A Mysterious Disappearance

“You have heard about Sydney H. Corbett?” said the barrister, still keeping that inscrutable, calculating gaze upon the policeman.

“Yes. I am on his track. We may be slow, but we are sure in Scotland Yard. May I ask what luck you have had, sir?”

“In what respect?”

“As if you didn’t go to Monte Carlo to find Corbett yourself! Really, Mr. Bruce, the scent is too hot this time. You might as well give a ‘View halloa’ if you have seen him.”

“Seen Sydney H. Corbett, you mean?”

“That is the gentleman.”

For an instant Mensmore’s future trembled in the balance. Bruce almost framed the words which would have led to his immediate arrest at the next port touched by the White Heather. But the memory of Phyllis Browne, of her agony, of the fearful scandal that must fly through Society on the Riviera, restrained him. There was no hurry. He must have time to think.

“I certainly went to Monte Carlo to discover the identity of that interesting personage, but I came back, Mr. White, as wise as I went. The only trace I found of him was an undelivered letter awaiting him at the Hotel du Cercle.”

“A letter! Wasn’t he there?” Mr. White’s face, notwithstanding its official decorum, betrayed its 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 the slightest doubt that Mr. Corbett concealed his identity at Monte Carlo under another name.”

“It doesn’t matter much,” growled the detective. “We will nab him all the same, if he had fifty names.”

“Possibly. But it is wonderful how a man may be under your very nose, and yet you may miss him.”

During the next few minutes neither man spoke. Bruce smiled cynically at the thought that he was actually shielding Lady Alice’s probable slayer from the minions of the law. He marvelled at himself for his irresolution. Nevertheless, he would wait. Mensmore could not escape him now. Perhaps the business might be managed without the dramatic features which would accompany an immediate arrest. And there were some things that required explanation. If his Monte Carlo acquaintance really killed Lady Dyke, then he was the strangest criminal whom Bruce had ever encountered during the course of his varied career.

The policeman misinterpreted his expression.

“You can’t laugh at us this time, Mr. Bruce,” he cried. “Scotland Yard and yourself 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 wonder at it, considering the mysterious way in which the missing man left his address at the post-office.”

The other reddened. “That was simple enough, I know; but we were on his track before that.”

“By watching me when I visited his sister.”

“You saw me outside the Jollity Theatre, then?”

“Of course. What did you expect?”

Mr. White recovered his placidity. “There’s no use quarrelling about it,” he laughed. “I did get that wrinkle from 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.”

“I 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 returned from the States early last year. His sister has not seen him for years, and a rare old row they had when he turned up. He had not much money, so she helped him, and he settled down for a time in the same mansions as herself.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Mrs. Hillmer, and a precious lot of trouble she gave me. She is a clever woman that.”

“It was rather too bad to pester her about it, poor lady.”

“I only followed your lead, sir.”

This was so true that Claude changed the conversation.

“What sort of man is Corbett? Have you his description?”

“Yes. Here it is.” Mr. White produced a copy of the Police Gazette, a publication never seen by the public, but of a large circulation among the police of the United Kingdom. The details were fairly accurate as to Mensmore’s personal appearance, but there was no photograph. Oddly enough, Bruce was pleased on noting this serious deficiency.

“You did not secure his picture?”

“No. Mrs. Hillmer declared that she had not a single photograph of her brother in her possession.”

“Did she – tell you his real name?” the barrister had almost said, but he deflected the question. “Did she give you any hint as to a possible cause for this apparently unnecessary crime?”

“Not a word.”

“Then you did not mention Lady Dyke 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. “I am as sure as I am sitting here, sir, that Sir Charles will not live if any disgrace should come to be attached to his wife’s memory.”

“Do you mean that he will kill himself?”

“I do. He has changed a great deal since this affair happened. He is not the same man. He appears to be always mooning about her. And people say that they were not so devoted to one another when she was alive.”

Again did the barrister switch off their talk from an unpleasant topic.

“This description of Corbett is not much use,” he said. “It applies to every athletic young Englishman 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?”