A Mysterious Disappearance

Bruce did not expect to be thus openly challenged on the matter. It was one thing to withhold his own theories and discoveries from this representative of the majesty of the law, but quite another to refuse to help a detective with whom he was nominally working.

Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days’ start. It would take some time – possibly a telegram would not be sufficiently explicit – to obtain the desired assistance from the Continental police. Yes – in this instance, Mensmore must take his chances.

“If I were you,” said Bruce, slowly weighing his words, “I would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Victoria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge of the morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it would be quite safe if you were to wire the authorities at Monte Carlo, asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at the Hotel du Cercle.”

The detective started as though he had been shot.

“What!” he cried, “you think she is there all the time?”

“I think she has been there since Wednesday morning.”

“That is what I mean. Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“Because you never asked me. And now, Mr. White, one word of advice. Go slow.”

“It’s all jolly fine telling me to go slow when I have no reason to go fast. The case even against Corbett is shadowy enough at present.”

“Exactly. Wait until you can grasp a substance.”

“I will, sir,” said White, jamming his hat on; “but when I lay my hands on Corbett I will grasp him hard enough.”

It took the policeman all that day to satisfy himself that Mrs. Hillmer had really booked for the Riviera by the Club train from Charing Cross on the preceding Monday.

Just as he verified the fact, came a reply from the Monte Carlo police:

“Mrs. Hillmer arrived at the Hotel du Cercle on Wednesday. Left for Italy same afternoon. Shall we endeavor to trace her?”

“Oh, bother,” he growled. “Corbett may be in Jerusalem by this time. And here have I been fussing about Wyoming or some other potato-patch in the Far West.”

However, he wired again to Monte Carlo:

“Yes. Locate Mrs. Hillmer, if possible. I will then telegraph instructions to local police.”

When this message was despatched he felt easier in his mind.

The chase was at least getting warm.

“I cannot arrest him yet,” he reflected; “but if I once get fairly on his track, I will not lose sight of him again if I can help it. I suppose it will mean a trip to Italy for me. I must lay the evidence before the Treasury to see if a warrant is justified.”

Two days passed without incident.

Late on Sunday evening, February 5, a Continental telegram was handed to him at Scotland Yard:

“Mrs. Hillmer’s present address, Hotel Imperiale, Florence.”

He promptly wired the Chief of Police at Florence:

“Keep Mrs. Hillmer, English visitor, Hotel Imperiale, under surveillance. Also watch her associates, particularly Englishman named Corbett, if there. Letter follows.”

“That’s a good stroke of business,” said he, when the message was sent. “Now we shan’t be long!”

It was in contented mood that he lit a cigar in his office, before walking home for dinner, but a messenger with the badge of the Commercial Cable Company in Northumberland Avenue bustled past him.

“Who’s the cable for, boy?” said the detective.

“White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer.

“That’s me.”

He tore open the envelope, and found that the contents were coded, but he caught the word “Corbett” amidst the unintelligible jumble.

With some excitement he rushed into the office to find the A B C Code, and after some confusion in deciphering the words, this was what he read:

“Regret delay in replying to your communication. Corbett left New York in White Star steamer due Liverpool, February 4.”

“February 4? Why, that’s yesterday. Good gracious, he’s here all the time. Well, of all the – ”

But exclamations were useless. Calling another plain-clothes man to accompany him, he drove off in mad haste to Sloane Square.

About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten slip gummed on to a telegraph form. It was from Florence, and ran as follows:

“My brother wildly excited regarding allegations. We start for London to-night. Meanwhile fearful complications expected. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my brother’s friend, is probably occupying his flat, and may be arrested. We both trust you to save him. Wire us at Modane or Gare du Nord.

    ”Gwendoline Hillmer.”

So Bruce also raced off in a hansom towards Sloane Square.

CHAPTER XX

MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT

The detective glanced up at Bruce’s chambers while passing through Victoria Street.

“I wonder what he would think if he knew what we are after,” he said to his colleague, one of the two who accompanied him when the barrister was arrested by mistake.

“What are we after?” said the policeman.

“This time we are going to nail the right Corbett,” was the confident answer.

“Will we cart him off?”

“Well, now, that depends. I think I am quite right in collaring him unless he explains to my satisfaction, which is hardly likely.”

“The charge is one of murder, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Who did he kill?”