A Mysterious Disappearance

“Maybe you remember these?” said Bruce, producing his cigar-case.

“Now, wot’s the gyme?” said the collector to himself. But he smiled, and answered: “Do you mean by the look of ’em, sir?”

“Good!” laughed Claude. “Take three or four home with you. Meanwhile I am sure you remember me coming to see you last November concerning a lady who alighted here from Victoria one foggy evening and handed you a ticket to Richmond?”

“Of course I do, sir. And the cigars are all right. There was a lot of fuss about that lydy. Did she ever turn up?”

“Not exactly. That is to say, she died shortly after you saw her.”

“No! Well, of all the rummy 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, guv’nor?”

“Yes, ever since.”

“She’s dead, you s’y?”

“Yes.”

“But ’ow’d you know she’s dead, if you ’ain’t seen ’er since?”

“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 a crowd up the steps, announced the arrival of a train. “Pardon, sir,” said the man, “this is the 5.41 Mansion House. But don’t go aw’y. There’s somethin’ – Tickets, if you please.”

In a minute the collector had ended his task. While sorting his bundles of pasteboards he said:

“Nobody ever tell’d me that before. An’ you ain’t the only one on ’er track. Are you in the police?”

“No.”

“I thought not. But some other chaps who kem ’ere was. None of ’em ever said the lydy was dead.”

“Why; what matter?”

“Oh, nothin’, but two ’eads is better’n one, if they’re only sheep’s ’eads.”

“Undoubtedly. The rule is all the more reliable when one of them belongs to a shrewd chap like you.”

The collector grinned. He understood that he was being flattered for a purpose, yet he liked it.

“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 sovereign for a start. If you can tell me anything really worth knowing I will add four more to it.”

“Now, that’s talkin’. I’m off duty at eight o’clock, an’ I can’t ’ave a chat now because I expect the inspector 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.

Had he been a moment later he must have seen Mrs. Hillmer, closely wrapped up, leave her residence unattended. Her carriage was not in waiting. She walked to the cabstand in the square and called a hansom, driving back up Sloane Street.

Her actions indicated a desire to be unobserved even by her servants, as in the usual course of events the housemaid would have brought a cab to the door.

But the barrister, steadily climbing up the stairs, could not guess what was happening in the street. He soon opened Mensmore’s door, and noted, as an idle fact, that the expected gust of cold air was absent.

There was no light on this landing, so he was in pitch darkness once he had passed the doorway. There was no need to strike a match, however, as he remembered the exact position of the electric switchboard – on the left beyond the dining-room door.

He stepped cautiously forward, and stretched forth his hand to grope for the lever. With a quick rush, some two or three assailants flung themselves upon him, and after a fierce, gasping struggle – for Bruce was a strong man – he was borne to the floor face downwards, with one arm beneath him and the other pinioned behind his back.

“Look sharp, Jim,” shouted a breathless voice. “Turn on the light and close the door. We’ve got him safe enough.”

They had. Two large hands were clutched round his neck, a knee was firmly embedded in the small of his back, another hand gripped his left wrist like a vice, while some one sat on his legs.

He could not have been collared more effectually by a Rugby International team.

The third man found the electric light and turned it on.

“Now, get up,” said some one, “and don’t give us any more trouble. It’s no use.”

The barrister, who had had his wind knocked out of him, rose to his knees. Then, as the light fell upon the horrified face of Mr. White, he vainly essayed to keep up the pretence of indignation. Once fairly on his feet, he nearly collapsed with laughter. He leaned against the wall, and, as his breath came again, he 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 wrong, Jim?” said one at last. “Isn’t this Corbett?”

“No, of course it’s not,” was his angry growl.

“Then who the – is it?”

“Oh, ask me another! How on earth could I guess, Mr. Bruce, that you’d come letting yourself in here with a latchkey?”

Claude was still holding his sore ribs and could not answer; but the policeman who had questioned White caught the name. He recognized it, and grinned at his companion.

“What did you want here, anyhow?” snarled the infuriated detective, as he realized that his great coup would be retailed with embellishments through every police station in the metropolis.

“I w-wanted you to ar-r-rest me, W-White,” roared Claude. “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.”