A Mysterious Disappearance

“What is it?”

“I want to ask you something. Did you ever know a Colonel Montgomery, or was your wife acquainted with any one of that name to your knowledge?”

“I do not think she was. Had she ever met such a man I should probably have heard of him. Who was he?”

The baronet’s low state rendered his words careless and indefinite, but his friend did not wish to bother him unduly.

“The police have discovered,” he said, “that Mrs. Hillmer formed a close intimacy with some one whom she designated by that name and rank, though I have failed to trace any British officer who answers to his description. He disappeared, or died, as some people put it, about the same time as your wife.”

“Is it not known what became of him, then?”

“No.”

“Won’t Mrs. Hillmer tell you?”

“She absolutely refuses to give any help, whatever.”

“On what ground?”

“That is best known to herself. My theory is that a man she loves is implicated in the affair, and she is prepared to go to any lengths to shield him.”

“Ah!”

Sir Charles bent over and poked the fire viciously. Then he murmured: “Women are queer creatures, Bruce. We men never understand them until too late. My wife and I did not to all appearance care a jot for one another while she lived. Yet I now realize that she loved me, and I would give the little remaining span of existence, dear as life is, to see her once more.”

This was a morbid subject; the younger man tried to switch him off it.

“It is almost clear to me,” he said, “that Colonel Montgomery’s name was assumed. Few people realize the use of the alias made in modern life. I have a notion that the custom among otherwise honorable people has arisen from the publicity given to the fact that Royal and other distinguished personages frequently choose to conceal their identity under less known territorial titles.”

“The idea is ingenious. We are all slaves to fashion.”

“However that may be, it should not be a difficult task to lay hands on the gentleman should he be still living.”

“Suppose you succeed. How can you connect him with my wife’s death?”

“At this moment I am unable to say. But the cabman might be of some use.”

“The cabman. What cabman?”

“Did I omit that? I ought to have told you that I have found the driver of the four-wheeler in which your poor wife was taken, dead or insensible, from Sloane Square to Putney.”

“What an extraordinary thing!”

“What is?”

“That you should have forgotten to inform me of such a striking fact.”

“Not so. Now that I recollect, I have not had the opportunity. It was impossible to discuss anything else but that forged letter on the last two occasions we met, and it was only a few hours prior to your visit on Monday that I got the cabman’s story fully. By the way, do you now see any reason why Jane Harding should have tried to deceive you in such a manner?”

The barrister perceived that Sir Charles was nervous and irritable, so he deemed it a needless strain to enlarge on the history of his discovery of Foxey.

“I am tired of letters, and plots, and mysteries. My life is resolving into one huge note of interrogation. Soon the great question of eternity will dominate all others.”

Dyke’s mood unfitted him for sustained conversation. Bruce could but pity him, and hope that time would calm his fevered brain, and soothe the unrest that shed this gloom over him.

“Really,” said Claude, after a long interval, during which both men sought inspiration from the dancing flames in the fireplace, “really this is too bad of you, Dyke. You showed a marked improvement for a little space, and now you are letting yourself slip back into a state of lonely and unoccupied moping again.”

“My thoughts find me both occupation and company,” was the despondent reply.

“There is nothing for it,” continued Bruce cheerfully, “but a tour round the world. You must start immediately. A complete change of scene and surroundings will soon pull you back to a normal state of mind and health.”

“I have been thinking of a long journey for some time past.”

The barrister glanced sharply at his friend. The double entente was not lost on him. Dyke was in a depressed and nervous condition. The uncertainty regarding his wife’s fate was harassing him unduly and it was with a twinge of conscience that Bruce reflected upon his own eagerness to pursue a quest which, by very reason of its indefiniteness, attracted him as an intellectual pursuit.

“Look here,” he cried, on the spur of the moment, “I have long desired to see the Canadian Pacific route. Will you arrange to start West with me a fortnight hence? We can return when the spirit moves us.”

“We will see. We will see. To-day I feel unable to decide anything.”

“Yes, I know, but the mere fact that you take the resolution will serve to reanimate you.”

“It is very good of you, Claude, to trouble so about me. Had you asked me earlier I might have gone straight away. But let it rest for a little while. When I have recovered my spirits somewhat I will come to you to ask you to sail next day, or something of the sort.”

Beyond this, the other could not move him.

There was one link in the chain of evidence that would be irrefragable if discovered. Was this “Colonel Montgomery” in any way connected with the house at Putney where the murderer had disposed of the body? If this could be established, the unknown visitor to Raleigh Mansions would experience a good deal of difficulty in clearing himself of suspicion. Bruce was certain that, once the “Colonel” was traced, much would come to light explanatory of Mrs. Hillmer’s, and her brother’s, dread lest his identity should be discovered.

An inquiry addressed to the house agents to whom possible tenants were referred elicited the information that the present owner, a lady, was prepared to let the house annually or on a lease. They enclosed an order to view, which Bruce retained in case he should happen to need it.

A second letter gave him the address of the lady’s solicitors, Messrs. Small & Sharp, Lincoln’s Inn.

He called on them as a possible tenant, with a desire to purchase the property outright if his proposal could be entertained.

Mr. Sharp, the partner who dealt with the estate, became very suave when the suggestion reached his ears.

“You will understand, Mr. Bruce, that your request requires some consideration. The rent my client asks is comparatively low, because the house is old-fashioned, but the splendid riparian position of the property, a free-hold acre on the banks of the Thames at Putney, gives it a highly increased future value. Any figure you may have based on a rental calculation would therefore – ”

“Not meet the case at all,” said the barrister, repressing a smile at the familiar opening move in the game of bargaining.

“Precisely.”

“May I ask who the present owner is?”

“Certainly, the lady’s name is Small. In fact, she is my partner’s wife. Her father, the late Rev. Septimus Childe, purchased the estate some years ago, largely because the house suited his requirements as the head of a successful private school.”

“Has the estate changed hands frequently then?”

“Oh, dear, no. Indeed, it is well understood that the Rev. Mr. Childe acquired it more as a friendly transaction than otherwise. The estate is a portion of the separate estate of the late Lady Helen Montgomery, who married Sir William Dyke, father of the present baronet, who perhaps – good gracious, my dear sir, what is the matter?”