The de Bercy Affair

"She has disappeared."

Her head bowed, and a sob broke from her bosom.

"Disappeared" – his lips breathed the word foolishly after her, while he looked at her almost stupidly.

Mrs. Marsh's hand dropped with a little nervous fling.

"She has not been at home all night. She left the house apparently between four and five yesterday – I was out; then I came in; then you called… She has not come home – it is impossible to conceive…"

"Oh, she has slept with some friend," he said, feeling that the world reeled around him.

"No, she has never done that without letting me know… She would surely have telegraphed me… It is quite impossible even to imagine what dispensation of God – "

She stopped, her lips working; suddenly covering her eyes with her hand, as another sob gushed from her, she humbly muttered:

"Forgive me. I am nearly out of my senses."

He sprang up, touched a bell, and whispered to Jenkins, who instantly was with him: "Brandy —quick." Then, running to kneel at the old lady's chair, he touched her left hand, saying: "Take heart – trust in God's Providence – rely upon me."

"You believe, then, that you may find her – ?"

"Surely: whatever else I may fail in, I could not fail now… Just one sip of this to oblige me." Jenkins had stolen in, and she drank a little out of the glass that Osborne offered.

"You must think it odd," she said, "that I come to you. I could not give a reason – but I was so distracted and benumbed. I thought of you, and felt impelled – "

"You were right," he said. "I am the proper person to appeal to in this case. Besides, she was here yesterday – "

"Rosalind?"

"The fact is – "

"Oh, she was here? Well, that is something discovered! I did well to come. Yes – you were saying – "

"I will tell you everything. Three days ago she wrote me a letter – "

"Rosalind?"

"Are you astonished?"

"I understood – I thought – that your friendship with her had suffered some – check."

"That is so," said Osborne with a bent head. "You may remember the night of the dance at the Abbey down at Tormouth. That night, when I was full of hopes of her favor, she suddenly cast me off like a burr from her robe – I am not even now sure why – unless she had discovered that my name was not Glyn."

"If so, she no doubt considered that a sufficient reason, Mr. Osborne," said Mrs. Marsh, a chill in her tone. "One does not like the names of one's friends to be detachable labels."

"Don't think that I blame her one bit!" cried Osborne – "no more than I blame myself. I was ordered by – the police to take a name. There seemed to be good reason for it. I only blame my baleful fate. Anyway, so it was. She dropped me – into the Pit. But she was at the inquest – "

"Indeed? At the inquest. She was there. Singular."

"Deeply veiled. She didn't think, I suppose, that I should know. But I should feel her presence in the blackest – "

"Mr. Osborne – I must beg – do not make your declarations to me– "

"May I not? Be good – be pitiful. Here am I, charged with guilt, conscious of innocence – "

"Let us suppose all that, but are you a man free to make declarations of love? One would say that you are, as it were, married for some time to come to the lady who has lately been buried."

"True," said Osborne – "in the eyes of the world, in a formal way: but in the eyes of those near to me? Oh, I appeal to your indulgence, your friendship, your heart. Tell me that you forgive, that you understand me! and then I shall be so exuberantly gladsome that in the sweep of my exhilaration I shall go straight and find her, wherever she lies hidden… Will you not say 'yes' on those terms?" He smiled wanly, with a hungry cajolery, looking into her face.

But she did not unbend.

"Let us first find her! and then other things may be discussed. But to find her! it is past all knowing – Oh, deep is the trouble of my soul to-day, Mr. Osborne!"

"Wait – hope – "

"But you were speaking of yesterday."

"Yes. She was at the inquest: and when I saw her – think how I felt! I said: 'She believes in me.' And three days after that she wrote to me – "

"My poor Rosalind!" murmured Mrs. Marsh. "She suffered more than I imagined. Her nature is more recondite than the well in which Truth dwells. What could she have written to you?"

"That I don't know."

"How – ?"

"As I was about to open the letter, a telegram came from her. 'Don't read my letter: I will call for it unopened in person,' it said. Picture my agony then! And now I am going to tell you something that will move you to compassion for me, if you never had it before. Yesterday she called for the letter. I was with you at Porchester Gardens at that very hour. When I came home, an extraordinary scene awaited me with my secretary, a Miss Prout… I tell you this as to a friend, a Mother, who will believe even the incredible. An extraordinary scene… Without the least warning, the least encouragement that I know of, Miss Prout declared herself in love with me. While I stood astonished, she fainted. I bore her to a sofa. Soon after she opened her eyes, she – drew – me to her – no, I will say that I was not to blame; and I was in that situation, when the library door opened, and who should be there looking at me but – yes —she."

Mrs. Marsh's eyes fell. There was a little pressure of the lips that revealed scant sympathy with compromising situations. And suddenly a thought turned her skin to a ghastlier white. What if the sight of that scene accounted for Rosalind's disappearance? If Rosalind was dead – by her own act? The old lady had often to admit that she did not know the deepest deeps of her daughter's character. But she banished the half-thought hurriedly, contenting herself with saying aloud:

"That made the second time she came to you yesterday. Why a second time?"

"I have no idea!" was the dismayed reply. "She uttered not one word – just turned away, and hurried out to her waiting cab – and by the time I could wring myself free, and run after her, the cab was going off. I shouted – I ran at top speed – she would not stop. I think a man was in the cab with her – "

"A man, you say?"

"I think so. I just caught a glimpse of a face that looked out sideways – a dark man he seemed to me – I'm not sure."

"It becomes more and more mysterious!"

"Well, we must be making a move to do something – first, have you breakfasted?"

She had eaten nothing! Osborne persuaded her to join him in a hurried meal, during which his motor-car arrived, and soon they set off together. He was for going straight to the police, but she shrank from the notoriety of that final exposure until she had the clear assurance that it was absolutely necessary. So they drove from friend to friend of the Marshes who might possibly have some information; then drove home to Mrs. Prawser's to see if there was news. Osborne had luncheon there – a polite pretense at eating, since they were too full of wonder and woe to care for food. By this time Mrs. Marsh had unbent somewhat to Osborne, and humbly enough had said to him, "Oh, find her, and if she is alive, every other consideration shall weigh less than my boundless gratitude to you!"

After the luncheon they again drove about London, making inquiries without hope wherever the least chance of a clew lay; and finally, near six, they went to Scotland Yard.

To Inspector Winter in his office the whole tale was told; and, after sitting at his desk in a long silence, frowning upon the story, he said at last:

"Well, there is, of course, a great deal more in this than meets the eye." He spun round to Mrs. Marsh: "Has your daughter undergone anything to upset her at home lately?"