A Mysterious Disappearance

“Possibly. People said we each resembled our mother. And Bertie, you know, has led a somewhat adventurous career. 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?”

“Much. The last time we met I told you that your brother was mixed up in some little affair with a lady.”

Mrs. Hillmer laughed, a trifle constrainedly. “If you knew Bertie as well as I do, you would not harbor suspicions concerning him. He never had a love affair in his life. Indeed, he is something of a woman-hater.”

“No doubt he was. But he has changed his opinions. He is in love, and is engaged to be married to a very charming girl. Thus far, his beliefs and his good fortune have pulled against each other.”

“Bertie engaged to be married! Good gracious! Who is she? And how can he support a wife? He is poor, and in debt, and he won’t even let me help him.”

“I have stated the facts, nevertheless. The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, and they are 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 Sir William’s yacht. But there is another lady, missing from her home for nearly three months, who is believed to be dead – murdered, the police say – and with whom your brother was in some indefinable way associated.”

“Do they dare to say that Bertie killed her?” Mrs. Hillmer’s color rose and her eyes flashed fire again.

“They say nothing. They are simply doing their duty in trying to discover the truth. And you may take it from me, as an undoubted fact, that the last place this lady visited before her death was one of the flats in these mansions. All present indications point to your brother’s residence as being that place. Now, I pray you, be calm, and try to help me, 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 to justice, for the murdered woman was a dear and good friend of mine. If he is innocent, as, indeed, I believe him to be, I will strive to help him and save his good name from the tarnish of being arrested on such an odious charge.”

During this recital Mrs. Hillmer became deathly pale. Her agitation was the greater inasmuch as she forcibly controlled herself. But she could not remain seated. She sprang to the window and looked out, in the vain effort to seek inspiration from the gathering gloom of the street. Then she turned, and spoke very slowly:

“I think I understand. I must have faith in you, Mr. Bruce. Who – was – the lady?”

The barrister thought deeply before replying. He had previously decided upon this supreme step, but he hesitated now that it was imminent. There was no help for it.

“Her name,” said he, “is one which is well known to the world. Lady Dyke, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, is missing from her home since the evening of November 6 last. She met with a violent death that night, and I – not the police – have good reason to believe that she was killed in your brother’s residence.”

Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on a lounge, buried her white face in her hands and moaned, in a perfect agony of terror:

“Oh, my God! What shall I do? What shall I do?”

This outburst astounded Bruce. He did not know what to make of it. His intelligence had certainly taken his hearer by surprise. What interpretation was he to place upon her words and her unrestrained actions?

“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she broke in vehemently, running to him and clutching him by the arm:

“He is innocent, Mr. Bruce. He must be innocent. He could not lift his finger to 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, if you hope for mercy yourself when you are dying.”

In her passion she shook him violently, and for an instant they looked intently at each other – the woman tensely piteous, entreating; the man amazed and questioning.

“Do you not see,” he said at last, “that your vehemence reveals your thoughts? For anything you know to the contrary, your brother may have committed the crime. Nay, it requires but slight knowledge of human nature to read your suspicions lest it be true. At this moment I am convinced that you are, in your heart, less sceptical than I of his guilt.”

Mrs. Hillmer flung herself again upon the lounge, silent, tearful, torn with violent emotion, which she vainly tried to suppress.

He tried to reason with her.

“It will, perhaps, serve to clear up a mystery that deepens each moment if you place your trust in me,” he said. “Tell me fully and openly any cause you may have for fearing that your brother may be implicated in this terrible business. I ask you to adopt this course in all faith. I have seen your brother under most trying circumstances; I have been with him at an hour when it would be impossible for him to conceal his burden if the weight of Lady Dyke’s death lay upon him. Yet I think him innocent. I think that chance has contributed to gather evidence against him. If I can learn even a portion of the truth it will enable me to quickly dispel the barrier of uncertainty that now hinders progress.”

“What is it you want to know?”

Mrs. Hillmer’s voice was hollow and broken. The barrister was shocked at the effect of his revelation, but he was forced to go on with the disagreeable task he had undertaken.

“Do you mean,” he asked, “that you will answer my questions?”

“So far as I can.”

“Would it not be better to tell me in your own words what you have to say?”

Mrs. Hillmer looked up, and the agony in her face filled him with keen pity.

“Oh, Heaven help me to do what is right!” she cried.

“Your prayer will surely be answered. I am certain of that. A great wrong has been committed by some one, and the innocent must not suffer to shield the guilty.”

Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head and did not utter a word for some minutes. She appeared to be reasoning out some plan of action in a dazed fashion. 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 with her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.

“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.

“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving you. When I have determined something which is not now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either case I only can judge – and suffer.”

“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we part. Did you know of Lady Dyke’s death before to-day?”

She came to him and looked him straight in the face, and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”

Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of this painful interview did not prevent him from noting the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some one hurried into the interior of a room.

In their excitement they forgot that their voices might attract attention, and ladies’ maids are proverbially inquisitive.

CHAPTER XVI

FOXEY

The keen, cold air of the streets soon restored the man to his habitual calm. He felt that a quiet stroll would do him good.

As he walked he pondered, and the more critically he examined Mrs. Hillmer’s change of attitude the less he understood it.

“For some ridiculous reason,” he communed, “the woman believes her brother guilty. Now I shall have endless trouble 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 considers 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 too hastily upon her. But there! I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate using her as one juggles with a self-conceited witness. In future I shall trouble her no more.”

A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square Station gave him a glimpse of the barrier, and he recognized the collector who had taken Lady Dyke’s ticket on that fatal night when she quitted the Richmond train.

Rather as a relief than for other cause he entered into conversation with the official.

“Do you remember me?” he said.

“Can’t say as I do, sir.” The man examined his questioner with quick suspicion. The forgotten “season” dodge would not work with him.