Much as Bruce would have wished to inter his dead friend’s secret with his mortal remains in the tomb, it was impossible.
Sir Charles Dyke’s sacrifice must not be made in vain, and the strange chain of events encircled other actors in the drama too strongly to enable the barrister to adopt the course which would otherwise have commended itself to him. An early visit to Scotland Yard, where, in company with Mr. White, he interviewed the Deputy Commissioner, and a conference with the district coroner settled two important questions. The police were satisfied as to the cause of Lady Dyke’s death, and the coroner agreed to keep the evidence as to the baronet’s sudden collapse strictly within the limits of the medical evidence.
A wholly unnecessary public scandal was thus avoided.
With Lady Dyke’s relatives his task required considerable tact. Without taking them fully into his confidence, he explained that Sir Charles had all along known the exact facts bearing upon her death and burial-place, but for family reasons he thought it best not to disclose his knowledge.
Bruce needed their co-operation in getting the home office to give the requisite permission for Lady Dyke’s reburial. The circumstance that the deceased baronet had left his estates to his wife’s nephew, joined to the important position Bruce occupied as one of the trustees and joint guardian, with the boy’s mother, of the young heir, smoothed over many difficulties.
After a harassing and anxious week Bruce had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing the remains of the unfortunate couple laid to rest in the stately gloom of the family vault.
The newspapers, of course, scented a mystery in the proceedings, but definite inquiry was barred in every direction. Even the exhumation order gave no clue to the reasons of the authorities for granting it, and in less than the proverbial nine days the incident was forgotten.
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.”
Claude understood his motive thoroughly. Jane Harding had been loyal to her master in her way, so he arranged that she should receive an annual income sufficient to secure her from want. Thompson, too, was provided for when the time came that he was too feeble for further employment at Portman Square, and Mr. White received a handsome douceur for his services.
Mrs. Hillmer did not even know of Sir Charles Dyke’s death until weeks had passed. Acting on Bruce’s advice her brother simply told her that everything had been settled, and that the authorities concurred with the barrister in the opinion that Lady Dyke was accidently killed.
When she had completely recovered from the shock of the belief that her loyal friend had murdered his wife, Mensmore one day told her the whole sad story. But he would allow no more weeping.
“It is time,” he said, “that the misery of this episode should cease. When the chief actor in the tragedy gave his life to end the suffering, we would but ill meet his wishes by allowing it to occupy our thoughts unduly in the future.”
Mensmore’s marriage with Phyllis Browne was now definitely fixed for the following autumn, so he carried his sister off with him on a hasty trip to Wyoming in company with Corbett—a journey required for the protection and development of their joint interests in that State.
Not only did their property turn out to be of great and lasting value, but during their absence the Springbok Mine began to boom. Even the cautious barrister one day found himself hesitating whether or not to sell at half over par, so excellent were the reports and so extensive the dividends from that auriferous locality.
The two young people were married, a scion of the house had become a lusty two-year-old, Mr. White had become Chief Inspector, and Miss Marie le Marchant had, by strenuous effort, risen to the dignity of double crown posters as a “dashing comedienne”—when Bruce’s memories of his lost friends were suddenly revived in an unexpected manner.
Mr. Sydney H. Corbett came to him with measured questionings and brooding thought stamped on his brows.
“It’s like this,” he said, when they were settled down to details, “I want to get married.”
“To whom?” inquired Claude, wondering at the savage tone in which the announcement was made.
“To Mrs. Hillmer.”
“Oh!”
“That’s what everybody yells the moment I mention it. She screams ‘Oh!’ and runs off with tears in her eyes. Her brother says ‘Oh!’ and looks uncomfortable, but refuses to discuss the proposition. Now you say ‘Oh!’ and gaze at me like an owl at the bare statement. What the dickens does it all mean, I want to know? I’m not worrying about what happened years ago. Mrs. Hillmer is just the sort of woman I require as a wife, and I’ll marry her yet if the whole British nation says ‘Oh!’ loud enough to be heard and answered by the U-nited States.”
“That’s the proper sort of spirit in which to set about the business.”
“Yes, sir; but I can’t get any forrarder. There’s a kind of rock below water which holds me up every time I shoot the rapids. She likes me well enough, I know. She calls me ‘Syd’ as slick as butter, and I call her ‘Gwen’; but there you are—if I want to go ahead a bit she pulls up and weeps. Now, why the—”
“Steady, Mr. Corbett. Women weep for many reasons. Do you know her history?”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
“But perhaps that is exactly what she does want. Remember that she has been married before, with somewhat bitter experience. She probably believes that a husband and wife should have no secrets from each other. Above all else, there should be no cloud between them as to bygone events. Mrs. Hillmer is highly sensitive. If she imagined you were under any misapprehension as to the circumstances under which Sir Charles and Lady Dyke met their deaths—do not forget that you were personally mixed up in the affair—she would neither entertain your proposal nor explain her motives. She would just do as you say—run away and cry.”
“Well, now, that beats everything,” said Corbett admiringly. “That never struck me before.”
“It is the probable explanation of her attitude, nevertheless.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“Write to her. Ask her permission to learn the facts from me. Tell her you believe you understand the reasons for her reticence, and that your only excuse for the request is that you want to go to her on an equal plane of absolute confidence. It seems to me—”
“That I’d better get quick and 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 the barrister’s utter amazement he returned within ten minutes.
“Fire away!” he cried excitedly. “You struck it first time. I just rang her up—”
“Rang her up?”
“Yes; she’s staying at the Savoy for a few days, so I telephoned from the Windsor. I could never fix up a letter in your words, you know. But switch me on the end of a wire and I know where I am.”
“What on earth did you say?”
“As soon as I got her in the box at the other end, I said, ‘Is that you, Gwen?’ ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I guess you know who’s talking?’ ‘Quite well,’ said she. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘I’ve just been telling Mr. Bruce I wanted to marry you, and that you wouldn’t even discuss the proposition. He said you probably wished me to know the whole story of Sir Charles Dyke, but felt kinder shy of telling me yourself. He will get it off his chest if you give him permission, and then I can come along in a hansom and fix things. What do you say?’ There was no answer, so I shouted, ‘Are you there?’ 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 satisfactorily.”
“As how?”
“Don’t you see you have proposed to the lady and practically been accepted?”
“Jehosh! It does look something like it. Say, I’m off! This story of yours will keep until to-morrow.”
He would have gone, but Bruce jumped after him.
“Not so fast, Mr. Corbett. You must not sail into the Savoy flying a false flag. Kindly oblige me with your attention for the next half-hour.”
With that, he unlocked a safe and took from its recesses Sir Charles Dyke’s “confession.” He read the whole of its opening passages, explaining the relations between Mrs. Hillmer and her unfortunate but abiding friend.
The straightforward, honest sentences sounded strangely familiar at this distance of time. Bruce was glad of the opportunity of reading them aloud. It seemed a fitting thing that this testimony should come, as it were, from the tomb.
Corbett listened intently to the recital and to the barrister’s summary of the events that followed.
“Poor chap!” he said, when the sad tale had ended. “I hope you shook hands with him as he asked you to do?”
“I did. Would that my grasp had the power to reassure him of my heartfelt sympathy.”
For a little while they were silent.
“So,” said Corbett at last, “Gwen thought I would make the same mistake as the poor lady, and suspect her wrongfully.”
“No, not that. But naturally she wished the man whom she could trust as a husband to be wholly cognizant of events in which already he had participated slightly.”
“She was right. I like her all the better for it. But, tell me, is there any necessity for that wonderful document to be preserved?”
“Not the slightest. It has served its last use.”
“Then put it in the fire.”
Bruce did not hesitate a moment to comply with the wish. The flames devoured the record with avidity, and the two men watched the manuscript crumbling into nothingness. Then Corbett said:
“I must be off to the Savoy.”
“Good-bye, old chap,” said Bruce. “And good luck to you, too. I congratulate both Mrs. Hillmer and yourself.”
The first difficulty experienced by the barrister in his self-imposed task was the element of mystery purposely contributed by Lady Dyke herself. To a man of his quick perception, sharpened and clarified by his legal training, it was easy to arrive at the positive facts underlying the trivial incidents of his meeting with the missing lady at Victoria Station.
Briefly stated, his summary was this: Lady Dyke 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 upon a secret visit to some one who lived in Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square—some person whom she knew so slightly as to be unacquainted with the exact address, and, as the result of this visit, she desired subsequently to see her sister at Richmond.
Sir Charles Dyke was apparently in no way concerned with 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 one of Bruce’s analytical powers 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. He approached his inquiry with less certainty, owing to Lady Dyke’s own 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 was sure she was dead—murdered, and that her body had been lodged by human agents beneath an old drain-pipe at Putney.
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 of the mystery might be found at Raleigh Mansions, but Bruce decided that this branch of his quest could wait until other transient features were cleared up.
He practically opened the campaign of investigation at Putney. Mild weather had permitted the workmen to conclude their operations the day before the barrister 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 laid bare.
A large house, untenanted, occupied the bank, a house with solid front facing the road, and a lawn running from the drawing-room windows to the river. Down the right side of the grounds the boundary was sharply marked by a narrow lane, probably a disused ferry road, and access to this thoroughfare was obtained from the lawn by a garden gate.
A newly marked seam in the roadway showed the line of the drainage work, and Bruce did not 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 carried out the alterations. An elderly foreman readily answered his questions.
“Yes, 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 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 bedrooms. I do hear as how the new tenant has sixteen children.”
“The incoming people have not yet arrived?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you tell me the name of the schoolmaster?”
“Oh, yes. When I was younger I have done a lot of carpenter’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.”
“I 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 matter gets cleared up after years. Of course we keep all the records of a case, so that the affair can be looked into if anything 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.
“May I see it? I want either the loan of it for a brief period, or an exact model.”
Again the policeman grinned.
“I don’t mind telling you that you are too late, sir.”
“Too late! How too late?”
“It’s been gone to Scotland Yard for the best part of a week.”
So others besides the barrister thought that the Putney incident required more attention than had been bestowed upon 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 had been murdered before being placed in the water, the state of the lungs being proof positive on that point.
“It was equally indisputable that she was put to death by malice aforethought?”
“Oh, yes. A small iron spike was absolutely wedged into the brain through the hardest part of the skull.”
“What was the nature of the injuries that caused death?”
“This piece of iron penetrated the occipital bone at the lowest part, and injured the cerebellum, damaging all the great nerve centres at the base of the brain.”
“Would death ensue instantly?”
“Yes. Such a blow would have the effect of a high voltage electric current. Complete paralysis of the nerve centres means death.”
“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?”
“Yes, of good quality. Off some ornament or design, 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?”
“I have never before met 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 destroy the 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, and seized upon the first weapon to hand.”
“You say she was forcibly placed where found?”
“Yes; the workmen’s description left no other idea.”
“Could not the tide have done this?”
“Hardly. One cannot be quite emphatic, as such odd things do happen. But it seems to be almost impossible 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.”
“Yet it is not so marvellous as the coincidence that this particular drain should need repairs at the precise period when this tragedy happened.”
“Quite so. It is exceedingly strange. Are you interested in the case? Have you reason to believe that this poor woman—?”
“I hardly know,” broke in the barrister. “I have no data to go upon, but I feel convinced that I shall ultimately establish her identity. You, doctor, can help me much by telling me your surmises in addition to the known facts.”
The medico looked thoughtfully through the window before he exclaimed: “I am certain that the woman found in the Thames came from the upper walks of life. Notwithstanding the disfiguring effects of the water and rough usage, any medical man can rapidly appreciate 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. He soon made known his wishes. “I want you to give me that small piece of iron found in the head of the woman at Putney,” he said. “If necessary, I will return it in twenty-four hours.”
Mr. White’s face showed some little sign of annoyance. “It is against the rules,” he began; but Bruce curtly interrupted him.
“Very well, I will make direct application to the Commissioner.”
“I was going to say, Mr. Bruce, that although not strictly in accordance with orders, I will make an exception in your case.” And the detective slowly produced the piece de conviction from a large pocket-book.
In sober fact, the police officer was somewhat jealous of the clever lawyer, who saw so quickly through complexities that puzzled his slower brain. He was in nowise anxious to help the barrister in his inquiries, though keenly wishful to benefit by his discoveries, and follow out his theories when they were defined with sufficient clearness.
Bruce did not at first take the proffered article.
“Let me understand, Mr. White,” he said. “Do you object to my presence in this inquiry? Are you going to hinder me or help me? It will save much future misunderstanding if we have this point settled now.”
The detective flushed at this direct inquiry. “I will be candid with you, Mr. Bruce. It is true I have been vexed at times when you have overreached me; but I regret it immediately. It is foolish of me to try and solve problems by your methods. Kindly forget my momentary disinclination to hand over the only genuine link in the case.”
“In what case?”
“In the case of Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”
“Ah! Then you think it is in some way connected with the woman found at Putney?”
“I am sure of it. The woman at Putney, whether Lady Dyke herself or not I cannot tell, wore some of her ladyship’s clothes. When we have ascertained the means and the manner of the death of the woman buried at Putney we shall not be far from learning what has become of Lady Dyke.”
“How have you identified the clothes?”
“I 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 mistress, but when I had examined some of Lady Dyke’s linen I no longer doubted the fact.”
“If you knew all this, how comes it that more did not transpire at the coroner’s inquiry?”
“In such affairs an inquest is rather a hindrance to the police. It is better to lull the guilty person or persons into the belief that the crime has passed into oblivion. They know as well as we do that Lady Dyke is buried at Putney. We have failed to establish her identity by the evidence of the husband and servants. The linen and clothes, our sole effective testimony, remain in our possession; so, taking everything into consideration, I prefer that matters should remain as they are for the present.”
“Really, Mr. White, I congratulate you. You will perhaps pardon me for saying that some of your colleagues do not usually take so sensible a view.”
The policeman smiled at the compliment. “I am learning your method, Mr. Bruce,” he said.
As he spoke, Smith entered with a note endorsed “Urgent.”
It was in the handwriting of Sir Charles Dyke, and even the imperturbable barrister could not resist an exclamation of amazement when he read:
“My Dear Bruce,—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 amongst the servants. There is something maddening about these occurrences. I really cannot stand any more. Do come to see me, there’s a good fellow.”
“Well, I’m jiggered!” said the detective. “The blessed girl must have been spirited away a few hours after I saw her. Maybe, Mr. Bruce, we are all wrong. Has she gone to join her mistress?”
“Possibly—in the next world.”
Nothing would shake the barrister’s belief that Alice, Lady Dyke, was dead.
Alice, Lady Dyke, puckered her handsome forehead into a thoughtful frown as she drew aside the window-curtains of her boudoir and tried to look out into the opaque blackness of a November fog in London.
Behind her was cheerfulness—in front uncertainty. Electric lights, a nice fire reflected from gleaming brass, the luxury of carpets and upholstery, formed an alluring contrast to the dull yellow glare of a solitary lamp in the outer obscurity.
But Lady Dyke was a strong-minded woman. There was no trace of doubt in the wrinkled brows and reflective eyes. She held back the curtains with her left hand, buttoning a glove at the wrist with the other. Fog or no fog, she would venture forth, and she was already dressed for the weather in tailor-made costume and winter toque.
She was annoyed, but not disconcerted by the fog. Too long had she allowed herself to take things easily. The future was as murky as the atmosphere; the past was dramatically typified by the pleasant surroundings on which she resolutely turned her back. Lady Dyke was quite determined as to her actions, and a dull November night was a most unlikely agent to restrain her from following the course she had mapped out.
Moving to the light again, she took from her pocket a long, closely written letter. Its details were familiar to her, but her face hardened as she hastily ran through it in order to find a particular passage.
At last she gained her object—to make quite sure of an address. Then she replaced the document, stood undecided for a moment, 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 Mrs. Talbot. I shall probably not return in time for dinner. Tell Sir Charles not to wait for me.”
“Shall I order the carriage for your ladyship?”
“Will you listen to me and remember what I have said?”
“Yes, milady.”
James ran downstairs, opened the door, bowed as Lady Dyke passed into Portman Square, and then confidentially 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 carriage,” he said.
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 and fog at 5.30 on a November evening.
Though not a true “London particular,” the fog was chilly, exasperating, tedious. People bumped against each other without apology, ’buses crunched through the traffic with deadly precision, pair-horse vans swept around corners with magnificent carelessness.
In the result, Lady Dyke, who meant to walk, as she was somewhat in advance of the time she had fixed on for this very important engagement, took a hansom. In her present mood slight things annoyed her. Usually, the London cab-horse is a thoughtful animal; he refuses to hurry; when he falls he lies contented, secure in the knowledge that for five blissful minutes he will be at complete rest. But this misguided quadruped flew as though oats and meadow-grass awaited him at Victoria Station on the Underground Railway.
He raced down Park Lane, skidded past Hyde Park Corner, and grated the off-wheel of the hansom against the kerb outside the station 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 stepped from the vehicle and halted beneath a lamp to take a florin from her purse, a tall, ulster-wrapped gentleman, walking rapidly into Victoria Street, caught a glimpse of her face and well-proportioned form.
Instantly his hat was off.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Dyke. Can I be of any service?”
She bit her lip, not unobserved, but the law of Society forced her features into a bright smile.
“Oh, Mr. Bruce, is it you? I am going to see my sister 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, knew that she would have been much better pleased had he passed without greeting. Like the footman, he wondered why she did not drive in her carriage rather than travel by the Underground Railway on such a night. He guessed that she was perturbed—that her voluble explanation was a disguise.
He reflected that he could ill afford any 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, 1903, descended to the barrier, found that the next train for Richmond passed through in ten minutes, fumed inwardly for an instant, explained his presence to the ticket-collector, and paced the platform with his companion.
Having condemned the fog, and the last play, and the latest book, they were momentarily silent.
The newspaper placards on Smith & Son’s bookstall announced that a “Great 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 tell 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 exactly. My practice is more consultive than active. Many people seek my advice about matters of little interest, never thinking that they would best serve their ends by acting decisively and promptly themselves.”
Lady Dyke set her lips. She could be both prompt and decisive. She resolved to keep her troubles, whatever they were, locked in the secrecy of her own heart, and when she next spoke of some trivial topic the barrister knew that he had been spared a recital.
He regretted it afterwards.
At any other moment in his full and useful life he would have encouraged her rather than the reverse. Even now, a few seconds too late, he was sorry. He strove to bring her back to the verge of explanations, but failed, for her ladyship was a proud, self-reliant personage—one who would never dream of risking a rebuff.
A train came, with “Richmond” staring at them from the smoke and steam of the engine.
“Good-bye!” he said.
“Good-bye!”
“Shall I see you again soon?”
“I fear not. It is probable that I shall leave for the South of France 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 drive all the way to Hampstead for dinner at 7.30.
At ten minutes past nine Sir Charles Dyke entered Wensley House. A handsome, quiet, gentlemanly man was Sir Charles. He was rich—a Guardsman until the baronetcy devolved upon him, a popular figure in Society, esteemed a trifle fast prior to his marriage, but sobered down by the cares of a great estate and a vast fortune.
His wife and he were not well-matched in disposition.
She was too earnest, too prim, for the easy-going baronet. He respected her, that was all. A man of his nature found it impossible to realize that the depths of passion are frequently 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, they were childless, and were thus deprived of the one great bond which unites when others may fail.
Sir Charles was hurried, if not flurried. His boots were muddy and his clothes splashed by the mire of passing vehicles.
“I 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 Edith Talbot, and that you were not to wait dinner if she was late in returning.”
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 Charles.”
“Did she drive?”
“No, Sir Charles. She would not order the carriage when I suggested it.”
The baronet, somewhat perplexed, hesitated a moment. 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 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 eye 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.”
“Yes, Sir Charles. There’s bin three since the beginning of the month.”
After a pause. “Did you hear that her ladyship had gone to Richmond?”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“Do you know how she went?”
“No, Sir Charles.”
“I wanted to see her to-night, very particularly. Order the brougham in ten minutes. I am going to the Travellers’ Club. I shall be home soon—say eleven o’clock—when her ladyship arrives.”
The baronet was driven to and from the club by his own coachman, but on returning to Wensley House was told that his wife was still absent.
“No telegram or message?”
“No, Sir Charles.”
“I 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 no end of a row. Anxiety, and that sort of thing. Call me at 8.30.”
An hour later Sir Charles Dyke left the library and went to bed.
At breakfast next morning the master of the house rapidly scanned the letters near his plate for the expected missive 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? It’s curious, to say the least, going off to Richmond in this fashion, in a beastly fog, too.”
Thompson was puzzled. He had examined the letters 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 are off to Leicestershire next week, Thompson. By the way, I am going to a sale at Tattersall’s. Send a groom there with her ladyship’s answer when it comes.”
He had not been long at the sale yard when a servant arrived with a telegram.
“Ah, the post-office people are quick this morning,” he said, smiling. He opened the envelope and 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 cheerily addressed:
“Hallo, Dyke, preparing for the shires, eh?”
Wheeling round, the baronet shook hands with Claude Bruce.
“Yes—that is, I am looking out for a couple of nice-mannered ones for my wife. I have six eating their heads off at Market Harborough now.”
Bruce hesitated. “Will Lady Dyke hunt this season?” he asked.
“Well, hardly that. But she likes to dodge about the lanes with the parson and the doctor.”
“I only inquired because she told me last night that she would probably winter in the South of France.”
“Told you—last night—South of France!” Sir Charles Dyke positively gasped in his amazement.
“Why, yes. I met her at Victoria. She was going to Richmond to see her sister, she said.”
“I am jolly glad to hear it.”
“Glad! Why?”
“Because I have not seen her myself since yesterday morning. She went off mysteriously, late in the afternoon, leaving a message with the servants. Naturally I am glad to hear from you that she got into the train all right.”
“I put her in the carriage myself. Have you not heard from her?”
“No. I wired this morning, and expect an answer at any moment. But what is 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 her intention casually—in fact, when I asked if we would 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 the slight mystery attending her movements 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 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, Dyke, what is it? No bad news, I hope?”
The other, by a strong effort, regained his self-control.
“No, no,” he stammered; “it is all right, all right. She has gone somewhere else. See. This is from her sister, Mrs. Talbot. Still, I wish Alice would consider my natural anxiety a little.”
Bruce read:
“I opened your message. Alice not 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 the significance of the thought underlying the simple question.
“What do you make of it, Claude?”
Bruce, too, was very grave. “The thing looks queer,” he said; “though the explanation may be trifling. Come, I will help you. Let us reach your house. It is the natural centre for inquiries.”
They hailed a hansom and whirled off to Portman Square. They did not say much. Each man felt that the affair might not end so happily and satisfactorily as he hoped.