A Mysterious Disappearance

SIR CHARLES DYKE’S JOURNEY

The streets were comparatively deserted as they drove quickly up Whitehall and crossed the south side of Trafalgar Square. It is a common belief, even among Londoners themselves, that the traffic is dense in the main thoroughfares at all hours of the night until twelve o’clock has long past.

But to the experienced eye there is a marked hiatus between half-past nine and eleven o’clock. At such a time Charing Cross is negotiable, Piccadilly Circus loses much of its terror, and a hansom may turn out of Regent Street into Oxford Street without the fare being impelled to clutch convulsively at the brass window-slide in a make-believe effort to save the vehicle from being crushed like a walnut shell between two heavy ’buses.

Such considerations did not appeal to the barrister and his companion on this occasion.

For some inexplicable cause they both felt that they were in a desperate hurry.

A momentary stoppage at the turn into Orchard Street caused each man to swear, quite unconsciously. Now that the supreme moment in this most painful investigation was at hand they resented the slightest delay. Though they were barely fifteen minutes in the cab, it seemed an hour before they alighted at Wensley House, Portman Square.

In response to an imperative ring a footman appeared. Instead of answering the barrister’s question as to whether Sir Charles was at home or not, he said: “You are Mr. Bruce, sir, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Sir Charles is at home, but he retired to his room before dinner. He is not well, and he may have gone to bed, but he said that if you came you were to be admitted. I will ask Mr. Thompson.”

“Better send Thompson to me,” said Bruce decisively; and in a minute the old butler stood before him.

“I hear that Sir Charles has retired for the night,” said Claude.

Thompson had caught sight of the detective standing on the steps. A few hours earlier he had himself told him that the baronet was out of town. It was an awkward dilemma, and he coughed doubtingly while he racked his brains for a judicious answer.

But Bruce grasped his difficulty. “It is all right, Thompson. Mr. White quite understands the position. Do you think Sir Charles is in bed?”

“I will go and see, sir. He was very anxious that you should be sent upstairs if you called. But that was when he was in the library.”

Bruce and the detective entered the hall, the butler closed the door behind them, and then solemnly ascended the stairs to Sir Charles Dyke’s bedroom, which was situated on the first floor along a corridor towards the back of the house.

They distinctly heard the polite knock at the door and Thompson’s query, “Are you asleep, Sir Charles?”

After a pause, there was another knock, and the same question in a slightly louder key.

Then the butler returned, saying as he came down the stairs:

“Sir Charles seems to be sound asleep, sir.”

Bruce and the detective exchanged glances. The barrister was disappointed, almost perturbed, but he said:

“In that case we will not disturb him. Sir Charles does not often retire so early.”

“No, sir. I have never known him to go to his room so early before. He told me not to serve dinner, as he wasn’t well. He would not let me get anything for him. He just took some wine, and I have not seen him since.”

“Since when?”

“About 7.30, sir.”

Bruce turned to depart, but Thompson, with the privilege of an old servant when talking to one whom he knew to be on familiar terms with his master, whispered:

“That there blessed maid turned up again this afternoon, sir.”

The barrister started violently.

“Not Jane Harding, surely?”

“Yes, sir. She came at four o’clock and asked for Sir Charles, as bold as brass.”

“Did he see her?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Do you hear that, White?”

The detective nodded.

“She must have reached the house about half-an-hour before me,” he said, addressing the butler.

“That’s about right, sir.”

“But I understood,” went on Bruce, “that Sir Charles was not at home to ordinary callers?”

Thompson shuffled about somewhat uneasily. He wished now he had held his tongue.

“I had my orders, sir,” he murmured, in extenuation of his apparently diverse actions.

“Tell me what your orders were,” persisted Bruce.

The man hesitated, not wishful to offend his master’s friend, but too well trained to reveal the explicit instructions given him by Sir Charles Dyke.

“Do not be afraid. I will explain everything to Sir Charles personally. We cannot best judge what to do – whether to wake him or not – unless we know the position,” went on the barrister.

Thus absolved from blame, Thompson took from his waistcoat pocket a folded sheet of notepaper.

“I don’t pretend to understand the reason, sir,” he said, “but Sir Charles wrote this himself, and told me to be careful to obey him exactly.”

The barrister eagerly grasped the note and read:

“If Mr. Bruce, Jane Harding, or Mrs. Hillmer should call, admit any of them immediately. To all others say that I have left town – some days ago, should they ask you.

    “C. D.”

White, round-eyed and bullet-headed, gazed with goggle orbs over Bruce’s shoulder.

“That settles it, Mr. Bruce,” he said. “We must see him.”

“Thompson,” said Bruce, “does Sir Charles usually lock his door?”

“Never, sir.”