A Mysterious Disappearance

“We must find Colonel Montgomery,” he said, after a slight pause.

“Find him!”

“Yes.”

“I hope neither of us is going his way for some time to come, Mr. Bruce,” laughed the policeman.

“White, I shall never cure you from jumping at conclusions. Upon your present evidence Colonel Montgomery is no more dead than you are.”

“But the maid said – ”

“I don’t care if fifty maids said. There are many more ways of ‘losing’ a friend than by death. Pass me the Army List, on that bookshelf behind you there.”

A brief reference to the index, and Bruce said:

“I thought so. There is no Colonel Montgomery. There are several captains and lieutenants, and a Major-General who has commanded a small island in the Pacific for the last five years, but not a single colonel. White, you have blundered into eminence in your profession.”

“I’m glad to hear it, even as you put it, Mr. Bruce. But I don’t see – ”

“I know you don’t. If you did, a popular novelist would write your life and style you the English Lecocq. Mrs. Hillmer ‘lost’ the gallant colonel at the same time that the world ‘lost’ Lady Dyke. Find the first, and I am much mistaken if we do not learn all about the second.”

“Now I wonder if you are right.”

The detective’s eyes sparkled with animation. It was the first real clue he had hit upon, and Bruce’s method of complimenting him on the fact did not disconcert him.

“Of course I am right. You have done so well with the maid that I leave her in your hands. Try the coachman and the cook. But keep me informed of your progress.”

White rushed off elated. So persistent was he in striving to elucidate this new problem that he paid no heed during some days to the side-light furnished by Jane Harding and her exceedingly curious powers as a letter-writer.

Bruce purposely left the inquiry to the policeman.

He realized intuitively that the disappearance of Lady Dyke would soon be explained, but he shrank from subjecting Mrs. Hillmer to further questioning.

His abstinence was rewarded later in the week, for Mensmore came to see him. The young man wore an expression of settled melancholy which surprised the barrister greatly.

“Have you prevailed on your sister to take us into her confidence?” he said, when Mensmore was ensconced in a chair in his cosy sitting-room.

“No. She is more fixed than ever in her resolve to take the whole blame on herself.”

“Surely this mistaken idea can be shaken?”

“I fear not.”

“And you also share it?”

“I do. Bear with us, Bruce. This is a terrible business. It has broken me up utterly.”

“Nonsense. You are in no way concerned save to shield your sister, and no one credits her wild statements regarding her complicity in this crime.”

“Look here, my dear fellow, I have come to ask you if this investigation cannot be allowed to rest. It means a lot of misery that you cannot foretell or prevent. Knowing what I do, I cannot believe that Lady Dyke was murdered.”

“Knowing what I do, I cannot accept any other conclusion. A worthy and estimable lady leaves her home suddenly, without the slightest imaginary cause, and she is found in the Thames with a piece of iron driven into her brain, while the medical evidence is clear that death was not due to drowning. What other inference can be drawn than that she was foully done to death?”

“Heaven help me, I cannot tell. Yet I appeal to you to let matters rest where they are if it is possible.”

“It is not possible. I cannot control the police. I am merely a private agent acting on my own responsibility and on behalf of Lady Dyke’s relatives.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Bruce. I am not asking this thing on account of my sister or myself.”

“On whose account, then?”

Mensmore did not answer for a moment. He looked mournfully into the fire for inspiration.

“Perhaps I had better tell you,” he said, “that I have broken off my engagement with Miss Browne.”

The other jumped from his chair.

“What the dickens do you mean?” he cried.

“Exactly what I have said. When we met on Monday night, I did not mention that Sir William and Lady Browne and their daughter travelled back to England with us. On Tuesday I saw Phyllis. In view of the shadow thrown on me by this frightful charge I thought it my duty to release her from any ties. If my sister has to figure in a court of law as a principal, or accomplice, in a murder case – and possibly myself with her – I could not consent to associate my poor Phyllis’s name with mine. So I took the plunge.”

“You are a beastly idiot,” shouted Bruce. “If I had the power I would give you six months’ hard labor this moment. Who ever threatened to put you or your sister in the dock?”

“You have done your best that way, you know.”

“I? – I have shielded you throughout!”

“I feel that. But your admission shows that I am right. Shielded us from what? From arrest by the police, of course.”

“But why take this precipitate action? What has Lady Dyke’s death to do with your marriage to Miss Browne?”

“That’s it, Bruce. I cannot explain. I must endure silently.”

“Did you give her any reason for your absurd resolution?”

“Yes. I could have no secrets from her.”

“Did you inflict all this wretched story on a woman you loved and hoped to marry?”

“You may be as bitter as you like. That is my idea of square dealing, at any rate. What other pretext could I invite for – for giving her up?”

Mensmore found it hard to utter the words. In his heart Bruce pitied him, though he raged at this lamentable issue of the only bright passage in the whole story of death and intrigue.

“And what did Miss Browne say?”

“Oh, she just pooh-poohed the affair, and pretended to laugh at me, though she was crying all the time.”

“A nice kettle of fish you have made of it,” growled the barrister. “You help your sister in her folly of silence and then proceed to give effect to it by ruining your own happiness and that of your affianced wife. Have you seen Miss Browne since?”