A Mysterious Disappearance

At last he said with a smile:

“Say, what are you after, Mr. White of Scotland Yard? What’s the game? Who’s been fooling you?”

“That is not the way to talk to me, sir. Answer my question fully and properly, or it may be worse for you.”

“Jehosh! Have you come to wipe the floor with me?”

“Are you going to reply to me or not?”

“I’m not going to speak square to any man who comes along and puts a thing like you do.”

“Very well. I can get my information by other means. You leave me no alternative – ”

Mr. White had half risen and was about to add, “but to arrest you,” when, with a rapidity known only to those accustomed to “draw” from boyhood, Corbett whipped a revolver from a hip pocket and covered the bridge of White’s nose with the muzzle.

“Just you sit still, right there, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, or I will let daylight through you and your nameless friend if he interferes. You’d better believe me. By gad! I won’t speak twice.”

Neither White nor his companion were cowards. But they were quite helpless. They had not grappled with the circumstances with sufficient alertness, and they were utterly at this man’s mercy. They were away from the door, and a table separated them from Corbett, while there was that in his eye which told them he would shoot if either of them moved. They both sprang to their feet, and glared at him impotently.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Corbett, with the utmost coolness, “let me persuade you to sit down again and go on with your story, which interests me.”

White was scarlet with wrath and annoyance.

“Let me tell you – ” he roared.

“Sit down!”

“Make the best of it, Jim,” murmured the other policeman; and the queer gathering resumed their seats.

“That’s better,” said Corbett genially. “Now, we’ll have a nice little chat. Am I correct in supposing that you were about to march me off to jail just now, when I spoilt the proposition?”

“There’s no use in resisting,” growled White. “You cannot escape. If you have an atom of sense left you will come with us quietly, as it’s all up with you.”

“It looks like it,” said Corbett, with a grim smile. “But if it’s so bad a case as all that, there’s no desperate hurry, is there?”

“You’re only making matters more difficult for yourself.”

“Maybe. But as I happen to be a citizen of the United States, I allow that I can’t be whipped off to prison just because a fool like you thinks it’s good for me. I’ve been a law-abiding man all my life, and I’ve lived in places where each man made his own law. If you can show good cause for your action, I’ll stand the racket. At present I regard you as a blamed idiot.”

The situation overcame the detective. He could only mutter:

“Time will show who’s the idiot.”

“I’m getting hungry, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, and I’ve a kind of notion that the old lady is ready with the eatables. Will you be good enough to say what you’re after?”

“I came here to ask you to account for your movements, and, failing a satisfactory explanation, to arrest you.”

“On what charge?”

“For being concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke, on or about November 6 last.”

“Lady Dyke?”

“Yes.”

“Arrest me?”

“Yes.”

“I placed you right away. You are a blamed idiot, Mr. White of Scotland Yard.”

This repetition of his name and address goaded the detective almost beyond endurance.

“Now you know the charge,” he shouted, “are you coming with us quietly, or – ”

“Or what?”

The revolver still hovered across the table.

“Are we going to sit here all night?”

It was a weak conclusion, but to suggest an attack was sheer madness under the conditions.

“I guess not,” was the calm answer. “I want my dinner, and I mean to have it.”

“Very well. Eat your dinner and have done with it.”

“That’s better. You and your friend shall join me. We’ll have a nice little talk and straighten out matters, which have got kinder mixed.”

This was too much for White’s associate. He burst out laughing.

“I allowed there was a joke in the deal, somewhere,” went on Corbett, “but I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. Now, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, are you going to act like a reasonable man, or must I keep your nose in line with the barrel?”

White was saved from deciding which horn of the dilemma he would land on, for a sharp rat-tat at the door induced silence, and a moment later Bruce’s voice was heard inquiring:

“Is Mr. Corbett in?”

“Faix, there may be a half-a-dozen of him in by this time,” cried Mrs. Robinson. “I dunno where I am, at all, at all. The gintlemen are in the parlor, sir.”

And Bruce entered.

In order to enfilade the new-comer scientifically, Corbett backed to the corner. Claude glanced at the three, saw the revolver, and said with a comical air of relief:

“Thank goodness, nothing has happened. Put away your pistol, Mr. Corbett; you will not need it.”

Although the barrister’s manner differed considerably from the brusque methods adopted by Mr. White, the American remained on his guard. He said stiffly:

“You all seem to know me fairly well; but if you had the advantage of closer acquaintance, you would allow that I am not the man to be rushed on a confidence trick. If somebody doesn’t explain quick I will lose my temper, and there will be trouble.”