A Mysterious Disappearance

“Ah, that chap Corbett. I have been thinking about him. I wonder who he can be? Anyhow, I owe him my best wishes, as the mention of his name has had such excellent results.”

“Well, that is all,” said Bruce rising.

“Yes, thanks. I must now see about raising the money to pay my own call. I am interested in fifty thousand shares, you know.”

“Then you require some £7,500?”

“Yes. But that will be easy when I can say that the Anglo-African Finance people are with me. Besides, this morning – queer you should call immediately afterwards – I have had some wholly unexpected news.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Dodge was in a talkative vein, and Bruce was in no hurry.

“The very best!” went on Dodge gleefully. “You see, there is another man in this affair with me. I thought he was as stony-broke as I am myself – speaking confidentially, you know – when he suddenly writes to me saying that he had won a pot of money at Monte Carlo and could spare me £2,000. What’s the matter? 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. But this was too much. He felt as though a meteorite had fallen on his head. Nevertheless, he grappled with the situation.

“Ill! 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.”

“You were saying – ”

“That’s all. This young fellow, Mensmore his name is, got mixed up with me over a Californian mine. I thought he had lots of coin, so when Springboks came along he and I went shares in underwriting them. The public didn’t feed, so we were loaded. I tried all I knew to get 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 says, if necessary, he can get the remainder of his half, £1750, from somebody. Where is his letter?”

Mr. Dodge looked on his table. “Oh, here it is. Addressed from ‘Yacht White Heather,’ if you please. Quite swell, eh? Sir William Browne! That’s the covey. I think I will 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.

“If you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a good morning for me. Come and have lunch.”

“No, thanks. I have a lot to attend to. By the way, where did Mensmore live?”

“I don’t know. His address was always at the Orleans Club.”

Somehow, Bruce reached the street and a hansom. As the vehicle rolled off westward he crouched in a corner and tried to wrestle with the problem that befogged 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 Dyke’s. In all probability he knew Lady Dyke as well. He lived in Raleigh Mansions under an assumed name, and quitted his abode two days after the murder.

Every circumstance pointed to the terrible assumption that at Mensmore’s hands the unfortunate lady met her death. 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 punishment of Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed, pitifully amusing to think how the clever detective had used his powers to befool himself. The very openness of the clue had helped to conceal it the more effectually. 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 seize the reins and flog the horse into a mad gallop through the traffic as a relief to his feelings.

Blissfully unconscious of the living volcano he carried within, the cabby on the perch did not indulge in any such illegal antics. He quietly drove along the Embankment and delivered his seething fare at his Victoria-street chambers.

Quite oblivious of commonplace affairs, the barrister threw a shilling to the driver and darted out.

The 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 utter was his blank astonishment.

But Bruce was across the pavement, and cabby had to find words, else it would be too late.

“Here guv’nor,” he yelled, “what the ballyhooley do you call this?”

“What’s the matter?” was the impatient query.

“Matter!” The cabman looked towards the sky to see if the heavens were falling. “Matter!” in a higher key, as a crowd began to gather. “I tykes him from Leaden’all Street to Victoria. ’E gives me a bob, an’ ’e arsks me wot’s the matter. I’d been on the ranks four bloomin’ hours – ”

“Oh, there you are!” and Bruce threw him half-a-crown before he disappeared up the steps.

Mr. White was watching for Bruce’s arrival. He wondered why the barrister 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

“If any one calls, I am out,” cried Claude to his factotum, as he crossed the entrance-hall of his well-appointed flat, and flung open the door of his library.

“The guv’nor’s in a tantrum,” observed Smith to his wife, and he settled himself to renew the perusal 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 given to a rank outsider, when the electric bell upset his calculations.

“My master is out,” he said, as he opened the door to find Mr. White standing on the mat.

He was about to close the door again, but the detective planted his 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.

“Tell him what I say at once,” and Mr. White gave him his best “accessory-after-the-crime” glance.

“I 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.

“You’re not looking very well, sir,” said White, his round eyes fixed on Bruce with all their power.

“Was it to ask about my health that you came?”

“No, sir, not exactly. But I haven’t seen you for quite a while, and as we are both interested in the same matter I thought I would look you up and compare notes.”

Bruce was annoyed by the interruption. He wanted to think, not to be bothered by official theories. He looked hard at Mr. White, wondering whether he should tell him all he knew and wash his own hands clear of the investigation in future. But there was a second picture before his eyes. 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 joyousness of requited and undisturbed love, with the glow reflected from dancing waves, and the tremulous smile of innocent pleasure.

It was hard to believe that such a woman could place her heartfelt trust in a man who was possibly a cold-blooded murderer. Such a combination was unnatural and horrible. Already Bruce was beginning to doubt the evidence of his analytical senses.

Mr. White meanwhile flattered himself by the thought that the other was trying to read his thoughts by looking at him fixedly.

“I have been away from home,” said Bruce at last. “I had occasion to go to the South of France.”

“I thought so. I was sure of it. How do you manage always to get ahead of us?” Mr. White was enthusiastic in his admiring divination.