faults, he was evidently disposed to make what men
regard as “a square deal.”

“Five pounds is all I shall take,” announced Bruce
firmly. “You forget that I told you I had money in
plenty for my own needs. You must keep every cent
except my fiver, which you do not now need. No.
Please do not argue. I can consent to no other course.
To-night’s extraordinary luck should provide you with
sufficient capital to launch out earnestly in your career,
whatever it may be. I shall exact my interest in an-
other way.”

“J can never repay you, in gratitude, at any rate.
And, there is one other who will be thankful when she
knows. Ask anything you like. Make any stipula-
tions you please. I agree beforehand.”

“Done! Sign this.”

Bruce took a sheet of note-paper, bearing the crest
of the Hotel du Cercle, dated it, and wrote:

I promise that, for the space of twelve months, I will
not make a bet of any sort, or gamble at any game of
chance.

Oddly enough, when Mensmore read this simple and
very reasonable document his face fell a little.

“Won’t you except pigeon-shooting?” he said. “I’m
sure to beat that Russian next time.”

“T can allow no exceptions.”

“But why the twelve months’ limit?”

“Tf, in that time, you don’t show sense enough to
stop risking your happiness, even your life, on the
turn of a wheel or the flight of a bird, the sooner there-
after you shoot yourself the less trouble you will bring
on those connected with you.”96 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Vou certainly are a rum chap!” murmured Mens-
more. ‘And you put matters pretty straight, too.
However, here goes! You don’t bar sweepstakes.”

He signed the paper, and tossed it over to Bruce,
who had the good grace not to comment on the virtual
breach of the agreement imposed by Mensmore’s final
sentence. The man undoubtedly was a good shot, and
during his residence in the Riviera might pick up a fair
sum of money.

“And now,” said the barrister, “may I ask, out of
friendly curiosity, to what use you intend putting your
capital?”

“Oh, that?—all cut and dried, so to speak. I have
to pay £500 lost in bets over that unlucky match.
Then I have a splendid ‘spec,’ into which I shall now
be able to place about £2,000—a thing which I have
good reason to believe will bring me in at least ten
thou’ within the year, and there is nearly a thousand
pounds to go on with. And all this thanks to you.”

“Never mind thanking me. I am only too glad to
have taken a hand in the affair. TIl not forget this
night as long as I live.”

“By jing—I’m the lad who has best cause to remem-
ber it. Just imagine! I might now be lying in the
gardens or some beastly mortuary, with half my head
blown off.”

“Tell me,” said Bruce, between the contemplative
puffs of a pipe, “what really induced you to think of
suicide?”

“(What between one thing and another I had reached
the bally limit,” replied the other. ‘You must under-
stand that I was somewhat worried about financial and
family matters before I came to Monte. It was not to
gamble, in a sense, that I remained. I have loafedSOME GOOD RESOLUTIONS 97

about the world a good deal, but I may honestly say
I never made a fool of myself at cards or backing
horses. At most kinds of sport I am fairly proficient,
and in pigeon-shooting, which goes on here exten-
sively, I don’t boast if I claim to be a front-ranker.
For instance, all this season I’ve kept myself in funds
altogether by means of these competitions.”

His hearer nodded comprehendingly.

“Well, in the middle of my minor troubles, I must
needs go and fall over head and ears in love—come a
regular cropper. She is the first girl I ever spoke two
civil words to. We met at a picnic along the Corniche
Road, and she sat on me so severely that I commenced
to defend myself by showing that I was not the surly
brute she thought me. By Jove, within a week we were
engaged.”

The barrister indulged in a judicial frown at that,
but Mensmore was wound up, and had to have his say.

“Youre wrong this time,” he protested eagerly.
“This is none of your silly, sentimental affairs in which
people part and meet months afterwards with polite
inquiries about each other’s health. I am not made
that way; neither is Phil—Phyllis is her name, you
know. This is for keeps. I am just bound up in her,
and she would go through fire and water for me. But
she is rich, the only daughter of a Midland iron-master
with tons of money. Her people are awfully nice, and
I think they approve of me, though they have no idea
that Phil and I have talked of marriage.”

He paused to gulp down the remainder of the brandy
and soda. The difficult part of his story was coming,

it would seem.

“You can quite believe,” he went on, “that I didn’t
want to ask her father, Sir William Browne—he was98 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

knighted before the War for distinguished municipal
services—to give his daughter to a chap who hadn’t a
bean. He supposes I am fairly well off, living as I do,
and I can’t bear sailing under false colours. I hate
it like poison, though in this world a man often has to
do what he doesn’t like. However, this time I de-
termined to be straight and above-board. It’s very
odd, almost unbelievable after what has happened to-
night, but I just wanted £2,000 to enable me to make
a move which, as I have told you, ought to result in a
very fair sum of money, sufficient, at any rate, to
render it a reasonable proposition for Phil and me
to get married.”

Bruce was an attentive and sympathetic listener.
The love stories of real life are often more dramatic
than the fictions of the novel or the stage. Mensmore
probably sensed his attitude, because the recital grew
tense.

“The opportunity came to my mind, in this big
tournament. I had no difficulty in getting odds of
four or five to one to far more than I was able to pay if
I lost. Phil entered into the scheme with me—she
knows all about my affairs, you see—and we both
regarded it as a certainty. Then the collapse came.
She wanted to borrow the money from her mother to
enable me to settle up, but I would not hear of that.
I pretended I could raise the wind some other way.
The fact is I was wild with myself and with my luck
generally. Then there was the disgrace of failing to
settle on Monday, combined with the general excite-
ment of that dream and a fearfully disturbed night.
I’ve had a pretty rough journey for years, but never
before have I made a bet I couldn’t meet, though I
have other obligations, and it’s just as bad to oweSOME GOOD-RESOLUTIONS 99

money one way as another. Anyhow, to make a long
story short, I thought the best thing to do was to try
a final plunge at the tables, and if it failed, quit. I
even took steps to make Phil believe I was a thoroughly
bad lot, so that she might not fret too much.”

Mensmore’s voice grew a trifle unsteady in this last
sentence. The barrister tried the effect of a bit of
kindly chaff.

“T hope you have not succeeded too well?” he
laughed.

“Oh, it’s all right now. I mean that I left some
papers that would bring certain things to her knowl-
edge which, unexplained by me—it is not my show
really—would give her or anybody else a completely
false impression.”

The subject was evidently painful, so Bruce did not
pursue it.

“About this speculation of yours,” he said. “Are
you sure it’s all right, and that you will not lose your
money?”

“Tt is as certain as any business deal can be. It is
a matter I thoroughly understand, but I will tell you
all about it, Pardon me a moment and I'll bring the
papers. It’s a matter on which I would particularly
like to have your advice, and it’s early yet. You don’t
want to go to bed, I suppose?”

“Not for hours.”

Mensmore rose, but before he could reach the door
a gentle tap heralded the appearance of the hall-porter.

“See here, then, a letter for Monsieur,” he said.

Mensmore took the note, ran through it with a smile
and a growing flush, and handed it to the barrister,
saying: “In the circumstances I think you ought to
see this. . . . Isn’t she a brick?”100 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

The feminine brick had written:—

DeEAREst ONE—You must forgive me, but we both
are so miserable about that wretched money that I told
mother everything. She likes you, and though she
gave me a blowing up, has promised to find the £500
to-morrow. We can never thank her sufficiently. Do
slip around and see me for a minute. Ill keep an eye
on the verandah till eleven.

Yours ever,
PHYLLIs.

Bruce returned the note.

“Luck!” he cried. ‘You’re the luckiest guy who
ever came down the pipe, as they say in New York.
Why, here’s the mother plotting with the daughter on
your behalf. Sir William hasn’t the ghost of a chance.
Trot off to that blessed verandah!”

When Mensmore had quitted the hotel Bruce de-
scended to the bureau to take up the threads of his
neglected quest. The letter to Sydney H. Corbett was
still unclaimed, and he thought he was justified in ex-
amining it. On the reverse of the envelope was the
embossed stamp of an electric-lighting company, so
the contents were probably nothing more important
than a bill.

An hour later Mensmore joined him in the smoking
room, radiant and excited.

“Great news!” he said. “I’ve squared everything
with Lady Browne. Told her I was only chaffing Phil
about the five hundred, because she spoiled my aim
by shrieking out. Sir William has chartered a steam
yacht for a three weeks’ cruise in the Gulf of Genoa
and down the Italian coast. They have put him upSOME GOOD RESOLUTIONS 101

to ask me in the morning to join the party. Great
Scott! What a night!”

They parted soon afterwards. Next morning Bruce
was informed that his friend had gone out early, leav-
ing word that he had been summoned to breakfast at
the Grand Hotel, where Sir William Browne was
staying.

During the afternoon Mensmore came like a tornado.

“We're off to-day,” he yelped. “By the way, where
shall I find you in London? My permanent address
is the Orleans Club, St. James’s. But I’ll look you up
frst. I shall be in town early in March. And you?”

“Oh, I shall be home much sooner. Good-bye, and
don’t let your good fortune spoil you.”

“No fear. Wait till you know Phyllis. She would
keep any fellow straight once he got his chance. Good-
bye, and—and—God bless you!”

During the next three days Bruce devoted himself
sedulously to the search for Corbett. He inquired in
every possible and impossible place, but the man had
vanished off the map. Nor did he ever come to claim
the letter at the Hotel du Cercle. It remained stuck
on the baize-covered board until covered with dust,
and the clerk at the bureau desk had grown weary of
watching people who scrutinized the crossed tapes for
their correspondence.

Others came and asked for Corbett—sharp-featured
fellows with imperials and long moustaches. The in-
terest taken in the man was great, but unrequited. He
never appeared.

At last the season ended, the hotel was closed, and
the Electric Lighting Company’s unpaid bill was shot
into the dustbin.CHAPTER XI
THEORIES

BRUCE announced his departure from Monte Carlo
by telegram to his valet. Nevertheless, he did not
expect to find that useful adjunct to his small house-
hold—Smith and his wife comprised the barrister’s
ménage—standing on the platform at Victoria when
the train de luxe from the South steamed into the sta-
tion.

Smith, who had his doubts about this sudden trip
to the Riviera, was relieved when he saw that his master
was unaccompanied.

“Sir Charles Dene called this afternoon, sir,”’ he ex-
plained. “I told Sir Charles about your wire, and he
is very anxious that you should dine with him to-night.
You can dress at Portman Square, and, if I come with
you—”

“Yes; I understand. Bundle everything into a taxi.”

“Sir Charles thought you might oblige him, sir, so
he sent his car.”

London looked dull but familiar as they sped through
Grosvenor-place and up Park Lane. Your true Cock-
ney is out of his latitude when the sky is blue overhead.
Let him hear the crunching of the motor-’buses and
the honking of cars through a dim, fog-laden atmos-
phere, and he knows where he is. There is but one
London, and Cockneydom is the order of Melchisedeck.
Bruce’s heart was glad within him to be home again,
even though the orchestra was just gathering in the

Casino, and the lights of Monaco were beginning to
102THEORIES 103

gleam over the moon-lit expanse of the Mediterranean.

At Wensley House the traveller was welcomed
warmly by the baronet, who seemed to have somewhat
recovered no small measure of health and spirits.
Nevertheless Bruce was distressed to note the in-
effaceable signs of the suffering Sir Charles had under-
gone since the disappearance of his wife. He had aged
quite ten years in appearance. Deep lines of sorrow-
ful thought had indented his brow, his face was thinner,
his eyes had acquired a wistful look; his air was that
of a man whose attitude towards life in general had
been changed most lamentably.

At first the friends fought shy of the topic upper-
most in their minds, but the after-dinner cigar brought
the question which was in the minds of both.

“And now, Bruce, have you any further news con-
cerning my wife’s—death?”

The barrister noted the struggle before the final
word came. The husband, then, had resigned all hope.

“TJ have none,” he answered. “That is to say, Ll
have nothing definite. I promised to tell you every-
thing I know or have done, so T’'ll keep my promise,
but you, of course, will differentiate between facts and
theories?”

The baronet nodded.

“In the first place,” said Bruce, “let me ask you
whether you have seen Jane Harding, the missing
maid?”

“Yes. It seems she called here twice before she
caught me at home. At first she was very angry about
some squabble between Thompson and herself. I re-
fused to listen. Then she told me how you had found
her at some theatre, and she volunteered an explanation
of her extraordinary behaviour. She said that she had104 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

come unexpectedly into a large sum of money, and it
had turned her head. She was sorry for the trouble her
stupid actions had caused, so, in the circumstances, I
allowed her to take away certain clothes and other be-
longings she had left here.”

“Did she ask for these things?”

“Ves. Made quite a point of it.”

“Did you see them?”’

“Well, hardly. I wasn’t interested in the young
woman’s finery.”

“So you do not know whether her clothes were of
any value, or the usual collection of rubbish found in
servants’ boxes.”

“T haven’t the slightest notion.”

‘Have they ever been examined thoroughly by any
one?”

“Pon my honour, I believe not. Now you remind
me, I think the girl seemed rather anxious on that
point. I remember my housekeeper saying that Hard-
ing had asked if her clothes had been ransacked by de-
tectives.”’

“And what did the housekeeper say?”

“She'll tell you herself. Let’s have her up.”

“Don’t trouble. If I remember aright the police did
not examine Jane Harding’s room. They simply took
your report and the statements of the servants, while
the housekeeper was responsible for the partial search
of the girl’s boxes for some clue that might lead to her
discovery after she vanished.”

“Ves. That’s so.”

The barrister smoked in silence for a few minutes,
until Sir Charles broke in rather querulously:

“T suppose I did wrong in letting Harding take her
traps?”THEORIES 105

“No,” said Bruce. “I am to blame, if anyone.
There is something underhanded about this young
woman’s conduct. The story about the sudden wealth
is all bunkum, in one sense. That she did receive a
bequest or gift of a considerable sum cannot be doubted.
That she decided at once to go on the stage is obvious.
But what is the usual course for a servant to pursue
+n such a case? Would she not have sought first to
glorify herself in the sight of her fellow-servants, even
of her employers? Would there not have been the
display of a splendid departure—in a taxi—with volu-
ble directions to the driver for the benefit. of the foot-
man? As it was, Jane Harding acted suddenly, pre-
cipitately, under the stress of some irresistible force.
I cannot help believing that her departure from this
house had some connection, however remote, with
Alisia’s disappearance.”

“Good Lord, Bruce, you never hinted at this be-
fore!”

“True, but when last we met I had not made Miss
Marie le Marchant’s acquaintance. I wish to good-
ness J had rummaged her boxes before she carried them
off.”

“And I sincerely echo your wish,” said Sir Charles
testily. “It always seems, somehow, that I act like
an idiot.”

“You must not take that view. I really wonder,
Dene, that you have not closed up your town house
and gone off to Scotland. You don’t care to hunt this
season, I know, but a quiet life on the moors would
take you right away from associations which must have
bitter memories.”

“T would have done that very thing, but I cannot
bring myself to leave town while there is the slightest106 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

chance of the mystery attending my wife’s fate being
unravelled. I feel I must remain here—near you. You
are the only man who can solve the riddle, if ever it is
solved. By the way, what of Raleigh Mansions?”

The baronet obviously nerved himself to ask the
question. The reason was patent. His wife’s inex-
plicable visit to that locality was in some way con-
nected with her fate. The common-sense view was
that some intrigue lay hidden behind the impenetrable
veil shrouding her final movements. He loathed the
notion, but could not ignore it wholly.

Bruce hesitated for a moment. Was there any need
to bring Mrs. Hillmer’s name into the business? At
any rate, he could answer candidly without mentioning
her at this juncture.

“The only person in Raleigh Mansions who interests
me just now is one who, to use a convenient bull, is not
there.”

Ves p”’

“Tt’s a man who occupies a flat in No. 12. His name
is Sydney H. Corbett, and he left London for the
Riviera two days after your wife was lost.”

‘Now, who on earth can ke be? I am as sureas I
can be of anything that no one of that name was in
the remotest way connected with either my wife or
myself for the last—let me see—six years, at any rate.”

“Possibly. But you cannot say that Lady Dene
may not have met him previously?”

The baronet winced at the allusion as though his
friend had lashed at him with a whip.

“For heaven’s sake, Bruce,” he cried, “don’t keep on
piling up suspicions against her. I can’t bear it. My
very soul revolts at the notion. I would rather be sus-THEORIES 107

pected of having killed her myself than listen to a
word whispered against her good name.”

“TI sympathize with you, but you must not jump
down my throat in that fashion. One hypothesis is as
wildly impossible as the other. I did not imply that
Alisia went to Raleigh Mansions on account of some
present or bygone transgression of her own. I would
as soon think of my mother in such a connection. But
a pure, good woman will often do in behalf of others
what she would not do for herself. Really, Dene,
youre rather unjust to me. You force me to tell you
what may prove to be mere theories—”

But Dene had caught the significance of one word
only.

“Others? What others?”

“T cannot say. I wish I could. Once I know why
your wife went to Raleigh Mansions, I will, within
twenty-four hours, tell you who murdered her. Of that
I am as certain as that the sun will rise to-morrow.”

And the barrister poked the fire viciously to give
vent to the annoyance provoked by his friend’s out-
burst.

Then Sir Charles remembered the earlier protest.

“Pardon me, Bruce,” he said wistfully. “Do not
forget how I have suffered—what I am suffering—and
bear with me. I never valued Alisia while she lived.
Only now do I feel the extent of my loss. If my own
life would give her back to me for one instant I would
cheerfully sacrifice it.”

If ever man meant what he said this man did. His
agitation moved the kindly-hearted barrister to rise and
place a hand on his shoulder.

“T am sorry our talk has taken this unpleasant turn,”
he said earnestly. ‘These speculative guesses at pos-108 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

sible clues cause needless distress. If you take my ad-
vice, you won’t worry about that side of the affair at
all until something tangible turns up.”

“Perhaps it is best so,” murmured the other. “In
any event, it is of little consequence. I cannot live
long.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! You’re good for another
fifty years. Come, shake off this absurd depression.
What good does it do? I wish now I had taken you
with me to Monte. The sunshine would have braced
you up while I hunted for Corbett.”

“Did you find him?”

“No, but I dropped in for an adventure which would
cheer the cockles of the heart of any depressed author
searching vainly for an idea for a short story.”

“What was it?”

Bruce, endowed with no mean skill as a raconteur,
gave Dene the history of the Casino incident, and the
thrilling dénouement so interested the baronet that he
lighted another cigar. His sporting instincts were
aroused. He could follow the pigeon-shooting episode
and the scene in the Casino with full knowledge.

“Did you find out the names of the parties?” he in-
quired when Bruce had made an end.

“Oh, yes. You will respect their identity, of course,
as the sensational side of the affair had better now be
buried in oblivion, though all the world knows how we
scooped the bank. The lady is a daughter of Sir
William Browne, a worthy knight from Warwickshire,
and her rather rapid swain is a youngster named Mens-
more.”

‘““Mensmore!” shouted the other. ‘“A youngster,
you say?” and Sir Charles bounced straight out of his
chair in his excitement.THEORIES 109

“Why, yes, a man of twenty-five. No more than
twenty-eight, I’m sure. Do you know him?”

“Albert Mensmore?”’

“That’s the man beyond doubt.”

Dene hastily poured out some whiskey and soda and
gulped it down. Then he smiled, in a curiously in-
trospective way.

“You don’t realize, Bruce,” he said, “that you have
just described the attempted self-murder of a man with
whom I am intimately acquainted.”

“What an extraordinary thing! Yet I never remem-
ber hearing you mention his name.”

“Probably not. I have hardly seen him since my
marriage. | We were schoolboys together, though I
was so much his senior that we did not chum together
until later. We met again towards the end of the War.
Then he went off roughing it in the States, I heard. It
must be he. It is just like one of his mad pranks. And
he’s going to marry, eh? Is she a nice girl?”

The baronet was thoroughly unstrung. He talked
quickly and helped himself to another drink.

“Ves. She looks charming and Mensmore raves
about her. But I can’t help marvelling at this coin-
cidence. It has upset you.”

“Not a bit. I was wrapped up in your yarn, but
quite unprepared for the startling fact that an old
friend of mine filled the chief part. What a fellow you
are, Bruce, for always turning up at the right time!
I have never been in a tight place personally, but if I
were I suppose you would come along and show me
the way out. Why on earth didn’t Alisia take you into
her confidence. If she had, she’d have been alive now.
But I’m talking through my hat. Sit down again, and

give me all the details. I’m full of curiosity.”110 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Bruce had never before seen Sir Charles in such hys-
terical mood. The anguish of the past three months
had changed the careless, jovial baronet into a fretful,
wayward being, who had almost lost control of his emo-
tions. Undoubtedly he required some powerful tonic.
The barrister resolved to see more of him in the future,
and not to cease urging the necessity of a long sea voy-
age, or the adoption of some hobby which would keep
his mind from brooding on the everlasting topic of his
wife’s strange death.

Dene’s fitful disposition manifested itself later. After
he had listened with keen attention to all that Bruce
had to say concerning Mensmore and Phyllis Browne,
he swerved back unexpectedly to the one engrossing
thought.

‘What are you going to do about Corbett?” he
asked.

“Find him.”

“But how?”

“People are always tied to a centre by a string. No
matter how long the string may be, it contracts sooner
or later. Corbett will turn up at Raleigh Mansions,
and before very many weeks have passed, unless I am
greatly mistaken.”

“And then?”

“Then he will have to answer a few pertinent ques-
tions.”

“But suppose he knows nothing whatever about the
business?”

“In that case I must confess the clues are more
tangled than ever.”

‘Tt would be curious if Corbett and Jane Harding
were in any way associated.”

“If they were, it would take much to convince meTHEORIES VA

 

that one or both could not supply at least some im-
portant information bearing on my—on our quest. If
Inspector White knew even as much as I he would
arrest them at sight.”

“Qh, he’s a thick-headed chap, that White. By the
way, that reminds me. He got hold of the maid, it
seems, grabbed her before she bolted, and made her
give him some of my wife’s clothes. By that means
he established some sort of a theory about—”

“About a matter on which we differ,” put in Bruce
quietly. ‘Suppose we talk of something else.”

The other subsided restlessly into his chair. Still,
he gave in. For the remainder of the evening they dis-
cussed general questions of the hour.

It was late when they separated, but Bruce found
Smith sitting up. The man bustled about, stirring the
fire and turning on the lights. But he did not leave the
room. Finally he addressed his master nervously.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, “but there was a p’liceman
ere asking about you to-night, sir.”

“A policeman!”

“Well, sir, a detective—Mr. White, of Scotland
Yard. I knew him, sir, though he thort I didn’t. He
kem about ten o’clock, and asked where you was.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Well, sir,’ and Smith shifted uneasily from one
foot to the other, “I thort it best to let him know the
truth, sir.”

“Good gracious, Smith, he’s not going to handcuff me.
You did quite right. What did he say?”

“Nothink, sir; except that he would call again. He
wouldn’t leave his name, but I know’d him all right.”

“Thank you. Good-night. It was unnecessary that112 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

you should have remained up. But I am obliged to
you all the same.”

The barrister laughed as he went to his room.

“Really,” he said to himself, still amused, “White
may cap all his previous feats by trying to arrest me.
I would not be surprised to hear that he had thought
of it for a long time.”

Singularly enough, Mr. White /ad thought of it, and
was thinking of it at that very moment.CHAPTER XII
WHO CORBETT WAS

“TNEXORABLE FATE!” used to be a favourite phrase
with the makers of books. Nowadays, of course, such
clichés are hopelessly mid-Victorian. Fate, accord-
ing to the best authorities, is feminine, and, as a
consequence, decidedly fickle. Not only is she not
inexorable, but at times she delights to play with her
poor subjects, even to torture them, much as a cat toy-
ing with a mouse.

It was Bruce’s turn now to receive the sharpest lesson
in this respect he had ever experienced.

At breakfast next morning he selected from a packet
of unimportant letters one which required immediate
attention. The financiers to whom he had written in
conformity with his implied promise to Mr. Dodge had
replied favourably with reference to the proposed re-
construction of the Springbok Mining Co. Ltd.

They informed him confidentially that a thoroughly
reliable man in Johannesburg, to whom they had cabled,
reported most favourably of the property. They would
await his written statement before committing them-
selves finally. Meanwhile, if Messrs. Dodge, Son, & Co.
(Limited) were anxious to advance the business a
stage, there was no reason why he (Bruce) should not
assure the promoters that, subject to the first satisfac-
tory report being confirmed, his clients would under-

write the shares. The whole thing would thus go
113114 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

through in about four weeks. As for Bruce himself,
they proposed to give him a commission of five per
cent in fully paid shares for the introduction.

“Well, if that doesn’t beat the band!” he laughed.
‘Who would ever have thought it? Why, if that rascal
Dodge is right, and this company is really a sound
undertaking, my share of the deal will be £10,000. It
seems too good to be true, yet my friends know what
they are writing about as a rule.”

An hour later he was in the city.

A smart closed car stood in front of the now
thoroughly renovated offices of Dodge, Son & Co.
(Limited), and out of it, at the moment the barrister
detached himself from the chaos of Leadenhall Street,
stepped the head of the firm. He was hurrying up the
steps when Bruce cried:

“Hello, Mr. Dodge, how is the junior partner?”

Dodge stopped, focussed Bruce with his sharp eyes,
and smiled:

“Oh, it’s you, is it? The young ’un is all right,
thanks. Coming in? Good! I was hoping I’d see
you one of these days.”

“Has business improved recently?” inquired Bruce,
as they entered the inner office.

“Ves, in spots; but money is still very tight. How-
ever, we generally look for a turn early in the New
Year. Why do you ask?”

“No valid reason. A mere hazard.”

“Wasn’t it because you saw me drive up in a new
Gare”

“Mr. Dodge, I have never imagined that self-con-
sciousness was a failing of members of the Stock
Exchange.”

“Then that was the cause. I guessed it. I haveWHO CORBETT WAS 115

been making inquiries about you, Mr. Bruce, and there
is no use in trying to spoof you, not an atom.”

‘Have you another Springbok proposition on hand?”

‘No; bar chaffing. You were the man who ferreted
out the truth about that West Australian combination
when everybody else had failed. And, now I think of
it, you made me talk a lot last time. However, ?m
ready. Fire away! I'll tell you the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me—”

“Sh-s-sh! Do not perjure yourself for the sake of
alliteration. Besides, it is I who have come to talk
this time.”

“About Springboks?”

“Ves. The people I mentioned at my previous visit
are prepared to underwrite the shares, provided their
agent’s report is as favourable in its entirety as a cable
summary leads them to believe.”

“Eh? That’s good news! When will they be in a
position to complete?”

“As soon as they hear from South Africa by post.
Say a month.”

“So long? But suppose I get an offer from some
other quarter in the meantime? I can’t keep the option
open indefinitely.”

“T have not asked you to do so, Mr. Dodge. Let
me see—three shillings per share on, say, two hun-
dred thousand shares is £30,000. It is a good deal of
money. If any one likes to hand you a cheque for that
amount without preliminary investigation, grab it
hard.”

The notion tickled Dodge immensely.

“All right, Mr. Bruce. When people of that sort
turn up in the City, we don’t sell ’em Sprinkboks. Any
objection to telling me your clients’ names?”116 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Not the slightest. They are the Anglo-African
Finance Corporation.”

Mr. Dodge whistled.

“By Jove, that’s the best backing I could possibly
have. This is a real good turn, Mr. Bruce, and I
shan’t forget it. You see, we’re a young firm, and as-
sociation with well-known houses is just what we want.
I’m jolly glad Springboks are all right. It would never
have done for me to introduce those people to anything
—well, you know what I mean. I’m really much
obliged to you. And now, how do we stand?”

“Kindly explain.”

“How much ‘com’ do you want?”

“Nothing.”

Mr. Dodge moved his chair backward several feet in
a species of delirium.

“Nothing, my dear sir! Nonsense! This is big
business! Shall we say one per cent in cash, or two in
shares? I’m not very flush just now, or—”’

“Pray don’t trouble yourself. I have already se-
cured my commission—five per cent in fully paid
shares.”

“But the people who put up the money don’t pay for
the privilege.”

“That I know quite well. This case is different. I
am not, nor ever have been, a financial go-between.”

“Didn’t you come to see me about the deal in the
first instance?”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to hesitate.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I really wanted to know
something about Mr. Corbett, and the Springbok re-
construction scheme rose out of it.”

“Ah, that chap Corbett? I’ve been thinking about
him. I wonder who he is. Anyhow, I owe him my bestWHO CORBETT WAS 117

wishes, as the mention of his name has had such ex-
cellent results.”

“Well, that is all,” said Bruce rising.

“Yes, thanks. I must see now about raising the
money to pay my own call. I’m interested in fifty
thousand shares, you know.”

“About £7,500?”

“Ves, But that will be dead easy when I can say
that the Anglo-African Finance people are behind me.
Besides, this morning—queer you should call immedi-
ately afterwards—lI’ve had some wholly unexpected
news.”

“Indeed ?”

Mr. Dodge was in talkative vein, so Bruce let him
carry on. He seldom failed to learn something from
men of the Dodge type.

“The very best!’’ went on the stock broker gleefully.
“Vou see, there’s another man in this affair with me.
I thought he was as stony-broke as I am myself—speak-
ing confidentially, you know—when suddenly he writes
saying he had won a pot of money at Monte Carlo and
could spare me £2,000....Eh? What’s up?
Beastly trying weather, isn’t it? Try a nip of brandy!”

For once in his life the self-possessed barrister had
blanched at a sudden revelation. Ordinarily he had
the facial immobility of a Sioux brave. But this was too
much. He felt as though a meteorite had fallen on his
head. Nevertheless, he clutched at the nearest straw.

“Tl! No!” he cried. ‘How stupid of me! I have
forgotten my morning smoke. May I light a cigar?”

“With pleasure. You know these. Try one.”

“Vou were saying—”

“That’s all. This young fellow, Mensmore his name
is, got mixed up with me over a Californian mine. I118 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

thought he had lots of coin, so, when Springboks came
along, he and I went fifty-fifty in underwriting them.
The public didn’t feed, so we were loaded. Then the
band played! I tried all I knew to force him to pay
up, but he absolutely couldn’t. And now, at the very
moment affairs look promising, he writes offering
£2,000. More than that—he can, if necessary, get the
remainder of his half, £1,750, from somebody. Where’s
his letter?”

Mr. Dodge searched among some papers on his
table.

“Oh, here it is. Addressed from ‘Yacht White
Heather.’ Swank, ain’t it? Sir William Browne!
That’s the old boy—Sheffield—very sound. I think
Pll let Sir William have ’em. It’s a good, solid sort
of name to have on the share register.”

“I would if I were you,” said Bruce, hardly conscious
of his surroundings.

“Tf you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a
morning! Come and have lunch.”

“No thanks, I have a lot to attend to. By the way,
where did Mensmore live in town?”

“I don’t know. His address was always at the
Orleans Club.”

Somehow, Bruce reached the street and a taxi. As
the vehicle rolled off westward he crouched in a cor-
ner and tried to wrestle with the problem befogging
his brain.

Was Albert Mensmore Sydney H. Corbett? Was he
Mrs. Hillmer’s brother? The “Bertie” she had spoken
of meant Albert as well as a hypothetical Herbert.
Mensmore was an old schoolfellow of Sir Charles
Dene’s. In all probability, he knew Lady Dene as
well. He lived in Raleigh Mansions under an assumedWHO CORBETT WAS 119

name, and left hurriedly for the South of France two
days after the murder.

Every circumstance pointed to the terrible assump-
tion that the unfortunate lady met her death at Mens-
more’s hands. And Bruce had sworn to avenge her
memory!

He laughed with savage mirth as he reflected that
he himself had helped this man to escape the punish-
ment of Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed,
pitifully amusing to think how the clever detective had
used his powers to his own befooling. The very open-
ness of the clue had helped to conceal it most effectively.
Were it not for Dodge and his Springboks he might
have gone on indefinitely covering up the criminal’s
tracks by his own friendly actions. The situation was
maddening, intolerable. Bruce wanted to yell at the
driver and bid him dart through the traffic at fifty
per.

Blissfully unaware of the living volcano he carried
within, the man at the wheel did not indulge in any
such illegal antics. He drove quietly along the Em-
bankment, and delivered a seething fare at the Victoria
Street chambers. Quite oblivious of commonplace af-
fairs, the barrister threw him a shilling and darted out.

The taxi-man gazed at his Majesty’s image with the
air of one who had never before seen such a coin. It
might have been a Greek obolus, so sheer was his aston-
ishment. But he was not dumb, by any manner of
means.

“Hi, gov’nor!” he yelled, “what the ballyhooley do
you call this?”

““What’s the matter?” came the impatient cry.

“Matter!” The taxi-man looked towards the sky
to see if the heavens were falling. ‘“Matter!” in a higher120 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

key, as a crowd began to gather. “I tykes him from
Leaden/all-street to Victoria. ’E gives me a bob, an’
’e ’as the blinkin’ nerve to arsk me wot’s the matter.
I’d been on the rank more’n two hours—”

“Oh, there you are!” and Bruce threw him a couple
of half-a-crowns before disappearing up the steps.

Inspector White was watching for Bruce’s arrival.
Indeed, he enjoyed it. Still, he wondered why the bar-
rister was so perturbed, and resolved to strike while
the iron was hot. So he, too, vanished into the
interior.CHAPTER XIII
A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE

“Ir any one calls, I am out,’ shouted Bruce, as
he crossed the entrance-hall of his well-appointed flat,
and flung open the library door.

“The gov’nor’s in a rare old wax,” observed Smith
to his wife, and settled himself to renew a careful pe-
rusal of Grand National training reports. He had just
noticed the interesting fact that last year’s winner had
‘jumped in for the last mile” in a gallop over fences
given to a rank outsider, when the front door bell dis-
turbed his sporting calculations.

“My master is hout,” he said, when he found In-
spector White standing on the mat. He was about to
close the door again, but the detective planted a foot
against the jamb.

“Your master is not out,” he answered. “I saw him
come in a minute since. Tell him Mr. White wants to
see him.”

Smith’s dignity was superb. ‘My master may be
hin,” he cried, “but ’e told me to say ’e was hout to
callers.” The aspirates supplied emphasis.

“Vou tell him what I say at once,” and White gave
Smith his best “accessory-after-the-crime” scowl.

“T don’t see why I should,” snarled Smith, but the
squabble ended when Bruce’s voice was heard—

“Show him in, Smith, but admit nobody else.”

With an air of armed neutrality, Smith ushered the

representative of Scotland Yard into the library.
121122 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Vou’re not looking very well, sir,” said White in-
stantly, his big, bulging eyes fixed on Bruce with all
their power.

“Was it to inquire about my health that you came?”’

“No, sir, not exactly. But I haven’t seen you for
quite a time, and since we’re both interested in the
same matter I thought I’d look you up and compare
notes.”

Bruce was annoyed—quite naturally annoyed in the
circumstances. He wanted to think, not to be bothered
by official theories. He looked hard at White, won-
dering whether he should tell him all he knew and wash
his own hands clear of the investigation. But an un-
bidden picture intervened and dimmed the detective’s
threatening bulk. He saw Phyllis Browne’s face, not
as it was that day at the Tir aux Pigeons, but with the
light of happiness in it, with the joy of requited and
undisturbed love, with the glow reflected from dancing
waves, with the smile of utter confidence—that, above
all.

It was hard to believe that such a woman could
place illimitable trust in a man who was possibly a cold-
blooded murderer. Such an outcome of her romance
savoured of Grand Guignol tragedy at its worst. Al-
ready Bruce was beginning to doubt the evidence of
his everyday senses.

White meanwhile flattered himself by the belief that
the other was trying to read his thoughts by looking
at him fixedly.

“T have been away from home,” said Bruce at last.
“T had occasion to go to the South of France.”

“T thought so. I was sure of it. How do you man-
age always to get ahead of us?”
White was honestly enthusiastic.A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE 123

“You have heard about Sydney H. Corbett?” said
Bruce, still keeping that inscrutable, incalculable gaze
on the policeman. If only the representative of the
C.I.D. could have guessed what fantasies were cours+
ing madly through his brain!

“Ves. I’m on his track. We may be slow, but we
are sure in the ‘Yard’. May I ask what luck you had,
sir?”

“In what respect?”

“As though you didn’t go to Monte Carlo to find
Corbett! Really, Mr. Bruce, the scent is too hot this
time. You might as well give a ‘View halloa’ if you’ve
seen him.”

“Seen Sydney H. Corbett, you mean?”

“That’s his name, right enough.”

For an instant Mensmore’s future trembled in the
balance. Bruce almost framed the words which would
lead to his immediate arrest at the next port touched
by the White Heather. But once more the memory of
Phyllis Browne’s agony, of the fearful scandal that
must fly through Society on the Riviera, restrained him.
There was no hurry. He must take time to think.

“T certainly went to Monte Carlo to discover the
identity of that elusive young man, but I came back as
wise as I went,” he said. “The only trace I found was
an undelivered letter awaiting him at the Hotel du
Cercle.”

“A letter! Wasn’t he there?” The detective’s face,
notwithstanding its mask of official decorum, betrayed
real disappointment. This was an unlooked-for check.

“He had been there. Other letters came for him
earlier, and he had received them.”

“But the hotel people—”

“Did not know him. In fact, there cannot be the124 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

slightest doubt that Mr. Corbett concealed his identity
at Monte Carlo under another name.”

White swallowed his wrath.

‘Tt really doesn’t matter much,” he growled. “We'll
nab him just the same, if he had fifty aliases.”

“Possibly. But it is wonderful how a man may pop
up under your very nose, and yet you may miss him.”

During the next few minutes neither man spoke.
Bruce smiled dourly at the thought that he was actually
rescuing Lady Alisia’s probable slayer from the grip
of the law. He marvelled at himself for his irresolution.
Nevertheless, he would wait. Mensmore could not
escape him, at any rate. Perhaps the nasty business
might be managed without the dramatic features which
would accompany extradition proceedings on a criminal
charge. And, even yet, there were things that required
explanation. If his Monte Carlo acquaintance really
killed Lady Dene, then he was the most callous rogue
Bruce had ever encountered during the course of a
long and varied career at the bar or in a far more inter-
esting private practice.

The detective misinterpreted the smile.

“Vou can’t laugh at us this time, Mr. Bruce,” he
cried. ‘You and the ‘Yard’ evolved the same theory,
eh? And we can’t fly off to the South of France as
readily as you.”

“Your skill is profound, no doubt. Indeed, I marvel
at it, considering the mysterious way in which the miss-
ing man left his address at the post-office.”

The other reddened.

“That was simple enough, I know; but we were on
his track long before we knew that,” he urged.

“By watching me when I visited his sister?”A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE 125

“So you saw me outside the Jollity Theatre that
night?”

“Of course. What did you expect?”

White recovered his poise.

“Why quarrel about it?” he laughed. “I did pick
up that wrinkle through you. But how on earth were
we to know what to do, when there were seventy-one
flats occupied by respectable people, and one closed
for months, the caretaker told us.”

“T hope you have ceased your surveillance so far as
I am concerned.”

“Honor bright, sir. I won’t do it again. Besides, we
must lay hands on Corbett sooner or later.”

“What steps are you taking?”

“The Monte Carlo police are making inquiries. They
have his description. It has also gone to America.”

“Why America?”

“Because he spent some time there. He only re-
turned from the States early last year. His sister had
not seen him for years, and a rare old row broke out
when he turned up. He had not much money, so she
helped him, and he settled down for a time in the same
block of flats.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Mrs. Hillmer, and a nice lot of trouble she gave, too.
She’s a clever woman—that.”

“It was rather too bad to pester her about it, poor
lady.”

“TI only followed your lead, sir.”

This was so true that Bruce tried another tack.

“What sort of man is Corbett? Have you his de-
scription?”

“Yes. Here it is.”
White produced a copy of the Police Gazette, a pub-126 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

lication never seen by the public, but circulating largely
among the police of the United Kingdom. The details
were fairly accurate as to Mensmore’s personal appear-
ance, but there was no photograph. Why, he could not
say, but Bruce was pleased by this vital deficiency.

“Vou did not secure his picture?”

“No. Mrs. Hillmer declared she hadn’t a single
photograph of her brother in her possession.”

“Did she—tell you his real name?” the barrister
had almost said—but, just in time, for he was not him-
self that day, he deflected the question. “Did she give
you any hint as to a possible cause for this apparently
unnecessary crime?”

“Not a peep.”

“Then you did not mention Lady Dene to her?”

“No. Sir Charles has always implored me to keep
his wife’s name out of my inquiries until it became
absolutely impossible to conceal it in view of a public
prosecution. He wants to know definitely when that
time comes.”

“Why?”

The detective did not reply for a moment. When he
spoke he leaned forward and subdued his voice.

“T am as sure as I’m sitting here, sir, that Sir Charles
will not live if any disgrace is attached to his wife’s
memory.”

“Do you mean that he will kill himself?”

“T do. He has changed a great deal since this af-
fair happened. He is not the same man. He appears
to be always mooning about her. Yet people say they
were not so devoted to one another when she was alive.”

Again did the barrister switch off the talk from a
dangerous trend.

“This description of Corbett is not of much value,”A QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE 127

he said. “It applies to every athletic young English-
man of good physique and gentlemanly appearance.”

“Quite true. I don’t depend on that for his arrest,
but it will be valuable for identification. ‘Blue eyes,
light brown hair, fresh, clear complexion, well-modelled
nose and chin.’ Some of these things can be changed
by tricks, but not all. For instance, there would be no
use in smoking a man with black eyes and irregular
features.”’

“ “Smoking” him?”

“Oh, that’s our way of putting it. Following him,
it means.”

“Suppose the French police don’t succeed in catch-
ing him?”

“We're sure to get him at Raleigh Mansions. Very
soon he will think that Lady Dene’s fate has never been
determined, so he will return when the inquiry has
blown over, to all appearance.”

“You have quite made up your mind, then, that
Sydney H. Corbett is the murderer?”

“Tt looks uncommonly like it. At any rate, he knows
something about it. If not, why did he bolt to France
two days after the crime? Why has he concealed his
identity? Why does he take pains to receive his cor-
respondence in an underhand manner? And, by Jove!
suppose he isn’t in Monte Carlo at all, but in London
all the time!”

The inspector glowed with this sudden inspiration,
but Bruce kept him to the lower level of realities.

“Corbett is, or was, in Monte Carlo. Of that you
may be sure. He, and none other, received the letters
sent to the Hotel du Cercle. I cannot for the life of
me imagine why he did not take the last one. But let us
look at what we know. Lady Dene, we will say, went128 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

to Corbett’s chambers, secretly and of her own accord.
That may be regarded as fairly established. Thence-
forth there is a blank in our intelligence until she ap-
pears as a hardly recognizable corpse, stuffed by hands
beneath an old drain-pipe in the Thames at Putney.
How do you fill up that gap, Mr. White?”

“Simply enough. Corbett, or some other person,
persuaded her to accompany him to Putney voluntarily.
She was killed there, and not in London. It would be
most impossible to convey her dead body from
Raleigh Mansions to Putney without attracting notice.
One man could zot doit. Several might, but it is mad-
ness to suppose that a number of people should join
together for the purpose of killing this poor lady.”

“The seemingly impossible is often accomplished.”

“Do you really believe, then, that she met her death
in London?”

“T have quite an open mind on that question.”

“You forget she had resolved early that day to
visit her sister at Richmond, and Putney is on the direct
road. What more reasonable than to assume—”

“Beware of assumptions! You are assuming all the
time that Corbett was a principal in her murder.”

“Very well, Mr:»Bruce. Then I ask you straight
out—don’t you agree with me?”

Salo Not?

This declaration astounded the barrister himself.
Often the mere utterance of one’s thoughts comes as a
surprise. Speech seems to stiffen the wavering out-
lines of reflection, and the new creation may differ
essentially from its embryo. It was so with Bruce now.

Ever since White’s arrival had shocked him from
the stupor caused by the stock-broker’s unwitting re-
velation, he had been deciding slowly but definitelyA QUESTION OF PRINCIPLE 129

that Mensmore had not killed Lady Dene. He had
seen the man, utterly unprepared, facing death as pre-
ferable to dishonour. At such moments the soul is laid
bare. With the shadow of a crime on his conscience
Mensmore’s actions could not have been so crassly
foolish yet straight-forward as they undoubtedly were.
He might, of course, be bound up in some way with the
mystery surrounding Lady Dene’s movements. The
words he blurted out in Bruce’s room at the Hotel du
Cercle implied as much. That was another matter. It
would receive his (Bruce’s) most earnest attention.
But the major hypothesis so quickly adopted by the
police needed much more substantiation than it had
yet obtained.

That it was plausible, however, was demonstrated
by his own readiness to adopt it at the outset. Even
now that the impulse to fasten the crime on Mensmore
had weakened he wondered at his eagerness to defend
him

The detective was even more surprised.

“T don’t see how you can hold that view,” he cried.
“Corbett’s behaviour is, to put it mildly, unaccountable.
If he is an innocent man, then he must be a perfect
fool. Besides, why should he necessarily be innocent?
This is the first gleam of light we’ve had in a very
dark business, and I mean to follow it up.”

The vindictive emphasis in the detective’s voice
showed that he was annoyed by Bruce’s impassive and
rather chilling attitude. He even went so far as to
evolve a dim theory that the barrister wished to throw
him off Corbett’s trail on account of his sympathy
for Mrs. Hillmer, but Bruce dispelled this notion forth-
with.

“You are here, I suppose, to ask my advice in pur-1380 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

suance of our understanding that we are working
together in the matter?” he said.

“Well, something of the kind, sir.”

“Then I suggest that we examine the interior of
that closed flat in Raleigh Mansions at the earliest con-
venient moment.”

“To you mean by a search warrant?”

“Certainly not. Do you want the whole neighbour-
hood to know of it? You have probably heard before
to-day of locks being picked. You and I must have a
quiet look around the place without any one else being
the wiser.”

White hesitated, but the prospect was alluring.

“T think I can manage it,”’ he said, smiling reflec-
tively. ‘Will six this evening suit?”

“Admirably.”

“Then I'll call for you.”

After a parting glance at Smith, who returned it, nose
in air, the inspector ran down the stairs, murmuring; —
“Blest if I can understand Mr. Bruce! But this is a
good move. We may learn something really worth
while.”CHAPTER XIV
NO. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS

WHEN the door of Corbett’s or Mensmore’s flat
yielded to the skilled application of a skeleton key a
gust of cold air swept from the interior blackness, and
whirled an accumulation of dust down the stairs.

It is curious how a disused house seems to bottle
up, as it were, an atmospheric accumulation which al-
ways seeks to escape at the first possible moment.
Emptiness can be more than a mere word; it has life,
the power of growth. A residence closed for a week
is less depressing than if it has not been inhabited
for a month. If the period of neglect be lengthened
into a year, the sense of dreariness is magnified im-
measurably.

In this instance, the mysterious abode might have
been the abiding-place of disembodied spirits, so cold
was its aspect, so uninviting the dim vista which sprang
into uncertain outlines under the flickering rays of a
match struck by the detective.

But neither the policeman nor his companion was a
nervous subject. They entered at once, closed the
door by its latch, and, aided by other matches, found
the switch of the electric light. Bruce was almost
amused to discover that the letter on the board in
the Hotel du Cercle must have been a receipt and not
a bill—because the switch acted!

In the resultant radiance the indefinable vanished.
The flat became a cosy, fairly well-appointed bachelor’s

131132 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“diggings,” neglected and untidy, yet not without a
semblance of comfort, a place which only needed the
presence of a sturdy housemaid and a fire to be con-
verted into the ordinary chambers common to every
such residential district in the West End of London.

The intruders’ first care was to pull down all the
blinds, the neglect of which housewifely proceeding
argued the careless departure of a mere male when the
place was vacated. A rapid preliminary survey fol-
lowed, and Bruce remarked:

“Furnished by a woman, but occupied by a man.”

White agreed, though he didn’t know why, so he put
a tentative question.

“Don’t you see,” explained Bruce, “that the carpets
match the upholstery, that the beds have valances,
that the spare bedroom for a guest is even more
elaborate than that used by the tenant, that care has
been taken in fitting up the kitchen, and taste dis-
played in the selection of ornaments? Only a woman
attends to such things. On the other hand, a card
tray has been used as a receptacle for a cigar ash, the
pictures—no woman ever buys a picture—have been
picked up promiscuously from shops where they sell
sporting prints, and the sides of the mantelpieces are
chipped by having feet propped against them. There
are plenty of other signs, but these should suffice.”

‘Thenceforth the two men devoted themselves to
their task, each after his kind.

The representative of Scotland Yard hunted for
documents, photographs, torn envelopes; he looked at
the covers of books to see if they were inscribed; he
opened every drawer, ransacked every corner, peered
into the interior of jars, pots, and ovens; appraised the
value of furniture, noted its age, and was speciallyNO. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS 133

zealous in studying the appearance of the one bedroom
which had been occupied, so far as he could judge.

Bruce, after a casual—indeed, a quite perfunctory—
glance around the place generally, entered the sitting-
room, selected the most comfortable chair, and pro-
ceeded to envelope himself in smoke. Yet he had not
spent two minutes in Mensmore’s flat before he made
a discovery which literally took his breath away.

The dwelling consisted of a central passage, dividing
two equal portions from the other. That on the right
contained a drawing-room and a large bedroom, with
dressing-room attached. On the left were another
bedroom, a dining-room, a kitchen, and a store-room.
At the end of the passage, where it joined a transverse
corridor, were the bathroom, a pantry, and a small
room, empty now, but planned undoubtedly for a
servant’s bedroom.

The furniture, as has been stated, was good in
quality and sufficient for its purposes. But the fact
which impressed this careful observer beyond all else
was that the arrangement of the contents of the sitting-
room differed essentially from all other domestic de-
tails in the flat.

The same care had not been taken in the disposition
of the various articles. They had been dumped down
anyhow, without taste or regard for suitable position.
The carpet had not been bought for this special apart-
ment like the carpets elsewhere. A handsome ebony
cabinet stood in the wrong place. The willow-pattern
plates and Chinese “plum” vases obviously intended to
fill its shelves were littered about the mantelpiece or
on small tables, while the more ornate ware meant for
the overmantel was disposed stiffly in the cabinet.
Small matters these, but Bruce thought them more134 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

conducive to accurate theorising than the detective’s
hunt for a written history of the crime!

So, as he smoked, he mused and examined.

“The drawing-room was the last place to be fur-
nished,” he thought. ‘The usual course. Probably
it remained empty for some time. The rest of the flat
was arranged by a woman—Mrs. Hillmer, in all like-
lihood—before the arrival of her brother. Then he
took possession and tackled the vacant room. ‘The
little history of the place is writ plain. More than that,
a woman—Mrs. Hillmer again, let us say—fixed on
these later purchases, but without measurements. She
did not personally see to their adaptability, and she
certainly has not supervised their final arrangement.
Now, why was that? Again, these things are more
worn than those in the other rooms. Were they
bought second-hand? If so, why? A woman thinks
most of her drawing-room. It is the last place in
which she economises.”’

White entered, anxious and puzzled.

“Found anything?” inquired Claude, without look-
ing up.

“Not a rag, not even a scrap of old newspaper with
a date on it. A lot of papers were burned in the
kitchen grate, but from the remnants I judge that they
were mostly bills.”

“The place has been cleared systematically, eh?”

“Tt looks like it.”

“Going to hunt here?”

“Ves. You don’t seem to take much interest in the
search, Mr. Bruce, though you persuaded me to do a
bit of house-breaking in order to get in.”

“T find the quietude good for thought, Inspector.NO. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS 135

Be good enough not to make more noise than is ab-
solutely necessary.”

The other sniffed. He was disappointed. He had
hoped for something tangible from this visit, and the
prospect was far from promising.

“This room appears to have been lived in a good
deal,” he growled now.

“That is one way of looking at it.”

“Ts there any other way?”

He snapped out the question as though he held the
barrister responsible for his own failure to gain a
ghost of a clue.

“No, Mr. White, I should have guessed your point
of view exactly.”

“My point of view, indeed! Do you want me to
draw up another chair and light a pipe? Should we
be enlightened by tobacco smoke?”

“T cannot trust your tobacco. Try a cigar.”

The detective thumped a Chesterfield lounge angrily.
He hated flippancy at any time, and it was singularly
inappropriate now, when the pair of them were little
better than house-breakers.

At that instant Bruce’s glance rested on the fire-
place. The grate contained the ashes of a fire,—a
fire allowed to go out soon after it was lighted. This,
combined with the undrawn blinds, argued a departure
early in the morning.

‘He went to Monte Carlo by the day Channel serv-
ice,’ mused Bruce. “He may have gone a few hours
after Alisia’s death, as Mrs. Hillmer was not certain
as to the exact date.”

Somehow, the few cinders attracted him. They had,
perchance, witnessed a tragedy. Suddenly he stopped.
smoking. He was so startled by something he had186 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

seen that White must have noticed his agitation were
not the detective at that instant screwing his eyes in-
tently to peer behind the back of the elaborate cabinet.

On the hearth stood a handsome Venetian fender.
Into each end was loosely socketed a_ beautifully
moulded piece of ironwork to hold the fire-irons. That
on the left was whole, but from that on the right a
small spike had been broken off.

By comparison with its fellow the missing portion
was identical with the bit of iron found imbedded in
the skull of the murdered woman. Of this damning
fact Bruce had no manner of doubt, though the in-
criminatory article itself was then locked in a drawer
in his own residence.

He did not move. He sat as one transfixed. What
a weapon for such a deed! Was ever more outlandish
instrument used with murderous intent? The entire
bracket could be detached from the fender easily, and
would, no doubt, inflict a terrible blow. But why seize
this clumsy device when it actually supported a heavy
brass poker?

The thing savoured of madness, of the wild frenzy
of a homicidal maniac. It was incomprehensible,
strange beyond belief. Yet, as Bruce pictured the
final scene in that tragedy, as he saw an ill-fated
woman crumple to the floor under a treacherous and
deadly attack, a fierce light leaped into his face and
his lips set tight with unflinching purpose.

Had Mensmore been within reach just then he
would assuredly have been lodged forthwith in a felon’s
cell. No excuse could be accepted, no palliation al-
lowed. The man who could so foully slay a gentle,
kindly, high-minded creature like Alisia Dene de-
served the utmost rigour of the law, no matter what theI eee ee ae ken

     
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   

NO. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS 137

circumstances leading to the commission of the crime.

It was not often that Bruce allowed impulse to
master reason so utterly. In strangely altruistic mood
he asked himself why he did not spring from his chair,
and, tearing the bracket from its supports, exhibit it to
his fellow-worker, while he gave, in a few passionate
sentences, the information which would set the French
and Italian police scouring the Mediterranean littoral
until they found the White Heather. Of what matter
to him was the suffering of a sister or sweetheart? Did
the man who killed Lady Dene reck of these things?
Yes, he would do it—

But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested
the fateful words even as they trembled on his lips.

“Here’s a find!” was the shout. “Thinking is all
very well, Mr. Bruce, but hard work is better. What
do you make of that?”

“That” was a letter, which, in the manner known
to many a puzzled householder, had slipped down be-
hind a drawer in the cabinet, to be crushed against the
wooden frame at the back, and lie there forgotten
and unnoticed for many a day.

Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not
help glancing at the crumpled document, first noting
the date, October 15th of the year just closed, with the
superscription, “Mountain Butts, Wyoming.” There
was no envelope.

It was addressed to “Dear Bertie,” and ran as fol-
lows :—

Your welcome note and draft for fifty dollars came
to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget
your generosity. We know that you can ill spare these
frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased to call them.188 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

You and I have been in many a tight place, old scout,
and I never knew you fail either with hand or heart.
Even when we took a chance in this neck of the woods,
on my advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you
who had nerve enough to cut yourself adrift so that
you might keep the pot boiling.

But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this
time I will try not to get up in the air. There have
been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now
firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, so the
son of a gun who sold us this flea-bitten ranch has tried
to upset our title. Thanks to your foresight, he was
knocked out in the first round. I may have big news
for you soon. By heck, won’t it be a change if we
both rake in a pile? And won’t we all have a dandy
time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much.
I have fallen flat too often. Write by return, and say
if this reaches you all right.

Your faithful friend,
SYDNEY H. CorRBETT.

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective,
when Bruce had mastered the contents of this most
astonishing letter.

“Think! I am too dazed to think.”

“Now we can learn all about him from America.”

“About whom?”

“About Corbett, of course.”

“Did Corbett, then travel by the same mail as this
letter in order to murder Lady Dene? It is dated
October 15th, and she was killed on November 6th.
It takes twelve days, at the best, for a letter to reach
England from Wyoming. So Corbett, the writer, not
the receiver, must have travelled by the same steamer,
or its immediate successor.”

White’s face fell, but he stuck to his point:NO. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS 139

“Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have
interviewed the secretary of the company which owns
these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six months
from September first. When asked for references he
gave his sister’s name, and, as she banks with the
National—and has paid her rent regularly for five
years—it was good enough. Still, I must confess that
Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if
he lived here in September and in November.”

The barrister answered between his set teeth:

“Sister! What sister? How many sisters has he?-—
Yes, it certainly zs rather puzzling.”

“Perhaps the letter was left behind as a plant.”

“An elaborate one, indeed—concocted and carried
out a month before the murder.”

“But suppose it never came from Wyoming? We
have no proof it was written in America.”

‘We have no proof of anything at present.”

“Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is just
the place where you ought to shine, you know.”

“T have formed no theory. I must think for hours,
for days, before I see my way clear.”

“Clear to what, sir.”

“To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the
murderer of Lady Dene.”

“So this find of mine is of real importance?”

“Undoubtedly. I shall remember its context, but
you will let me see it again if necessary?”

“With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You
never returned that small bit of iron. You recollect
I lent it to you some time since.”

“Perfectly. Come with me. Ill model it in wax
and hand it over.”

“All right, sir; but, as we are here, I may as well140 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

continue my search. I may drop on to something else
of value.”

Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the
detective had rummaged every crevice in the cabinet.
The reading of that queer epistle from Corbett to
‘““Bertie’”—from the real Simon Pure to the sham one—
from one man to his double—had silenced him on the
very lip of disclosure. It impressed him as being
genuine. If so, who on earth was Corbett, and why
had Mensmore assumed the name, if that was the
explanation of the tangle?

Whatever the outcome, he would not jump to a con-
clusion. The web had closed too securely round Mens-
more to allow of escape. The pursuer could bide his
time. Another week might solve many elements in
the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.

Having satisfied himself that there was nothing else
in the cabinet White approached the fireplace, peered
Into each vase on the mantelpiece, poked a blade of
his pen-knife at the back of the overmantel’s frame
to feel for other letters, and in doing so kicked the
fender several times.

The barrister wondered vaguely whether the man
of method would note the missing portion of the iron
“dog.”’

5

“Surely,” he thought, “‘he will see it now,” as White
bent to examine the ashes, and actually lifted the
poker from the very support itself in order to rake
among the cinders. He even scrutinised the fire-irons,
but the too obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him
in the face, escaped him entirely. He was quite
wrapped up in the theory that Lady Dene was killed
at Putney, and not in Sloane Square.

At last he quitted the room, and walked off to theNO. 12 RALEIGH MANSIONS 141

small apartments at the end of the main corridor. In-
stantly Bruce sprang forward, dropped to his knees,
and examined the iron rest under a strong lens. It
bore no unusual stains in the locality of the break.
Taking a bit of wax from his pocket, he secured an im-
pression of the fracture.

When White returned, he found the barrister still
buried in his chair, smoking, with set face and fixed
eyes.

Soon afterwards they went out, being careful to
leave all things as they found them. They said little
on their way to Victoria-street, for Bruce was trying
to reconcile Mensmore’s attitude at Monte Carlo with
the known facts, and the detective was considering
the best use to which he could put that all-important
letter.

Besides, the inspector attributed his companion’s
silence to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands
on the only direct piece of evidence yet discovered
bearing on Corbett’s identity, and this in defiance of
Bruce’s philosophic detachment? For once he could
afford to be generous and not worry his amateur col-
league with questions.

Thus they reached the barrister’s chambers. Bruce
asked the detective to sit down for a moment while
he made a model of the small lump of iron. He took
it into his bedroom, fitted it into the wax impression
obtained at Raleigh Mansions, and, as he fully ex-
pected, the two coincided.

He handed back the fragment without a word, so
White still believed he was irritated.

‘Tt had better remain in my keeping now, sir,” he
said, “but if you want it again, of course, Dll be
glad—”142 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“T shall never want it again,” said Bruce, and his
voice was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experi-
enced such a strain as the last few hours had imposed.
“Tt is an accursed thing. It has caused one death al-
ready, and may cause others.”

“T sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged,”
cried the detective, “for this affair is the warmest I
have ever tackled. However, I’ll get him, as sure as
his name’s Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many
addresses.”

Smith let White out. The latter, halting for a mo-
ment at the door, said quietly, “Is your name Cor-
bett?”

“No, it ain’t; any more than yours is Black. See?”

Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were
better friends thenceforth, but the detective was
thoughtful as he passed into the street.

“This is a rum business all through,” he communed.
“There isn’t enough evidence against Corbett to hang
a cat, yet I think he’s the man. And Bruce is a queer
chap, too. Was he cut up about me finding the letter,
or has he got some other crazy notion in his head?
He’s as close as an oyster. I wonder if he did dine
at Hampstead on the evening of the murder, as he said
at the inquest? I must inquire into it. Dash! I
wish so many months hadn’t elapsed! I ought to have
been allowed to stick to this job like glue ever since
that poor woman’s disappearance was reported.”

In his anxiety the C.I.D. man was unfair to him-
self and positively unjust to Bruce, to whose initiative
he owed every onward step yet taken through a most
bewildering maze.CHAPTER XV
MRS. HILLMER HESITATES

“TI WONDER if I shall have any such heart spasms
to-day as I had yesterday,” said Bruce to himself,
unfolding his Tzmes next morning at breakfast.

The clash of seemingly conflicting facts had so jum-
bled his wits the previous evening that he had aban-
doned all effort to disentangle them. He retired to
rest earlier than usual, and slept soundly, save for a
vivid dream in which he was being tried for his life,
the chief witnesses against him being Mrs. Hillmer,
Phyllis Browne, and Jane Harding, the last-named
varying her evidence by entertaining the Court with
a dance of the type known technically south of the
Mason and Dixon line as a “wing.”

The weather, too, had improved. It was clear,
frosty, and sunlit—one of those delightful days of
winter which serve as cheerful reminders of a yet dis-
tant spring during periods of seemingly interminable
fog overhead and slush beneath.

During a quiet meal he read the news, and, with the
invaluable morning pipe, settled himself into an arm-
chair to consider procedure.

In the first place he weighed carefully every state-
ment volunteered by Mensmore at Monte Carlo which
seemed, in the light of later knowledge, to bear on the
case. The man had alluded to “family troubles,” to
“worries,” and “anxieties,” which practically drove
him out of England. Some of these tribulations, no

doubt, arose from the Springbok affair. Others, again,
143144 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

might have been due to Mrs. Hillmer. Nevertheless
in Mensmore’s manner there had been no savour of
secrecy beyond the natural reticence of a gentleman
in discussing domestic affairs with a stranger.

He had been literally snatched from death. At such
a supreme moment it was inconceivable that he should
strive to cloak the remorse of a murderer by professing
more honourable motives and choosing suicide as the
best way of ending his difficulties.

White, unknown to Bruce, had summarized the tes-
timony against Corbett as insufficient to curtail the
remarkable vitality of a cat. But to Bruce himself
the case against Mensmore, alias Corbett, stood in
clearer perspective. Now that he could reason the
matter calmly he felt that the balance of probability
swung away from the hypothesis that Mensmore was
the actual slayer of Lady Dene, but pointed to the
theory that he was in some way bound up with her
death, whether knowingly or unknowingly it was at
present impossible to say.

The new terror to Bruce was White.

“Why, if that animated truncheon knew what I
know of this business he would have Mensmore ar-
rested at once, and apply for his extradition,’ he
mused. “If he did, what would be the result? A
scandal, a thorough exposure, possibly the ruin of
Mensmore’s love-making whether he is innocent or
guilty. That kind of bull-headed procedure must be
stopped. But how, without forewarning Mensmore
himself? And he may be guilty. Chance may favour
White, as it favoured me, in disclosing the identity of
the missing Corbett. And what of the real Corbett?
What on earth has ke got to do with it, and why has
Mensmore taken his name? If ever I get to the bot-MRS. HILLMER HESITATES 145

tom of this wretched business I may well give myself
a large bouquet! ‘The net outcome of my best efforts
thus far may be summed up in a sentence—I have
not yet come face to face with the man whom I can
reasonably suspect as Lady Dene’s murderer. What
do I know even about the actual crime? Not much,
my boy!”

Bruce uttered the last four words aloud, startling
Smith, who was clearing the table.

“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Smith.

“Oh, nothing. I was only expressing an opinion.”

“T thought, perhaps, sir, you was a-thinkin’ of Mr.
White.”

“What of him?”

“Your remark, sir, hexactly hexpresses my hopinion
Of 41m;

Smith was not really uneducated but the least
mental excitement produced an appalling derangement
of the letter ‘‘h” in his vocabulary.

“Mr. White is a sharp fellow in his own way,
Smith.”

‘Maybe, but why should ’e come pokin’ round ’ere
pryin’ into your little affairs-deecur?”

“My what?”

“Sorry, sir, but that’s what a French maid I once
knew called ’em. Flirtations, sir. Passionettes—
that’s another w’y of puttin’ it.”

“Smith, have you been drinking?”

“Me, sir?”

“Well, explain yourself. I have never flirted with
a woman in my life.”

“That’s what I told ’im, sir. ‘My master’s a regular
s’int,’ says I, ‘a sort of middle-iged ankyrite.’ But
that there White wouldn’t ’ave it no-how. ‘Come now,146 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Smith,’ says ’e, ‘your guv-nor’s pretty deep. ’E’s a
toff, ’e is, an’ knows lots of lydies—titled lydies.’
‘Very like, says I, ‘but ’e doesn’t go chasin’ ’em.’
‘Then wot price that bit o’ fluff ’oo called for ’im in a
car afore ’e went aw’y? An’ 00’s ’e gone to Monte
Carlo with?’ This was durin’ your habsence, sir.”

“Go on, Smith. Anything else?”

“Well, sir, that rather knocked me out of my stride,
as the sayin’ is, as I ’ad seen the lydy in question. An’
White ’as a nasty way of putting you on your oath,
so ter speak. But I never owned up.”

Bruce laughed loudly. The mere effort did him
good.

“Excellent!” he cried. ‘White has a keen nose
for false scents. I have warned him already to let
my affairs alone, though he means no real harm.”

But the direct reference to Mrs. Hillmer’s visit sug-
gested an immediate plan of action. He would call
and see her. He wrote a note asking if he might come
to tea that afternoon, and sent it by a boy messenger.

He received this answer: —

“Mrs. Hillmer will be at home at four o’clock if Mr.
Bruce cares to call then.”

“Whew!” he whistled. ‘What’s in the wind now?
An uncommonly stiff invitation. That rascal White
has upset her, I’ll be bound. I must choke him off
somehow. Suppose he were to notice the damaged
bracket! He would have half the occupants of
Raleigh Mansions under remand. After I leave Mrs.
Hillmer I must visit No. 12 again, and carry off that
pair of brackets before White discovers them, as he is
bound to haunt the place in future.”

Bruce owned a set of skeleton keys which he had
not produced for White’s benefit. They were in hisMRS. HILLMER HESITATES 147

pocket when he approached Raleigh Mansions at the
appointed hour. The same trim maid opened the
door and ushered him into the drawing-room. On the
occasion of his first visit he was taken to the dining-
room. It was a small matter, but Bruce paid heed to
such trifles.

Mrs. Hillmer appeared, rather stately and undemon-
strative.

She greeted him coldly, seated herself at a distance,
and said, in a cold, well-controlled voice:

“T did not expect the honour of another visit, Mr.
Bruce.”

“Why not?”

If a fight was brewing, he would let the enemy open
fire. The glint in the lady’s eyes showed that an at-
tack was imminent.

“Why not?” she repeated. “Because I believed you
were a gentleman. Once you had stooped to sending
your myrmidons to pester me I imagined that you at
least would remain in the background.”

There was a ring of genuine indignation in her
words. When a woman is hurt and vexed her own
speech acts as a trumpet-call and fires her blood.
Mrs. Hillmer began, as she intended, in icy disdain.
She ended in tremulous anger.

“You are alluding to Detective-Inspector White, of
course?” said the barrister, meeting her scornful gaze
steadily.

“Yes, that is the man. Some hireling from Scotland
Yard. How could you be so mean as to induce my
confidence at our first meeting? Never in my life
have I been so deceived in any one, and I have had a
surfeit of bitter experience.”148. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Brother and sister alike have had strange adven-
tures,” mused Bruce. Aloud he said:

“Your wide experience, Mrs. Hillmer, should lead
you in the first place not to condemn any unfortunate
man unheard. May I explain a sequence of events
which is incomprehensible to you at this moment?P—
justly so, I admit.”

“Explanations! JI am a child in the hands of such
as you. How can I hope to fathom your real intent?
Presumably, if I accept your apologies now, it will
be a prelude to further visits by impudent police of-
ficers.”

“T am not here to apologize, Mrs. Hillmer.”

“What then, pray?”

“To plead with you. For Heaven’s sake do not
distrust me. It may ruin those whom you hold dear.
Listen first, and try to believe me afterwards.”

He was so thoroughly in earnest, so impressive in
manner, that she did not know what to make of him.
In her despair, she adopted a woman’s chief resource
—her eyes filled with tears.

But he anticipated something of the kind, and pro-
tested instantly.

“Come now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he cried, “let us act
like sensible people. Compose yourself, order in some
tea, and then I’ll tell you all about it. Believe me,
please. I mean what I say.”

Mrs. Hillmer rose, made an effort to choke back
her agitation, went out, and called the maid to bring
tea. She returned in a few moments. When they
were alone Bruce said, with a smile:

“T often wonder why all women prefer powder to
milk. There is nothing like milk for bathing the
eyes.”MRS. HILLMER HESITATES 149

She smiled. There was a perceptible return to her
former pleasant manner.

“You are incorrigible, I fear,’’ she cried.

“Not a bit. Impressionable, rather. Now I’m going
to worry you considerably, but, for goodness’ sake,
don’t jump at conclusions. Though startling, my news
is not altogether alarming. All may yet end well.”

Though manifestly anxious she promised to listen
attentively.

“Then,” said he, “I can clear the air a good deal
by a simple statement. White is no agent of mine,
and I have seen your brother, Albert Mensmore, at
Monte Carlo.”

“You have seen Bertie?” she gasped. It seemed al-
most that he could have said nothing more surprising.

“Ves; your brother.”

‘“My half-brother, to be exact. My father was mar-
ried twice. I—I am the elder of the two by four
years.”

“Honestly, you don’t look it. But what you say
explains the absence of any marked family likeness.”

“Possibly. People said we each resembled our
mother. And Bertie, you know, has led a somewhat
hard life. He roughed it a good deal in America. But
what has all this got to do with detectives, and recent
inquiries, and that sort of thing?”

“Oh, heaps. The last time we met I told you that
your brother was mixed up in some affair with a lady.”

Mrs. Hillmer laughed, a trifle constrainedly perhaps.

“Tf you knew Bertie well, you would not attach
any weight to that,” she said. ‘He never had a love
affair in his life. Indeed, he is something of a woman-
hater.”

‘No doubt he was. But the leopard has changed its150 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

spots. He is very much in love now, and engaged to
be married to a charming girl. Thus far, his tem-
perament and his good fortune have pulled against each
other.”

“Bertie engaged to be married! Good gracious!
What next! Whois she? And how can he support a
wife? He’s poor, and in debt, and he won’t even let
me help him.”

“The conditions seem to have improved all round.
The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, now
yachting with a large party in the Mediterranean.”

“Are her people against the match? Is that why
this Scotland Yard man—?”

“No. Mensmore is on board, too. Now comes the
unpleasant part of my story. There is another lady,
missing from her home for nearly three months, who
is supposed to be dead—murdered, the police believe.
I’m sorry, but your brother was associated with her
disappearance in some inexplicable way.”

“To they dare say that Bertie killed her?”

Mrs. Hillmer was on her feet again, with parted
lips and blazing eyes.

“They say nothing. They are simply doing their
duty in trying to discover the facts. And you may
take it from me that the last place this lady visited
before her death was a flat in these mansions. All
present indications point to your brother’s residence
as being that very place. Now, I do ask you to be
calm, and try your best to help, for I have acted in
this matter as your friend and as your brother’s friend.
At this very moment I am concealing his identity and
his whereabouts from the police, who are searching
for him under the assumed name of Corbett. If he
is guilty of this crime, then I must hand him over toMRS. HILLMER HESITATES 151

justice, for the murdered woman was a dear and
valued friend of mine. If he is innocent, as, indeed,
I believe him to be, I shall do all that lies in my power
to save his name from the tarnish of being arrested
on such an odious charge.”

During this recital Mrs. Hillmer became deathly
pale. Her agitation was great, but, with a fine effort
she controlled it. Going to a window she looked out,
seemingly to draw inspiration from the gathering
gloom of the street. Then she turned, and spoke very
slowly:

“T think I understand. I have faith in you, Mr.
Bruce, but I must know everything now. Who—was
—the lady?”

Bruce had decided already to take the supreme
step, yet, now that it was imminent, he hesitated.
There was no avoiding it, however.

“Her name,” said he, “is one well known in the
world. Lady Dene, wife of Sir Charles Dene, is miss-
ing from her home since the evening of November 6th
last. She met with a violent death that night, and I—
not the police thus far—have every reason to believe
that she was killed in your brother’s rooms!”

Then Mrs. Hillmer literally flung herself on a Ches-
terfield, buried her white face in her hands, and moaned
in an agony of terror:

“Oh, my God! What shall I do now? Oh, what
shall I do?”

This outburst saddened Bruce. His revelation
seemed to have unnerved her completely. And how
could he fail to interpret her frantic words, her almost
complete collapse, save in the most disastrous way?

“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she sprang up,
ran to him and clutched his arm:152 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Fe is innocent, Mr. Bruce!” she wailed. “He must
be innocent! He could not lay a hand in anger on
any woman. You must save him—do you hear?—save
him, or you will have his blood on your soul! It was
true, then, that you came here to hunt for him? Save
him, I implore you, as you hope for mercy yourself
when you are dying.”

In her passion she shook him violently, and for an
instant their eyes met—each striving to pierce the
inmost heart of the other—the woman tensely piteous,
entreating—the man distressed beyond measure.

“Do you not see,” he said at last, “that you are
making a fatal mistake? For anything you know to
the contrary your brother may actually have com-
mitted this crime. You alone know part of the truth.
At this moment, it is you, not I, who accuse him!”

Mrs. Hillmer collapsed to the lounge, utterly broken,
sobbing: —‘‘No, no! Not that! ... You don’t un-
derstand. . . . God! What am TI to say?”

“Nothing, just now, because you hardly know what
you are saying. But I do want your trust. If you
fear your brother may be implicated in this terrible
business, tell me why. I ask you to adopt this course
in all good faith. I have seen your brother under most
trying circumstances; I have been with him in an hour
when it would be impossible for him to conceal his
guilt if Lady Dene’s death lay at his door. Yet I
think him innocent. I think that chance has con-
tributed to pile up evidence against him. If I can
learn even a portion of the truth it will enable me to
dispel the uncertainty which now hinders any real
progress.”’

“What is it you want to know?”

Mrs. Hillmer’s voice was hollow and tremulous. SheMRS. HILLMER HESITATES 153

seemed to have aged suddenly. The man was shocked,
but forced himself to carry out the most disagreeable
task he had ever undertaken.

‘Do you mean,” he asked, “that you will answer
my questions?”

‘No. I cannot promise that.”

“Well, then—in your own words—”

She peered at him with swimming eyes.

“Oh, may Heaven direct me to do what is right!”
she murmured.

“Your prayer will surely be answered. But a great
wrong has been committed, and the innocent must not
suffer to shield the guilty.”

Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head. Not a word came
from her bloodless lips for some minutes. She ap-
peared to be reasoning out some plan of action in a
dazed way. When decision came she said in low
tones:

“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have
time. When I am ready I shall send for you.”

He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead
further. Women of her somewhat frivolous, pleasure-
loving type often display extraordinary strength of
character in a supreme Crisis.

‘Vou are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.

“It may be so. But I must be alone. I am not
deceiving you. When I have determined something
which is not now clear, I shall send for you. I may
speak or be silent. In either case I only can judge
for myself—and suffer.”

“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before
we part. Did you know of Lady Dene’s death before
to-day?”

She rose and looked him straight in the face.154 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“I did not,” she said. “On my honour, I did not!”

He passed into the hall without a word of farewell,
but even the shock of a painful interview did not pre-
vent him from noting a flitting shadow in a doorway,
as some one hurried into another room.

In their excitement both he and the unhappy woman
he had just left had forgotten that their impassioned
voices might have attracted attention, and ladies’ maids
who are also companions are apt to be inquisitive.CHAPTER XVI
FOXEY

Tuer keen, cold air of the streets soon restored
Bruce’s poise. But he refused a willing taxi. He felt
that he really needed a sharp walk. Oddly enough, the
more critically he examined Mrs. Hillmer’s almost
phenomenal change of attitude the less he understood it.

“For some ridiculous reason,” he thought, “the
woman believes her brother guilty, so I shall have end-
less difficulty now at. getting at the truth. She will
not be candid. She will only tell me that which she
thinks will help him, and conceal that which she con-
siders damaging. That is a woman’s way, all the world
over. And a desperately annoying way it is. Perhaps
I was to blame in springing this business on her too
hastily. But there! I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate
using her as one juggles with a stubborn and conceited
witness. In future I shall trouble her no more.”

A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square
Station yielded a glimpse of the barrier, and he recog-
nized the collector who had taken Lady Dene’s ticket
on that fatal night when she got out of the Richmond
train. Rather as a relief than for any definite cause
he entered into conversation with the man.

“Do you remember me?” he inquired.

“Can’t say as I do, sir.”

The collector was a sharp fellow. The “forgotten
season” dodge would not work with Aim.

“Maybe you remember these better?” said Bruce,

producing his cigar-case.
155156 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Now, wot’s the gyme?” was the man’s unspoken
comment.

But he smiled, and answered:

“Do you mean by the look of ’em, sir?”

“Good!” laughed Bruce. “Put a couple in your
pocket. Meanwhile I am sure you can recall my com-
ing to see you last November concerning a lady who
alighted here from Victoria one foggy evening and
handed you a ticket to Richmond?”

“Why, of course I do, sir. And the cigars are all
right. There was a rare fuss about that lydy. Did she
ever turn up?”

“Not exactly. That is to say, she died shortly after-
wards.”

“No! Well, of all the rum goes! She was a fine-
looking woman, too, as well as I rec’llect. Looked fit
for another fifty year. Wot ’appened to ’er?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

‘An’ ’ave you been on the ’unt ever since, gov’nor?”

“Yes, ever since.”

“She’s dead, you s’y?”

Veg 7

“But ’ow d’ye know she’s dead? No one ever said
that before.”

“I have seen her. I saw her dead body at Putney.”

“At Putney! Well, I’m blowed!”

A roar from beneath, the slamming of many doors,
and the quick rush of homeward-bound passengers up
the steps, announced the arrival of a train.

“Pardon, sir,” said the man, “this is the 5-41 Man-
sion House. But don’t go aw’y. There’s somethin’
.-.. Tickets, zf you please.”

In a minute the collector had ended his task. While
sorting his bundle of pasteboards he said:FOXEY 157

‘Queer I was never told. An’ you ain’t the only one
on ’er track. Are you in the police?”

NG?

“T thought not. But some other chaps who kem
‘ere was. Not one of ’em said the lady was dead.”

‘““Why—what matter?”

“Oh, nothin’, but two ’eads is better’n one, if they’re
only sheep’s ’eads.”

“Undoubtedly if one is hungry, and one of them be-
longs to a shrewd chap like you.”

The collector grinned.

“That’s one w’y of lookin’ at it,” he said, “but if
this affair’s pertickler, why, all I can s’y is it’s worth
somethin’ to somebody.”

“Certainly. Here’s a pound note for a start. Ii
you can tell me anything really worth knowing I'll add
four more to it.”

“Now, that’s talkin’. I’m off duty at eight o’clock,
and I can’t ’ave a chat now because I may have an in-
spector along at any minute.”

“Suppose you call and see me in Victoria-street at
nine?”

“Right you are, sir.”

Bruce gave the man his address and recrossed the
square. Few people were abroad, so he walked straight
to the first door of Raleigh Mansions and made his
way to the fourth floor. He was in wayward mood just
then, but he had recollected at the right moment that
he meant to have a quiet look at Flat No. 12.

Had he delayed ten seconds he must have seen Mrs.
Hillmer, closely wrapped in furs, leave her residence
unattended. Her car was not in waiting. She walked
to the cabstand in the square and entered a taxi, driving

back up Sloane Street. Her actions indicated a desire158 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

not to be observed, even by her servants, since in the
usual course of events the housemaid would at least
have brought the cab to the door.

But the barrister, steadily climbing the stairs, could
not guess what was happening in the street. He opened
Mensmore’s door without difficulty, noting as an idle
fact that the expected gust of cold air was absent.
There was no light on the outer landing, so he was in
pitch darkness once he had passed the doorway. He
had no need to strike a match, however, as he remem-
bered the exact position of the electric switch—on the
left beyond the dining-room door.

He stepped cautiously forward, and stretched forth
his hand. With a quick rush some two or three assail-
ants flung themselves on him, and after a fierce, gasping
struggle—for Bruce was athletic and in excellent form
—he was borne to the floor face downwards, with one
arm beneath and the other pinioned behind his back.

“Look sharp, Jim!” shouted a breathless voice.
“Switch on the light and close the door! We've got him
all right!”

They had. Two large hands clutched Bruce’s neck,
a knee was firmly embedded in the small of his back,
another hand gripped his left wrist like a vice, while
some heavy person sat on his legs.

He could not have been collared more effectively by
the whole fifteen of a Rugby International team.

The third man found the electric light and turned
it on.

“Now, get up,” said the voice, “and don’t give us
any more trouble. It’s no use, you'll only get your-
self hurt.”

Bruce, who had had his breath knocked out of him,
rose to his knees. Then, as the light fell on the horri-FOXEY

fied face of Inspector White, he tried vainly to keep up
some pretence of indignation. Once fairly on his feet,
however, he leaned against the wall, and, when his lungs
filled, laughed until his sides ached.

Meanwhile the detective was crimson with rage and
annoyance. His two assistants did not know what to
make of the affair.

“What’s gone wrong, Jim?” said one at last. “Isn’t
this Corbett?”

“No, of course it’s not,’ came the angry growl.

“Then who in hell is it?”

“Oh, ask me another! How on earth could I guess,
Mr. Bruce, that you’d come letting yourself in here
with a latch-key?”

Bruce, still holding his sore ribs, could not answer;
but the detective who had questioned White caught
the name. He recognized it, and grinned at his com-
panion.

‘“‘What did you want here, anyhow?” snarled the in-
furiated inspector, as he realized that his too-success-
ful coup would be retailed with embellishments in every
police station throughout London.

“T w-wanted you to ar-r-rest me, W-White,” wheezed
Bruce. “I s-said you would, and you have.”

“Confound it, how could you know I was here?”

“You were sure to wait here for a man who probably
will not return for months.”

“Was I, indeed? Well, you have yourself to blame
if you’re damaged. I hope my mates did not treat you
rough.”

“What?” cried the one who had not yet spoken. ‘He
gave me a punch in the bread-basket that I’ll feel for
weeks.”160 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“T think we’re about quits,” admitted the other, sur-
veying a torn waistcoat and broken watch-chain.

“T shall be black and blue all over to-morrow,” said
Bruce; “but if you’re satisfied I am. Come, Mr. White,
bring your friends and we'll open a bottle of wine.
We all want it. Corbett won’t be here to-night. Just
now he is in Wyoming.”

“How do you know?”

“By intuition. I am seldom mistaken.”

“But why didn’t you call out when you came nie’

“What chance had I? You fellows were on me like
tigers. By Jove! it’s a good job for Corbett he is
not in my shoes this evening.”

White was genuinely angry, but the barrister did
not want to convert him into an enemy. He knew that
a catastrophe was imminent, and a false move by the
police might work irretrievable mischief.

“Well, inspector,” he went on, “I must confess that
this time you have got the better of me. I did not
know you were here. I looked in for the purpose of
going over the ground quietly, as it were, and I was
never more taken by surprise in my life. Moreover,
your plan is a very clever one, in view of the fact that
Corbett may really return at any moment.”

The detective became more amiable at this praise
from the famous amateur, for Bruce’s achievements in
crime research were well known to his two colleagues.

“T suppose you did wonder what had happened,” he
said with a smile.

“T thought my last hour had come. I am only sorry
Corbett himself missed the experience.”

“Do you really believe he is in the States, sir?”

“T am sure of it.”FOXEY 161

“Then he must have returned there since he wrote
that letter.”

“That is one solution of the difficulty.”

‘Hum. It’s a pity.”

“Why?”

“T would prefer to arrest him on this side. To get
him by extradition is a slow affair, and probably means
a trip across the Atlantic.”

Good-humour being restored, the party quitted the
flat and adjourned to a neighbouring hotel, where the
barrister started White on the full, true, and particular
account of the pursuit and capture of the Park Lane
burglars, an exploit which was the pride of the detec-
tive’s life.

At the end of a bottle of champagne and cigarettes
they parted excellent friends, but Bruce did not at-
tempt to re-enter Raleigh Mansions that night. He ate
a quiet meal at a restaurant instead, and hurried to his
chambers to await the promised visit of the ticket-
collector.

Punctual to the hour, this new witness arrived, and
was admitted by Smith. The man was somewhat
awed by the surroundings and the appearance of a
servant in livery, but Bruce knew exactly how to put
him at his ease.

“(Come and sit near the fire!” he said pleasantly. “Do
you drink whiskey and soda? That box contains your
favourite cigars. Now, tell me all you know about this
business.”

“T can’t sy as I know anythink about it, sir, but
by puttin’ two and two together it makes four some-
times—not always.”

‘How true! You're a philosopher. Let me hear162 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

the two two’s. We will see about the addition after-
wards.”

“Well, sir, this yer lydy was a-missin’ early in
November. She tykes a ticket at Victoria Station on
the District for Richmond; she gives it up at Sloane
Square, arsks a newsboy the w’y to Raleigh Mansions,
for ’e tell’d me so after you’d bin to see me, an’ from
what you s’y ’as bin swallered up ever since.”

“The Lord Chief couldn’t state the case more
simply.”

“That’s the first two. Now, for the second two, an’
you won’t forgit as I knew nothink about the lydy bein’
dead, or I’d ’ave opened my mouth long afore this.”

“Go on. No one can blame you.”

“There’s an old chap—Foxey they calls ’im, I don’t
know ’is right nyme—who drives a broken-down Ford
around Chelsea, an’ ’e ’ad tyken a fare from the Square
to the City. It might be four o’clock or it might be
five, but ’e was on ’is w’y back to Cornhill when a gent,
a tall, good-looking gent, a youngish, military chap,
ails ’im.and says: ‘Cabby, drive me to Sloane Square,
There’s no ’urry, but tyke care. I don’t like this
damned fog!’ Old Foxey nearly fell over hisself at
this bit of good luck. ’E was pretty full then, for ’e’s
a regular beer-barrel, ’e is, but ’e made up ’is mind to
’ave a fair old skinful that night. Well, Foxey drives
’im all right to the Square. The gent gives ’im six
bob an’ says: ‘Wite ’ere for me, cabby. You can drive
me ’ome in about an hour’s time.’ This was at 5.30.
Foxey drew up near the stytion, tells me all about it,
an’ stan’s me two beers, ’e was that pleased with ’isself.
’E goes orf to get some water for the radiator, in comes
the Richmond train, and out pops the lydy with the
Richmond ticket. D’ye follow me?”FOXEY

“Every word.”

“An’ you see now ’ow it is I can fix the d’y?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, I sees no more of Foxey. I missed ’im about
the Square, so one d’y I axes at the rank,—‘Where’s
Foxey?’? An’ where d’ye think ’e was?”

“T cannot tell.”

“Tn quod.”

“Tn jail. Why?”

“That’s hit. That’s number two of the twos. Pardon
me, but I’m gettin’ a bit mixed. Well, it seems that
that very night, comin’ back from Putney drunk as a
lord, old Foxey runs over a barrer. ’E an’ the coster
’as a bit of a mix-up. The police come, and Foxey dots
one bobby in the jawr and another on the boko. You
wouldn’t think it was in ’im. ’E must ’ave bin
paralytic.”

“So he was locked up?”

“Locked up! ’E was dragged there by the ’eels.
Next mornin’ ’e comes before the beak. ‘We was all
drunk together your wushup,’ ’e says. ‘I took a fare
from the City to Sloane Square, an’ ’e left me for
more’n an hour. ’E comes back excited like—bin
boozin’ ’ard, I suppose—brings my keb up to a ’ouse,
carries in a lydy who was that ’toxicated she couldn’t
stand, an’ tells me to drive to Putney. We gits there,
an’ I says, “you’ve run me short of petrol, gov-nor.”
With that ’e tips me a fiver—a five-pun note, your
wushup.’ ‘What has that got to do with the charge?’
says the beak. ‘Wot?’ says Foxey. ‘Lord luv a duck,
if a chap gev you a fiver for drivin’ ’im to Putney
wouldn’t you get drunk?’ With that the magistrate
gives ’im three months for assaulting the police, and
fines ’im the balance of the fiver for bein’ drunk in164 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

chawge of a taxi. It it ’adn’t bin a Ford he’d ’ave
lost his ticket, too.”

The collector took a long drink after this recital.

“I hope you will not follow Foxey’s example,” said
Bruce, rising.

*’Ow do you mean, sir?”

“Because I’m going to keep my word. Here are the
four pounds I owe you. In your case your two and
two have made five.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re a brick. No fear of me
meltin’ this little lot. The missus will be on ’em like
a bird w’en I tell her.” And the man rolled up the
notes with evident relish.

“One word more,” said Bruce. ‘Where was Foxey
tried?”

“At the West London Police Court.”

“You can get his real name and post it to me?”

“Sure, sir. Anyway, I’ll try.”

“I am greatly obliged to you.”

‘An’ ’as my yarn bin of any use to you, sir?”

“The greatest. It has solved a riddle. However, I'll
see you again. Good-bye. Don’t forget to write.”

“Cornhill is in the direct line from Leadenhall
Street,” said Bruce when he was alone. “Any one going
to Sloane Square from Dodge & Co’s office would pass
through it. Upon my word, things look black against
Mensmore. Yet, I cannot believe it!”CHAPTER XVII
A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION

Bruce had several separate lines of inquiry open
now. Whether any or all would converge in a well-
marked trail leading to the arrest and conviction of
Lady Dene’s murderer was a question still lying in the
lap of the gods. Apart from the main and vital matter
of the exact method of his friend’s death and the iden-
tity of the person responsible for it, a number of highly
important points required attention.

Why had Jane Harding quitted her situation so sud-
denly?

Whence did she obtain the money which enabled
her to blossom forth as Marie le Marchant?

Who was Sydney H. Corbett?

Why did Mensmore adopt a false name; in any case
why did he adopt the name of Corbett?

Why did Mrs. Hillmer show such sudden and terror-
stricken suspicion that her brother might actually be
guilty of the crime?

Whom did Mrs. Hillmer marry? Was her husband
alive or dead?

Was the man who conveyed Lady Dene’s body from
Raleigh Mansions to Putney responsible also for her
death?

Finally, why did he select that particular portion of
the Thames banks for the safe hiding of his dreadful
burden?

Many other minor issues called for attention, but

the barrister knew well that if he elucidated some oi
165166 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

the major problems the rest would take care of them-
selves.

The last point, the disposal of the body, offered im-
mediate and definite information unless some crass
obstacle interposed. Turning to his notes, he found that
the former owner of the Putney house was a tutor or
preparatory school-master, named the Rev. Septimus
Childe.

Could it be that this was the school in which both
Sir Charles Dene and Mensmore were fellow-students?
If so, Bruce failed to see why he should not place the
whole of the facts in his possession at the service of
the police without further delay, and allow the law to
take its course.

On this supposition, the case against Mensmore was
most grave; not, perhaps, wholly incapable of expla-
nation—for circumstantial evidence can play strange
pranks with logic—but of such a serious and pressing
nature that no private individual would be justified
in keeping his knowledge to himself.

The deduction was intensely disagreeable; but Bruce
resolved to coerce his sympathies, and do that which
was right, irrespective of consequences.

He did not possess a Clergy List. No letter came
from Mrs. Hillmer, so he walked across the Park to his
club in Pall Mall to consult the appropriately bound
black and white volume which gives official details of
the many degrees in the Church of England.

Septimus Childe was a distinctive though simple
name. And it was not there! There was not a Childe
with a final “e” in the whole book. Lacking that im-
portant letter, since his informant might be mistaken
as to the spelling, there were several. Close scrutiny
of each man’s designation and duties convinced himA POSSIBLE EXPLANATION 167

that though any of these might be one of the particular
Childe’s children, none answered to the description of
the gentleman he sought.

Of course, he could always apply to Sir Charles Dene,
but he dreaded approaching his grief-stricken friend.
Now there was no help for it. He chafed against the
constant difficulties which barred progress in every
direction. After all, it was a small thing merely to ask
if Dene had ever known a reverend gentleman named
Childe.

Of course, Bruce was convinced in his own mind that
Sir Charles was neither acquainted with Mr. Childe nor
with the fact that the Putney house had been his own
old “prep” school, for it would be strange beyond cre-
dence that he had never mentioned either of those re-
markable things.

The weather was still clear and cold, and a wintry
sun made walking pleasant. Bruce set out again on
foot. He crossed St. James’s Square, Jermyn-street,
and Piccadilly, and made his way to Oxford-street up
New Bond-street.

Not often did he frequent these fashionable thorough-
fares, and he had an excellent reason. When walking
he was given to abstraction, and seldom saw his friends
and acquaintances. He had been known to cut dead a
woman at whose house he had dined the previous eve-
ning, and, when in practice at the Bar, fail to notice
the salutation of his own leader. This was a strange
failing in an amateur detective. To Bruce himself the
short-coming was intolerable; sheer consciousness of
it when he happened to be within the West End made
him the most alert man in the crowd, except on the rare
occasions when he forgot his curious defect.

That morning Bond-street was pleasantly full.168 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

People were beginning to return to town. Parliament
re-assembled within a few days, and he passed many
who were on his visiting list. Outside a well-known
costumier’s he saw a smart car, into which a lady had
just been assisted by a commissionaire.

It is no uncommon thing to recognize an acquaintance
by the coach-work of a car or the make of the engine.
This time Bruce knew the chauffeur as well as the
vehicle, but the lady inside was not Mrs. Hillmer.

Instantly he was at the door, with his hat lifted; he
assumed an expression of polite regret when he found
Dobson, the maid, in her mistress’s place.

“Sorry,” he said, “I spotted the car, and hoped I
might meet Mrs. Hillmer. She is well, I trust?”

“Not very, sir,” answered the maid with an angry
pout.

“Indeed. What is the matter?”

“Madame is going away, and has put us all on board
wages.”

In a word, Dobson, having many of the social priv-
ileges of a companion, resented relegation to the
servants’ hall.

“Going away?” cried Bruce. ‘Made up her mind
rather suddenly, didn’t she?”

The girl was arranging some parcels on a seat. She
was not disinclined for a chat with a good-looking man
of Bruce’s type, so she smiled somewhat archly, and
said:

“Didn’t she tell you, sir? I thought you would be
sure to know all about it.”

What he might have ascertained in another minute he
could not tell. The chauffeur was more loyal to his
mistress than the maid, and broke off the conversation
abruptly.A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION 169

“Beg pardon, sir,” he cried, “but the missus told us
to hurry”; and the car joined the passing stream.

“More complications,’ murmured Bruce. “Mrs.
Hillmer does a bolt. Shall I pay her a surprise visit?
No, confound it, I will not. Let her go. She’s afraid,
so I’ll let things rip.”

Not in the most amiable frame of mind, however,
he went on his way to Portman Square. Sir Charles
Dene was at home. He always was at home these
days.

“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Bruce,” whispered Thomp-
son in the hall, “try and persuade Sir Charles to quit
smokin’, and readin’, and thinkin’. He sits all day in
the library and ’ardly has a thing to eat.”

Bruce reproached himself for not having carried out
his fixed resolve to stir his friend into something like
animation. He was wondering how he could go about
it best when the baronet rose to welcome him.

“Well, old fellow, what news?” came the greeting,
with the wan smile of a man who looked for no news
that he would value.

Bruce decided instantly to throw all questioning to
the winds for the moment.

“Dye come to take you out,” he said. “I won’t hear
of a refusal. Let’s walk to the club and have lunch,
with a game of billiards afterwards.”

Sir Charles protested. He had slept badly and was
tired.

“All the more reason you should prepare to sleep
well to-night. Come, now. Grab your hat and don’t
argue. You'll became a hopeless invalid if you go
on in this way.”

Dene unwillingly consented, and they left the house.
The older man brightened up considerably in the bustle170 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

of the streets. His colour returned. He talked with
some degree of cheerfulness. He even laughed at a
conceit which he put into words.

“T never knew, Claude, you were a doctor, in addition
to your other varied accomplishments. For the first
time since—since November last, I feel hungry. You'll
hardly believe me but it’s an actual fact—I’ve not
eaten a square meal since the night Alisia died.”

“Why don’t you take my advice, and go away?
Clear out to—to South Africa.”

Bruce just checked himself in time. He had nearly
said “the South of France.”

“T’ll think of it. I wonder who we'll meet at the
club.”

“Lots of fellows, no doubt. And, by the way, you
must be prepared for one little difficulty. Suppose
they ask about your wife?”

The baronet’s momentary gaiety vanished. He
stopped short, and clutched Bruce’s arm.

“Don’t you see,” he almost whispered, “‘you’ve hit
on the very reason why I’ve remained indoors so long?
What shall I say?”

“Make the best of it. Say, off-handedly, you don’t
quite know where she is—either with relations or in
Italy—anything to create a false impression.”

“TI am sick of false impressions. I cannot do it.”

“You must.”

The stronger will prevailed, and they entered the
Imperial, where, of course, Dene was hailed at once
by a dozen men.

“Hallo, Charlie! Been seedy?”

“Great Scott—is that you, Dene? You’ve had the
flu, I'll bet. Now I come to think of it I’ve missed
you for months.”A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION 171

“T haven’t seen your wife for quite a time. How is
she?”

In the multitude of questions there was safety. Sir
Charles answered vaguely, and a chance arrival created
a diversion by announcing that the favourite had
broken down in his preparation for the Grand National.

Later in the afternoon, the two found themselves in a
quiet corner of the smoking-room. Bruce seized the
opportunity.

“Vou told me,” he said, “that Mensmore and you
were at school together?”

“Did I?” said the other listlessly.

“Ves; don’t you remember?”

“T get mixed up in thinking about things. But it’s
correct enough. We were.”

““‘Whereabouts?”

“Oh, a private establishment kept by an old chap
called Septimus Childe——Lucky Number was our
nickname for him.”

Bruce betrayed no surprise at this startling simple
statement. He said casually:

“T mean where was the school situated?”

“At Brighton, in my time. Afterwards he shifted to
some place near London—something to do with schol-
arships and examinations, I fancy.’

“But don’t you know where?”

“How should I? I was at Sandhurst then. I be-
lieve the old boy is dead. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it has to do with the inquiry. I won’t trouble
you now with the details.”

“Go on, I can stand it.”

“But what’s the use? It only pains you need-
lessly ?”172 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“That stage has passed, old chap. My wife’s mem-
ory has become a dim dream.”

“Well, it’s really quite strange—but that place where
—that house at Putney, you know—must have been
the later school of the Rev. Septimus Childe.”

“How did you learn that?”

“I have known it for months, ever since the inquest.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“True. At the time it seemed of no consequence
whatever. Now that Mensmore turns out to be a pupil
of his, and probably passed the remainder of his early
school days at that very establishment, the incident
becomes important. Indeed, it is almost sinister.”

Sir Charles looked earnestly at his friend before he
put the next question.

“Do you seriously believe that Mensmore had any-
thing to do with my wife’s death?”

“Honestly, I can’t give a satisfactory answer.”

“But what do you think?”

“If you press me I'll try and put my opinion into
words. In some mysterious way he was associated
with the crime; but the degree of association, and
whether conscious or unconscious, I cannot begin to
estimate yet.”

‘What do you mean by ‘conscious or unconscious’ ?”

“I am sure that Lady Dene met her death in his
residence; but it is impossible to say now that he was
aware of her presence. He was in London at the time
—that is quite certain.”

“Do the police know all this?”

“No.”

“Tm glad of it. Mensmore did not kill my wife.
The suggestion is absurd—wildly absurd.”
“Tt has to be considered.”A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION 173

“T tell you it is nonsense. You're on the wrong track,
Bruce. What possible motive could he have to decoy
my wife to his flat and murder her?”

“None, perhaps.”

“Then why do you hesitate to agree with me?”

“Because there is a woman in the case.”

“Another woman?”

“Ves: Mensmore’s sister, or half-sister, to be exact.
She also lives in Raleigh Mansions.”

“Indeed. So all kinds of things have been going on
without my knowledge. Yet you promised faithfully
to keep me well informed as to developments.”

“T’m sorry, Dene. You were so upset—”

“Upset, man! Don’t you realize that this damnable
affair is all I have to think about in the world?”

The baronet was so disturbed that Bruce made up
his mind then and there to tell him as little as possible
in the future. These constant hazards of a real break
in their friendship must be avoided at all costs.

“Do forgive me,” he said. “I did it for the best.
How do your wife’s people bear the continued mystery
of her disappearance?”

It was a weak effort to head off their talk from the
difficult line it had taken, but Dene acquiesced without
protest. A little later, when the crisis had passed,
Bruce realized that a once vigorous intellect was now
almost incapable of sustained mental effort.

“At first they were awfully cut up,” came the reply.
“But lately they have become reconciled to her death,
which, they say, must have resulted from accident,
while her identity got mixed up with that of some other
person. Such things do happen, you know. Anyway,
her sister has gone into mourning. You didn’t hear, I

suppose, that I have made my little nephew my heir?”174 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

‘Was that step necessary at your time of life?”

“T shall never marry again, Bruce.”

“Well, suppose we drop the subject, though I must
admit you have done right as regards the boy in the
existing circumstances. As a man of the world, how-
ever, I ought to point out that it is an unwise thing to
bring up a youngster in expectation of something which
chance may determine differently.”

“Chance! There is no chance! My wife cannot
return from the grave!”

“True. Well, well. The very suddenness of your re-
solve caused me to blurt out more than I meant to say.”

They were silent for a little while. Somewhat un-
expectedly Sir Charles returned to the subject nearest
his heart.

“Has your search developed in other directions?”

Bruce fenced adroitly enough this time. ‘To be can-
did,” he said, “I am now engaged in the not very dif-
ficult task of throwing dust in the eyes of the police.
My motives are hardly definite, even to myself, but I
don’t want this unfortunate man, Mensmore, to be
arrested until I am convinced of his guilt.”

“You are right. Your instinct seldom fails. I ques-
tion if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife.”

“Ah! You have hit on the real difficulty. Show me
her reason for making that secret journey, and I’ll tell
you how she met her death.”

His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old
friend of Dene’s had entered and evidently meant to
join them. A few minutes later Bruce drove to his
chambers, where he found a note from the ticket col-
lector stating that Foxey’s name was William Marsh.

The day was still young, so the barrister paid a visit
to the West London Police Court, where the recordsA POSSIBLE EXPLANATION 175

 

soon laid bare the conviction of the taxi-driver and the
period of his sentence. ’
“Tet me see,” said the resident inspector, “his time
at Holloway is up on February 6th. That is a Moiis
day, and as Sunday doesn’t count, he’ll be let out on
the 4th about 8 am. That is the regular custom, sir,
in the matter of short sentences. If you want to see
him when he leaves the jail you can either wait at the
gates or at the nearest coffee-house, where the prisoners
meet their pals. It’s odd how some people make a
point of being there. They think it’s a kindness, I
suppose.”

Bruce thanked the man and returned home.

He was on the point of going out to dine with one of
his old leaders at the Bar, when he received a letter
from Sir Charles Dene. It ran:

My Dear CLAuDE,—To-day’s experiences have com-
pelled me to accept the inevitable, and announce my
wife’s death. I have forwarded the enclosed notice to an
advertisement agency, with instructions to insert it in
all the leading papers. I have also decided to follow
your advice and leave town for a few days. I am go-
ing to Wensley, my place in Yorkshire, should you
happen to want me.

Yours ever,
CHARLES DENE.

The notice read:

DENE—On November 6th, Alisia, wife of Sir Charles
Dene, Bart., suddenly, at London.

Next morning it figured in the obituary columns.
Bruce, though taken aback by the strange suddenness
of his friend’s resolve, saw no reason to dissuade him.
In the words of the letter the unhappy man was facing
“the inevitable.”CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA

Tur White Heather swung lazily at her moorings
in the harbour of Genoa the Superb. The lively com-
pany on board, tired after a day’s sight-seeing, had
left the marble streets and palace cafés to the Genoese,
and sought the pleasant seclusion of the yacht’s prom-
enade deck.

“Dinner on board, followed by a dance,” announced
Phyllis Browne, Mistress of the Revels. A few in-
vitations sent out hastily to British residents in Genoa
met with general acceptance, and the lull between af-
ternoon tea and the more formal meal supplied a grate-
ful interlude. Genoa is so shut in by its amphitheatre
of hills that unless a gale blows from the west its bay
is unruffled, and its atmosphere can be oppressively
hot during the day, even in the winter months.

The cruise had proved so attractive to Sir William’s
family and guests that the White Heather was taken
farther along the coast than was intended originally.
When all the best known resorts of the Riviera itself
were exploited, some one, probably prompted thereto
by Phyllis, suggested the run to Genoa.

They had been in the port three days. On the mor-
row the yacht would be handed over to the owner's
agents, and the party would break up. The Brownes
were booked for Florence and Rome, and Mensmore
was pretending to hold out against his prospective
father-in-law’s suggestion that he should accompany

them.
176WHAT HAPPENED ON TH RIVIERA 179

This afternoon Phyllis and he were ~ own hands.
the taffrail and discussing the point. The yc
was inclined to pout. Her eyes roamed over th
nificent panorama of church-crowned hills and veil the
valleys, with the white city in front and the picturesquy
quays looking as though they had been specially
decked for a painting by Clara Montalba. But she
paid heed to none of these things. She wanted her
lover to come with her, and not fly away to smoke-
covered London.

“Business!” she cried. “It’s always business with
you men. Of course, I know that affairs must be
attended to, but now that everything is settled and
we're quite happy, it is too bad of you to run off at
once.”

“But, dearest—”

“There! Take your hand off my arm. You're not
going to wheedle me like that. Just because you re-
ceive a horrid letter this morning you go and upset all
our arrangements.”

“Phyllis, do listen. I—”

“You shan’t go. It’s real mean of you even to talk
about it.”

“Right-o, kid! But you might at least help me over
a stile. Ive simply got to explain things.”

“And you will stay?”

“What else can I do?”

“Oh, you darling!”

The quarrel was rather agreeable in the sense that
it made them feel so much more in love than ever; but
it did not lessen Mensmore’s difficulties.

“Let’s see what Corbett really says,” he growled,
taking a letter from his pocket.

“Am I to look, too?”ARIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

se. I have no secrets from you, girlie.”
. nestled close. This time she did not object
hand resting on her shoulder, and together they
the following letter:

My Dear Bertre—At last I am able to write
definitely. The prospectors have struck it rich on our
property, and I have sold two claims outright for
$50,000. With this wad safely tucked away I am
taking the girls to New York, and shall then cross by
the Aquitania due in Southampton February 4, so try
and be on the dock, I’ll wireless the hour of arrival.

Yours ever,
SYDNEY H. CorBETT.

Both gazed thoughtfully at the obviously hurried
scrawl before Phyllis said:

“Does that mean we shall be rich, Bertie?”’

He endorsed the plural pronoun by a squeeze.

“T hope so, dear.”

“That will be awfully nice, won’t it? Dll marry you
even if you have to take a place in father’s office;
but it will be so much better if you haven’t to explain
after all that you are rather poor.”

Mensmore laughed.

“Tt’s not so bad as that in any case,” he said. “The
Springbok Mine will probably turn out well, but I
look to Wyoming to yield the best and most speedy
results.”

“Why is Mr. Corbett coming to London?”

“Because it is only in London that capital can be
obtained for large mining undertakings, and if the
Wyoming Goldfield is really a Bonanza we may be able
to realize some part of our holding for a considerableWHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA 179

sum, while retaining a solid interest in our own hands.
In any event he wants to consult me.”

“Do you both own the ranch?”

“Yes; it was a joint transaction, but I found the
money.”

“And why did you come away?”

“Well, we were making precious little out of it. As
Corbett has two sisters, I thought it best to leave what
there was for him and them. He was absurdly grateful
about what he called my generosity, but now the land
has proved valuable, all that nonsense is at an end, of
course, and we go half-shares in everything.”

“Two sisters! Pretty ones?”

“Very nice, jolly girls, but much older than their
brother, and he is my senior by two years.”

Miss Browne was graciously pleased to accept this
classification of the Corbett females. She knitted her
smooth brows in a reflective frown.

“Mr. Corbett arrives on the 4th,” she said. “It is
now January 30th. You really ought to go home,
Bertie.”

“Now my dear, sensible little woman is talking like
her own self.”

“I must give in, I suppose. But I did hope we
would see Florence together.”

“So we shall. Tl tell you what I can do. I'll wire-
less Corbett to-day, and write him care of the steamer
at Southampton, telling him to go to my flat and stay
there a few days until I arrive. I’ll be in town at the
end of next week. He is sure to spend some time see-
ing the sights before tackling business, and he can do
that almost as well in my absence. A line to my old
housekeeper, who has a key, will make the place habit-
able. Happy thought! Do it now!”180 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Another happy thought! I'll come ashore with
you.”

She did not notice that Mensmore’s face clouded at
this otherwise pleasant intimation. Nevertheless, he
raced her to the saloon and seated himself at a writing-
table. But before he placed pen to paper, Phyllis
bending over him meanwhile, he exclaimed vexedly:

“What a bore! I can manage the wireless, but I
don’t know how to address the letter to make sure it
reaches him at once, and it is really quite important
there should be no hitch.”

“Father will know. Let’s ask him.”

“No,” said Mensmore judicially, “I’ll row across
the harbour to the Florio-Rubattino office, find out the
right dope and post the letter. Back in half-an-hour.
Be as good as you can for thirty minutes!”

Before Phyllis could argue the matter he was at the
gangway shouting for a boat. She blew a kiss as he
shot over the narrow strip of water inside the mole, /
and little realized that Mensmore was saying to him-
self:

“That was a close shave. Never again, as long as I
live, will I take another man’s name. You never know
when the bally thing is going to turn and biff you in
the eye.”

He did not trouble the Florio-Rubattino people.
He knew full well that a letter addressed to the ship
care of the local Cunard office would reach his friend.

The context, as finally indited at the post-office,
explains his hesitancy to write it in the presence of his
fiancée.

My Dear SypNEY,—Your good news is more than
surprising. Although I believe every word of ithWHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA 181

can hardly grasp it fully yet. However, let us leave
explanations till we meet. I am anchored here for a
few days more, as I have just become engaged to the
sweetest girl in the world, but will reach London at
the end of next week. Meanwhile, I want you to dig
in at my flat, No. 12 Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square,
where my housekeeper has instructions to receive you.
Don’t be surprised if you find the name of Corbett
familiar there. Indeed, I rented the place in your
name in August last. However, all about this and
heaps more when we meet.
Yours ever,
BERTIE MENSMORE.

He dashed off a note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Rob-
inson, and another to the hall-porter of the Orleans
Club, lest by any chance the Southampton letter mis-
carried. ‘There was small chance of that, however,
because his wireless message told Corbett to look out
for it on arrival.

He laughed as he hurried from the post-office to the
harbour.

“By Jove!” he said to himself, “won’t old Mother
Robinson be surprised when she gets my letter telling
her that another Mr. Corbett is coming from America,
and that my name, concealed for family reasons, is
Mensmore. I guess Sydney will be a bit mixed up,
too, until I tell him the whole yarn.”

No wonder his housekeeper would fail to under-
stand. Others, whose influence on his fortunes he little
suspected, were more than puzzled already. Bruce,
for instance, and Inspector White as well, would have
been exceedingly grateful if some occult power had
enabled them to read the seemingly trivial letters
posted that day in Genoa.182 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Every person bound up with the mysterious disap-
pearance of Lady Dene, and not least the prospective
visitor from the United States, was on the eve of a
mad whirl of events, a vertigo to which no man could
set a limit. As yet, Claude Bruce alone had the slight-
est suspicion that affairs were approaching a crisis.

When Mensmore reached the White Heather he
found Lady Browne and Phyllis dressed for a drive
before dinner. Sir William seized the opportunity to
tackle his daughter’s suitor on the vital question of
his financial standing. Phyllis was an only child, and
her father did not propose that she should live in
penury in any event. He liked Mensmore, and had
ascertained by private inquiries that his social position
was good.

“His father was a Major-General who lost his sav-
ings by speculation at the close of the War,” ran the
well-informed report. ‘He was unable to maintain his
son in the crack cavalr: corps to which the youngster
had just been gazetted, sé the boy chucked his com-
mission and went to America. There was a daughter,
too, by the first wife, a very charming woman, who,
when the crash came, was supposed to have gone on
the stage. I have never heard of her since.”

So far, the credentials were not bad; but Sir Wil-
liam wanted definite particulars.

Mensmore was quite candid.

“I have been a bit of a rolling stone,” he said, “but
I’m glad to think that people have never had cause
to think ill of me. There were times when I was jolly
hard up, but that’s all over now. I have already
spoken to you about the Springbok Mine—”

The old gentleman nodded.
“Well, this morning I have received even more satis-WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA 183

factory news from America,” and he handed over Cor-
bett’s letter.

“Ves,” agreed Sir William. “That reads well, and
Springboks are being talked of in the City. We must
look into all this when we reach England. Meanwhile,
I give a provisional consent to my daughter’s engage-
ment. She is a. good girl, Mensmore. She will be a
true and excellent wife. She might have married a
title, but I’m a self-made man myself, so I have noth-
ing against you on that count. I hope you are worthy
of her, and trust that whatever clouds may have dark-
ened your early life will now pass away. You two
ought to be happy.”

“We shall, sir,’ said Mensmore fervently.

“By the way, where is your sister? Is she in Eng-
land or abroad?”

Mensmore was prepared for this.

“Mrs. Hillmer is my half-sister,” he explained. “I
have not seen much of her sir'te—since she contracted
an unhappy marriage some years ago.”

“Tndeed. Is her husband alive?”

“T can hardly tell you. I believe so. But she does
not live with him. She is well provided for. It was
partly on account of this matter that I came to the
Riviera for the winter. To tell the truth, I quar-
relled with her about it.”

“Ah, well. Her troubles need not affect Phyllis and
you, except to serve as a warning. And—take my ad-
vice. Never interfere between husband and wife.
However good your motive, ill is sure to come of it.”

In the growing dusk Sir William Browne did not
notice his companion’s embarrassment. Mensmore was
essentially an honourable man, and he detested the
necessity which permitted false inferences to be drawn184 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

from his words. Yet there was no help for it. He was
compelled to be silent for his sister’s sake.

It was a relief when the dressing-bell procured his
escape. There was quite a large gathering for dinner.
Continental cities like Genoa contain some highly in-
teresting folk if the visitor discovers them. The Brit-
ish race produces a richer variety of human flotsam
and jetsam than any other. These derelicts come to
anchor in the most out-of-the way places. They seem
to have been everywhere and have done everything,
while the whole world is an open book to them.

Thus, there was no lack of variety in the talk at
table, and, as is usual in such cosmopolitan company,
it dealt mainly with personalities.

Phyllis had arranged the guests, so it may be taken
for granted that her fiancé—was near her—in fact, he
sat exactly opposite. The lady he took into dinner
was the wife of an English doctor, and the British
consul escorted Phyllis herself. He was a chatty man,
and kept himself well informed concerning events in
Society.

“By the way,” he said to the girl, “did you ever
meet Lady Dene?”’

‘“‘No, but her name sounds familiar.”

“Do you mean the wife of Sir Charles Dene?” broke
in Mensmore; and the sudden interest he evinced
caused Phyllis to glance at him wonderingly.

‘Yes, that is she.”

“T know Sir Charles well. What is there new about
his wife?”

“She is dead.”’

“Good Heavens! Dead! When, and how?”

Mensmore was obviously so agitated that others
present noticed it, and Phyllis marvelled greatly thatWHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA 185

in all their confidences the name of Dene had never
escaped his lips.

The consul, too, was a trifle nonplussed by the sen-
sation he had caused.

“T fear,’ he said, “I may have blurted out an un-
pleasant fact rather unguardedly. Are the Denes
friends of yours?”

‘No, no, not quite that. But I have known Sir
Charles for many years. Are you sure his wife is
dead?”

“My authority is an announcement in the Times to
hand by to-day’s post. I should not have mentioned
it were not her ladyship so popular in London, and the
affair is peculiar, to say the least.”

‘“‘Peculiar—how?”

In his all-absorbing interest in the consul’s state-
ment Mensmore paid no heed to the curious looks di-
rected at him; his weather-tanned face had become
pale, and his manner was more excited than the circum-
stances seemed to warrant.

“Well, it is this way: The paper is the issue of
January 28th, yet the notice says that Lady Dene died
on November 6th. That’s odd, don’t you think? A
woman of her position could hardly have dropped out
of existence so quietly that no one would trouble to
publish the fact until nearly three months had elapsed.”

“Tt’s extraordinary—inexplicable!”

“Did you know Lady Dene before her marriage,
Bertie?” put in Phyllis timorously.

The question restored Mensmore to some sense of
his surroundings.

“No,” he said, trying desperately to suppress his
excitement, “but her husband is an old school-fellow186 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

of mine, and I have heard much of them recently. I
am quite shocked by the news.”

“T can only repeat my regret for having blurted it
out so carelessly,” said the polite consul.

“Oh, I am glad to know of it since it has happened.
Poor Lady Dene! How strange that she should die
now!”

Phyllis had the tact to talk of something else, and
Mensmore gradually recovered his self-possession. A
woman’s eyes are keen, and Phyllis saw quite plainly
that after the first effect of the news had passed it
seemed in some indefinable way to have a good effect
on her lover. Trying to arrive at an explanation of
Mensmore’s peculiar behaviour, Phyllis suddenly, to
use her own expressive phrase, “went hot all over.”

In a word, she felt furiously and inordinately jealous
of a woman she did not know, and who was admittedly
dead before Mensmore and she herself had met. When
the hapless man claimed her for the first dance, he,
of course, suspected no evil.

“Who is this Lady Dene in whom you are so deeply
interested?” she said, drawing him beneath a shelter-
ing awning. He was somewhat surprised, but answered
readily enough.

“As I told you,” he said, “she is the wife of an old
acquaintance.”

“But you must have been very fond of her that you
should feel so bad about her death.”

“Fond of her! I have never, to my knowledge, set
eyes on her.”

“Oh!” Phyllis had the good grace to be thankful
she had disclosed so little of what was really in her
mind. “Then why did you look so worried during
dinner?”WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA 187

“Simply because I know Sir Charles.”

“What a dear, sympathetic boy you are! When I
die, Bertie, I suppose you'll drop down stiff from grief
Straight off?”

“Don’t talk such jolly rot! We're missing all this
fox-trot.”

And they whirled away down the snowy deck, for-
getful of all things save one, that they were in love.
Now, what a pity it was that Bruce as not on board
the White Heather that night! Many distressing com-
plications would have been avoided, and some well-
meaning people might have been spared much suffer-
ing. But the tragedies of real life have their own laws.
They seem to march steadily and ruthlessly onward to
a pre-ordained end with a blind disregard of all possible
avenues of escape for their chosen victims,CHAPTER XIX
WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT

Str CHARLES: DENE, in broadcasting a hurriedly-
written announcement of his wife’s death, forgot the
“Society” newspapers. Such a promising item did not
come their way every week, and they made the most
of it. Where and in what circumstances did Lady Dene
die? They rolled the morsel under their tongues in
every way that did not trespass on the provisions of
the Law of Criminal Libel.

Details, of course, were not forthcoming.

“Our representative called at Wensley House, Port-
man Square, but was informed that Sir Charles was in
Yorkshire,” began one screed typical of many. In-
quiry by a local reporter from Sir Charles in person
elicited no information. “Lady Dene is dead,” wrote
this enterprising journalist; “of that there can be no
manner of doubt, but her husband states that for fam-
ily reasons he is unable to supply the public with any
more precise facts than the mere date and the place of
her demise.”

This ill-advised but wholly authentic statement only
fanned the flame. An evening journal got hold of the
proceedings at the Putney Coroner’s Court which in-
quired into the death of a woman found in the Thames,
and, with a portentous display of headlines, published
an interview with the doctor giving particulars of the
iron spike found imbedded in the poor creature’s skull.

This paper was also able to state, “‘on the best au-

thority,” that at the inquest Sir Charles Dene and the
188WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT 189

missing lady’s personal maid were called in to identify
the body but failed, and, in consequence, did not give
evidence.

A first-class sensation was in full swing and threat-
ened to reach the question stage in the House of Com-
mons when Bruce intervened.

He induced Sir Charles Dene’s solicitors to issue an
authoritative communication to the press. It read:

Much unnecessary pain is being caused to Sir
Charles Dene and the relatives of his late wife by the
comments which have appeared in many newspapers
regarding Lady Dene’s death. Her ladyship left her
home on November 6th to pay a visit to her sister at
Richmond, and since that date has not been seen or
heard of. There was no known reason for her dis-
appearance. After a long and agonizing search, her
husband and relatives have come to the conclusion that
she met with a fatal accident on the date named, with
the result that her identity was not established, and
she was probably buried from some hospital or other
institution long before her friends seriously entertained
the thought that she was dead. Every such case of
accidental death followed by the interment of unknown
persons by the authorities, occurring on or about No-
vember 6th, has since been investigated thoroughly,
but no definite trace has been found of the missing
lady. Sir Charles Dene determined to take the public
step of announcing his wife’s death in the hope that
any hitherto undiscovered clue might thereby come to
light. But there are no grounds for supposing that
any other explanation of the occurrence than that given
will ever be forthcoming. The investigation has been
in the hands of Scotland Yard throughout, so no good
purpose can be served by further discussion in the press
of what is now, and threatens to remain, a mystery199 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

rendered more complex by the very simplicity of its
main features.

Several newspapers, of course, pointed out that they
were helping forward the inquiry by noising it abroad,
but the paragraphs ceased thenceforth, being eclipsed
in public interest by the revelations of a meaty divorce
case in which there were no less than six titled co-
respondents.

One man, however, was puzzled not only by the
original obituary notice but also by the semi-official
statement supplied by the solicitors. Inspector White
did not know what to make of them. Guessing that
Bruce had inspired the “explanation,” he read the
concluding sentence many times.

“It threatens to remain a mystery, does it?” he mur-
mured. “Just you wait, Mr. Bruce, till I lay hands
on Corbett. Clever as you think you are, I’ll show
you that the ‘Yard’ can put one over on you occa-
sionally. Anyhow, Corbett must tell a very plain
tale before I am satisfied that he knows nothing about
this business.”

He had written to the Chief of Police at Cheyenne,
and something definite would soon come to hand.
Nevertheless, his diagnosis of the crime was somewhat
shaken. Wyoming was a long way from London, and
the letter from Corbett, which he had in his possession,
did not by any means confirm his theory that this
man was concerned in the murder.

Of course, he soon learnt of Mrs. Hillmer’s de-
parture, and jumped to the conclusion that she had
left England for the United States. A close scrutiny
of the passenger lists at Liverpool and Southampton
did not help in any way, so he resolved to call on Bruce,WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT 191

in the hope that a chance exclamation might reveal the
barrister’s opinion of the deadlock.

Bruce was at no loss to account for the inspector’s
visit.

“T expected you,” he said.

“Really now, may I ask why, sir?”

“Because you have missed Mrs. Hillmer, and you
want my help to find out where she has gone, and
why?”

The detective smiled wearily.

“T won’t say you are wrong, sir,” he admitted. “In
these affairs it is always well to keep an eye on the
woman, you know.”

“When did Mrs. Hillmer leave Raleigh Mansions?”

“On the 30th.”

“Tt is now February 3rd. Four days ago, eh?”

“That is the time. She might have left by the
Cunard or White Star from Southampton or the French
line from Plymouth, but she did not, and no one an-
swering to her description is booked by the United
States line to-morrow.”

“Southampton! Plymouth! Do you think she has
gone to America?”’

‘Where else? She’s in league with Corbett, some-
how—of that I am certain. The Monte Carlo address
was a mere blind—a clever one, too. It even deceived
you, Mr. Bruce.”

“Ves. It did deceive me.”

“Then why are you so surprised at my suggestion
that the lady should attempt to cross the Atlantic?”

“Because I have not your rapid perception of the
points of the case.”

“That’s your way of pulling my leg, Mr. Bruce.”
It was the barrister’s turn to smile. Mrs. Hillmer, of192 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

course, had gone to Monte Carlo. Once there she
would have little difficulty in tracing the White
Heather, and overtaking Mensmore. She would warn
him of the police pursuit, and there would be a lament-
able scene between brother and sister.

How would it result? Would Mensmore, guilty, seek
safety in flight? Would he, innocent, return to Lon-
don and demand to be confronted by his accusers?
For the life of him, Bruce could not make up his mind
what to expect. Yet he felt that the situation was far
too delicate to be dealt with by White’s bludgeon-like
methods, and he said not a word, thereby risking a
good deal.

The detective interpreted his silence as an admission
that he could not explain Mrs. Hillmer’s flight.

He went on:

“Corbett is not at Monte Carlo.”

“So I imagined.”

“Oh, it’s a fact. The police have searched for him
at the Hotel du Cercle and elsewhere. Not the slight-
est trace could be found.”

“T was there myself, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I have not forgotten that. But it shows
how cleverly the fellow is concealing his identity. How-
ever, he could never have counted on my discovering
that letter of his. Even if he is not in America we
shall receive some reliable data in answer to my
queries.”

“There I agree with you fully. You will have done
a great deal if you clear up the mystery regarding Cor-
bett. May I ask you to let me know the result?”

“With pleasure, sir. And now, may I seek a favour
in return?”
“Certainly.”WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT 193

“Tell me the best way to find Mrs. Hillmer.”

Bruce did not expect to be challenged thus openly.
It was one thing to withhold his own theories and dis-
coveries from a representative of the law, but quite
another to mislead a detective with whom he was nomi-
nally working in complete unison.

Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days’ start. It
would take some time—possibly telephonic instructions
would not be sufficiently explicit—to obtain the desired
assistance from the Continental police. Yes—in this
instance, Mensmore must take his chances.

“If I were you,” said Bruce, weighing his words, “I
would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Vic-
toria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge
of the morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it
would be quite safe if you were to wire the authorities
at Monte Carlo asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at
the Hotel du Cercle.”

The detective started as though he had been stung
rather sharply by some unsuspected insect.

“What!” he cried. ‘You think she is there all the
time?”

“T think she has been there since Wednesday morn-
ing.”

“That is what I mean. Why didn’t you tell me
sooner?”

‘Because you never asked. And now, inspector, a
friendly word in your ear. Go slow!”

“It’s all damn fine telling me to go slow when I have
no reason to go fast. The case even against Corbett
is shadowy enough at present.”

“Exactly. Wait until you can grasp a substance.”
“I will, sir,” said White, jamming on his hat; “but194. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

when I lay hands on Corbett I'll grasp him hard
enough.”

It took the policeman all that day to satisfy himself
that Mrs. Hillmer had actually booked for the Riviera
by the Blue Train on the preceding Tuesday. He had
just verified this fact when a reply came from the
Monte Carlo police:

Mrs. Hillmer arrived Hotel du Cercle on Wednes-
day. Left for Italy same evening. Shall we seek
Italian assistance?

“Godfrey Daniel, alabaster!” he shouted loudly.
“Corbett may be in Jerusalem by this time. And here
have I been fussing about Wyoming or some other
crazy cow-pasture in the Far West!”

However, he wired again to Monte Carlo:

Yes. Locate Mrs. Hillmer, if possible. I will then
telegraph instructions to local authorities.

When this message was despatched the blood-pres-
sure eased somewhat. The chase was at least getting
warm.

“T cannot arrest him yet,” he reflected; “but if I once
get fairly on his track T’ll not lose sight of him again if
I can help it. I suppose it will mean a trip to Italy. I
must lay the evidence before the Treasury solicitor to
see if an extradition order can be obtained.”

Two more days passed. Late on Sunday evening,
February 5th, a Continental telegram was handed in
at Scotland Yard.

Mrs. Hillmer’s present address, Hotel Imperiale,
Florence.WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT 195

He wired the Chief of Police at Florence:

Keep Mrs. Hillmer, English visitor, Hotel Imperiale,
under surveillance. Also watch her associates, par-
ticularly Englishman named Corbett, if there. Letter
follows.

For the first time in many weeks he felt in a con-
tented mood, since the search for Corbett had been
beset by most exasperating difficulties.

‘Now we shan’t be long!” he sighed, and lighted a
cigar before walking home for dinner, but a messenger
with the badge of the Commercial Cable Company in
Northumberland Avenue bustled past him at the door-
way.
‘“‘Who’s the cable for, boy?” said the detective.

“White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer.

“That’s me.”

“That all right?” inquired the boy suspiciously, turn-
ing to a uniformed constable on duty.

Ignoring the policeman’s grin, White tore open the
envelope. The contents were coded, but he caught the
word “Corbett” amid the unintelligible jumble.

Blazing with excitement he rushed back to his office
for the A B C Code, and after some difficulty in de-
ciphering caused by slight mutilation, this was what
he read:

Regret delay in replying to your communication.
Corbett left New York in “Homeric”? due Southampton
February 4th.

“February 4th? Why, that’s yesterday! Lord
love a duck, he’s here all the time! Well, of all the—”196 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

But exclamations were useless. Calling a plain-
clothes man to accompany him he ordered a taxi to
disregard the speed limit between the Embankment
and Sloane Square.

About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten
slip gummed onto a telegraph form. It was from
Florence, and ran as follows:

My brother most indignant regarding allegations.
We leave for London to-night. Meanwhile fearful
complications possible. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my
brother’s friend, is probably occupying his flat, and
may be arrested. We both trust to you to rescue him.
Wire us at Modane or Gare du Nord.

GWENDOLINE HILLMER.

So Bruce also raced to Sloane Square.CHAPTER XX
MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT

THE detective glanced up at Bruce’s chambers while
passing through Victoria-street. He jerked a disre-
spectful thumb at the lighted windows.

“T wonder what /e would think if he knew what
we're after,” he said to his colleague, one of the two
who had accompanied him when the barrister was ar-
rested by mistake.

“What are we after?” said the policeman.

‘“‘This time we are going to nab the real Corbett,”
was the confident answer.

“Shall we cart him off?”

“Well, now, that depends. I think I’m quite justi-
fied in collaring him unless he explains things to my
satisfaction, which is hardly likely.”

‘“‘The charge is one of murder, isn’t it?”

‘Vac?

“Who did he kill?”

‘“‘Well, up to now it hasn’t come out, for the sake of
the family. But if Corbett is here you will know soon
enough.”

“Tt’s a funny way to go to work.”

“Commissioner’s orders, my boy. I am not to re-
veal the la—the name until it cannot be avoided any
longer. However, as I have said so much, I don’t mind
telling you it’s a woman, and a big one too.”

“Big! Fat, do you mean?”

“No, fat-head. A woman of high position.”

197198 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“By jing! A Society scandal, I suppose?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

On arrival at Sloane Square they ascended swiftly to
No. 12 Raleigh Mansions. A stout, elderly woman
answered their knock, and a glance at her face re-
vealed the map of Ireland, although her name was
Saxon Robinson.

“Mr. Corbett in?” inquiried White.

“Faith, thin, he’s not,” she said stiffly.

“Where is he?”

“YT don’t know, misther, an’ if I did I wouldn’t be
afther tellin’ when axed in that oncivil way.”

“All right, Mrs. Hi

“Robinson’s my name, if that’s anny satisfaction.”

“Very well, Mrs. Robinson. We wish to have a
word with Mr. Corbett, and we shall be very much
obliged if you can tell is when he is likely to return,
if he is in London at all.”

“Arrah, it’s meself that is mixed up intoirely about
him. Sure, this Mr. Corbett is in London right enough,
and is comin’ in to dinner in half-an-hour, so by yer
lave, I'll get on wid me worruk.”

“May we come in and wait?”

Mrs. Robinson surveyed them suspiciously, but
seemingly decided in their favour.

“Well, it’s mighty cowld outside,’ she said grudg-
ingly, and conducted the callers to the sitting-room.

A fire now burned brightly in the grate wherein
Bruce had made his pregnant discovery. The damaged
bracket still stared at White, so to speak, but he saw
it not. Mrs. Robinson bustled away to the kitchen, and
the two officers sat in silence awaiting developments.
After the lapse of many minutes a queer notion struck
White, and he went out into the passage.MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT 199

“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, “what did you mean ex-
actly by referring to this Mr. Corbett?”

A quick step could be heard bounding up the stairs,
and a key rattled in the lock.

“You'd better ax him yerself,”’ responded the house-
keeper, and the door opened to admit a handsome, well-
knit man, tall and straight, with the clearly cut features
of the true Westerner, and the easy carriage of one
accustomed to the freedom of the plains.

He was dressed quietly and in good taste. The only
sign that he was not a Londoner was given by his
Stetson hat, the last badge of the prairie to be re-
linquished by a wanderer from Cheyenne. In the semi-
darkness of the interior he could discern but dimly the
form of the detective behind the ready-tongued house-
keeper.

“There’s two gintlemen to see ye, Misther Corbett,”
said she.

“Well, now, isn’t that the most cu-rious thing,” he
answered cheerfully. ‘I can only see one of you, but
I’m glad to have you call, stranger, anyway. Come in!
You bin sent by my friend to kind-a cheer me up?
I find this big city of yours a whale of a place after
Wyoming. Come right in!”

White was as thoroughly nonplussed by the new-
comer’s free and easy manner as by his flow of lan-
guage.

Within the drawing-room Corbett caught sight of the
second detective.

“Hello! Here’s the other one. Ve-ry glad to meet
you both. Now, if you’ll just tell me your names we'll
get better acquainted. I guess you know mine all

right.”
The man was genuinely pleased by an unexpected200 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

visit. He smilingly pushed towards them a box of
green cigars, and helped himself to one.

“IT haven’t got the cigarette habit, but I’ll lay in a
stock to-morrow,” he explained. ‘There’s whiskey in
the shack somewhere.

“No, thanks,” said the detective, clearing his throat
to try and get rid of an absurd embarrassment. “My
name is Inspector White, of Scotland Yard, and my
friend here accompanies me officially.”

““Hasn’t he got a name?”

“Yes; but it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, if it doesn’t matter, why should I worry? I
guess you’ve got a’ message of some sort for me, else
you wouldn’t have troubled to climb these stairs. Say,
why in the name of Sam Hill don’t you have el-e-vators

in these big buildings?”

Have a shot?”

“As I said,” began White again, “we are from Scot-
land Yard.”

‘Yeh.

I’ve got that.

Your name is I. White, from

Scotland Yard. I don’t know where Scotland Yard is,
but we’ll rubber along without the geography of it.”
“T am in the police.

not my Christian name.

My rank is Inspector. It is
Scotland Yard is the general

headquarters of the London police, and we represent
the Criminal Investigation Department.”

The American’s eyes opened wide in wonder at this
announcement, and a perplexing thought seemed to
occur to him. But he said quietly:

“T’ll figure things out better when you tell me why
you’ve been good enough to call. And suppose we all
sit down. I’m not used to stone pavements. I’m dog-
gone tired.”

‘Your name is Sydney H. Corbett?” went on the de-MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT 201

tective severely, recovering his self-possession. He
took the proffered chair, however.

“So my people always told me.”

“And you have been the tenant of these chambers
since August last?”

- Have I?”

“So I am informed.”

“Buzz along with your story. It grips.”

“You have just returned to England from Wyoming.
The New York police cabled that you arrived in South-
ampton yesterday.”

“Did they now? That was real cute of those guys.”

“T want to ask you, in the first instance, the exact
date of your departure from this country.”

Before replying Corbett looked at the detective fix-
edly, as though he was trying to read what was in his
mind.

At last he said with a gentle smile:

“Say, what are you after, Mr. White, of Scotland
Yard? What’s the game. Who’s bin givin’ you all this
dope?”

“That is not the way to talk to me, sir. Answer my
questions fully and properly, or it may be the worse
for you.”

‘Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!”

Corbett’s manner could not be misunderstood. He
regarded Mr. White, of Scotland Yard, as several sorts
of a fool, but was too polite to say so.

‘“‘Are you going to reply or not?” demanded the de-
tective firmly. The answer was equally decisive.

“T’m not going to say too much to any man who
talks like a blamed idiot, as you do.”

“Very well. I can obtain my information by other
means. You leave me no alternative—”’202 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

White had half risen, and was about to add, “but
arrest you,” when, with a rapidity known only to those
accustomed to “draw” from boyhood, Corbett whipped
a revolver from a hip pocket and covered the bridge of
White’s nose with the muzzle.

“Just you sit down again, right there, Mr. White of
Scotland Yard, or I'll drill holes in you and your name-
less friend if he interferes. You’d better believe me.
By Christ, I won’t speak twice!”

Neither White nor his companion were cowards.
But they were quite helpless. They had not grappled
with the circumstances with sufficient alertness, and
they were utterly at this man’s mercy. They were well
away from the door, and a table separated them from
Corbett, while there was a steely glint in his eye which
told that he would shoot if they did not obey. They
had both sprung to their feet, and could only glare
at him impotently.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Corbett, with the utmost
calmness, “‘do let me persuade you to sit down again
and get on with your story. It interests me.”

White was purple with wrath and a sense of his own
folly.

“Let me tell you—” he roared.

“Sit down!”

“Make the best of it, Jim,” murmured his colleague,
and the queer gathering resumed their seats.

“That’s better,” said Corbett genially.. ‘““Now, we'll
just go over the ground without gettin’ all het up. Am
I right in supposin’ that you were about to march me
off to jail until I spoilt the proposition?”

“‘There’s no use in resisting,” growled White. “You
cannot escape. If you have any gumption you will
come with us quietly. It’s all up with you.”MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT 203

“Tt looks like it,” said Corbett, with a most agree-
able smile. ‘But if it’s as bad a case as all that, there’s
no real hurry, is there?”’

“Vou’re only making matters more difficult for your-
self.”

“May be. But as I happen to be a citizen of the
United States, I allow that I can’t be whipped off to
prison just because a red-faced mutt like you thinks
it’ud be good for me. I’ve been a law-abiding man all
my life, and I’ve lived in places where each man made
his own law. If you can show good cause, I’ll stand
for it. At present I regard you as the queerest jink
that ever came down the pipe!”

The absurd situation was too much for the detective.
He could only mutter grimly:

“Time will show who’s the jink in this business.”

“Oh, you get that, do you? Now, listen to me, Mr.
White, of Scotland Yard. I’m hungry, an’ I’ve a sort
of notion that the old lady is ready with the eats.
Will you be good enough to say what you really want?”

“T came here to ask you to account for your move-
ments, and, failing a satisfactory explanation, to arrest
you.”

“On what charge?”

“For being concerned in the murder of Lady Dene,
on or about November 6th last.”

“Lady Dene?”

“Ves,”

“Arrest me?”

OV es,”’

“T sure placed you right away. You certainly are
a blamed idiot, Mr. White, of Scotland Yard.”

This repetition of his name and address goaded the
detective almost beyond endurance.204, A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Now you know the charge,” he shouted, “are you
coming with us quietly, or—”

SOr whatr

The revolver still covered the pair point-blank.

“Are we going to sit here all night?”

It was a weak conclusion, but to attempt an attack
in the conditions was sheer madness.

“I guess not,” came the quiet drawl. “I want my
dinner, and I mean to have it.”

“Very well. Eat your dinner, and have done with
ny

“That’s better. You and your friend must join in.
We'll have a nice little talk and straighten things out.
At present there’s all sorts of kinks in ’em.”

This was too much for White’s associate. He burst
out laughing.

“I allowed there was a joke hoverin’ around some-
where,” grinned Corbett, “but I haven’t quite got
the hang of it yet. Now, Mr. White, of Scotland Yard,
are you going to act reasonable, or must I continue to
keep your nose in line?”

White was saved from deciding which horn of the
dilemma he would land on, for a sharp rat-rat at the
door induced silence. A moment later Bruce’s voice
was heard inquiring:

“Ts Mr. Corbett in?”

“Faith, there may be half-a-dozen of him in by this
time,” cried Mrs. Robinson. “I dunno where I am, at
all, at all. Youll find some of ’em in the parlour, sir.”

And Bruce entered.

In order to get the new-comer into what the military
text-books describe as “a clear periphery,” Corbett
sidled to a corner. Bruce glanced at the three, saw the
revolver, and said with an air of genuine relief:MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT 205

“Thank goodness, nothing really serious has hap-
pened! Put away your gun, Mr. Corbett; you will not
need it.”’

Although the barrister’s manner differed considerably
from the brusque methods adopted by White, the
American remained on guard. He said stiffly:

“You all seem to know me real well; but if you had
the advantage of longer acquaintance you would not
size me up as likely to be rushed by a confidence trick.
If somebody doesn’t explain quick I may get mad, and
there will be trouble.”

“You have all my sympathy!” cried Bruce. “But
the first thing you must learn over here is to lay in dry
cigars for your visitors. Our national tastes differ
widely in that respect.”

“T think Ill cotton on to you in time, stranger; but
I’m kind of tired holding this gun.”

“Put it away, I tell you. It’s not wanted. White,
do pay heed to my warnings. You’ve hit on the wrong
man.”

‘Wrong man!” cried the detective, feeling more con-
fident in the barrister’s presence. ‘Why, I’ve had a
cable about him from New York.”

“Possibly; but you’re mistaken, for all that. Mr.
Corbett has not been within five thousand miles of
England for years, possibly never before in his life.”

“Bully for you, stranger!” broke in Corbett.

“Then who is the Mr. Sydney H. Corbett whom you
believe, as well as I, to be the murderer of Lady
Dene?”’

“Steady, White! The last time I saw you I ap-
pealed to you to go slow. The man whom you want,
simply because he happens to be the real occupant
of these rooms, is at present travelling to London from206 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Florence, and his sister, Mrs. Hillmer, is with him.”

“Florence! Mrs. Hillmer!” gasped the policeman.
“T’ve just arranged to have her watched there.”

“Your arrangements, though admirable, come some-
what late in the day.”

“Then what is her brother’s name?”

“Albert Mensmore. For some reason, hidden at this
moment, he has lived here under the name of the
gentleman who has, I see, been giving you a practical
lesson in the art of not jumping at conclusions.”

“Have you known this long?”

“For some weeks.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I have no definite reason for connecting
Mensmore with Lady Dene’s death—with personal
knowledge of it, I mean. If I had, his action in re-
turning to London the moment he hears of the charge
would shake my belief.”

“Who told him?”

“Mrs. Hillmer.”

“Oh, this damned affair is quite beyond me. I can’t
fathom it a bit.”

And White sank dejectedly back into his chair.

“T don’t know what you’re talking about, gentleman
all,” said Corbett, pocketing his revolver; “but I’ve
a sort o’ notion that I shan’t be required to shoot any-
body or sleep behind bars to-night.”

“Why didn’t you answer my questions properly, and
save all this nonsense?” growled the detective.

“T’ll tell you why, sir. The name of Albert Mens-
more has been mentioned. He has been more than a
brother to me. You meant mischief to him, and you
thought you were talking to him all the time. I don’t
know much about you, but I do hope that your firstMR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT 207

action would not be to give away your best friend if he
was in trouble.”

White did not answer, though his look of astonish-
ment at Corbett’s declaration of motive was eloquent
enough.

“Before we adjourn this session,” went on the Ameri-
can, “let me say one thing. Any man who tells you that
Albert Mensmore murdered a woman is lying. I don’t
know a thing about this Lady Dene, or how she may
have died, but I do know my friend. He’s a good man
in a tight place, but, to accuse him of killing any woman
is about the worst flam any prize cop ever put over.”

Mrs. Robinson burst in, with face aflame.

“Ts this palaverin’ to go on all night?” she demanded
angrily. ‘“Here’s the dinner sphilin’, after all me worry
and bother, with the head of me vexed to know who’s
goin’ to ate it and who isn’t!”

“All right, mother!” laughed Corbett. “Have you
got enough plates to go round? I can fill up on any
old tack.”

“Mr. Corbett,” said Bruce, “eat your dinner in
peace. I hope you will come and lunch with me to-
morrow, at this address. Here’s my card. I must have
a long talk with you. White, if you come with me
now I’ll try and clear the air.”

“Surely, Mr. Corbett will answer a few questions
first,” protested the detective.

“Don’t you think you have worried him enough for
one evening? Besides, he can tell us nothing. All the
explanation. is really due to him, and I purpose giving
it to-morrow. . . . Come, White, this time I promise
open confession, and you know when I say that I
mean it. And forget about Mr. Corbett’s revolver.208 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

I'll wise him up later as to the statutes made and pro-
vided for the safety of the realm.”

So the no longer mysterious Sydney H. Corbett was
left in undisturbed possession of his flat and his dinner,
while the trio passed out into the wintry calm of the
streets.CHAPTER XXI
HOW LADY DENE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS

WHITE was actually minded to preserve silence dur-
ing the long walk to Victoria-street. The events of the
preceding hour had not exactly conduced to the main-
tenance, in the eyes of his brother officer, of that pre-
eminent sagacity which he claimed and was often
credited with. His companion rubbed in his down-
fall.

“I should think, Jim,” he chuckled, “you’ll give
Raleigh Mansions a wide berth for some time now,
after making two bad breaks there.”

But it was no part of Bruce’s scheme that the de-
tective should be rendered desperate by repeated fail-
ures.

“It is not Mr. White’s fault that these blunders have
occurred,” he said. “They are really the outcome of
his determination to leave no stone unturned in a most
baffling trail. When this case ends, if ever it does end,
I’m sure he will admit that he has never before encoun-
tered so many difficulties. I don’t suppose he has ever
tackled anything even remotely resembling this par-
ticular problem.”

The detective thawed slightly.

“That is so,” he admitted sourly: “The thing that
beats me is the want of a beginning, so to speak. One
would imagine it the work of a lunatic if Lady Dene
herself had not contributed so thoroughly to the mys-

tery of her own disappearance.”
209210 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

=

“That’s the true line, White. If you and I were not
convinced that she is dead, we would have decided
long since that she was in hiding—merely going one
better than the advertising ‘stunts’ which have wearied
both the police and the public so often of late. But she
was killed and is buried. When we find the motive we
end the murderer, if she was wilfully put to death.”

“Tf she was, Mr. Bruce? Have you any doubt in
the world about that?”

“There cannot be certainty when we are groping in
the dark. But the gloom is passing; we near the dawn
of discovery.”

At Bruce’s residence White’s colleague left him.
Soon the barrister and the policeman had eaten a meal
and were sitting snugly before a good fire. Then
Bruce took his friendly rival step by step through each
phase of the inquiry.

He omitted nothing. The discovery of Jane Harding
and of Mensmore, the latter’s transactions with Dodge
& Co., his dramatic coup at Monte Carlo and its at-
tendant love episode—all these were described ex-
haustively. He enlarged on Mrs. Hillmer’s anxiety
when the tragedy was made known to her, and did not
forget Sir Charles Dene’s amazement at the sugges-
tion that his old school-mate might prove to be respon-
sible for the death of his wife.

He produced the waxen moulds of the piece of iron
found in the body at Putney and the ornamental scroll
from which it had been broken. These exhibits shook
White’s complacency more than anything that had gone
before. Thus far he had nursed a feeling of resent-
ment against Bruce for having concealed so much that
was material to the investigation. But when he realized
that a powerful link in the chain of evidence had beenLADY DENE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS 211

resting before his eyes all along his distress was evi-
dent, and the barrister had to come to his rescue.

“You are not to blame,” he said, “for having failed to
note many things which I have now told you. You
are the slave of a system. Your method works ad-
mirably for the detection of commonplace crime, but
as soon as the region of romance is reached the rules
of the C.I.D. are as much out of place as a steam-
roller in a bog. Look at the remarkable series of
crimes the English police have failed to solve of late,
merely because some bizarre element intruded itself
at the outset. Have you ever read any of the works of
Edgar Allan Poe?”

“Oh, yes.”

White was well versed in “The Murders of the Rue
Morgue” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget.”

“Well,” went on Bruce, “there you have the very
heart and marrow of crime detection on the higher
plane. Poe would not have been puzzled for a day by
the vagaries of Jack the Ripper. He would have said
at once—most certainly after the third or fourth in the
series of murders—This is the work of an athletic
lunatic, with a morbid love of anatomy and a deadly
hatred of a certain class of women. Seek for him
among young men skilled in gymnastics who have pes-
tered doctors with outrageous theories, and who possess
weak-minded or imbecile relatives.’ I choose the ‘Rip-
per’ episode because the actual murderer is supposed
never to have been found, though he was, and died in
Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum years after his
appalling misdeeds were forgotten. I tell you there is
a queer kink in this present case, and that is why
neither you nor I have the remotest notion yet as to
who really killed Lady Dene.”212 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Surely things look black against this fellow, Mens-
more?”

“Do they? How would it have fared with an ac-
quaintance of one of the unfortunate women killed by
Jack the Ripper had the police collared him in the
locality with fresh blood-stains on his clothes? I
question if the enraged mob would ever have allowed
him to reach the police-station alive!”

White could only smoke in silence.

“Therefore,” continued Bruce, “Jet us ask ourselves
why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit
the crime. Personally, I would hardly believe Mens-
more if he confessed himself to be the murderer!”

The detective moved uneasily.

“Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce?”
he demanded.

“Because Mensmore is normal and this crime ab-
normal. Because the man who would blow out his
brains on account of losses at pigeon-shooting never
had brains enough to dispose of the body in such
fashion. Because Mensmore, having temporarily
changed his name for some trivial reason, would never
resume it with equal triviality with this shadow on
his life.”

“Then why have you told me so many things that
score heavily against him?”’

“This time at least I want you to feel that a pair
of handcuffs should provide the last link rather than
the first in a chain of evidence.”

“T guarantee there will be no more arrests until this
affair is much more definite than it is at present.”

“Capital! One of these days I shall make a detec-
tive of you after my own heart.”

‘Vet I cannot help being surprised at the extraordi-LADY DENE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS 213

nary fact that his own sister seems to suspect him!”

“Ah, yes. Why did she give way to fear? There
I am with you entirely. Let us ascertain that and I
promise you rapid developments. Mrs. Hillmer and
Mensmore are both concerned in the disappearance of
Lady Dene, yet neither knew that she had disappeared,
and both are deeply upset by it, for Mrs. Hillmer flies
off to warn her brother, and the brother posts back to
London the moment it comes to his ears through her.
There, you see, we have a key which may unlock many
doors. For Heaven’s sake let it not be battered out of
shape the instant it reaches our hands.”

But White was quite humble. “As I have said,” he
growled, “I have done with the battering process.”

“I’m sure of it. And now brace up to hear the most
remarkable fact that has yet come to light. Lady
Dene’s body was taken from Raleigh Mansions to
Putney in an old Ford taxi. The driver was locked up
by the police that night and clapped into prison for
three months. He was released yesterday, and will be
here within the next quarter of an hour.”

The detective’s hair nearly rose on end at this state-
ment.

“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any
more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?”

‘That is the last shot in the locker.”

“I’m jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you’d
Say was that you did the job yourself.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you thought that.”

White positively blushed.

“Oh! that’s chaff,” he said. ‘But why the devil did
the police lock up that particular cabman—the only
witness we could lay our hands on? Why, I myself214 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

went through every rank within half a mile of the place
with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the jour-
ney, and seems to have thought immediately after-
wards that he was Pheton driving the chariot of the
sun. But—there! he will tell you himself. I met him
yesterday morning outside Holloway Prison, and per-
suaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not
gone on the spree again with disastrous results.”

The entrance of Smith—obviously relieved at finding
his master and the “tec” on such good terms—to an-
nounce the arrival of “Mr. William Marsh,” settled
any doubts as to the taxi-driver’s intentions, and his
appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three
months “hard” had made the unlucky fellow a new
man.

Recognition was mutual between him and White.

“Hello, Foxey!” cried the latter. “It’s you, is it?”

“Me it is, guv’nor; but I didn’t know there was to
be a ‘cop’ here”—this with a suspicious glance at Bruce
and a backward movement toward the door.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said the barrister; “this gentle-
man’s presence implies no trouble for you, Marsh. We
want you to help us, and if you do so willingly I'll not
only make up that lost fiver you received for driving
two people to Putney the night you were arrested, but
try my best to have your license restored.”

Up to that moment Marsh had regarded Bruce as the
agent for a charitable association, and there was no
harm, he had told his “missus,” in trying to “knock
him for a bit.” Now he was absolutely staggered. He
stood fumbling nervously with his hat, and was com-
pletely at a loss for words. White, however, knew how
to deal with him.LADY DENE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS 215

“Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You can do
with it, I know. Answer this gentleman’s questions.
He means you no harm.”

“Honour bright?”

“Yes. He may be a real friend in need, too.”

‘Well, that’s talkin’. . . . No soda, thank you, sir.
Just a spot of water... . Ah! That’s better stuff’n
they keep in Holloway.”

Thus fortified, Marsh had no further hesitation in
telling what he knew. Substantially, his story was
identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket
collector.

“Can you describe the gentleman?” said the bar-
rister.

“No, sir. He was just like any other toff. Tall, an’
well-dressed, and talked in the ’aw-’aw style. It might
ha’ been yourself for all I could tell.”

“Do you think it was I?”

Foxey scratched his head.

“No, p’r’aps it wasn’t, now I come to rec’llect. He
‘ad a moustache, and you ’aven’t. Beggin’ yer pardon,
sir, but you ’ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor,
an’ this chap wasn’t neether—just an every-day sort
of gent.”

“Could you swear to him if you saw him?”

“That I couldn’t, sir. I ama rare ’and at langwidge,
but I couldn’t manage that.”

“Why ?”

“Because that night, sir, I were as full as a tick afore
I stawted. S’elp me, the likker must ’ave run out of
me ears when I began fightin’ coppers. Mr. White, ’e
knows I ain’t no fightin’ man.” |
“And the lady? Did you see her?”

“No, sir. Leastways, I sawr a bundle which I took216 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

to be a lydy, but her face was covered up wiv a shawl,
and she was lyin’ ’eavy in ’is arms, as though she was
mortal bad. He tole me she was sick.”

“Did he? Anything else?”

No, Sin’?

‘“‘Are you sure it was a shawl?”

A vacuous smile spread over Foxey’s wizened face.

“T ain’t sure of anything that ’appened that night,”
he grinned.

“But you must have been surprised when a man
hired your cab under such peculiar circumstances, and
paid you a very high fare?”

“We night taxies ain’t surprised at nothink, sir. You
don’t know arf wot goes on in kebs. Why, once crossin’
Waterloo Bridge—”

“Never mind Waterloo Bridge, Foxey,” put in the
detective. “Keep your mind fixed on as much as you
can recall of November 6th.”

“Where did he tell you to drive to?” continued
Bruce.

‘Just Putney. I was to drive like—well, as ’ard as
the old ’bus would stand it. I wanted to pull up at the
Three Bells, but ’e put ’is ’ead out an’ said, ‘Go on,
driver. I’m lyte enough already.’ So on I went.”

“Where did you stop?”

“TI don’t know no more’n a child unborn. By that
time the drink was yeastin’ up in me. The fare kep’
me on the road by shoutin’. When we stopped, ’e car-
ries ’er into a lyne. There was a big ’ouse there—I
know that all right. After a bit ’e comes back and tips
me a fiver an’ tole me ter ’op it. With that I cranks
up and mykes a bee-line for the Three Bells. You

know the rest, as the girl said when she axed the Bench
to—”LADY DENE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS 217

“Yes, we know the rest,” interrupted Bruce, “but I
fear you are not able to help us much.”

“This isn’t a five-pun job, then, guv’nor?” inquired
Foxey anxiously.

“Hardly at present. We shall see. Can you say
exactly where you drew up your cab when the lady was
carried into it?”

“Sure as death,” replied the cabman, in the hope that
his information might yet be valuable. “It was outside
Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”

“We know that—”

“Tt seems to me, sir, you know as much about the
business as I do,” broke in Marsh.

‘““Were you in the Square or in Sloane-street?”

“In Sloane-street, of course. Right aw’y from the
Square.”

“Not so far away, surely?”

Foxey was doubtful. His memory was hazy, and
he feared lest he should be mistaken. ‘No, no,” he
said quickly, “not that far, but still well in the street.”

‘‘Were there many people about?”

“You could ’ardly tell, sir—it was that foggy and
narsty. If the lydy ’ad bin dead nobody would ’ave
noticed ’er that night.”

“Did any one besides yourself see the gentleman car-
rying the lady into the cab?”

“T think not. I don’t remember anybody passin’ at
the time.”

“Did the gentleman keep your cab waiting long at
the kerb before he brought the lady out?”

“Tt might ha’ bin a minnit or two.”

“No longer?”

“Well, sir, it’s ’ard to s’y now, especially after bein’
away for a change of ’ealth.”218 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Did the lady speak or move in any manner?”

“Not so far as I know, sir.”

“And do you mean to tell me that, although you had
been drinking, you were not astonished at the whole
business ?”’

“IT never axes my fares any questions cept when they
sez: “By the hour.’ Then I want to know a bit.”

‘“Yes—but this carrying of a lady out of a house in
such fashion—did not that strike you as strange?”

“Stringe? Bless your ’eart, sir. You ought ter see
me cartin’ ’em orf from the Daffodil Club after a big
night—three an’ four in the keb. all blind, paralytic.”

“No doubt; but this was not the Daffodil Club at
daybreak. It was a respectable neighbourhood at
seven o’clock, or thereabouts, on a winter’s evening.”

“Tt ain’t my fault,” said Foxey doggedly. “Wot was
wrong with the lydy? Was it a habduction>”

“The lady was dead—murdered, we believe.”

The cabman’s face grew livid with sudden anxiety.

“S’elp me Gord, Mr. White!” he cried, turning to
the detective, “I knew nothink about it.”

“No one says you did, Foxey. Don’t be frightened.
We just want you to help us as far as you can, and not
get scared out of your wits.”

Partly reassured, Marsh mopped his face, and
seemed to take thought.

“Dll do wot lies in my power, gentleman both, but
I do wish I ’adn’t bin so full 0’ booze that night,” he
said forlornly.

“You say you would not recognize your fare if you
saw him,” continued Bruce. “Could you tell us, if
you were shown a certain person, that he was not the
man? You might not be sure of the right man, but
you might be sure regarding the wrong one.”LADY, DENE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS 219

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t Mr. White,
and it wasn’t a lot of other people I know. I think
if I sawr the man who reely got into my keb, I would
be able to swear that ’e was like him, at any rate.”

“All right. That will do for the present. Leave us
your address, so that we may find you again if neces-
sary. Here is a pound note for you.”

When Marsh had gone, Bruce turned to the detec-
tive.

“Well,” he said, “if Mensmore were here now, I sup-
pose you would feel almost compelled to arrest him?”

“No,” admitted White sadly. ‘The more I learn
about this affair the more mixed it becomes. Still, I
don’t deny that I shall be glad to have Mensmore’s
explanation of his movements at that time. And so
will you, Mr. Bruce. You’re jollying me along all
right, but you’ll be watching the clock till both brother
and sister turn up. And, when they do come, if they
have nothing to tell us I think I’ll follow Foxey’s ex-
ample and get blind to the world!”CHAPTER XXII
A WILFUL MURDER

BRUCE sent a telegram to Mrs. Hillmer at Paris:
Matters arranged satisfactorily pending your arrival.
Early on the Monday he received a reply:

Due Victoria 7.30 p.m. Will drive straight to your
chambers with my brother.

GWENDOLINE HILLMER.

He forwarded the message with a note to the detec-
tive, asking him to be present. About one o'clock
Corbett strolled in.

“T slept fine last night after all the excitement,” he
said, with a pleasant smile. “You threw those cops
out of gear with a few words quicker ’n I did with a
gun.”

“The English police are not so much afraid of re-
volvers as of making mistakes,” explained the other.

“Oh, is that it? On my side of the deep blue sea
they wouldn’t have stopped to argy. Both of ’em
would have pulled on me at once.”

“Then I am glad, for everybody’s sake, Mr. Corbett,
that the affair happened in London.”

“Why, sure. But, do tell. Has friend Mensmore
been getting himself all balled up?”

“Not so badly as it looks. Others appear to have
involved him without his knowledge, and he has lent

colour to the accusations by involuntary actions of a
suspicious nature.”
220A WILFUL MURDER 221

“Well, well! Sounds like a bit out of a dime novel.
Can’t you spill the straight story?”

In the circumstances, Bruce thought that this stran-
ger from America had a right to know why he had been
in danger of arrest during his first twenty-four hours’
residence in England, so he supplied a quite under-
standable account of the prima facie case against
Mensmore.

Corbett listened in silence. When the recital was
ended he said, with a marked change of phrase: —

“Mr. Bruce, my friend was incapable of murdering
any woman. He was equally incapable of conducting
a discreditable liaison with any woman. I have known
him for years, and a truer, more honourable man I’ve
never met. Of course, I don’t know yet what his rea-
son was for assuming my name, which he undoubtedly
did, because the estate agent called this morning, and
I find that the flat is taken in my name.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, just that Mensmore was acting for me. The
man seemed a bit rattled, but he didn’t kick when I
offered to pay up the rent owing since Christmas, and
ante another quarter in advance.”

“T don’t suppose he did. The rent was due, then?”

“Yes. It seems that Mensmore, writing in my name,
sent a letter from Monte Carlo a month ago, saying
he would return about this time and settle.”

“Thus proving his intention all along to come back
to London. It’s a queer muddle, Mr. Corbett.”

“The frozen limit. But—if you’ll pardon me butting
in—you all seem to have overlooked a clear trail.”

“And what is that?”

“What about Mrs. Hillmer? Who is she? Who
are her friends? Who maintains her in such style?222 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Bertie was with me four years, and never once men-
tioned her name. She could not have been rich by
inheritance, as it was on account of their father going
broke that Mensmore had to leave the Army and come
to the States. It strikes me, Mr. Bruce, that the
woman knows more than the man about this affair.”

“You may be right. But don’t forget we can prove
that the crime occurred in Mensmore’s flat. That he
should leave England immediately afterwards is an ex-
traordinary coincidence—to put it mildly.”

“I’m not forgetting anything. Some facts can be
made to weigh on either side of the scales. Just be-
cause he quitted this country at the time somebody
may have tried to throw the blame on him.”

The theory was plausible, though Bruce was unable
to accept it. Nevertheless, after Corbett had gone he
could not help thinking about his references to Mrs.
Hillmer. That there was force in them he did not
deny, and with the admission came the unpleasant
thought that perhaps he, Bruce, was in some sense re-
sponsible for the neglect to clear up her antecedents.
However, a few hours might explain much now hidden.

With unwonted impatience he awaited the coming
of night. He tried every device to kill time, but it
hung heavily on his hands. He dined early. When
the hands of the clock stood at half-past seven he
wondered why the detective had not appeared. But
his doubts on this point were soon set at rest.

“White is lurking at Victoria to make sure of their
arrival,” he said to himself.

At ten minutes to eight the detective came in hur-
riedly.

“They will be here directly,” he announced. “A
servant has gone with their baggage to Mrs. Hillmer’sA WILFUL MURDER 223

place, and they evidently mean to drive straight here
after eating a snack in the refreshment-room.”

“Fave you no faith in human nature, Inspector?
Couldn’t you trust them?”

“Well, sir, my experience of human nature is that
you can never trust anybody if it suits their book to
do you in the eye!”

At last Smith announced “Mrs. Hillmer and Mr.
Mensmore.”’

For the moment Bruce was at a loss to know how to
receive them. But Mrs. Hillmer settled the matter
by greeting him with a quiet “Good evening,’ and
seating herself. Mensmore stood near the door. He
looked stern, almost doggedly determined. After
a glance at the detective, whose presence he did not
question, he took the lead at once.

“Tt appears, Mr. Bruce,” he said, ‘‘that we met in
Monte Carlo under false pretences. You, I gather,
were a detective on the track of a murderer, and you
seem to have believed that I was the person you sought.
It would have saved some misconception on my part
had you explained our réles earlier. However, here
I am, to meet the charge.”

Bruce was not unprepared for this uncompromising
attitude. It was a natural one, in the conditions, but
none the less foolish and damaging.

“When we both left Monte Carlo, Mensmore,” he
said, ‘“we parted as friends?”

“Ves,”

“What, then, has happened in the meantime that you
should change your opinion of me?”

“Tsn’t it true that you suspect me of murdering Lady
Dene?”
Ti Wy yet224 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Then why has my sister been told that I ran a
serious risk of being apprehended on that account?”

“Because we certainly did suspect a mysterious per-
sonage who called himself Sydney H. Corbett, whose
behaviour was so unaccountable that the authorities re-
quired a reasonable explanation of it.”

“Do I understand, Bruce, that we meet with no more
suspicion between us than when we last saw each
other?”

“Most certainly.”

“Then I ask your pardon for my manner and words.
I have suffered a lot during the past three days, but I
suppose you'll clear the muddle now. Let’s shake!”

As their hands met Mrs. Hillmer stifled a sob.
Mensmore turned.

“Now, Gwen,” he said, “don’t act like a silly girl.
So far as we are concerned all we have to do is tell the
truth and fear nobody.”

“That’s it,” put in White. “Adopt that course and
the matter will soon be ended.”

Mensmore had guessed the detective’s identity al-
ready, but Bruce would not risk any misunderstanding,
so he stated who this burly stranger was.

“Well,” went on Mensmore, “I’m here to answer
questions. What do you want to know?”

White glanced at the barrister, in whose skill as a
cross-examiner he had good reason to have faith.

“As I have taken more than a passive interest in
this inquiry, the questioning largely devolves on me,”
explained Bruce. “First, why did you adopt Corbett’s
name?”

‘Simple enough, though stupid, I admit now. When
I returned from the States I was jolly hard up, but
managed to pick up a living by writing occasional ar-A WILFUL MURDER 225

ticles for the sporting press. But there were too many
old hands in the game, and my stuff petered out, so I
tried to secure some financial backing in the City for
things I knew about—mines and land development
schemes. I made the acquaintance of a chap named
Dodge, and, like an ass, committed myself to the un-
derwriting of a new venture—the Springbok Mine.
This fell through at the time, and with the collapse
came other demands. I hate being worried by cred-
itors, so when my sister offered to take and furnish
a flat for me, near her own, I thought I might live there
quietly for a time, and conceal my name so as to have
peace at home if not outside. Therefore, I assumed
the name of a friend in America, little thinking I should
land both him and myself into a regular mess by doing
it. That is the explanation. By the way, what has
happened to Corbett?”

“He is all right. He expects to see you to-night.
You know Sir Charles Dene, I believe?”

Mensmore stiffened instantly, but he did not hesi-
tate.

Ves,”

“Tntimately ?”

“Well, no, not exactly. He and I were at school to-
gether at Brighton, at Childe’s place.”

“At Brighton?”

“Yes. I was a little chap when Dene was a senior.
After he left, the head shifted the school to a place
called Seton Lodge, at Putney. He crammed for Army
exams, and Putney was more central.”

“Then you were at Putney?”

“Yes, for two years.”

“And Dene was not?”

“No. ‘I am sure of that.”226 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Have you and Sir Charles been friendly since?”

Mensmore’s face hardened still more. “I have seen
very little of him, and hardly ever spoke to him,” he
said curtly.

“Why? Did you quarrel?”

‘“N—no, but we just didn’t happen to meet. Bear in
mind, I switched off to a business career some years
ago, and am not yet thirty.”

“Did you know his wife?”

“T have never, to my knowledge, seen her.”

“How, then, can you account for the fact that she
visited your flat at Raleigh Mansions on November
6th?”

‘T don’t account for it. Such a statement is sheer
piffle.”’

“But if it can be proved?”

Satrean t.”

“T assure you, on my honour, that it can.”

“But look here, Bruce. Why should she come to
see me? I question greatly if she even knew of my ex-
istence.”

“Nevertheless, it is the fact.”

“T can only answer that it is not. I left London on
November 8th, and on the two previous evenings I
dined at home and alone. Mrs. Robinson, my house-
keeper, will tell you that not another soul entered my
flat for a week before my departure, except my sister
and—and—I had forgotten—some workmen.”

“Some workmen?”

“Ves; some fellows from a furniture warehouse.”

“What were they doing?”

“Well, don’t you see, I told you I was\not well off,
and my sister furnished the flat for me, in August last
that was, but the drawing-room was left bure for aA WILFUL MURDER 227

time. Just before I left for France she decided to re-
furnish her drawing-room, and she passed on the whole
outfit from her place. The things were brought in
by the men who delivered her stuff.”

This astounding revelation gave both Bruce and the
detective the shock of their lives. It was with diffi-
culty that the barrister enunciated his next words
clearly.

“Can you state with absolute certainty the date the
furniture was changed?”

“Oh, yes. It was the day before I started for the
Riviera; that must have been November 7th.”

“Are you positive?”

“Undoubtedly. Is it a matter of any importance?
. . » Gwen, you know all about it. Besides, the bills
for your new furniture will show the exact date of
delivery.”

Mrs. Hillmer was sitting bent forward. Her face
was hidden by her hands, but she nodded almost im-
perceptibly. It was evident that three people in the
room knew the significance of Mensmore’s straightfor-
ward words; he alone was unaware of their tremendous
import.

“Let us analyze this matter carefully,” said Bruce,
who had recovered his self-possession, though he was
almost quaking at the new possibilities of the affair.
“Did the whole of the contents of your drawing-room
come from your sister’s flat?”

“Every stick. There was nothing there before but
the bare boards.”

“Do you remember a handsome ornamental fender
being among the other articles?”

“Perfectly. My housekeeper said the men broke it
in transit. They denied this, and looked for the piece228 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

chipped off, but could find it nowhere. She told me
about it that night.”

“Did you mention the incident to Mrs. Hillmer?”

“No. To tell the honest truth, Gwen and I had
quarrelled rather badly a couple of days before. That
is to say, we disagreed seriously about a certain mat-
ter, and it was this which led to my making off to
Monte. Therefore it was hardly likely I should speak
of such a trivial matter.”

“May I ask what you quarrelled about?”

“T have told her since that it ought to be made
known, but she has implored me not to reveal it, so I
cannot. But she will assure you herself that we agreed
I should be at liberty to make this personal explana-
tion.”

Bruce was well aware that the detective was staring
hard at him now, and not at this most credible and
exact witness. So, as a last resource, he stared back.

“T don’t think we need question Mr. Mensmore fur-
ther?” he said.

“No,” was the reply. ‘“He’s out of it. But Mrs.
Hillmer must tell us how that furniture came to be
transferred from her premises on the morning of the
mon

“Tf she chooses.”

Bruce’s queer comment held an ominous significance
not lost on one at least of his hearers. Mrs. Hillmer
dropped her hands and looked at him. Her face was
deathly pale and tense. But in her eyes shone a light
which lent a curious aspect of high resolve.

“T do not choose,” she said quietly, turning then to
her brother.

For a little while no one spoke. Mensmore, puzzled
but by no means alarmed, broke in eagerly at last.A WILFUL MURDER

“Don’t be absurd, Gwen,” he cried. “I can’t begin
to guess where all this talk about furniture is leading,
but I do know you are as innocent of any complicity in
Lady Dene’s death as I am, so it is vastly better that
you should help the inquiry than retard it.”

“T am not innocent,” said Mrs. Hillmer, her words
falling with painful distinctness on the ears of the
three men. ‘Heaven help me! I am responsible for
mt,”

Her brother almost sprang to her side, and caught
her by the arm.

“What frightful tosh!” he shouted. ‘“You don’t
know what you're saying?”

“Oh, yes I do. My words are beating on my poor
brain like sledge-hammers. I shall feel their weight
for ever. I tell you I am responsible for Lady Dene’s
death.”

“Then how did she die, Mrs. Hillmer?” said Bruce,
and the sorrow-laden eyes fell.

“T do not know. I do not want to know. It matters
little to me.”

“T think I understand. You are shouldering a re-
sponsibility you should not bear. You were not even
aware of the poor lady’s death until I told you. Why
should you seek to avert suspicion from others merely
because Lady Dene is shown to have met her death in
your apartments?”

“Here! Dash it all! How is it shown?’ Mensmore
demanded fiercely. He was more disturbed by his
sister’s unaccountable attitude than he had ever been
by the grave charge against himself. Still, he sought
to defend her.

“Easily enough,” put in White, feeling that the au-
thority of the “Yard” ought to exert itself. “A piece230 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

of the damaged fender placed in your rooms, Mr.
Mensmore, was found in the murdered lady’s head.”

““Oh—was it, indeed?” came the startling answer.
“Then I refuse to see my sister sacrificed for anybody’s
sake. She has borne the whole burden of misery and
degradation far too long. ...I tell you, Gwen, if
you don’t save yourself, I must save you against your
will. That furniture came to my room because—”

“Bertie, dear, spare me! For the sake of the woman
you love, spare me!”

Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on her knees before him
and clutched his hands. She burst into a storm of
tears. Her distress was pitiable. Mensmore, thor-
oughly unnerved, turned to Bruce.

“Can’t you help, old chap,” he said brokenly. “I
don’t know what to do; my sister was no more con-
nected with Lady Dene’s death than I was. What she
is saying is mere hysteria. It arises from other cir-
cumstances altogether.”

“I am almost sure you are right,” said the barrister.
“Yet some one killed Lady Dene, and, no matter what
the pain, whoever may suffer, the truth must come out
now.”

“T tell you,” wailed Mrs. Hillmer between her sobs,
“that I ought to bear all the blame. Why do you hesi-
tate? She was killed in my house. I confess my
guilt.”

“This 7s a rum go, and no mistake!”’ muttered White
aloud, but quite unconsciously. As he put it
afterwards, he did not know whether he was standing
on his head or his heels. Be it remembered, he had
literally pestered Mrs. Hillmer, time and again, for
information about this very case, and she had driven
him forth with scorn. Yet here was she on her knees,A WILFUL MURDER 231

proclaiming herself a murderess with a harrowing in-
sistence that would not deceive a child!

At that moment the door opened unexpectedly, and
Smith entered. Before Bruce had time to yell an order
at the astounded valet the man stuttered an excuse:

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Sir Charles Dene
has called, and wants to know if you will be disengaged
soon,”CHAPTER XXIII
THE LETTER

SMITH’s stammered explanation was borne out by
the voice of Sir Charles himself:

“Sorry to disturb you, Bruce, if you are busy, but
I want to see you for a moment. It can’t be helped.
You must come now!”

There was that in his utterance which betokened the
strain of utmost anxiety. He was not visible to the
occupants of the room. During the almost audible si-
lence that followed they could hear him stamping about
the passage. He was too impatient even to stand still.

Mrs. Hillmer created a diversion by collapsing on
the floor. She had fainted. Bruce rushed out, calling
for Mrs. Smith, and literally quelling Sir Charles Dene
by the stern command:—

“You really must wait a bit, Dene. There’s a lady
in a faint inside, and she has to be looked after.”

Mrs. Smith, fortunately, was at hand. With her
help, Mrs. Hillmer regained some degree of strength.
Her first conscious act was to apologise for the trouble
she was causing.

After a whispered consultation with White, the bar-
rister said to Mensmore:

“You will help us best by removing your sister to
her residence as quickly as possible. She is far too
highly strung to bear any further questioning to-night.
Perhaps to-morrow, when you and she have consid-
ered this unhappy affair from every point of view, you
may be able to send for us and make a definite state-

232THE LETTER 233

ment. Remember—it is unavoidable, sooner or later.
So, why wait?”

For answer Mensmore pressed his hand. With the
help of the housekeeper he led his sister from the
room, passing Sir Charles Dene in the hall. The baro-
net turned aside, which was only to be expected.
Mensmore did not look at him, being far too engrossed
with his sister to pay heed to aught else. As for Mrs.
Hillmer, she was still in such a state of collapse as to
be practically unaware of her surroundings.

She managed to murmur at the door:

‘Where are you taking me to, Bertie?”

‘Home, dear.”

‘Home? Oh, thank Heaven!”

They all heard. Even the detective was constrained
to say:

“Poor thing, she needn’t have been so afraid! She
is suffering for some other person’s misdeeds.”

Sir Charles did then give the pair a curious glance.

‘What on earth is going on?” he whispered to Bruce.

“Merely a foolish woman worrying herself unneces-
sarily.”

“But those people are my old friends, Mensmore
and his sister?”

(Ves,”’

“What are they doing here?”

‘“Mensmore has been brought back to London by
Mrs. Hillmer to face the allegations made against him
with regard to your wife’s disappearance. They came
of their own accord—”

‘“Haven’t I told you already that this charge against
Mensmore is grossly stupid on the face of it?”

“Ves, But you were mistaken. We have just dis-
covered that your wife was killed in his sister’s house,234 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

and Mrs. Hillmer herself persists in declaring that she
alone was responsible for the crime.”

It was quite evident that the baronet, who looked ill
and weary, found some difficulty in restraining his
temper.

‘Look here, Bruce,” he snapped angrily, ‘don’t you
go and lose your head like everybody else. My wife
is not dead!”

“What!” That amazed cry came from the detec-
tive as well as from Bruce.

“It is true. She has been alive all the time. I have
just received a letter from her.”

“A letter. Surely, Dene—”

“I am neither mad nor drunk. It reached me by
this morning’s post. I came here as fast as I could
travel. I have been in the train nearly all day, and
have not eaten a morsel. I—couldn’t.”

“Where is it?” cried White. ‘Is it genuine?”

“T could swear to her writing in any conditions. Here
it is. I have brought some old correspondence for the
purpose of comparison, as I could hardly believe my
own eyes when I opened this.”

Bruce was so dumbfounded by an utterly unforeseen
development that he passed no comment but took the
document itself and read it aloud.

He recognized Lady Dene’s handwriting at once.
He was fairly well acquainted with the clear, bold,
well-defined script, more like the caligraphy of a
banker than of a fashionable lady.

The letter, dated February rst, bore no address. It
ran:—

My Dear Cuartts: I have just seen the announce-
ment of my death in the newspapers. The theories setTHE LETTER 235

forth to account for my disappearance on November
6th seem to convey the strange fact that you have not
received the explanation I sent straight to you of my
reasons for leaving London so suddenly. The only other
hypothesis is that you have kept your own counsel in
a way rather foreign to your usual habit. However,
I do not desire now to reopen the question of motive
—either mine or yours. Let it suffice that no one save
myself was responsible for my disappearance, and that
neither you nor any one acquainted with me will ever
see me again. Do not search for me; it will be time
wasted. If you have already secured legal proof of
my death and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear
up this letter, and forget it. I am dead—to you and
to the world. You can neither refuse to accept the
genuineness of this letter nor trace me by reason of
it, as I have taken such precautions that the latter
course should be impossible. I repeat—forget me.
ALISIA.

After scrutinizing the water-mark against the light,
and noting that the paper was British made, Bruce re-
folded the letter. Then he examined the envelope. The
obliterating postmark was “London, February 4, 9
P.M., West Strand.” The office of delivery was
‘“‘Wensley, February 6.”

“Posted at the West Strand Post-Office on Saturday
night,” he said. ‘Detained in London all Sunday, and
delivered to you this morning in the North.”

“Exactly.”

“If the date is accurate it was written three days
earlier. So the writer is somewhere in Europe.”

“‘That’s how I take it,” said Sir Charles.

“Unless the whole thing is a fraud.”

“A fraud! Don’t be an ass! Don’t I know my236 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

wife’s handwriting? You yourself, Bruce, must know
it is here.”

“Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this
was not written by Lady Dene.”

“Well, what about it?”

“T cannot say. I must have time to think.”

“I’m sick of thinking,” broke in the detective curtly.
“I’m going to act. What did Mrs. Hillmer mean by
kicking up such a fuss when we tackled her? Some
woman was killed in her flat, else how comes it that
the body found in the Thames at Putney carried about
a chunk of Mrs. Hillmer’s ironmongery in its head.
I wish to the Lord she hadn’t fainted just now. Why,
She said herself she was the cause of Lady Dene’s
death, and here is Lady Dene writing to say she is alive.
This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got
a lot to explain before I’m done with her.”

White’s wrath at this check in the hunt merely an-
noyed the baronet.

“You can please yourself, Inspector, of course,” he
said coldly; “but so far as I am concerned, I mean to
respect my wife’s wishes, and let the matter rest.”

“My dear fellow,” urged Bruce, hoping to avert the
imminent quarrel, “such a course is impossible. As-
suming that Alisia is really alive, why did she leave
your”

“How can I tell? She herself refuses to give any
reason. Apparently she stated one in a letter which
never reached me, as you know. Her selfishness, cal-
lousness I might put it, has caused me a world of suf-
fering and misery during three long months. I refuse
to be plagued further.”

Sir Charles was excited and angry. He was in bitter
revolt against everything and every one.THE LETTER 237

“Do you intend to show this letter to Lady Dene’s
relatives?” asked Bruce, still playing for time and try-
ing to head off White, who, as it transpired later, took
the cue.

“T don’t know. What would you advise? I am
ready to abide by your judgment in that respect. But
isn’t it better to obey her wishes?—to forget, as she
says.”

“We should decide nothing hastily. My own mind
is torn this way and that. I’ll see you to-morrow with-
out fail. Will you give me a copy of the letter?”

“Certainly, keep the letter itself. We have all seen
its

“Thank you.” Turning to the detective, Bruce went
on:

“Now, Mr. White, do me a personal favour. Do
not worry Mrs. Hillmer until you hear from me. There
will be no delay.”

“T’ll do anything in reason, sir. But am I to report
to the Commissioner that Lady Dene has been found,
or has, at any rate, explained that she is not dead?”

‘Is there any immediate necessity why a report of
any kind should be made?”

“None.”

“Then leave matters where they are.”

“But why,” demanded Sir Charles dubiously. “Isn’t
it better to stop all inquiries, at least where my wife is
concerned? It is her desire, and, I may add, my own,
now that I know Alisia is living.”

“Of course, if you wish it, Dene, I can offer no valid
objection. On the other hand—the police—”

“Oh, no, no. Don’t look at it that way. I leave
the final decision with you. Of course, you are acting
now in Alisia’s interests more than in mine.”238 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“In that case, I recommend complete silence in all
quarters for the time being.”

In response to a mere glance from Bruce the detec-
tive went out. As he passed into Victoria-street his
philosophy could find but one definition:

“This 7s a rum go,” he muttered.

He knew, of course, that the end was not yet in
sight. Lady Dene’s letter had only made confusion
worse confounded, but he had promised to work with
Bruce rather than against him, and that seemed the
wisest thing he could do at the moment.

The baronet sat down. In all likelihood he was
much in need of a meal, but he said nothing about it,
and Bruce gave no thought to the duties of a host.

“What’s this bilge Mensmore’s sister brought off—
saying she was responsible for my wife’s death?” he
began.

“I don’t pretend to understand,” answered Bruce.
“Little more than a week ago she learned for the first
time of your wife’s supposed murder. Of that I am
quite positive. All at once she seemed to fear that her
brother was implicated, and, without trusting me in
any way, took such measures as she thought fit to safe-
guard him.”

“Took measures! What measures?”

Sir Charles jerked the words out fretfully. Bruce
guessed that he still resented the progress made in the
inquiry without his knowledge.

“She followed him to the South of France, and found
him in Florence. What she said I cannot imagine, but
the outcome was their visit here to-night. During our
interview it was stated, quite by accident, that some
furniture had been taken from her place to her broth-
er’s on the morning of November 7th, thus shiftingTHE LETTER

the scene of Lady Dene’s death—or imaginary death
I must now put it—from No. 12, Raleigh Mansions to
No. 61. This discovery was as startling to Mrs. Hill-
mer as to us. She protested frantically that the crime
was hers, and practically asked the detective to arrest
her on the definite charge of murder.”

“What tosh! The mania of a hysterical woman!”

“Possibly!”

“Why ‘possibly’? No one was murdered in her
rooms. Do you believe any such monstrous state-
ment?”

“No, not in that sense. But her brother was about
to make some revelation regarding a third person when
she appealed to him not to speak. There were tears
and angry protests. What would have happened ulti-
mately I do not know. At that critical moment my
servant announced your arrival, and poor Mrs. Hillmer
fainted.”

“But what can ske have to conceal? She and her
brother have been lost to London Society since long
before my marriage. Neither of them, so far as I
know, has even set eyes on my wife during the past
seven years.”

“Vet Mrs. Hillmer must have had some all-powerful
motive.”

‘More than likely she had a bad attack of nerves.”

‘““A woman who merely yields to nervous prostration
behaves foolishly. This woman gave way to emotion.
It was strength, not weakness, that broke down her
physical powers.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is but one force that sustains in such a crisis
—the power of love. Mrs. Hillmer was not flying
from consequences. She met them half-way in the240 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

spirit of a martyr. But, as ever, the flesh was weak.”

“?Pon my word, Bruce, I’m beginning to think that
this wretched business is affecting your usually clear
brain. You are accepting idle fancies as facts.”

“It may be so. I confess I am altogether unable to
form a logical conclusion to-night.”

“Why not abandon the whole muddle to time? The
almanac settles all sorts of difficulties. Let’s both go
off somewhere. You advised me to do that very thing,
you know.”

“What? Leave Mrs. Hillmer to sink or swim? Let
this unfortunate fellow, Mensmore, suffer no one knows
what consequences from to-day’s events? It’s not to be
thought of.”

“Very well, I leave it to you. Every one seems to
forget that it is I who suffer most.”

The baronet stood up, fingered a cigarette which he
did not light, and gazed dejectedly into the fire.

“T at least, can feel for you, Dene,” said Bruce sym-
pathetically, “but something has got to be done. If
I sit tight the police will move. And you know what
that means. You must admit that things cannot be
allowed to remain in their present whirlpool.”

“Oh, all right. Let the damned business go on to
the bitter end! At any rate, if Alisia was tired of my
society she might at least have got rid of me more
gracefully.”

With this parting growl Sir Charles went home.

Bruce sat motionless for a long time. Then, as his
mind grew calmer, he lighted a pipe, took out the
doubly mysterious letter, and examined it in every pos-
sible way—even putting it under a microscope.

But it was genuine enough. The condition of the
ink bore out the accuracy of the date, and the fact thatTHE LETTER 241

neither the note paper nor envelope was of Conti-
nental origin was not a material point.

It did not appear to have been enclosed in a second
envelope, as the writer implied, for the purpose of be-
ing re-posted in London. Rather did slightly frayed
edges show that it had been carried in some one’s
pocket before being posted. But that theory was
somewhat vague and almost undemonstrable.

Undoubtedly the handwriting was Lady Dene’s.
The style, allowing for the strange conditions under
which she must have written, was hers. And yet Bruce
did not believe a word of it!

Nothing could shake his faith in the one solid, con-
crete certainty that stood out from a maze of contra-
dictions and positive lies—Lady Dene was dead, and
buried in a pauper’s grave at Putney!

At last, wearied with conjecture and fantastic theo-
rising which led nowhere, he went to bed. But Smith
sat up late to regale his life’s partner with the full,
true, and particular narrative of the “lydy a-cryin’ on
her knees, and the strange gent lookin’ as though he
wanted to murder that there White.”CHAPTER XXIV
THE HANDWRITING

LIKE the majority of men, Bruce viewed most things
differently the morning after the night before.

Then the surprises of the hour were concrete hap-
penings, each distinct and emphatic. Now they were
merged in the mass of contradictory details which
made up this most bewildering inquiry.

That matters could not be allowed to rest was a
mere truism; that they would, in the natural course of
events, reveal their inner-relation more definitely was
equally certain.

Mrs. Hillmer’s dramatic though nebulous admis-
sions, her brother’s evident knowledge of some vitally
important fact, that utterly strange letter in the ad-
mitted handwriting of Lady Dene herself, and bearing
the prosaic testimony of dates stamped by the post-
office—these sensational elements, when allowed to fer-
ment together, could not avoid reaction into a clearer
stream of connected evidence.

Long experience in criminal investigation had taught
Bruce that the best course of all in certain circum-
stances was an inactive one. On the basis of the lazy
man’s theory that “letters left unanswered answer
themselves,” the barrister knew that without any con-
scious guidance on his part the strange medley of inci-
dents on the Monday evening would produce their own
crisis.

So he sat and smoked after breakfast, and reviewed
the history of the past three months with severe pro-
fessional detachment. Many odd features stood out

242THE HANDWRITING 243

boldly amid a welter of seemingly disconnected yet re-
markable occurrences.

In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to
deduce any pertinent fact from the manner in which
Mrs. Hillmer’s dining-room was furnished on the occa-
sion of his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.

He had noted that he was shown into an unusual
room littered with unusual articles, if the luxurious
and well-appointed suite of apartments were consid-
ered as a whole. He had an impression at the time that
the drawing-room, which he did not see until his second
visit, was not in use, possibly being in process of reno-
vation, but he did not connect this trivial incident with
the feature in Mensmore’s flat which he had noted im-
mediately—namely, the discrepancies between the fur-
niture and arrangement of the sitting-room and the
other rooms.

These things were immaterial now. He merely in-
dexed them as a guide for future use.

Lady Dene’s motive for that secret visit to Raleigh
Mansions—that was the key to the mystery. But how
fit it into its lock? Who was her confidant? To
whom could he turn for enlightenment? It was use-
less to broach the matter again with her husband. The
baronet and his wife had been friends sharing the same
ménage rather than husband and wife. That was an
open secret in their immediate circle. Lady Dene’s
relatives had already been appealed to in vain. They
knew nothing of the slightest value. Alisia Dene was
the last woman breathing who would admit to her own
family that Charles and she went their separate ways.

In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding
cropped up once more. She was the personal maid of
the deceased lady. She had sharp eyes and quick wits.244 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Her queer antics shortly after the inquest were not for-
gotten. Here at least was a possibility of light if the
girl would only speak.

If she refused, what could be her motive?

Anyhow, it was worth while to try her again—this
time, perhaps, with a less heavy hand. Early in the
afternoon he called at the stage-door of the Jollity
Theatre.

“Ts Miss Marie le Marchant still a member of the
cast?” he asked the attendant.

“T dunno,” was the careless answer.

“Well, think hard,” said the barrister, laying a half-
crown on the ancient and ink-bespattered blotting-pad
which is an indispensable feature of the letter bureau
in a theatre.

“Yes, sir, I believe she is, but she has been away on
a week’s leave.”

“Indeed. Has she returned?”

“T was off last night, sir, but if you’ll pardon me a
minnit I’ll inquire from the man who took my place.”

The stage-doorkeeper hurried into the dim interior.
He returned with the information that Miss le Mar-
chant had appeared as usual on the preceding night.

“She was away most part of last week, sir,” added
the man, ‘“‘and I believe it wasn’t a holiday. She was
flurried about going as though some one was ill.”

“Thank you. Do you know where she lives?”

A momentary hesitation was removed by another
half-crown.

“It’s against the rules, sir, but if you were to find
yourself near Jubilee Buildings, Bloomsbury, you
wouldn’t be so very far out.”

The information was sound. Miss Marie le Mar-
chant’s name was painted outside a second-floor flat.THE HANDWRITING

Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly
woman whom he had no difficulty in recognizing.

“Ts your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?” he said.

For a moment she could not speak for surprise.

“Well, I never!” she cried, “but this here London is
a funny place. How did you know me, sir?”

“Any one would recognize you from your daughter,
if they did not take you for her elder sister,” he said.
Bruce’s smile was irresistible.

“My daughter is not in just now, sir,’ came the ad-
mission, “but I expect her back to tea almost immedi-
ately.”

“May I await her arrival?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pre-
tentious and fairly comfortable nature of its appoint-
ments. The ex-lady’s maid’s legacy must have been
no mean sum to enable her to live in such style, because
the poor pittance of a chorus-girl would barely pay the
rent and taxes. Moreover, the presence of her mother
in the establishment was a highly favourable factor.

Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sit-
ting-room. She seated herself near the window, and
resumed some sewing.

“Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?” he
said, by way of being civil.

‘Tn London, do you mean, sir? About two months.
Ever since my daughter got along so well in her new
profession. She’s a good girl, is Jane.”

“She is sticking to the stage, then?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Why, she’s been earning £6 a week.
Last week she got a special engagement, which paid
her so well that she’s going to buy me a new dress out
of the money.”246 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Bruce was surprised. Jane Harding’s lamp of ac-
complishments must have been hidden under a bushel
the last time he saw her.

“Really?” he said. ‘You ought to be proud of her.”

“I am,” admitted the admiring mother. “I only
wish her brother, who went off and ’listed for a sojer,
had turned out half as well.”

Mrs. Harding nodded toward a photograph of a
cavalry soldier in uniform on the mantelshelf, and
Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling at the
intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable
that the girl could be the recipient of a legacy without
her mother’s knowledge? In any case, why did she
conceal the real nature of her earnings? The story
about “£6 a week” was a self-evident myth.

Alongside the portrait of the gallant hussar was a
large plaque presentment of ‘Marie’ herself, in all the
glory of tights and make-up. Across it was written,
in the best theatrical style, “Ever yours sincerely,
Marie le Marchant.” And no sooner had Bruce caught
sight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in
Sheer bewilderment.

The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dene.

Gulping down his surprise, he examined the signa-
ture closely. The resemblance was almost phenomenal.
What on earth could the explanation be?

“Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs.
Harding,” he said, turning the photograph so as to
bring it into a stronger light.

“Yes,” said the complacent mother, “she taught her-
self when—before she went on the stage. She always
was a clever girl, and when she grew up she improved
herself. I wasn’t able to afford her much schooling
when she was young.”THE HANDWRITING 247

“T have seldom seen a better-formed hand,” he went
on. ‘Have you any other specimens of her writing—
something not private, I mean?”

The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps
lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to
make quite sure this time.

“Oh, yes. She’s just copying out the part of Ophelia
in Hamlet. And she acts it beautiful, she does.”

Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and
there, written on the first page, the luckless daughter
of Polonius told her story:—

He took me by the wrist and held my hand;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face

As he woud draw tt.

Well—Shakespeare was describing the uncourteous
behaviour of a mad Prince of Denmark, but this mod-
ern Ophelia was fated to undergo a somewhat similar
experience at the hands of a greatly disturbed member
of the English Bar. Jane Harding’s éfiorts at_self-
culture were highly commendable, but she must ex-
plain them now, or he would know the reason why.

The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to
throw aside the coveted “part,” and the young lady her-
self entered. A few weeks of stage experience had
given her a more stylish appearance. ‘There was a
professional touch in the tilt of her hat and the set of
her costume.

She knew him instantly, and listened with ill-re-
pressed anger to her mother’s explanation that “this
gentleman has just called to see you, dear.”

“All right, mother,” she cried. “I know him. It’s248 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea ready while we talk?
I shall be ready in two minutes.” This with a defiant
look at the visitor.

When Mrs. Harding had gone, her daughter broke
into the crisp accents of annoyance:

“Well, and what do you want?”

“T want to ask why you dared to write a letter to
Sir Charles Dene in the name of your dead mistress.”

The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its
assumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so
complete, that for a moment “Marie le Marchant’s”
new assurance failed her.

She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and
breast heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate:

‘““‘I—I—why do you ask me that?”

“Because I must have the truth from you this time.
You are playing a dangerous game. It must stop, once
and for all.”

That he was right he was sure now beyond cavil.
She tacitly admitted it. She could not deny it with
those piercing eyes reading the very secrets of her
heart. Yet she was plucky to the last. Although ut-
terly confused, and on the point of bursting into tears,
she snapped viciously:

“Tl tell you nothing. Go away!”

“You are obstinate, I know,” persisted Bruce, “but
{ must warn you that you are playing with edged tools.
Why do you imagine you can trifle with murder? What
is your motive for trying deliberately to conceal Lady
Dene’s death? If you do not answer me you may
be asked the question in a court of law.”

“You have no right—to come here—annoying me!”
she gasped.

“I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as aTHE HANDWRITING 249

friend, to appeal to you not to incur the grave risk of
keeping from the authorities the information they
ought to possess.”

“What information?”

“The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles
Dene’s house so suddenly, the source from which you
obtain your money, paid to you, doubtless, to secure
your silence, the motive which impels you to imitate
her ladyship’s handwriting in order to spread the false
news that she is alive. This is the information needed,
and your wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave
indictment.”

“T don’t care that for you, Mr. Bruce,” cried the
girl, her face suddenly a-flame with temper, while she
snapped her fingers to emphasise her words. “You
can do and say what you like, I’ll tell you nothing.”

“You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir
Charles Dene last Saturday?”

“T’m waiting for my tea. Sorry I can’t ask you to
join me.”

“Your flippancy will not serve. See, here is the
letter itseli—your own production—written on paper
of which you have a supply in this very room.”

The shot was a daring one, and it very nearly hit the
mark. She was staggered, almost subdued by this melo-
dramatic production of the original, joined to an adroit
guess at the existence of similar note paper in the house.

But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Hard-
ing was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a
French-sounding name, and she would have died sooner
than haul down her colours.

“J’]] thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce,” she
said, holding the door open.

There was nothing for it but to go. Yet he was250 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

more than satisfied with the extraordinary outcome of
his visit. He had now established beyond a shadow
of doubt that, for some reason which he could not
then fathom, the ex-lady’s maid not only knew of her
mistress’s death, but wished to conceal it.

This scheme on her part, too, held the essential fea-
ture of every other branch of the inquiry—it grew
to maturity long after the day when Lady Dene was
actually killed. What did it all mean? Had there
ever before been such an amazing case?

From Bloomsbury he took a taxi to Portman Square,
and found Sir Charles on the point of strolling to his
club for luncheon.

He told briefly of his discovery.

The baronet was not at all impressed—he was
frankly sceptical in fact. ‘Do you mean to say,” he
cried fretfully, “that I don’t know my wife’s writing
when I see it?”

“Vou think you do, but if another person can imi-
tate it exactly you may be deceived. Besides, if this
girl, as is probable, was helped in her education by
your wife, what is more likely than that she should
seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal
of excellence? Don’t harbour any delusions in the
matter, Dene. The letter you received on Monday
morning was written by Jane Harding. I am sure of
that from her manner no less than from the accidental
resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What
I could not wring out of her was her motive. But she
cannot hide that now, for any length of time.”

“It is a frantic mix-up, however you look at it,”
said Sir Charles wearily. ‘Believe me, I’m fed to the
teeth. I’d like to ask you to lunch, Bruce, but I daren’t
—I might bite you!”CHAPTER XXV
PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES

NoTHING now could shake Bruce’s conviction that
Jane Harding was the paid agent of some person who
wished to conceal the facts bearing on Lady Dene’s
death. Her unexpected appearance in the field at this
late hour, no less than the bold réle she adopted, proved
this conclusively. But in England there is no torture-
chamber to which she might be led and gradually dis-
membered until she confessed. So long as she adhered
to the policy of pert denial she was quite safe. The
law could not touch her, for the chief witness against
her, Sir Charles Dene, was obviously more than ready
to admit the genuineness of the letter, even in opposi-
tion to the calmer and better-informed judgment of his
friend.

Yet it was a matter which Bruce considered ought to
be made known to the police, so he sent for Inspector
White and told him of the strange result of his inter-
view with Marie le Marchant.

‘Dash my luck—it’s dead out,” cried the detective,
when he heard the news. “I made a note weeks ago
that that girl ought to be watched, but I clean forgot
all about it.”

“Remember,” said Bruce, “that my discovery was
the result of pure accident. My object in visiting her
was to gain her confidence and learn something of Lady
Dene’s life and habits. Even the malicious gossip of
the servants’ hall would have been better than nothing.

But I handled that part of the business badly—never
251252 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

even touched on it in the overwhelming surprise of the
other discovery.”

“T don’t see that, sir. You got hold of a very re-
markable fact, and prevented the success of a bold
move made by some one which, in my case at any rate,
nearly choked me off the inquiry.”

“True enough. But chance favoured me. Yet I
ought to have been content. There was no sense in
frightening her by pressing her guilt home.”

“Oh, from that point of view—” began the detective.

But Bruce was merely thinking aloud—rough-shap-
ing his ideas until they re-grouped themselves in his
brain.

“Perhaps I am wrong there, too,” he went on. sont
this girl is working to instructions she would have re-
fused to help in any way, and she knows already I am
on the trail. There is one highly satisfactory feature
in the Jane Harding adventure, Inspector.”

“And that is?”

“The person, or persons, responsible for Lady Dene’s
death are aware that the matter has not been dropped.
They fear the circle is narrowing. In some of our
casts, White, we must have come so unpleasantly near
that they deem it advisable to throw us off the scent
by a bold effort.”

“No doubt you’re right, sir, but I wish to goodness
I could tell when we are ‘warm’. The chase keeps me
on the run, and there’s plenty of excitement, but Pm
jiggered if I know where we are all heading.”

The detective’s face was as downcast as his words.

“Surely not! The more clues we find, the less diffi-
cult should be the final task of sorting them out.”

“Not when every new clue supplies a worse puzzle!”
“What has put you out of conceit to-day?”PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES 253

“Mrs. Hillmer.”

“What of her?”

“T’ve had another talk with the maid,—her com-
panion, you know,—a girl named Dobson. It’s high
time we knew more about Mrs. Hillmer than we do at
present.”

Bruce offered no comment, though he did not fail to
remember that Corbett, the stranger from Wyoming,
had put forward the same view.

“Well,” continued the detective, “I went about the
affair as quietly as I could, but the maid, though will-
ing, was not able to tell me much. Mrs. Hillmer, she
thinks, married very young, and was badly treated by
her husband. Finally, there was a rumpus, and she
went on the stage, while Hillmer drank himself to
death. He died a year ago, and they had been sepa-
rated nearly five years. He was fairly well-to-do, but
he squandered all his money in dissipation and never
gave her a cent. Three years last Michaelmas she set
up her present establishment at Raleigh Mansions, and
there she has been ever since.”

‘Where does the money come from? It must cost
her at least £2,000 a year to live.”

“That’s just where the maid let me down. Her mis-
tress led a very secluded life, and was never what you
would call a flier, though a very pretty woman. No
night clubs, or racing, or that sort of thing. During
all those years she had only one visitor—a gentleman.”

“Ah! 9

‘Tt sounds promising, but it ends in smoke, so far
sil can: See.

“Why?”

“This gentleman was a Colonel Montgomery—an old
friend—though he wasn’t much turned thirty, the maid254 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

says. He interested himself a lot in Mrs. Hillmer’s
affairs, looked after her investments, and was on very
good terms with her, but nobody could whisper a word
against the character of either of them. He was never
there except of an afternoon. On rare occasions he
took Mrs. Hillmer, whose maid always accompanied
them, to Epping Forest, or up the river, or on some
such quiet outing.”

““Go on!”

“T’m sorry, sir, but that bird won’t fight. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Ves. The maid doesn’t know how, or when, exactly,
but one day she found her mistress crying, and when
she asked her what was the matter, Mrs. Hillmer said,
‘T’ve lost my friend.’ The maid said, ‘Surely not
Colonel Montgomery, madam?’ and she replied, ‘Yes.’
She quite took on about it.”

“Has the maid any idea of the date?”

“Only a vague one. Sometime in the autumn or be-
fore Christmas. By jing, yes—it escaped me at the
time, but she said that soon after the Colonel’s death
another gentleman called and took her mistress out to
dinner. I was so busy thinking about the colonel that
I missed the significance of that statement. It must
have been you, Mr. Bruce.”

“T am always the villain in the piece. You will
arrest me yet, White!”

Bruce was occupied already in assimilating this new
information. If a woman like Mrs. Hillmer had lost a
dear and valuable friend—one who formed the horizon
of her life—she would certainly have worn mourning
for him. It was a singular coincidence that Mrs. Hill-
mer “lost”? Colonel Montgomery about the same timePHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES 255

that Lady Dene disappeared. Detective and maid alike
had drawn a false inference from her words.

“We must find Colonel Montgomery,” he said, after
a slight pause.

“Find him!”

(Vas?

“T hope neither of us is going his way for some time
to come, Mr. Bruce,” laughed White.

‘Inspector, I shall never cure you from jumping at
conclusions. On your present evidence Colonel Mont-
gomery is no more dead than you are.”

“But the maid said—”

“T don’t care if fifty maids said. There are many
more ways of ‘losing’ a friend than by death. Pass me
the Army List, on that bookshelf behind you there.”

A brief reference to the index, and Bruce said:

“T thought so. There is mo Colonel Montgomery.
There are several captains and lieutenants, and a
Major-General who has commanded a small island in
the Pacific during the last five years, but not a solitary
colonel. White, you have blundered into eminence in
your profession.”

“Tm glad to hear it, even in the nasty way you put
it, Mr. Bruce. But I don’t see—”

“T know you don’t. If you did, a popular novelist
would write your life and style you the English Lecocq.
Mrs. Hillmer ‘lost’ the gallant colonel at the same time
that the world ‘lost? Lady Dene. Find the first, and
I am much mistaken if we do not learn all about the
second.”

“Now, I wonder if you are right.”

The detective’s eyes sparkled with animation. It
was the first real clue he had hit on, and Bruce’s left-
handed compliment did not disconcert him in the least.256 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“Of course I’m right. You have done so well with
the maid that I leave her in your hands. Try the
chauffeur and the cook, too. But keep me bang up-to-
date. Things are going to happen soon!”

White rushed off. So closely did he follow this
fresh trail that he paid no heed for some days to Jane
Harding’s curious aptitude as a letter-writer.

Bruce left the inquiry to him purposely. The dis-
appearance of Lady Dene was on the verge of being
explained, and he shrank from subjecting Mrs. Hillmer
to further questioning. His self-restraint was rewarded
later in the week, when Mensmore came to see him.
The young man looked haggard and ill at ease. His
expression of settled melancholy struck Bruce as a bad
sign.

“Well, have you prevailed on your sister to take us
into her confidence?” he said, when Mensmore sank
listlessly into a chair.

“No. She is more than ever resolved to bear the
whole blame.”

“Surely this mad notion can be shaken?”

“I fear not.’

“Do you also share it?”

“TI do. Put up with us, Bruce. This is a terrible
business. It has shaken me more than anything that
ever happened before, and I’ve gone through more than
my fair share of life’s worries.”

“But, what utter nonsense! You are in no way
concerned. No one really credits Mrs. Hillmer’s wild
statements.”

Mensmore shook his head hopelessly.

“Look here, old chap,” he said, “I’m here to ask if
this investigation cannot be allowed to rest. If it goes
on it means a lot of misery that you can neither fore-PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES = 257

see nor prevent. Knowing what I do, I cannot believe
that Lady Dene was murdered.”

“Knowing what I do, I cannot accept any other con-
clusion,” said Bruce emphatically. “A charming and
most estimable woman leaves her home suddenly, with-
out the slightest ascertainable 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 supply one. Yet I ap-
peal to you to let matters rest where they are if it is
at all possible.”

‘It is not possible. I cannot control the police. I
am merely a private agent acting on my own responsi-
bility and on behalf of Lady Dene’s relatives.”

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

“On whose behalf, then?”

Mensmore did not answer for a moment. He looked
mournfully into the fire as though seeking inspiration
there.

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

The other sprang from his chair.

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

“Exactly what I have said. When we met last
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. Ii
my sister has to figure in a court of law as a principal,
or accomplice, in a murder case—and possibly I my-258 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

self with her—I could not consent to associate my poor
Phyllis’s name with mine. So I took the plunge.”

“Vou are the biggest bally idiot out of captivity to-
day!” shouted Bruce. “If it were in my power I
would give you six months’ hard labour this very
minute. Who on earth ever threatened to put you or
your sister in the dock?”

“Vou’ve done your best that way, you know.”

“T?_] have shielded you throughout!”

“Exactly. Doesn’t your admission show that I am
right? Shielded us from what? From arrest by the
police, of course.”

“T see! You answer every question but the vital
one! What has Lady Dene’s death to do with your
marriage to Miss Browne?”

“That’s it, Bruce. I can’t explain. Go on! Pitch
into me! I'll stick it!”

“Did you give Phyllis any reason for your absurd
decision?”

“Ves. I have no secrets from her.”

“So you inflicted all this wretched story on the girl
you loved and hoped to marry?”

“Be as bitter as you like! That is my idea of a
square deal, at any rate. What other pretext could I
invent for—for giving her up?”

Mensmore found it hard to utter the words. In his
heart Bruce pitied him, though he raged at this lament-
able collapse of the only bright interlude in a sordid
record of death and intrigue.

“And what did she say?”

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

“A nice kettle of fish you have made of things,”PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES 259

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

NTO.”

Mensmore was so utterly disconsolate that Bruce
could not even goad him into self-defence. He hardly
knew how to deal with him. He was sure that if
Mensmore would only explain Mrs. Hillmer’s strange
delusion and the cause of it, their personal difficulties
and heart-burnings would be at an end. So he made
a direct attack.

‘Have you ever heard of a Colonel Montgomery?”
he said suddenly.

The effect was electrical. Mensmore was literally
stunned. He could not meet Bruce’s steady eyes, and
stammered badly when he tried to speak.

“T__you—who told you about him?” he said at last.

“He was your sister’s friend, adviser, and confidant,”
was the stern reply. ‘He it is who is responsible for
Lady Dene’s disappearance.”

Mensmore rose excitedly. He seemed to want to force
his way out, but thought better of it.

“T cannot discuss that matter,” he cried. “I have
promised, and I will not break my word.”

“Very well! I don’t press it. But may I see Mrs.
Hillmer again? Perhaps when she knows every-
thing—”

Mensmore, once again master of himself, placed a
hand on Bruce’s shoulder. His voice was measured
and impressive, though vibrant with emotion.

“Believe me,” he said, “it is better you should not
see her. It will be useless. She is leaving London, not
to avoid consequences, but to get away from painful260 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

memories. Her departure will be quite open, and her
place of residence known to any one who cares to in-
quire. But she is immovable in her resolve not to
reveal to any one on earth what knowledge she has
of Lady Dene’s death. She will suffer any punishment
at the hands of the law rather than speak. And—
damn it all, Bruce!—I—TI think she’s right!”

The barrister smiled grimly. He could not help it.
How could he ever have suspected Mensmore and his
sister of being a pair of sentimental fools?

“Don’t you understand that this man, Montgomery,
is now known to the police?” he urged. “Sooner or
later he will be found and made to explain his connec-
tion with the crime. Why not bring about quietly
that which will be done by force when Scotland Yard
gets busy?”

“Your reasoning appears to be good, but—”

“But folly must prevail?”

“Put it that way if you like.”

“So some ridiculous scruple may cost you the love
of a devoted girl?”

‘Heaven help me, it has done so already!”

“Then I swear that I’ll tear the heart out of this
mystery before the week ends.”

Bruce was unusually excited.

Mensmore, who had no more to say, would have left
the room, but Smith entered. In their distraction
neither man had heard the bell ring. Smith handed a
card to his master, and Bruce controlled himself in-
stantly. The dramatic sequence of events was too
much for him. It was almost with an appreciative
smile that he said, without the slightest reference to
Mensmore:

“Show the lady in.”PHYLLIS BROWNE INTERVENES-~ 261

Mensmore tried to pass out, but the first glimpse
of the visitor drove him back as though he had been
struck. It was Phyllis Browne. Her only recognition
of him was a bright smile.

“Youre Mr. Bruce, I think?” she said cheerfully.
“T’m so glad you’re at home. I heard heaps about you
from Bertie on the Riviera, and lots more since my
return to town.”

Bruce expressed the orthodox delight at this un-
expected apparition. Mensmore, not knowing what
else to do, stood in silence, looking, and probably feel-
ing, profoundly uncomfortable. Neither of the others
paid him any heed.

“Of course you know why I am here,” went on the
young lady. “Somebody killed somebody else some
months ago, so a young gentleman who asked me to
marry him has thrown me over. He says he intends
to spend the rest of his life in Central Africa or China
—anywhere, in fact, but where I may be.”

“He must be an ass!” said Bruce.

“So I thought. I was sure I’d get some sense out
of you. It was easy to trace you through the Directory.
My people think I’m skating at Prince’s.”

“There is plenty of thin ice in Victoria-street at this
moment. If you doubt me, ask Mr. Mensmore.”

“That goose hasn’t killed anybody, has he?”

“No.”

‘And I’m sure his sister hasn’t; from what little I
saw of her she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Quite true.”

“Then why don’t you find the man who is causing
all the mischiei—and—and—lock him up at least, so
that he can’t go on hurting innocent people?”

Miss Phyllis, smiling and self-confident at the out-262 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

set, was on the verge of tears now. Mensmore’s sad-
dened face and dejected manner unnerved her more
than his incomprehensible farewell.

“You put a straight question,” replied Bruce, though
his eyes were fixed on Mensmore, “and I’ll give you a
straight answer. I am going to find the man who killed
Lady Dene. As you say, it is high time his singular
capacity for mischief should be limited. Before many
days have passed Mr. Mensmore will beg your pardon
most humbly for his absurd and quite unwarranted
action.”

“Do you hear that, Bertie?” cried the girl. “Didn’t
I tell you how it would be?”

Mensmore came nearer.

“T 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 I could do any-
thing to stop it.”

“And if you have—to go—to China—you’ll tut-tut-
take me with you?”

Bruce turned to look out of the window. First he
whistled. Then he said loudly, addressing a beautiful
lady in scant attire who figured on a poster across the
way:

“Let me ring for some tea. So much talk makes one
dry.”CHAPTER XXVI
LADY HELEN MONTGOMERY’S SON

WHEN the young people had gone—Mensmore ob-
viously ill at ease though tremulously happy, Phyllis
radiantly confident in her new friend’s power to set
everything right—Bruce felt that no more time should
be lost. The first step was self-evident. He must
ascertain if the Denes knew a Colonel Montgomery.

He drove to Sir Charles Dene’s club, but the baronet
was not there, so his next call was at Wensley House.
Sir Charles was at home, in his accustomed nook by
the library fire. He looked ill and low-spirited. The
temporary animation which had sustained him during
the past few weeks was gone. If anything, he was more
listless than at any other period since his wife’s death.

“Well, Claude,” he said weariiy, “anything to re-
port?”

“Ves, a good deal.”

“What is it?”

“T 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?”

Dene did not answer at once. He seemed to need a
real effort to focus his thoughts.

“T do not think she was,” he replied vaguely. ‘Had
she ever met such a man I would 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,” explained Bruce, “that

Mrs. Hillmer formed a close intimacy with some man
263264 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

of 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.”

“Does no one know what became of him, then?”

“No,” .

“Won’t Mrs. Hillmer tell you?”

“She absolutely refuses to give any help whatever.”

“On what grounds?”

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

“Ah! »?

Sir Charles bent over and poked the fire viciously
and unnecessarily.

‘Women are strange creatures, Bruce,” he muttered.
‘We men never understand them until too late. To all
appearances my wife and I did not care a jot for one
another while she lived. Yet I realise now that she
loved me, and I would give my small remaining span
of existence, dear as life is, to see her once more. If
she lives, why does she keep away?”

This was a morbid topic, and one on which they
must disagree. ‘The younger man tried to head his
friend away from it.

“Tt is almost clear,” he said, “that Colonel Mont-
gomery’s name was assumed. Few people appreciate
the wide-spread use of the alias in modern life. I sup-
pose it permits of irregular ménages which would be
impracticable otherwise. In the present instance, how-
ever, it should not be difficult to lay hands on the
gentleman.”

“Suppose you succeed? How can you connect him
with my wife’s death?”LADY HELEN MONTGOMERY’S SON 265

“T am unable to say, of course. But the taxi-man
might help.”

“The taximan. What taximan?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Bruce, inwardly reviling his care-
lessness. ‘I ought to have told you that I have found
the driver of the cab, an old Ford, 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.”

‘No. I did not forget. I have had no 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 before you came to my place on
Monday that I secured the man’s story. By the way,
do you now see any reason why Jane Harding should
have tried to deceive you in such a barefaced way?”

Bruce wanted to avoid any further reference to
“Foxey” and his painful revelations, so he risked a
dispute as to the validity of the letter. To his sur-
prise, however, Dene swept the whole thing aside.

“T am tired of letters, and plots, and mysteries,”
came the petulant complaint. ‘My life is resolving
itself into one huge note of interrogation. Good God!
How weary I am of it all!”

For a time, neither man spoke. Each seemed to seek
inspiration in the dancing flames of a glowing fire.

“Really, chis is too bad of you, Dene,” said Bruce at
last. “You showed a marked improvement for a week
or two. Now you are letting yourself slip back into
loneliness and moping.”266 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“My thoughts find me both occupation and com-
pany,” was the despondent reply.

“There is nothing for it but a tour round the world,”
went on Bruce as cheerfully as he could contrive. “You
must start at once. Complete change of scene and sur-
roundings will soon pull you back to good health.”

“T have been planning a long journey for some time
past.”

The barrister did then glance sharply at his friend.
The hidden meaning of the words was not lost on him.
Dene was in a depressed and nervous condition. The
uncertainty regarding his wife’s fate was harassing him
unduly. With a twinge of conscience Bruce reflected
on his own eagerness in a quest which was now becom-
ing an intellectual obsession.

“Look here!” he cried, on the spur of the moment,
“T have been anxious for years to visit the Canadian
Pacific. Will you start out West with me in a fort-
nignt? We can come back when the spirit moves.”

“We shall see. I feel unable to decide anything to-
day, old man.”

“Ves, I think I understand: But the mere fact that
you make up your mind to go will be a tonic in itself.”

“Tt is very good of you, Claude, to trouble so about
me. Had you asked me earlier I might have agreed
straightaway. Let it rest for a while. When I have
recovered my spirits somewhat I may ask you to sail
next day, or some other mad scheme of the sort.”

Beyond this, Bruce could not move him.

There was one link in the chain of evidence that
would be unbreakable if discovered. Was _ this
“Colonel Montgomery” in any way connected with
the house at Putney where the murderer had disposed
of the body? Once this was established, the unknownLADY HELEN MONTGOMERY’S SON 267

visitor to Raleigh Mansions would have great difficulty
in clearing himself of the most serious charge known
to the law. Again, if the ‘Colonel’? came into the
open, there must be some explanation of Mrs. Hillmer’s
and her brother’s dread lest his identity should be dis-
covered.

An inquiry addressed to the house agents to whom
possible tenants were referred produced the informa-
tion that the present owner, a lady, was prepared to
sell the house or let it 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 prospective tenant, with a desire
to purchase the property outright if terms could be
arranged.

Mr. Sharp, the partner who dealt with the estate,
became quite suave in manner when this suggestion
was tabled.

“You will understand, Mr. Bruce, that your request
requires consideration,” he said. ‘The rent my client
asks is comparatively low, because the house is old-
fashioned, but the splendid riparian position of the
property, a freehold acre on the banks of the Thames
at Putney, enhances its future value. Any figure you
may have based on a rental calculation would there-
fore—”’

“Not meet the case at all,” said the barrister, re-
pressing a smile at this familiar opening move.

“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. Septi-268 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

mus Childe, purchased the place some years ago, largely
because the house suited his requirements. He was
the head of a successful private school.”

‘Has it changed hands frequently?”

“Oh, dear no. Indeed, it is well understood that
the Rev. Mr. Childe acquired it more as a friendly
transaction than otherwise. ‘The property is a por-
tion of the separate estate of the late Lady Helen
Montgomery, who married Sir William Dene, father of
the present baronet. The latter, perhaps— But, my
dear sir, what zs the matter?”

Had Bruce been a woman he must have fainted.

As it was, the shock of the intelligence nearly para-
lysed him. Sir Charles Dene!—Montgomery!— The
house at Putney the property of his mother! What
new terror did this affrighting combination of names
suggest?

Why had his life-long friend concealed such highly
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 Dene as a daughter of the Earl of Til-
bury. A suspicion—profoundly horrible, yet hope-
lessly convincing—was mastering him, and every
second brought further proof not only of its reasonable-
ness, 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 are ill? Let me get you some brandy.”

‘“No—no,”’ murmured the barrister. “It’s only a
momentary attack of nerves as a legacy of the war, I
fear. I—I think I ought to get out into the fresh air.
Are you—quite sure—that Mr. Childe bought theLADY HELEN MONTGOMERY’S SON 269

property from Lady Helen Montgomery’s trustees?”

“Quite sure. If you are able to wait even a few
minutes I can show you the title-deeds.”

‘No, thanks. Ill call again. Pray, excuse me!”

Somehow Bruce crossed the quiet square of the Inn,
and plunged into the turmoil of Holborn. In the
crowded street he had a curious sensation of physical
safety. The fiend so suddenly installed in his brain
was less active here with suggestions of ghastly and
maddening thoughts.

Why ?—Why?—Why?— Fifty questions beat in-
cessantly against the barrier of agonized negation he
tried to set up, but the noise of the traffic deadened the
inner turmoil. Each incautious bump against a passer-
by silenced a demand, each heavy crunch of a ’bus on
the gravel-strewed roadway dissipated a doubt. But
only for the moment. As analysis grew clearer it be-
came more icily convincing.

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 thrust
itself forward so fiercely and so unexpectedly. He
knew and dreaded the answer. If he once admitted
it, he was sure he would reel and fall.

At last he became aware vaguely that people were
staring at him. Fearful lest some acquaintance should
recognise and accost him, he hailed a taxi and drove
to Victoria-street.

All the way the beat of the engine served to distract
his thoughts. He tried to count the revolutions, to
find some absurd rhythm of words to fit in with the
hum of the machine. He failed, of course, but in the
very failure there was relief.270 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Nevertheless, the time seemed interminable until the
cab drew up in front of his door.

He gave no heed to the “clock.” Ascending the
stairs slowly he bade Smith pay the man and admit no
one. Then he threw himself into a chair.

At last he was face to face with the stubborn demon
which had possessed him in Lincoln’s Inn, jeered at
him in the crowd, and wrought with him in the taxi.
Alisia Dene was revenged at last. Phyllis Browne
should have her answer sooner than he or she expected.

The man who murdered Lady Dene was her own
husband!

He sat there for hours. Smith entered, turned on the
lights and suggested tea, but was dismissed with a curse.
After another long interval the valet re-appeared. He
announced timidly that Inspector White had called.

“Confound you. Didn’t you say I was out?”
shouted Bruce, little knowing how greatly he was alarm-
ing a devoted servant.

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

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

Smith left the room only to return.

“Mr. White says, sir,’ he pleaded, “that ’is business
is of the kutmost himportance. ’E can’t leave it; and
’e says you will be very sorry afterwards if you don’t
see Im now.”

“Oh, well, I must face the music,” cried Bruce, turn-
ing to a spirit-stand and pouring out a stiff glass of
brandy. “Send him in!” Awed by a situation wholly
beyond him, Smith admitted the detective and closed
the door. The two looked at each other without a word
of greeting or explanation.CHAPTER XXVII
WHITE’S METHOD

THE detective spoke first. “Has Jane Harding been
here, then?” he said.

The banal words conveyed no meaning. They were
so incongruous, so ridiculously out of place that Bruce
laughed hysterically.

“Damn Jane Harding!” he said.

“But you must have seen her,” cried White. “I’m
sure you have. In no other way that I can imagine
could you have learnt the truth.”

“Learnt what truth?”

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

“What? Floundering again, White?”

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

“May the foul fiend fly away with Jane Harding!
Explain yourself, or get to the devil out of this.”

“It’s no good, sir. You may as well give in. I
know it hurts, but you’ve got to face it. If Sir Charles
Dene had not been out of town, the puzzle would be
solved in the easiest way, because I would have ar-
rested him.”

“White, you weary me! I am in no mood to listen
to your rhapsodies on the clang of prison doors.”

“Now, look here, Mr. Bruce, do be reasonable, if

271272 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

only for the sake of your friend. I am absolutely in
earnest. I have come to you for advice. Sir Charles
Dene is the guilty man.”

‘And what do you want me to do?”

‘Help me to take the right course. The whole thing
seems so astounding that I can hardly trust my own
judgment. I spoke hastily just now. I would not
have touched Sir Charles before consulting you. I was
never so mixed-up in all my life. It’s just crazy—
that’s what it is!”

Whatever the source of his information, the detective
had arrived at the same conclusion as Bruce himself.
There was nothing for it but to endeavour to reason
out the position calmly, and deal with it in the light
of their joint intelligence. Bruce motioned the detec-
tive to a chair, imposed silence by a look, and sum-
moned Smith. He was faint from lack of food. He
resolved first to restore his strength, as he would need
all his powers to wrestle with events before he slept
that night.

White, equally hungry, joined in a simple meal. By
tacit consent no reference was made to the one topic
in their thoughts until the table was cleared.

“And now, Inspector,” said Bruce, filling his pipe
after pushing forward a small cabinet filled with cigars
and cigarettes, “out with it, whatever you have to
say!”

White was ready. The great moment had arrived.
He actually began to hope that he might be first in
the field with his news.

“During the last two days,” he said, “I have been
trying unsuccessfully to trace Colonel Montgomery.
No matter what I did I failed. I got hold of several
of Mrs. Hillmer’s tradespeople, but she always paidWHITE’S METHOD 273
her bills with her own cheques, and not a man among
’em had ever heard of a Colonel Montgomery. That
furniture business bothered me a lot—the change of
the drawing-room set from one flat to another on
November 7th, I mean. So I discovered the address of
the people who supplied the new articles to Mrs.
Hillmer—”’

“Tow?”

“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 rather easy place for
some years. I think it came to Mrs. Hillmer’s ears
that she talked too much.”

“To you, of course. Carry on!”

“Here I hit on 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 No-
vember 7th, and the foreman in charge of the job re-
membered that there was some dispute about it, since
neither Mrs. Hillmer nor Mr. Corbett, as Mensmore
used to be called, had any knowledge of the trans-
action. But the gentleman came along the same morn-
ing 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 circumstance 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 didn’t know a
thing until the arrival of the first batch of articles
from Mrs. Hillmer’s flat, but he—the foreman, I mean
—could only describe the mysterious go-between as274 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

being a regular toff. He afterwards identified a por-
trait of Sir Charles Dene as being exactly like the
man, if not the man himself.”

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

“That will appear later,” said the detective, full of
professional pride at the undoubtedly smart manner in
which he had arranged the evidence once it came
tumbling in on him.

“Of course,” he went on, “I jumped to the conclu-
sion that the stranger was this Colonel Montgomery.
That was dead easy. Then, while 1 was questioning
the maid about the events of November “th, she re-
membered suddenly that she had lost an old skirt and
coat about that time. They had vanished from her
room, and she had never set eyes on them since. That
started me off. I showed her the clothes worn by Lady
Dene when found in the river, and I’m jiggered if Dob-
son didn’t recognize them at once as being her missing
property. Now, wasn’t that a rum go?”

“Tt certainly was,” agreed Bruce, who was piecing
together the story of the murder 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 shutting up so suddenly
about the identification of her mistress’s underclothing.
She was right enough, as we know, in regard to the
skirt and coat, but she had admitted to me that the
linen on the dead body was just the same as Lady
Dene’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 York-WHITE’S METHOD 275

shire. That explained the absence of the otherwise
inevitable laundry-mark.”

“Thus far the story is coherence itself.”’

“Well,” said White complacently, “I was a long time
getting to work, Mr. Bruce, and had it not been for
you I would never have got at the truth, but I flatter
myself that, once on the right trail, I keep my nose to
the ground. 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 a bit of the stage busi-
ness 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 war-
rant for her arrest on a charge of complicity in the
murder of Lady Dene.”

“Dangerous work!”

“I should think so, indeed. If it had gone wrong,
and any hint of it reached the ears of the Commis-
sioner or got into the papers, I should have been re-
duced or dismissed. But what is a detective to do?
I was losing my temper over this infernal inquiry and
never making any real progress, though always com-
ing across startling developments. It had to end some-
how, so I took a chance. The make-believe warrant
and the production of handcuffs for a woman—they
are never used, you know, in reality—are often a
trump-card for us when all else fails.”

“On this occasion, then, the ‘properties’ did the
trick?”

“They did, and no mistake. I gave her no time to
think or act. I found her sitting with her mother, ad-276 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

miring a new carpet she had just laid down. I said,
‘Is your name Jane Harding, now engaged at the Jol-
lity Theatre, under the alias of Marie le Marchant, but
formerly a maid in the service of Lady Dene?’ She
bleached a bit at that, and said ‘Yes,’ while her mother
clutched hold of her, terrified. Then I whipped out
the warrant and the cuffs. My, but you ought to have
heard them squeal when the bracelets clinked together.
‘What has my poor girl done?’ screamed the mother.
‘Perhaps nothing, madam,’ I answered; ‘but she is
guilty in the eyes of the law just the same if she per-
sists in screening the guilty parties.’ Jane Harding was
trembling and blubbering, but she kept on saying, ‘It’s
very hard on me. I have done nothing. I grew
anxious myself then, as I was afraid she might offer to
come to the police station, in which case I was dished.
But the mother settled the affair splendidly. ‘I am
sure my daughter will not conceal anything,’ she said,
‘and it’s a shame to disgrace her in this way without
telling what it is you want to know.’ I took the cue
+n an instant. ‘I am able,’ 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 Dene was behind her throughout?”

“Almost from the very beginning. At first Jane
Harding herself believed, when she was brought to
Putney before the inquest, that the body she saw was
not that of Lady Dene. 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, sheWHITE’S METHOD 277

decided that Sir Charles knew more about the matter
than he cared tv admit. In any case, her place was
gone, and she would soon be dismissed, so she resolved
on a plan even bolder than mine when I threatened 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 know-
ing what she was driving at, 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 then that he did not
desire to have Lady Dene’s name brought into notori-
ety. Sooner than to let such a thing happen he would
give her the money. An hour later he handed her fifty
ten-pound notes.”

“Blackmail! What a wretched mistake!” cried
Bruce. This unmasking of his unfortunate friend’s
weakness was painful in the extreme.

‘Perhaps it was,” replied the detective, “but even
now the thing isn’t quite clear. I may as well be
candid—that is why I am here. The girl admitted
that she lost her head a bit. Instead of leaving the
house openly, without attracting attention, she simply
bolted, and so supplied another sensational element to
Lady Dene’s disappearance. But she was determined
to keep faith. 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 Amer-
ica, but took her address in case he wanted her again.”278 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

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

“That’s it. You don’t require much telling, do
you? She was surprised last Thursday week to re-
ceive a telegram asking her to meet Sir Charles at
York Station. When she arrived there he asked her
to write the letter, and post it in London on Satur-
day even. He explained that he wanted to shield his
wife’s good 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. During your
interview with her you guessed the reason why she
imitated Lady Dene’s hand so perfectly. She had
copied it for three years.”

“All this must have astonished you?”

‘Mr. Bruce, ‘astonished’ isn’t the word. I was fair
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.”

“J imagine she had not much more to tell your”

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

Bruce winced at Jane Harding’s logic. It struck
deeper than she knew. Were he able to retrieve the
past three months the mystery of Lady Dene’s death
would never have called for solution, because it was
in his power to have rescued his friend that night at
Victoria station on the Underground Railway.

“Now about the photograph,” said the detective.
“After I left Jane Harding, with a solemn warning to
speak to no one until I saw her again, I made a roundWHITE’S METHOD

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 at the furniture ware-
house, 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, White. May I ask your
reason for showing him this consideration?”

The detective, very earnest and very excited, banged
a hand on the table.

“Don’t you see what it all amounts to? I have no
option but to arrest Sir Charles Dene for the murder
of his wife.”

‘“‘A sad conclusion, indeed!”

“And do you believe he killed her?”

“Strange as it may seem, I do not.”

“And I’m jiggered if I do either.”

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

Bruce turned away. For some minutes there was
complete silence. When he looked again at the detec-
tive there were tears in his eyes.

“How can we two unravel this tangled skein with-
out creating untold mischief?” he muttered.

“Tt beats me, sir,” was the perplexed answer. “But,
when I came in, I imagined that Jane Harding had
been to see you. Surely, you knew the truth before I
turned up?”

“Ves, indeed. I had reached the goal, but by a
different route. Unfortunately, my discovery goes to
confirm yours.”280 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

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

‘Tt’s quite clear,” he said, when the barrister had
ended, “that Lady Dene was killed in Mrs. Hillmer’s
flat, that Sir Charles knew of her death, that he him-
self 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 do something. If you
don’t care to interfere then J must.”

“There is one person in the world who can decide
that for us—Sir Charles himself.”

“Unquestionably.”

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

“Let us go,” he said.

“But he is not in London.”

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

‘It will be a terrible business, Mr. Bruce.”

“T dread it—on my soul, I do. But I cannot shirk
this final attempt to rescue my friend. My presence
may tend to bring about a final and full explanation.
No matter what the pain to myself, I must be there.
Come. It is late already!”CHAPTER XXVIII
SIR CHARLES DENE’S JOURNEY

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 un-
til twelve o’clock is long past.

But to the experienced eye there is a marked hiatus
between half-past nine and eleven. During that inter-
val Charing Cross is negotiable, Piccadilly Circus loses
its terrors, and a taxi may turn out of Regent-street
into Oxford-street without the fare being impelled to
brace himself while the vehicle is crushed like a wal-
nut shell between two heavy "buses.

In any event, such tremors would not have troubled
Bruce and his companion. For some inexplicable
cause they both felt that they were in a desperate
hurry.

A momentary halt before the turn into Orchard-
street caused each man to swear, quite unconsciously.
Now that the supreme crisis in this most painful inves-
tigation was at hand they resented the slightest delay.
Though they were barely ten minutes in the cab, it
seemed an hour before they alighted at Wensley
House, Portman Square.

In response to an imperative ring a footman ap-
peared. 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?”
281282 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

BW 22

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

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

“T hear that Sir Charles is in his room?” he said.

Thompson caught sight of the detective standing on
the steps. A few hours earlier he himself had told
the man that his master was out of town. It was an
awkward dilemma, and he coughed doubtingly while
racking his brains for the right answer.

But Bruce grasped his difficulty.

“Tt’s all right, Thompson,” he said. ‘“Mr. White
understands fully. Do you think Sir Charles is in
bed?”

“Tl go and see, sir. He was very anxious 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 but-
ler closed the door behind them, and solemnly ascended
the stairs to Sir Charles Dene’s bedroom, which was
situated on the first floor along a corridor towards the
back of the house.

They heard distinctly the polite knock and Thomp-
son’s query, “Are you asleep, Sir Charles?”

After a pause, there was another knock, and the
same question slightly louder. Then the butler re-
turned, saying, as he drew near:

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

Bruce and the detective exchanged glances. The
barrister was disappointed, almost worried, but he
said:SIR CHARLES DENE’S JOURNEY 283

“Tn 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
at this hour. 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, whis-
pered:

“That there blessed maid turned up again this after-
noon, sir.”

The barrister started violently.

“Not Jane Harding, surely?”

“Ves, 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 gurgled indistinctly, but recovered at
once.

“She must have reached the house about half an hour
before me,” he said to 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 somewhat uneasily on his feet.
He wished now he had held his tongue.

“T had my orders, sir,’ he murmured, in extenuation
of these apparently conflicting statements.

“Tell me what your orders were,” persisted Bruce.284 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

The man hesitated, not wishful to offend his mas-
ter’s friend, but too well trained to reveal explicit in-
structions.

“Don’t be afraid. I will explain everything to Sir
Charles personally. We cannot judge what to do for
the best—whether to wake him or not—unless we
know the exact 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 obey to the letter.”

Bruce read:—

If Mr. Bruce, Jane Harding, or Mrs. Hillmer
should call, admit any of them immediately. To all
others say that I have left town—some days ago,
should they ask for particulars. C. D.

White, round-eyed and bullet-headed, gazed over
Bruce’s shoulder.

“That settles it,” he announced decisively. ‘We
must see him.”

“Thompson,” said Bruce, “does Sir Charles usually
lock himself in?”

“Never, sir.”

“Very well. Knock again, and then try the door.
We will go with you.”

Something in the barrister’s manner rather than his
words sent a cold shiver down the butler’s spine.

“I do hope there’s nothing wrong, sir,” he began—
but Bruce was already half-way up the stairs. Both
he and White guessed what had happened. They knew
that poor Thompson’s repeated summons at the bed-SIR CHARLES DENE’S JOURNEY 285

room door would remain forever unanswered—that the
unfortunate baronet had abandoned the dread certain-
ties of this world for the uncertainties of the next.

They were not mistaken. A few minutes later they
found his dead body drooping listlessly over the side of
a chair. He was partly undressed, and had seemingly
been overcome at the moment when he was about to
strip more completely.

On a near-by table were two bottles, both half-emp-
tied, and an empty wineglass. Each of the bottles bore
the label of a well-known chemist. One was endorsed
“Sleeping-draught,” the other “Poison,” and “Chloral.”

The three men were pale almost as the limp, inani-
mate form in the chair while they noted these details.
Bruce raised the head of his friend in the hope that life
might not yet be extinct. But Sir Charles Dene had
taken his measures effectually. Though rigor mortis
had not set in, he had evidently been dead some time.

Thompson, yielding suddenly to the strain, dropped
to his knees by his master’s side.

“Sir Charles!” he wailed. ‘Oh, Sir Charles! For
the love of Heaven, speak! You can’t be dead! Oh,
you can’t! It ain’t fair! You're too young to die.
What curse has come on the house that both should
go?”

Bruce took the butler firmly by the shoulder.

“Thompson,” he said impressively, for, now that the
crisis he feared had come and gone, he displayed a mar-
vellous self-control. ‘Thompson, if ever you wished
to serve Sir Charles, you must do so now by remaining

calm. For his ee help us, and do not create an un-
necessary scene.’

Yielding to the more powerful nature, the affrighted
man struggled to his feet.286 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

“What shall I do?” he whimpered. “Shall I send
for a doctor?”

“Ves. Say Sir Charles is ill—very ill. But nota
word to a soul otherwise about what has happened.”

At that instant White caught sight of a large and
bulky envelope, which had fallen to the floor near the
chair in which the dead man was seated.

Picking it up, he found it was addressed, “Claude
Bruce, Esq. To be delivered to him aé once.”

“This will explain matters, I expect,” said the de-
tective.

“Whatever could have come over my poor master to
do such a thing?” groaned Thompson, turning to reach
the door.

“Come back here!” cried Bruce sharply. “Now,
listen to me, Thompson,” he went on, placing both
hands on the butler’s shoulders and looking him
straight in the eyes, ‘‘you really must pull yourself to-
gether. That sort of remark will never do. Sir
Charles has simply taken an overdose of chloral acci-
dentally. He has slept badly ever since Lady Dene’s
death, you understand, and has had to depend on
sleeping-draughts. Now, before you leave the room
tell me in your own language exactly what has hap-
pened.”

“T can’t put it together now, sir, but I won’t say
anything to anybody. You can trust me for that.
Why, I loved him as my own son, I did.”

“Yes, I know that well. But remember. An over-
dose. An accident. Nothing else. Do you follow?”

“Quite, sir. Heaven help us all!”

“Very well. Now send for the doctor, without
alarming the household.”SIR CHARLES DENE’S JOURNEY 287

Bruce placed the envelope in the pocket of his over-
coat.

“We can examine this later, White,’ he explained.
“Just now we must do what we can to avoid a scandal.
The case between Lady Dene and her husband will be
settled by a higher tribunal than we had counted on.”

‘Tt certainly looks like an accident, Mr. Bruce,”
came the cautious answer, “but it all depends on the
view the doctor takes. And you know, of course, that
I shall have to report the actual facts to my superiors.”

“That goes without saying. No harm is done at this
early stage if we take such steps as may finally dis-
pense with undue publicity. Until we have heard Sir
Charles’s version, given, I suppose, in the letter, it is
advisable to maintain the theory of an accidental death.
It may be impracticable, but at least it is worth try-
ing.”

“Anything I can do to help will be done,” replied the
detective. With that they dropped the subject, and ex-
amined the room carefully.

To all intents and purposes Sir Charles Dene might,
indeed, have brought about the catastrophe inadver-
tently. The sleeping-draught bore the ledger number
of its prescription, and there is nothing unusual in a
patient striving to fortify the cautious dose ordered
by a physician by the addition of a less orthodox agent.

His partly dressed state, too, argued that he had
taken the fatal mixture at a time when he contemplated
retiring immediately. A fire still burned in the grate.
On the mantelpiece—in a position where the baronet
must have seen it until the moment when all things

faded from his vision—stood a dainty miniature of his
wife.
The detective, with professional nonchalance, soon288 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

sat down. ‘There was nothing to do but await the ar-
rival of the doctor, and, having heard his report, go
home. Moreover, he sympathized with Bruce, whose
close association with the tragedy and its chief actors
throughout had been no light ordeal.

In the quietude of the room, with the strain relaxed,
Bruce was deeply moved. Despite his legal training
and the sheer logic of the matter, he could not bring
himself to regard his dead friend as a cold-blooded
murderer. If Alisia Dene met her death at her hus-
band’s hands then it must have been the result of some
terrible mistake—of some momentary outburst of pas-
sion which never contemplated such a sequel.

Poisons which kill by stupefaction do not distort
their victims as in cases where violent irritants are
used. Sir Charles Dene seemed to lie in a deep sleep,
exhausted by toil or pain—a sleep the counterfeit of
death—while the bright colour and speaking eyes of
the miniature counterfeited life. Standing between
these two—each the inanimate replica of a man and a
woman he had known so well—the barrister felt that
the peace which was theirs now had been dearly pur-
chased.

It-was one more experience of the tremendous change
in human relationships established by death, but, un-
happily, that experience is ever new. It overpowered
him. No mere words could express his emotions, for
it is not given to man to peer beyond the grave.

A bustle in the hall beneath aroused him from a
grief-stricken stupor. Inspector White’s commonplace
explanation seemed to give him a physical shock.

“Here’s the doctor.”

A well-known physician hurried in. Thompson had
followed instructions carefully. The doctor was by noSIR CHARLES DENE’S JOURNEY 289

means prepared for that which a glance revealed to his
practised eye.

“Surely he is not dead?” he cried, looking from the
form in the chair to the two men.

Bruce bestirred himself. He, who had lectured
the butler, must not lose his own self-control.

“Ves, for some hours, I fear,” he said, “but we
wanted to avoid spreading unnecessary rumours un-
til—”’

Fortunately, the doctor and he were acquainted, so
his words carried weight.

“T understand! My poor friend! How did it come
about?”

The skilled practitioner merely lifted one of the dead
man’s eyelids, and then turned to examine the bottles
on the table.

“My own prescription,” he said, after tasting the
contents: of one phial. . . . “Ah, this is bad! ‘Why
not consult me before taking this stuff?”’ and he shook
his head sadly when he recognised the chloral.

“What do you make of it?” said Bruce.

He looked at the doctor meaningly, and received
the answer he wanted.

“A clear case of accidental poisoning,” came the
assurance. ‘Sir Charles has consulted me several
times during the past week for extreme insomnia. I
specifically warned him against overdoing my treat-
ment. Change of air, exercise, and diet are the true
specifics for sleeplessness, especially when induced, as
his was, by a morbid state of mind.”

“Vou mean—”

“That Sir Charles has never recovered from the
shock of his wife’s death. I did not know of it my-
self until it was announced recently, and I gathered290 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

from him that there was some mystery about it. How-
ever that may be, it is past comprehension that such a
splendid couple should be taken so suddenly.”

White was making notes the while, and the doctor
looked at him with evident surprise.

“This gentleman is from Scotland Yard,” explained
Bruce.

“Indeed!”

“Ves. He and I came here to-night by mere acci-
dent. We are actually inquiring into Lady Dene’s dis-
appearance, and we hurried here at a late hour to con-
sult with Sir Charles. Hence our presence and this
discovery.”

“How strange!”

‘Ts there any reason,” broke in the detective, “why
the body should not be moved?”

“Not in the least,” said the doctor. “I am quite
satisfied as to the cause of death. Of course, as my
poor friend departed from the strict limits of my treat-
ment, there must be an inquest, but I hardly expect
that the Coroner will order an autopsy. It is the old
story—impatience with slow and sure methods. . . .
And I warned him, too.”

Then he caught Bruce’s eye again, and broke off to
tell the butler and footman how to lift their dead mas-
ter out of the chair.

Telephone messages, the despatch of telegrams and
other necessary details kept Bruce employed until two
o’clock. Not until he reached the privacy of the Vic-
toria-street flat was he free to break the seal of the
packet found at the feet of his friend. Strictly speak-
ing, this should have been taken charge of by the
C.I.D. man. But Inspector White did not even raise the
point. He made off, promising to call early next day.CHAPTER XXIX
HOW LADY DENE DISAPPEARED

(Being the Manuscript left by Sir Charles Dene, Bart.,
and addressed to Claude Bruce, Esq., Barrister-at-law)

Ir is customary, I believe, for poor wretches sen-
tenced to death to be allowed a three weeks’ respite
between the date of their conviction and that on which
they are executed. I am in the position of such a one.
The difference between me and the ordinary felon is
merely a matter of environment; in most respects I
am worse off than he. My period of agony is longer
drawn out. I am condemned to die by my own hand.
I am mocked at by the surroundings of luxury, taunted
by the knowledge that though life and even a sort of
happiness are within reach I must not snatch at them.

There may come a time in the affairs of any man
when he is compelled to choose between a dishonoured
existence and voluntary death. That unpleasant alter-
native faces me now. You, who know me, would never
doubt which course I should adopt, nor will you up-
braid me because our judgments coincide. There is
nothing else for it, Bruce, but death—death in its least
obtrusive form, death so disposed that it may be pos-
sible for you, chief among my friends and the only per-
son I can trust to fulfil my wishes, to arrange that my
memory may soon be forgotten. My virtues, I fear, will
not secure me immortality; my faults, I hope, will not
be spread broadcast to cram the maws of the crowd.

I do not shirk this final issue, nor do I crave pity.
In setting forth plainly the history of my wife’s death
and its results, I am actuated solely by a desire to pro-

tect others from unjust suspicion. Having resolved to
291292 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

pay forfeit for my own errors, I claim to have expiated
them. This document is an explanation, not a confes-
sion.

I have not much time left wherein to shape my story
so as to be fair to all, myself included. If I am not
mistaken, the officers of the law are in hot chase of
me, but my statement shall not be made to an earthly
judge. The words of a man about to die may not be
well chosen; they should at least be true. I will tell of
events as nearly as possible in their sequence. If I
leave gaps through haste or forgetfulness you will, from
your own knowledge, fill them easily once you are in
possession of the main facts.

Mensmore and his sister were the friends of my early
years. We played together as children. Gwendoline
Mensmore was two years younger than I, and I well
remember making love to her at the age of eleven. Her
mother died when she was quite a baby, and her father
married again, so her stepbrother Albert is her junior
by four years. I practically taught both brother and
sister how to ride and swim and play cricket. My
father’s place in Surrey—we did not acquire the York-
shire property until the death of my grandfather—ad-
joined the place General Mensmore leased after he re-
tired from the army.

We boys always called Gwendoline “Dick,” to avoid
the difficulty of her long-sounding name, I suppose, and
I honestly believe that our respective parents enter-
tained the notion that a marriage between her and me
was quite on the cards. I went to school at Brighton,
and Mensmore, being forward for his age, joined the
same school before I left. The headmaster, the Rev.
Septimus Childe, was an old friend of my father’s,
and when he wished to purchase a house at Putney—HOW LADY DENE DISAPPEARED = = 293

the terrible house which has figured in my dreams dur-
ing the past three months as a Place of Skulls—my
parents put pressure on my mother’s trustees to make
the transaction an easy one. Of course I knew the
place well. We regarded it in those early days as a
town house, and always lived there during the season.

My father’s succession to the title and estates
changed all that. We quitted Surrey for Yorkshire,
and Wensley House, Portman Square, was a step up-
wards from the barracklike building so well adapted
to Mr. Childe’s requirements.

When I was at Sandhurst, General Mensmore got
into financial difficulties. He went to Brittany, I think,
and we lost sight of him and his children. Afterwards
I knew that he struggled on for a few years, placed his
son in the army, and then came complete collapse, end-
ing in his death and the boy’s resignation of his com-
mission. That occurred just after the War. Of Gwen-
doline Mensmore’s whereabouts I knew nothing. Her
memory never quitted me, but the new interests in
my life dulled it. I imagined that I could laugh at a
childish infatuation.

Then, during the War, I married. I did so in obedi-
ence to my father’s wishes, and Alisia was, I suppose, an
ideal wife—far too ideal for a youngster of my lower
intellectual plane. I know now that I never had any
real affection for her. I was always somewhat awed
by her loftier character. My interests lay in racing,
hunting, sports generally, and having what I regarded
as “a high old time.” She, though an excellent horse-
woman, in every sense an admirable hostess, thought
Newmarket vulgar, treated Ascot as a social necessity,
and turned up her eyebrows when I said that Epstein
and Arensky gave me a pain in the neck.294 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

Thus, though we never quarrelled, we drifted apart.
She knew I was bored if she asked me to inspect some
model dwellings. I knew she hated the people who
were my pals at Cowes or in a motor-run to Monte.
Unfortunately, we were not blessed with children. Had
it been otherwise, we might have found one joint inter-
est in common, though there must have been most
frightful rows about their upbringing.

Insensibly, we agreed to lead a separate existence.
We lived together as friends rather than as husband
and wife. We parted without regret and met without
cordiality. Don’t imagine we were unhappy. If our
marriage was not bliss, it was at least comfortable. I
think my wife was proud of my successes on the turf
in a quiet kind of way, and I certainly was proud of her
and of her repute in highbrow circles. I even rever-
enced her for it, and knew well that the enthusiastic
receptions given us by our Yorkshire tenantry were
not due to my efforts in their behalf, but to hers.

So we lived for nearly eight years, and so we might
have continued to live for another eighty, had I not
met Gwendoline Mensmore again, under vastly changed
circumstances. She was a chorus-girl in a variety the-
atre, earning a poor living under wretched conditions.
I came across her by mere chance.

She told me she had married a man named Hillmer,
whom her father had trusted, and in whose ability to
save him from ruin she believed most thoroughly.
Then the crash came. Her father died; her husband’s
affairs went wrong also; he took to drink and ill-treated
her; her brother was swallowed up somewhere in the
Middle West. She had no alternative but to live apart
from Hillmer and support herself by the first career
that suggests itself to a young, talented, and beautifulHOW LADY DENE DISAPPEARED = 295

woman. But she was already weary of the stage and
its surroundings. Her nature was too delicate for the
loud-voiced friendships of the dressing-room. She
shuddered at the thought of a mild carousal in a club
after the show.

In a word, were I differently constituted, were she
cast in a commoner mould, there was ready to hand all
the material for a vulgar liaison.

My respect for my wife, however, no less than Mrs.
Hillmer’s fine temperament, saved both of us from that
supreme folly. Yet I could not leave her to a life with
which she was already disillusioned. Away in the
depths of my heart I knew that this sweet woman was
my true mate, separated from me by adverse chance.
There was nothing wholly unfair to Alisia in the
thought. Were she questioned at any time, I suppose,
she must have admitted that we were as ill-matched a
couple in some respects as well-matched in others. Of
course, you may say that I understood little of femi-
nine nature—nothing at all of my wife’s. Probably you
are right. It is quite certain, at any rate, that I blun-
dered all along the line.

How best to help-Mrs. Hillmer—that was the ques-
tion. It was at this stage I made the initial mistake
to which, too late, I can trace a host of succeeding mis-
fortunes—I did not consult my wife. Trying now to
analyse my reasons for this bad break I believe it arose
from some absurd disinclination on my part to admit
that I went to the stage-door of a theatre to inquire
about the identity of a young woman whom I thought
I had recognised from the front of the house.

You see, my dear Bruce, it is almost as bad to fear
your wife as to suspect her.

As, at that time, my own life was free from any296 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

cloud, I took an interest in the troubles of Mrs. Hillmer,
and amused myself by playing, in her behalf, the part
of a magician. She would resent any direct attempt
on my part to place funds at her disposal, so I found
a heap of harmless fun in helping her,—with her con-
sent, I mean, but without her full knowledge. Let me
explain.

I am, as you know, a rich man. At this hour I can-
not sum up my available assets to within £100,000.
Altogether I must be worth nearly a million sterling—
yet my money cannot purchase me another day’s tol-
erable existence. “What rot! What utter tosh!”
Can’t you hear the lads in the Club giving tongue?

Well, the close of the year before last was a period
of unexampled activity on the Stock Exchange. By
way of a joke I made some purchases on Mrs. Hill-
mer’s account, with the intention of pretending to pay
myself out of the profits, while handing her such bal-
ances as might accrue. She is shrewd, and quick at
figures, so I might have experienced some difficulty in
deceiving her. But the fierce record of the past twelve
months bore me out. My purchases were those of an
inspired lunatic. Any Stock I bought commenced to
inflate. I astounded my brokers by the manner in
which I ferreted out neglected bonds, lands which
struck oil the next week, rubber companies whose di-
rectors were even then planning to water the stock.

Mrs. Hillmer became infected with the craze like
myself. Twice we plunged heavily in rubber and came
out big winners. To end this part of my story, after
five months of excitement I had contrived not only to
swell my own bank balance but had bought for Mrs.
Hillmer enough trustee stocks to bring her in an
average income of £1,500 per annum.HOW LADY DENE DISAPPEARED 297

My great difficulty then was to persuade my “part-
ner” to break off. She read the late editions of the eve-
ning papers with the same eagerness that a turfite
looks for the winners and starting prices. It took some
firmness and tact to stop her from further dealings.

At the close of this period I need hardly say that
two things had happened. Mrs. Hillmer and I were
firm friends, with common objects and interests in life;
and the ties between Alisia and myself had loosened
perceptibly.

I also made another blunder. Under the pretence
that secrecy was requisite for our Stock Exchange
transactions, I persuaded Mrs. Hillmer to allow me to
pass under the name of Colonel Montgomery.

Mrs. Hillmer, of course, was now able to live in
comfort. I came to regard her house as my special
“den.’? I was far more at home in her drawing-room
than in my own. She often spoke of my wife, and
obviously wished to meet her, but here I did a cow-
ardly thing. I represented my married life as far less
congenial than it really was. By degrees Mrs. Hillmer
ceased all allusion to Alisia. She misunderstood our
relations. I knew it, and did not explain. Not a
worthy proceeding for a man whose sense of honour is
so keen that he prefers death to disgrace. But one can
deceive no other so easily as oneself.

Occasionally, when opportunities offered, we went
out together. It was foolish, you will say, and I agree.
If folly were not pleasant it would not be fashionable.
But, to this hour, the relations between us are those
only of close friendship. Never in my life have I ad-
dressed her by other than her married name, never
have I so much as touched her arm save by way of
casual politeness.298 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

I really think I flattered myself on my superior vir-
tues. I could see all the excellence but none of the
stupidity of my behaviour.

About this time, Mrs. Hillmer’s husband died.
Thenceforth her manner grew rather reserved. When
life was a defiance she fought convention, but with
safety came prudence. In fact, she told me that my
frequent visits to her house would certainly be miscon-
strued if they became known. I was actually seeking
for a pretext to restore her to her proper social level,
when a double catastrophe occurred.

My wife discovered, as she imagined, that I had
clandestine relations with another woman, and Mrs.
Hillmer’s brother returned from America.

It will serve a hurried narrative best if I relate
events exactly as they happened, and not as they look
in the light of subsequent knowledge.

Mensmore was naturally astonished to find his sister
so well provided for, and accepted gratefully the help
she gave him towards rebuilding his own career. But
it did not occur to either of us that he might take the
cynical, man-in-the-street view of our friendship, and
I shall never forget his wordless anger when told that
I was not known to his sister’s servants by my right
name. It was an awkward position for all three. He
was unwilling to allege that which we did not feel called
on to deny. But between him and me there was a
marked coolness, arising from suspicion on his part
and resentment on mine, coupled, I must admit, with
an uneasy consciousness that his attitude was not

wholly unwarranted.

Mrs. Hillmer and he discussed the matter several
times. He urged that a compromising friendship
Should be discontinued. She—a determined womanHOW LADY DENE DISAPPEARED 299

when attacked unjustly—fought the suggestion on the
ground of its gross unfairness, though, like myself, she
would have been glad of any accident which would
alter existing conditions without strain. He did not
even try to see eye to eye with her.

His financial position was precarious, as we learned
later, and he despaired of setting things straight in
Raleigh Mansions—judging them from his own stand-
point, of course—so he resolved to leave England
again.

And now I come to the night of November 6th last.

It was, as you well remember, a foggy and unpleas-
ant day. I had some business in the City which de-
tained me until after five o’clock. I had not seen Mrs.
Hillmer for two days, so I resolved to drive to Sloane
Square—travelling by the Underground was intoler-
able in such weather—and have tea with her.

I did not know then that she had gone with her
maid to Brighton—intending to return that evening.
It was a sudden whim, induced by the fog, she told
me subsequently, and she had not even informed the
other servants of her intention.

The pavements in the City were slimy. While
passing through Cornhill I hailed a disreputable-
looking taxi, a very unusual choice on my part. The
driver, I noticed, was fairly elevated, but as these
fellows often handle a car better drunk than sober,
I simply told him to be careful, and jumped in. I
reached Sloane Square all right, and kept the cab for
my intended journey home.

At the door of Mrs. Hillmer’s flat I met the cook and
housemaid, both going out to do some shopping during
the spare hour before it was time to prepare dinner.
They knew me well, of course, and admitted me to300 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

the drawing-room, telling me that Mrs. Hillmer was
out, but would surely return very soon. I said nothing
about wanting a cup of tea, thinking it rather selfish
to detain them.

I had not been in the room a minute before the
sharp double knock of a telegraph messenger produced
the chauffeur, whom the girls had left in charge, and
I startled the man by appearing in the hall, as he did
not even know of my presence.

“What is it, Simmonds?” I inquired, guessing that
the message was from Mrs. Hillmer.

“The missus is in Brighton, sir,” he said. “She
wants the car to meet her at Victoria at seven o’clock.
It’s six now, and I ought to hurry to the garage at
once, but both those blessed girls have gone out. [’m
in a fair fix.”

“No fix at all,” I said. ‘I want to see Mrs. Hillmer,
so I may wait. In any case, I’ll stand by till the maids
come back.”

The man scratched his head, but could think of no
better plan, so he, too, went off, and I was left alone,
for the first time in my life, in Mrs. Hillmer’s place.
Small events govern our lives, Claude, not those which
stand out prominently. The shopping expedition of a
couple of servant girls, intent on securing a new blouse
or a few yards of calico, brought about my wife’s death,
caused misery to many people, and ends now, I hope,
in my own leap into oblivion.

I picked up an old book of Thomas Hardy’s, ‘Tess
of the D’Urbervilles.” I had never read it, so opened
it haphazard, and was promptly absorbed in the ter-
rible episode which culminates on Salisbury Plain,
when another knock—this time an imperative rat-tat
—took me to the door.HOW LADY DENE DISAPPEARED — 301

I opened it, and for a second, the light being dim on
the landing, did not recognise the lady who stood out-
side. Heaven help me, I knew who it was all too soon.

“Don’t you even keep a maid in your new establish-
ment, Charles?” said my wife.

I can hear her voice now, icy with contempt, utterly
disdainful. I didn’t think it was in her to be so piti-
less, no matter how great the provocation.

Had I been suddenly struck blind, or paralysed, I
could not have been more dumbfounded. A thorough-
going scoundrel might, perhaps, have thought of the
best thing to say. I blurted out the worst.

“What are you doing here?” I stammered when my
tongue recovered its use.

“Of course, you resent my visit,” she cried, in a
high, shrill tone I had never before heard from her.
“Do you expect me to apologise? But I shall not
trouble you further. I came to confirm with my own
eyes the wretched story I refused to believe. Now I
am satisfied.”

She half turned to reach the street, but, rendered
desperate by the crass absurdity of the thing, I gripped
her arm and pulled her into the entrance-hall, closing
and bolting the door.

“You have seen too much not to see more,” I said.
“I’m not going to let you ruin both our lives in this
way.”

She was in a furious temper, but her sense of pro-
priety—she could not be sure that the servants’ quar-
ters were empty—restrained her until we were in the
drawing-room.

Then she took the lid off. I wasn’t sorry for that.
Better have a devil of a row then and there than part
without some sort of explanation.CHAPTER XXX
SIR CHARLES DENE ENDS HIS NARRATIVE

“RuIN both our lives, indeed!” she said, and there
was that in her voice which warned me I had better
try unarmed to grapple with a tigress than argue with
a wife who deemed herself wrong. ‘“‘How dare you
use such words to me? What do I find here? A
house tenanted by another woman where you are evi-
dently master! A mistress who left the ranks of the
ballet,-or something of the sort, living in luxury on
means supplied by you! A married woman who casts
off her husband with her poverty, to take up a par-
amour and riches! Do you really think you can per-
suade me of your innocence—or hers? I have the most
convincing proofs, and on no pretext will I condone
your conduct. I despise you from the depths of my
heart. From this instant I shall strive to forget your
very existence.”

“Alisia,” I pleaded, “‘will you listen calmly for a few
minutes? Don’t condemn me unheard.”

I think even now, that if she had not been so blinded
with passion she must have realised that I had some
sort of defence to offer. But my seeming coolness only
infuriated her the more.

“Listen?” she screamed. ‘Why should I listen?
What respect have you ever shown me that I should
condescend to hear your excuses now?”

“T only appeal to you not to do anything in anger.
You have good reason to be vexed—even to doubt my

words. But for your own sake. if not for mine, hear
302SIR CHARLES DENE ENDS NARRATIVE 303

what I have to say, take time for deliberation, for
fuller inquiry, and then judge me as you think fit.”

She did not even answer. Her eyes were roving
round the room, taking stock of every indication of
poor Mrs. Hillmer’s artistic sense. The place was
eminently homelike, much more so than our swank
rooms in Portman Square, and my wife noted the dif-
ference with increasing bitterness. Yet, with failing
nerve and acute consciousness of a poor case, I tried
to make the best of it.

“Even in face of everything you see here,” I pro-
tested, “I am guilty of no wrongdoing. Mrs. Hillmer
is an old friend, whom I have taken from misery to
comfort and comparative happiness. She is as high-
minded, as spotless in character, as you yourself. You
are doing her and me a grievous injustice by suspect-
ing our relations. If you only knew her—”

My wife laughed scornfully—sneered may be the
more correct word.

“Pray spare yourself, Charles,” she said. “I have
never seen you so interested before, but you are a poor
liar, for all that!”

“T am not lying. I swear to God—”

“So you are willing even to perjure yourself, Colonel
Montgomery?”

I was not ready for that. I suppose I must have
flinched, because she went on:

“You see now that there is nothing more to be said.
My detectives have done their work well. Oh, how
could I ever have learned to love a wretch like you!
I thought you respected me, at least. I tried hard to
bend my own nature into sympathy with yours. I
dreamed even of ultimate success. I knew you didn’t
care for me as a wife, but the devotion of a slave has304 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

sometimes earned the affection of her master. Fortu-
nately, I am a slave only by choice. Experience alone
could break my bonds, and you have supplied it.”

For the first time in my life it dawned on me then
that my self-contained and haughty Alisia might have
other feelings than a general complaisance with an in-
dulgent and easily controlled husband. It was a real
shock, a deeper humiliation than she imagined. How
could I expiate the past, wipe out a record of error
and folly, though not of evil, and live happily with her
so long as Providence was pleased to spare us? Some
such mad notion was running through my mind when
she turned away, as though the mere sight of me was
hurtful.

“Vou fear exposure in the law courts!” she said
more quietly. ‘You dread seeing your name figuring
in a society scandal! How little you know me! I left
your house to-night determined never to return should
I find you here, as in all probability, I was told, would
be the case. I am going now to my sister until I have
determined my future life. You, at least, will never,
by my desire, see or hear from me again. Thus far, I
presume, my plans will fall in with yours?”

She would have passed me, but I held fast to the
handle of the door. If once she got away I might
never be able to set affairs even tolerably right. Better
have one trying scene, I thought, than allow her to
carry the quarrel to relatives. They would support
her.

‘‘Alisia,’”’ I said, “you must not go yet!”

“Tyo you dare detain me?” she almost shrieked, and
the fire in her eyes heralded another outburst.

“You can separate from me if you so wish,” I said,
rather bitterly, I fear, because I began to resent theSIR CHARLES DENE ENDS NARRATIVE 305

whole outrageous predicament. “T shall not hinder
you. But you shall not do this rash thing without
knowing the true facts—all of them, I mean. So you
must remain here. When you leave this house you go
in my company.”

“And why am I to be kept a prisoner?”

“Mrs. Hillmer will return in less than an hour. You
have sought this meeting yourself. Very well. You
shall have it. When your charges have been thrashed
out in the presence of Mrs. Hillmer and myself I'll
accompany you where you will, and leave you with
your sister, or anywhere else you choose, should you
still persist in abandoning your own home.”

Of course this plan of action was unwise to the last
degree. But remember, Claude, that during those last
awful five minutes I had seen a side of my wife’s na-
ture hidden during eight long years. And I was a man
plunged suddenly into a raging sea, drifting helplessly
I knew not whither. I was determined to obtain such
scant justice as I deserved. I had erred, but my sins
were not those alleged against me.

If she was angry before she was now absolutely un-
controllable.

“What?” she screamed. “Remain to meet your—
your mistress? Never while I have life!”

She flung at me so suddenly that she tore me away
from the door. She was a strong woman, and I sup-
pose she expected some resistance, because she used
force enough to drag me into the middle of the room,
overturning a chair in the effort. Can you picture my

stately Alisia behaving in that way? I can hardly
credit it, even now. At that moment I was so sur-
prised that I yielded more completely than she ex-
pected.306 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

She staggered, let go her hold, and fell backwards,
tripping over the fallen chair. I made a desperate
attempt to save her, but only caught the end of a fur
necklet, and it tore like a spider’s web.

Her head crashed against a Venetian fender, and
came with damnable force against a sort of support for
the fire-irons that stood up a foot from the ground.
Then she rolled over, her eyes and face undergoing a
ghastly change, and instantly became, as I thought,
unconscious.

I knelt beside her, raising her head, and appealing to
her to speak. But she gave no sign. In a frenzy of
despair I forced myself to examine her injuries, and
my heart nearly stopped beating when I discovered that
a large piece of iron had been driven into her brain
through the back of her head, and was lodged there.

I knew then that she was dead. I have seen too
much of sudden and violent death not to recognise its
symptoms. The woman who had been my honoured
and respected wife now lay before me the mere husk
of the splendidly vital creature who, a few seconds
earlier, was protesting fiercely against the supposed
faithlessness of her mate.

Looking back now on the events of that fateful
night, I marvel at the coolness which came to my aid
when the misfortune which had befallen both Alisia
and myself could no longer be denied. I can under-
stand at last what is meant by the callousness of a
certain type of criminal, or the indifference to in-
evitable death betrayed by Eastern races. No sooner
was I convinced that my wife was dead—dead be-
yond hope or doubt—than I regained the use of my

reasoning faculties in a marvellously cold-blooded de-
gree.SIR CHARLES DENE ENDS NARRATIVE 307

The actual difficulties of my position were over-
whelming. I arraigned myself before a judge and jury,
and saw clearly that every circumstance which con-
tributed to Alisia’s suspicions in the first instance were
now magnified a hundredfold by the manner and scene
of her death.

Before me, in ghastly panorama, moved the crowd of
witnesses. I realised the degradation of my family, the
bitter and vengeful feelings of my wife’s relatives, the
suffering of poor, unconscious Mrs. Hillmer, the
avalanche of horror and misery in which this unfor-
tunate accident would engulf nearly every friend I had
in the world.

My mental attitude was quite altruistic. Could I
have undone the past, I would cheerfully have under-
gone a painful and protracted death forthwith.

But no possible atonement now would restore Alisia
to life. I knew it was improbable that I would be
convicted of murdering her, strong as the circumstantial
evidence might be. The mere legal consequences did
not, however, weigh with me for a second. From that
awful hour I felt I was doomed. My only thought
was to seek oblivion, not only for myself, but for all
whom Alisia’s death might affect.

Reasoning in this way, I resolved to make a bold
effort to conceal for ever the time and place of the
fatality. If I failed, I could tell the truth; if I suc-
ceeded, I might, at my own expense, save others from
a vast amount of unnecessary suffering.

A desperate expedient suggested itself. I would
carry the body to the untenanted house at Putney
where my old master had resided until his death. The
disreputable taxi and its half-drunken driver had been
provided by the devil for that very purpose.308 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

If I reached Putney unhindered, I could dispose of
my terrible burden easily, for the river flowed past the
grounds, and I knew every inch of the locality. I did
not forget that the body might be found and identified.
Our personal linen was never marked, because our
laundry work was done on the Yorkshire estate, but,
as an extra safeguard I resolved to take some different
and less valuable outer clothes from Mrs. Hillmer’s
residence.

Her maid was of a similar build to my wife, so I
hurried to the girl’s room, and laid hands on a soiled
coat and skirt which had been relegated to the recesses
of the wardrobe.

I glanced at my watch as I came along the corridor.
It was 6.15 p.M. The incidents I have related had
happened within a quarter of an hour. It seemed
longer than all the preceding years of my life.

Having taken my line, I followed it with the sang-
froid and thoroughness of one of the super-scoundrels
delineated by Du Boisgobey. The door of the flat was
locked. If the cook and housemaid, hardly due yet,
returned unexpectedly, I would pack them off to Vic-
toria Station on some imaginary errand of their
mistress’s, telephoned from Brighton!

I knelt beside my poor wife’s body once more, and
with great difficulty took off her costume and fastened
on the maid’s garments. I suppose war hardens a
man. If I hadn’t gone through some rotten experiences
in France I could never have done the thing at all.
Many a time have I marvelled at the nerve of mur-
derers in disposing of their victims’ remains. I was
no murderer, yet here was I acting like one.

In her purse there were some bulky documents,
which proved to be reports furnished by a firm ofSIR CHARLES DENE ENDS NARRATIVE 309

private detectives, detailing all my movements with
reference to Raleigh Mansions with surprising accuracy.
But she had concealed her name. These men them-
selves knew me only as “Colonel Montgomery.”

How Alisia came to suspect me is sheer guesswork.
Perhaps my growing indifference, my absence from
home at definite hours, a chance meeting in the street
unknown to me—any or all of these may have led her
to doubt. In her thorough-going way she would verify
her suspicions first before taking action.

Indeed, by coming alone to Mrs. Hillmer’s abode
she revealed her fearless and independent spirit. She
wanted no Divorce Court revelations. She would
simply have spurned me as unworthy and dis-
honourable.

I put her small belongings in my pockets; the clothes
I made into a parcel and stuffed temporarily beneath
my overcoat. Then I unlocked the door, and ran down
the few steps to the main entrance. There was no one
about, the fog and sleet having cleared the street—a
quiet thoroughfare at all times.

Risking the maids coming back, I hurried to the
square for my taxi. The driver had been improving the
occasion, and was drunker than ever. He brought
his cab to the door, and I knew, by the appearance of
things, that no one had entered during my absence.

I lifted Alisia’s body into a natural position, and
carried her to the cab, leaving the door of the flat ajar.
You see, there might have been a fuss about the key.
Probably even you are surprised to hear that I did
not omit even this minor detail. Luck still favoured
me. The driver supposed that she, like himself, was
intoxicated. A man came down the opposite side of310 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

the street, but paid not the slightest heed. Luckily,
we were but dimly visible.

Exerting all my strength unobtrusively, I placed my
wife inside, and then calmly gave the taxi-man his
directions. He grumbled at the distance, but I told
him I would tip handsomely. Searching in my pockets
and Alisia’s purse, I could only find twelve shillings,

so although it was risky, I determined to stupefy him
with a five-pound note.

Thus far, all had gone well.

The notion possessed me that, to all intents and pur-
poses, I had murdered my wife, and that I was now
disposing of the visible signs of my guilt in the accepted
manner of a daring criminal. Whether I did right or
wrong I cannot decide, even at this final hour. Should
my death induce forgetfulness, I am still inclined to
think that I acted for the best. My wife was dead; I
was self-condemned. Why, then, allow others, wholly
innocent, to be dragged into the vortex?

This was my line of thought. If you, reading this
ghastly narrative, shudder at its details, I pray you
nevertheless to weigh in the balance the resultant good
and ill.

At last we reached Putney, and drew up at the end
of the disused lane which runs down by the side of
the house to the river. Here, again, the road was de-
serted. I lifted my wife out, carried her to the postern-
gate, and returned to give the driver his note. The
man was so amazed at the amount that he asked no
questions but made off as fast as his wheezy engine
would permit.

I was about to force open the old rickety door into
the garden when I remembered the drain-pipe jutting
into the Thames—a place where, as a child, I oftenSIR CHARLES DENE ENDS NARRATIVE 311

caused much alarm by surreptitious visits to catch
minnows. I took off my coat and boots, turned up
my trousers and shirt-sleeves, and examined the pipe
with my hands.

It suited my purpose exactly. In half a minute I had
wedged my wife’s body firmly beneath it. This was the
beastliest job of all. The chill water, the desolation of
the river bank, the mud and trailing weeds—all these
things seemed so vile and loathsome when placed in
contact with the firm and perfectly-proportioned limbs
of my ill-fated Alisia.

She had loved me. I believe I might have come to
love her as I assuredly do now when her memory is a
dream, yet I was condemned to subject her to the
horror of such contaminating surroundings. It was
a small matter, in the face of death, but it has weighed
on me since more than any other feature of that cruel
night’s history. I cannot pursue it.

Before leaving Putney I tied her clothes, hat, and
furs to a couple of heavy stones, and threw the parcel
into deep water. By train and taxi I reached home
only a few minutes late for dinner. It was not difficult
to act a part with the servants, and keep it up during
the weary days which followed. My conscience was
so seared by what I had gone through that the mere
make-believe was a relief.

That night, in the privacy of my room, I recollected
the broken fender, and feared lest the iron-work would
supply a clue should the body be discovered, though
I deemed that practically impossible.

But, for Mrs. Hillmer’s sake, I took no risk. Next
morning, before I saw you at Tattersall’s, I made ar-
rangements for the furniture of her drawing-room to
be transferred to her brother’s flat, where, to my knowl-312 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

edge the articles were needed. She had gone out early,
so the change was effected in her absence. Her sur-
prise was so great that she wired me, using the pet
name of her childhood—an agreed signature for all
notes and telegrams—and this was the message you
heard the groom refer to when he came a second time
with the telegram from Richmond.

I wrote her a hurried note, explaining that I intended
the gift as a sop to her offended brother, but she tele-
graphed again, and I had to see her, only to learn that
Mensmore resented my action and had gone off in a
huff to Monte Carlo.

A little later, I took the supreme step of writing a
farewell letter. After my wife’s death I could not
bear to meet any other woman. I was in closer touch
with my poor Alisia dead than alive. I thought, if
spirits commune with those whom they loved when
living, the knowledge would please her!

I do not think I have anything else to tell. Step
by step I watched you and the police tearing aside my
barrier of deceit. At times I thought I would baffle
you in the end. Were it not for my folly in bribing
Jane Harding I think I must have succeeded.

That poor girl was my undoing in the first instance.
Now she has brought me my sentence. She came to-
day and confessed, with tears, all that happened be-
tween the detective and herself. White, too put in
an appearance.

To-morrow, I suppose, he will be here with a war-
rant, if you do not see him first and tell him it is not
needed.

Do not misunderstand me. I am glad of this release.
When you tried to rouse me from despair I did, for a
little while, cherish the hope that I might be able toSIR CHARLES DENE ENDS NARRATIVE 318

devote my declining years to the work which Alisia
herself was interested in. But the web of circumstantial
evidence woven round my childhood’s friend, Mens-
more; the self-effacing spirit of his sister, who, to shield
me, was willing to sacrifice herself; the possibility that
I might involve those two, and perhaps others, in my
own ruin—everything conspired to overwhelm me.

I can endure no more, my dear Bruce. The struggle
has ended. The past is already a dream—the future
void. My easy-going temperament was not designed to
withstand a strain of this kind. The cord of a cheerful
life has snapped, and I cannot bring myself to believe
it can be restored. In bidding you farewell I ask one
thing. If you take a charitable view of my deeds, if
you consider that my penalty is commensurate with
my faults, then you might take my dead hand in yours
and say, “This was my friend. I pity him. May the
spirit of his wife be gracious unto him should they
meet beyond the grave!”’

There is one small matter—the means toward the
end. I thought first of ‘strengthening’ the doctor’s
medicine. But that would be most unfair to the dear
old chap, so I shall leave his mixture side by side with a
more potent one. You never imagined I was such a
stickler for detail. Try and smile at that, will you?

And so, for the last time, I sign myself
CHARLES DENE.CHAPTER XXXI
VALEDICTORY

Greatty though Bruce wished to inter his dead
friend’s secret with his mortal remains, it was impos-
sible.

The unhappy man’s sacrifice must not be made in
vain, and the strange chain of events had enmeshed
others too thoroughly to permit of silence. An early
visit to Scotland Yard, where, in company with In-
spector White, he interviewed the Deputy Commis-
sioner, and a conference with the district coroner settled
two vital questions. ‘The police were satisfied as to
the cause of Lady Dene’s death, and the coroner agreed
to keep the evidence as to the baronet’s sudden col-
lapse strictly within the limits of the medical evidence.

So, a wholly unnecessary public scandal was avoided.

With Lady Dene’s relatives Bruce’s task was differ-
ent. It called for tact and persuasiveness. Without
taking them fully into his confidence, he explained that
Sir Charles had all along known the true facts bearing
on his wife’s death and burial-place, but, for family
reasons, thought it best not to disclose his knowledge.

Bruce needed their co-operation in getting the Home
Office to permit the exhumation and re-burial of the
unfortunate lady’s body. The circumstance that the
deceased baronet had left his estate to her nephew,
joined to the important position Bruce occupied as
executor and joint trustee with the boy’s mother, helped

to settle that difficulty. After a harassing and anxious
314VALEDICTORY 315

week Bruce had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing
the remains of the hapless couple laid to rest side by
side in the stately gloom of the family vault.

The newspapers, of course, scented a mystery, but
inquiry was barred in every direction. Even the ex-
humation order gave no definite clue. Within less
than the proverbial nine days the incident was for-
gotten.

Sir Charles had made it a condition precedent to the
succession that his heir should bear his name, and
should live with his widowed mother on the Yorkshire
estate, or in the town house, for a certain number of
months in each year, until the boy was old enough
to go to school.

The stipulation was intended to have the effect of
more rapidly burying his own memory in oblivion.
Bruce, too, was given a sum of £5,000, “to be expended
in bequests as he thought fit.”

It was easy to understand what he had in mind. Jane
Harding had been loyal to her master in her own way,
so Bruce arranged that she should receive an annual
income sufficient to secure her from want.

Nor was Inspector White forgotten. He could not
be rewarded for his professional services, but there
was no reason at all why he should not be given a
nice “parcel” of shares in Springboks, Limited.

Mrs. Hillmer did not even know the cause of her
friend’s death until weeks had passed. Acting on
Bruce’s advice her brother simply told her that every-
thing had been settled and that the authorities con-
curred with the barrister’s opinion that Lady Dene
was killed accidentally.

When she had recovered completely from the shock
of believing that her loyal friend had murdered his316 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

wife, Mensmore one day told her the whole sad story.
But he would allow no more weeping.

“Tt’s high time,” he said, “that this tragedy should
end. Poor Dene gave his life to stop it. It would be
an ill return for his sacrifice if we carried it on, even
in our thoughts.”

Mensmore’s marriage with Phyllis Browne was now
fixed definitely for the following autumn, so he took
his sister on a trip to Wyoming in company with Cor-
bett—a journey required for the protection and
development of their joint interests in that State.
Moreover, the change of scene broke the last link with
Raleigh Mansions!

Not only did their property turn out to be of great
and lasting value, but during their absence the Spring-
bok Mine began to boom. Even the cautious barrister
one day found himself hesitating whether or not to
sell his shares at a half over par, so excellent were the
reports and so steady the dividends from that auriferous
locality.

The two young people were married, a scion of the
house had appeared on the scene, White had become
Chief Inspector, and Miss Marie le Marchant had, by
strenuous effort, risen to the dignity of a small part—
when Bruce’s memories of the past were revived un-
expectedly.

Mr. Sydney H. Corbett came in one day with
measured questionings and brooding thought stamped
on his usually cheerful face.

“Tt’s like this,” he said, when he settled down to
details, “I want to get married.”

“Though a confirmed bachelor myself,” smiled
Bruce, “I agree with marriage as a necessary evil. So,
why not?”VALEDICTORY 317

“That’s just what I say—why not?”

“Who is the lady?” inquired Bruce, wondering at the

curious tone in which the announcement had been made.

“Mrs. Hillmer.”

“Oh! 7

“Excuse me, Mr. Bruce, but that damned word gets
my goat. Everybody shoots it off their chest the
moment I open my mouth. Gwen screams ‘Oh!’ and
beats it with tears in her eyes. Her brother says ‘Oh!’
and looks uncomfortable, but refuses to chew on the
proposition. Now you yap ‘Oh!’ and gaze at me as
though I said I was going to run for President next fall.
What in Sam Hill does it all mean? I’m not worrying
about what happened years ago. Mrs. Hillmer is just
the sort of good-looker an’ clear-thinker I require as a
wife, and I’ll marry her yet if the whole British nation
yells ‘Oh!’ loud enough to be heard in Wyoming.”

“That’s the proper sort of spirit in which to set about
the business, at any rate.”

“Ves, sir; but I can’t get any forrarder. There’s a
kind of snag below water which grips me every time I
try to shoot the rapids. She likes me well enough, I
know. She calls me ‘Syd’ slick as butter, and I call
her ‘Gwen’ all the time. But if I want to go ahead a
bit she pulls me up an’ weeps. Now, why the—”

“Steady, Mr. Corbett! Women weep for many rea-
sons. Do you know her history?”

‘No, an’ I don’t want tor?

“Perhaps that is exactly what she does want. Re-
member, she has been married before, with somewhat
bitter experience. She may believe that a husband and
wife should have no secrets from each other. Above al!
else, there should be no cloud between them. Mrs.
Hillmer is a sensitive woman. If she imagined you318 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE
were under any misapprehension as to the circum-
stances under which Sir Charles and Lady Dene met
their deaths—don’t forget that you yourself were mixed
up in the affair—she would neither entertain your
proposal nor explain her motives. She would just do
as you Say—trun away and cry.”

“Well, now, don’t that beat everything?” cried Cor-
bett admiringly. “It never struck me that way before.”

“Nevertheless, it is the probable explanation of her
attitude.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“Write to her. Ask her permission to learn the facts
from me. Tell her you believe you understand why
she turns you down. Your excuse is that you want
to meet her on the plane of absolute confidence. It
seems to me—”

“That I’d better get busy an’ do it,” shouted Corbett,
vanishing with the utmost celerity.

Bruce still occupied his old chambers in Victoria-
Street. He did not expect to see Corbett again for
a couple of days. To his great surprise the American
returned within ten minutes.

“Well,” he cried joyously, “ain’t you the cutest thing
ever? I just rang her up—”

“Rang her up?”

“Yes; she’s staying at the Savoy for a few days, so
I ’phoned from a call office. I never could fix up a
letter in your words, you know. But stack me up

against the end of a wire and I know just where I get
off.”

“What on earth did you say?”

“As soon as I got through, I said, ‘That you, Gwen?’
*Yes,’ she said. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I guess you know who’s
talking?’ ‘Quite well,’ said she. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘I’veVALEDICTORY 319

been telling Mr. Bruce I wanted to marry you, and
that you wouldn’t even listen. But he’s a wise guy,
that Bruce. He said you probably wanted me to know
the whole story of Sir Charles Dene, but felt kind of
shy of telling me yourself. He'll spill the beans if
you give permission, and then I can come along in a
taxi and fix things. What about it?? There was no
answer, so I shouted, ‘Are you there?’—quite English,
you know—and she said, ‘Yes,’ faint-like. ‘Don’t let
me hurry you,’ said I, ‘but if you agree straight-away
I can catch Bruce at home, for I’ve just left him.’ With
that she said, ‘Very well. You can see Mr. Bruce.’
And here I am.”

“Having accomplished the whole thing satisfac-
torily.”

“As how?”

“Don’t you see you have proposed to the lady and
practically been accepted?”

“Gee whizz! It sure does look that way! Say, I’m
off! This record of yours can be put on ice till to-
morrow.”

He would have gone, but Bruce stopped him.

“Not so fast, Mr. Corbett. You must not sail into
the Savoy flying a false flag. Kindly oblige me with
your close attention during the next half-hour.”

With that, he unlocked a safe and took from its
recesses Sir Charles Dene’s “‘confession”. He read
the whole of those passages which explained the re-
lations between Mrs. Hillmer and her unfortunate but
abiding friend.

The straightforward, honest sentences sounded
strangely convincing at that distance of time. Bruce
was glad of the opportunity of reading them aloud. It320 A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

seemed a fitting thing that this testimony should come,
as it were, from the tomb.

Corbett listened intently, not alone to the written
words, but to the barrister’s summary of the main
events of the whole tragic story.

“Poor chap!” he said, when the strange tale was
ended. “I hope you shook hands with him?”

“I did. Would that my grasp had the power to re-
assure him of my heartfelt sympathy.”

For a little while they were silent.

“So,” said Corbett at last, “Gwen is afraid I’d make
the same break as the poor lady, and suspect her
wrongfully.”

“No, not that. But naturally she wishes the man
whom she can trust as a husband to be informed com-
pletely as to matters in which he had participated to
some extent already, and might easily misinterpret.”

“She was right. I like her all the better for it. But
Say, Is there any necessity for that sad story to be
preserved ?”’

“Not the least. It has served its last use.”

“‘Then—shove it in the fire.”

Bruce did not hesitate. The flames devoured’ the
record with avidity. In silence the two men watched

the manuscript crumbling into nothingness. Then Cor-
bett said:

“Me for the Savoy, now!”

“Go to it, cousin!” said Bruce. “And the best of
luck!”

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