A Mysterious Disappearance

Not only had she obviously made her appearance in order to look at him, but the housemaid had carried his message to a different section of the flat.

The girl returned. “My mistress will see you in a few minutes,” she said. “Will you kindly step into the dining-room?”

He followed her, sat down in a position where the strong glare of the electric lamps would fall on any one who stood opposite, and waited developments.

The furniture was solid and appropriate, the carpet rich, and the pictures, engravings for the most part, excellent. This pleasant room, warmed by a cheerful fire, impressed Bruce as a place much used by the household. Books and work-baskets were scattered about, and a piano, littered with music, filled a corner. There were a few photographs of persons and places, but he had not time to examine these before the lady of the house entered.

Her appearance, for some reason inexplicable to the barrister himself, took him by surprise. She was tall, graceful, extremely good-looking, and dressed in a style of quiet elegance. Just the sort of woman one would expect to find in such a well-appointed abode, yet more refined in manner than Bruce, from his knowledge of the world, thought he would meet, judging by the hasty inferences drawn from his subordinate’s report. She was self-possessed, too. With calm tone, and slightly elevated eyebrows, she said:

“You wish to see me, I understand?”

“Yes. Allow me first to apologize for the hour at which I have called.”

“No apology is necessary. But I am going out. Perhaps you will be good enough not to detain me longer than is absolutely necessary.”

She stood between the table and the door. Bruce, who had risen at her entrance, was at the other side of the room. Her words, no less than her attitude, showed that she desired the interview to be brief. But the barrister resolved that he would not be repelled so coolly.

Advancing, with a bow and that fascinating smile of his, he said, pulling forward a chair:

“Won’t you be seated?”

The lady looked at him. She saw a man of fine physique and undoubted good breeding. She hesitated. There was no reason to be rude to him, so she sat down.

Claude drew a chair to the other side of the hearthrug, and commenced:

“I have ventured to seek this interview for the purpose of making some inquiries.”

“I thought so. Are you a policeman?” The words were blurted out impetuously, a trifle complainingly, but Bruce gave no sign of the interest they had for him.

“Good gracious, no,” he cried. “Why should you think that?”

“Because two detectives have been bothering me, and every other person in these mansions, about some mysterious lady who called here two months ago. They don’t know where she called, nor will they state her name; as if any one could possibly know anything about it. So I naturally thought you were on the same errand.”

“Confound that rascal White,” growled he to himself.

But Mrs. Hillmer went on: “If that is not your business, would you mind telling me what it is?”

Now Bruce’s alert brain had been actively engaged during the last few seconds. This woman was not the clever, specious adventuress he had half expected to meet. It seemed more than ever unlikely that she could have any knowledge of Lady Dyke or the causes that led to her disappearance. He was tempted to frame some excuse and take his departure. But the certainty that his missing friend had visited Raleigh Mansions, and the necessity there was for exploiting every line of inquiry, impelled him to adopt this last resource.

“It is not concerning a missing lady, but concerning a missing gentleman that I have come to see you.”

The shot went home.

Why, for the life of him, he could not tell, but his companion was manifestly disturbed at his words.

“Oh,” she said.

Then, after a little pause: “May I ask his name?”

“Certainly. He is known as Mr. Sydney H. Corbett.”

She gave a slight gasp.

“Why do you put it in that way? Is not that his right name?”

“I have reason to believe it is not.”

Mrs. Hillmer was so obviously distressed that Bruce inwardly reviled himself for causing her so much unnecessary suffering. In all probability, the source of her emotion had not the remotest bearing upon his quest.

Then came the pertinent query, after a glance at his card, which she still held in her hand:

“Who are you, Mr. – Mr. Claude Bruce?”

“I am a member of the Bar, of the Inner Temple. My chambers are No. 7 Paper Buildings, and my private residence is given there.”

“And why are you interested in Mr. Sydney Corbett?”

“Ah, in that respect I am at this moment unable to enlighten you.”

“Unable, or unwilling?”

He indulged in a quiet piece of fencing:

“Really, Mrs. Hillmer,” he said, “I am not here as in any sense hostile to you. I merely want some detailed information with regard to this gentleman, information which you may be able to give me. That is all.”

All this time he knew that the woman was scrutinizing him narrowly – trying to weigh him up as it were, not because she feared him, but rather to discover the true motive of his presence.

Personally, he had never faced a more difficult task than this make-believe investigation. He could have laughed at the apparent want of connection between Lady Dyke’s ill-fated visit to Raleigh Mansions and this worrying of a beautiful, pleasant-mannered woman, who was surely neither a principal nor an accomplice in a ghastly crime.

“Well, I suppose I may consider myself in the hands of counsel. Tell me what it is you want to know!” Mrs. Hillmer pouted, with the air of a child about to undergo a scolding.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Corbett’s present address?” he said.

“No. I have neither seen him nor heard from him since early in November.”

“Can you be more precise about the period?”

“Yes, perhaps.” She arose, took from a drawer in the sideboard a packet of bills – receipted, he observed – searched through them and found the document she sought. “I purchased a few articles about that time,” she explained, “and the account for them is dated November 15. I had not seen my – ” She blushed, became confused, laughed a little, and went on. “I had not seen Mr. Corbett for at least a week before that date – say November 8th or 9th.”

Lady Dyke disappeared on the evening of the 6th!

Bruce swallowed his astonishment at the odd coincidence of dates, for he said, with an encouraging laugh, “Out with it, Mrs. Hillmer. You were about to describe Mr. Corbett correctly when you recollected yourself.”

Mrs. Hillmer, still coloring and becoming saucily cheerful, cried, “Why should I trouble myself when you, of course, know all that I can tell you, and probably more? He is my brother, and a pretty tiresome sort of relation, too.”

“I am obliged for your confidence. In return, I am free to state that your brother is now in the South of France.”

“As you are here, Mr. Bruce,” she said, “I may as well get some advice gratis. Can people writ him in the South of France? Can they ask me to pay his debts?”

“Under ordinary circumstances they can do neither. Certainly not the latter.”

“I hope not. But they sometimes come very near to it, as I know to my cost.”

“Indeed! How?”

Mrs. Hillmer hesitated. Her smile was a trifle scornful, and her color rose again as she answered: “People are not averse to taking advantage of circumstances. I have had some experience of this trait in debt-collectors already. But they must be careful. You, as a legal man, must know that demands urged on account of personal reasons may come very near to levying blackmail.”

“Surely, Mrs. Hillmer, you do not suspect me of being a dun. Perish the thought! You could never be in debt to me.”

“Very nice of you. Don’t you represent those people on Leadenhall Street, then?”

“What people?”

“Messrs. Dodge & Co.”

“No; why do you ask?”

“Because my brother entered into what he called a ‘deal’ with them. He underwrote some shares in a South African mine, as a nominal affair, he told me, and now they want him to pay for them because the company is not supported by the public.”

“No, I do not represent Dodge & Co.”

“Is there something else then? Whom do you represent?”

“To be as precise as permissible, I may say that my inquiries in no sense affect financial matters.”

“What then?”

“Well, there is a woman in the case.”

Mrs. Hillmer was evidently both relieved and interested.

“No, you don’t say,” she said. “Tell me all about it. I never knew Bertie to be much taken up with the fair sex. I am all curiosity. Who is she?”

He did not take advantage of the mention of a name which in no way stood for Sydney. Besides, perhaps the initial stood for Herbert. He resolved to try another tack.

Glancing at his watch he said: “It is nearly seven o’clock. I have already detained you an unconscionable time. You were going out. Permit me to call again, and we can discuss matters at leisure.”

He rose, and the lady sighed: “You were just beginning to be entertaining. I was only going to dine at a restaurant. I am quite tired of being alone.”

Was it a hint? He would see. “Are you dining by yourself, then, Mrs. Hillmer?”

“I hardly know. I may bring my maid.”

Claude now made up his mind. “May I venture,” he said, “after such an informal introduction, to ask you to dine with me at the Prince’s Restaurant, and afterwards, perhaps, to look in at the Jollity Theatre?”

The lady was unfeignedly pleased. She arranged to call for him in her brougham within twenty minutes, and Bruce hurried off to Victoria Street in a hansom to dress for this unexpected branch of the detective business.

When he told his valet to telephone to the restaurant and the theatre respectively for a reserved table and a couple of stalls, that worthy chuckled.

When his master entered a brougham in which was seated a fur-wrapped lady, the valet grinned broadly. “I knew it,” he said. “The guv’nor’s on the mash. Now, who would ever have thought it of him?”

CHAPTER V

AT THE JOLLITY THEATRE

By tacit consent, Claude and his fair companion dropped for the hour the rôles of inquisitor and witness.

They were both excellent talkers, they were mutually interested, and there was in their present escapade a spice of that romance not so lacking in the humdrum life of London as is generally supposed to be the case.

Bruce did not ask himself what tangible result he expected from this quaint outcome of his visit to Sloane Square. It was too soon yet. He must trust to the vagaries of chance to elucidate many things now hidden. Meanwhile a good dinner, a bright theatre, and the society of a smart, nice-looking woman, were more than tolerable substitutes for progress.

As a partial explanation of his somewhat eccentric behavior, he volunteered a lively account of a recent cause celebre, in which he had taken a part, but the details of which had been rigidly kept from the public. He more than hinted that Mr. Sydney Corbett had figured prominently in the affair; and Mrs. Hillmer laughed with unrestrained mirth at the unwonted appearance of her brother in the character of a Lothario.

“Tell me,” said Bruce confidentially, when a couple of glasses of Moët ’89 had consolidated friendly relations, “what sort of a fellow is this brother of yours?”

“Not in any sense a bad boy, but a trifle wild. He will not live an ordinary life, and at times he has been hard pressed to live at all. As a matter of fact, it is this scrape he blundered into with Messrs. Dodge & Co. that induced him to masquerade temporarily under an assumed name.”

“Then what is his real name?”

“Ah, now you are pumping me again. I refuse to tell.”

“But there are generally serious reasons when a man disguises himself in such fashion.”

“The reason he gave me was that he dreaded being writted for liability regarding the shares I mentioned to you. It was good enough. Now you come with this story of meddling with somebody else’s wife. Surely this is an additional reason. I supplied him with funds until we quarrelled, and then he went off in a huff.”

“What did you quarrel about?”

“That concerns me only.” Mrs. Hillmer was so emphatic that Bruce dropped the subject.

When they drove to the theatre Mrs. Hillmer, on alighting at the entrance, said to her coachman, “You may return home now, and bring Dobson to meet me at 11.15.”

“May I venture to inquire who Dobson is?” said Claude.

“Certainly. Dobson is my maid.”

This woman puzzled him the more he saw of her. He was now quite positive that she lived on the fringe of Society. Her status was, at the best, dubious. Yet he had never heard of her before, nor met her in public. None of his friends were known to her, and she mentioned no one beyond those popular personages who are connu of all the world. She was obviously wealthy and refined, with more than a spice of unconventionality. At times, too, beneath her habitual expressions of lively and vivacious interest, there was a touch of melancholy.

For an instant her face grew sad when her eyes rested on a typical family party of father, mother, and two girls who occupied seats in the row of stalls directly in front of her.

For some reason Bruce felt sorry for Mrs. Hillmer. He regretted that the exigencies of his quest forced him to make her his dupe, and he resolved that, if by any chance her scapegrace brother were concerned in Lady Dyke’s death, Mrs. Hillmer should, if possible, be spared personal humiliation or disgrace.

Indeed, he had formed such a favorable opinion of her that he had made up his mind to conduct his future investigations without causing her to assist involuntarily in putting a halter around her relative’s neck.

Nevertheless, it was impossible to avoid getting some further information, as the lady herself paved the way for it. Her comments betrayed such an accurate acquaintance with the technique of the stage that he said to her, “You must have acted a good deal?”

“No,” she said, “not very much. But I was stage struck when young.”

“But you have not appeared in public?”

“Yes, some six years ago. I worked so hard that I fell ill, and then – then I got married.”

“Do you go out much to theatres, nowadays?”

“Very little. It is lonely by oneself, and there are so few plays worth seeing.”

Bruce wondered why she insisted so strongly upon the isolation of her existence. In his new-found sympathy he forebore to question, and she continued:

“When I do visit a theatre I amuse myself mostly by silent criticism of the actors and actresses. Not that I could do better than many of them, or half so well, but it passes the time.”

“I hope you do not regard killing time as your main occupation?”

“It is so, I fear, however hard I may strive otherwise.” And again that shadow of regret darkened the fair face.

Some one in front turned round and glared at them angrily, for the famous comedian, Mr. Prospect Ricks, was singing his deservedly famous song, “It was all because I buttoned up her boots,” so the conversation dropped for the moment.

Claude focussed his opera-glasses on the stage. While his eyes wandered idly over the pretty faces and shapely limbs of the coryphées his brain was busy piecing together all that he had heard. The odd coincidence of the dates of Lady Dyke’s murder and the speedy departure of the self-styled Sydney Corbett for the Riviera would require a good deal of explanation by the latter gentleman.

True, it was not the barrister’s habit to jump at conclusions. There might be a perfectly valid motive for the journey. If the man did not desire his whereabouts to be known, why did he leave his address at the post-office?

And, then, what possible reason could Lady Dyke have in visiting him voluntarily and secretly at his chambers in Raleigh Mansions? This virtuous and high-principled lady could have nothing in common with a careless adventurer, taking the most lenient view of his sister’s description of him. And as Bruce’s subtle brain strove vainly to match the queer fragments of the puzzle, his keen eyes roved over the stage in aimless activity.

Suddenly they paused. His power of vision and mental analysis were alike inadequate to the new and startling fact which had obtruded itself, unasked and unsought for, upon his sight.

Among the least prominent of the chorus girls, posturing and moving with the stiffness and visible anxiety of the novice, who is not yet accustomed to the glare of the footlights upon undraped limbs, was one in whose every gesture Bruce took an absorbing interest.

He was endowed in full measure with that prime requisite in the detection of criminals, an unusually good memory for faces, together with the artistic faculty of catching the true expression.

Hence it was that, after the whirl of a dancing chorus had for a few seconds brought this particular member of the company close to the proscenium, Bruce became quite sure of having developed at least one branch of his inquiry within measurable distance of its conclusion.

The girl on the stage was Jane Harding, Lady Dyke’s maid.

When her features first flashed upon his conscious gaze he could hardly credit the discovery. But each instant of prolonged scrutiny placed the fact beyond doubt. Not even the make-up and the elaborate wig could conceal the contour of her pretty if insipid face, and a slight trick she had of drooping the left eyelid when thinking confirmed him in his belief.

So astounded was he at this sequel to his visit to the theatre, that he utilized every opportunity of a full stage to examine still further the appearance and style of this strange apparition.

When the curtain fell and Jane Harding had vanished, he was brought back to actuality by Mrs. Hillmer’s voice.

“Fie, Mr. Bruce. You are taking altogether too much notice of one of the fair ladies in front. Which one is it? The tall standard bearer or the little girl who pirouettes so gracefully?”

“Neither, I assure you. I was taken up by wondering how a young woman manages to secure employment in a theatre for the first time.”

“I think I can tell you. Influence goes a long way. Talent occasionally counts. Then, a well-known agent may, for a nominal fee, get an opening for a handsome, well-built girl who has taken lessons from either himself or some of his friends in dancing or singing, or both.”

“Is such a thing possible for a domestic servant?”

“It all depends upon the domestic servant’s circle of acquaintances. As a rule, I should say not. A theatre like this requires a higher average of intelligence.”

This, and more, Bruce well knew, but he was only making conversation, while he thought intently, almost fiercely, upon the latest phase of his strange quest.

During the third act he devoted more time to Mrs. Hillmer. If that sprightly dame were a little astonished at the celerity with which he conducted her to her carriage and the waiting Dobson, it was banished by the nice way in which he thanked her for the pleasure she had conferred.

“The enjoyment has been mostly on my side,” she cried, as he stood near the window of her brougham. “Come to see me again soon.”

He bowed, and would have said something if an imperious policeman had not ordered the coachman to make way for the next vehicle. So Mrs. Hillmer was whisked into the traffic.

From force of habit, he glanced casually at the crowd struggling through the exit of the theatre, and he caught sight of Mr. White, who, too late, averted his round eyes and strove to shield his portly form in the portico of a neighboring restaurant.

He did not want to be bothered by the detective just then. He lit a cigarette, and Mr. White slid off quietly into the stream of traffic, finally crossing the road and jumping on to a Charing Cross ’bus.

“So,” said Claude to himself, “White has been watching Raleigh Mansions, and watching me too. ’Pon my honor, I shouldn’t wonder if he suspected me of the murder! I’m glad I saw him just now. For the next couple of hours I wish to be free from his interference.”

Waiting a few moments to make sure that White had not detailed an aide-de-camp to continue the surveillance, he buttoned his overcoat to the chin, tilted his hat forward, and strolled round to the stage door of the Jollity Theatre.

CHAPTER VI

MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT

The uncertain rays of a weak lamp, struggling through panes dulled by dirt and black letters, cast a fitful light about the precincts of the stage-door.

Elderly women and broken-down men, slovenly and unkempt, kept furtive guard over the exit, waiting for the particular “super” to come forth who would propose the expected adjournment to a favorite public-house. Some smart broughams, a four-wheeler, and a few hansoms, formed a close line along the pavement, which was soon crowded with the hundred odd hangers-on of a theatre – scene-shifters, gasmen, limelight men, members of the orchestra, dressers, and attendants – mingling with the small stream of artistes constantly pouring out into the cold night after a casual inquiry for letters at the office of the doorkeeper.

This being a fashionable place of amusement there were not wanting several representatives of the gilded youth, some obviously ginger-bread or “unleavened” imitations, others callow specimens of the genuine article.

Bruce paid little heed to them as they impudently peered beneath each broad-leafed and high-feathered hat to discover the charmer honored by their chivalrous attentions.

Yet the presence of this brigade of light-headed cavaliers helped the barrister far more than he could have foreseen or even hoped.

At last the ex-lady’s maid appeared, dressed in a showy winter costume and jaunty toque. She was on very friendly terms with two older girls, on whom the stage had set its ineffaceable seal, and the reason was soon apparent.

“Come along,” she cried, her words being evidently intended to have an effect on others in the throng less favored than those whom she addressed; “let us get into a hansom and go to Scott’s for supper. Here, cabby!”

She was on the step of a hansom when a tall, good-looking boy, faultlessly dressed, and with something of Sandhurst or Woolwich in his carriage, darted forward.

“Hello, Millie,” he said to one of Jane Harding’s companions. “How are you? A couple of fellows have come up with me for the night. Let’s all go and have something to eat at the Duke’s,” thereby indicating a well-known club usually patronized by higher class artistes than this trio.

After a series of introductions by Christian names, among which Bruce failed to catch the word “Jane,” the party went off in three hansoms, a pair in each.

Claude was not a member of the “Duke’s,” though he had often been there. But there was a man close at hand who was a member of everything in London that in any way pertained to things theatrical. Every one knew Billy Sadler and Billy Sadler knew every one. A brief run in a cab to a theatre, a restaurant, and another restaurant, revealed the large-hearted Billy, drinking a whisky and soda and relating to a friend, with great gusto and much gesticulation, the very latest quarrel between the stage-manager and the leading lady. He hailed Claude with enthusiasm.

“’Pon my soul, Bruce, old chap, haven’t seen you for an age. Where have you bin? An’ what’s the little game now?”

Mr. Sadler was fully aware of the barrister’s penchant for investigating mysteries. The two had often foregathered in the past.

“Are you ‘busy’”? said Bruce.

“Not a bit. By-bye, Jack. See you at luncheon to-morrow at the Gorgonzola. Well, what is it?”

“I want you to come with me to the ‘Duke’s.’ There’s a young lady there I’m interested in.”

Billy squeezed round in the hansom, which was now bowling across a corner of Trafalgar Square.

“You,” he cried. “After a girl! Is she in the profession? Is mamma frightened about her angel? The correct figure for a breach just now, my boy, is five thou’.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. I will tell you all about it when matters have cleared a bit. It is a mere item in a really big story. But, here we are. Take me straight to the supper-room.”

As they entered the comfortable, brightly lit club the strains of a band came pleasantly to their ears, and in a minute they were installed at a corner table in the splendid room devoted to the most cheery of all gatherings – a Bohemian meal when the labors of the night are past.