A Mysterious Disappearance

The barrister thought for a moment, and then laughed heartily. “I remember now,” he said; “I kept careful count of the series of seventeen, or eighteen, to be exact. On my own account, as you were too dazed to notice anything, I put a maximum on the black. Your dream turned up trumps, as the series stopped and black won. Hence the odd £240.”

“Then that is yours,” said the other gravely. “I will take £1,128 to square all my debts, and we go shares in the balance, a thousand each, if you think that fair. If not I will gladly hand over the lot, after paying my debts, I mean.”

Mensmore’s seriousness impressed the barrister more than any other incident of that dramatic evening.

“You forget,” he replied, “that I told you I had money in plenty for my own needs. You must keep every farthing except my own £8, which you do not now need. No. Please do not argue. I will consent to no other course. This turn of Fortune’s wheel should provide you with sufficient capital to branch out earnestly in your career, whatever it be. I will ask my interest in different manner.”

“I can never repay you, in gratitude, at any rate. And there is another who will be thankful to you when she knows. Ask anything you like. Make any stipulation you please. I agree to it.”

“It is a bargain. Sign this.”

Bruce took a sheet of notepaper, bearing the crest of the Hotel du Cercle, dated it, and wrote:

“I promise that, for the space of twelve months, I will not make a bet of any sort, or gamble at any game of chance.”

When Mensmore read the document his face fell a little. “Won’t you except pigeon-shooting?” he said. “I am sure to beat that Russian next time.”

“I can allow no exceptions.”

“But why limit me for twelve months?”

“Because if in that time you do not gain sense enough to stop risking your happiness, even your life, upon the turn of a card or the flight of a bird, the sooner thereafter you shoot yourself the less trouble you will bring upon those connected with you.”

“You are a rum chap,” murmured Mensmore, “and you put matters pretty straight, too. However, here goes. You don’t bar me from entering for sweepstakes.”

He signed the paper, and tossed it over to Bruce, while the latter did not comment upon the limitation of his intentions imposed by Mensmore’s final sentence. The man undoubtedly was a good shot, and during his residence in the Riviera he might pick up some valuable prizes.

“And now,” said the barrister, “may I ask as a friend to what use you intend to put your newly found wealth?”

“Oh, that is simple enough. I have to pay £500 which I lost in bets over that beastly unlucky match. Then I have a splendid ‘spec,’ into which I will now be able to place about £2,000 – a thing which I have good reason to believe will bring me in at least ten thou’ within the year, and there is nearly a thousand pounds to go on with. And all thanks to you.”

“Never mind thanking me. I am only too glad to have taken such a part in the affair. I will not forget this night as long as I live.”

“Nor I. Just think of it. I might be lying in the gardens now, or in some mortuary, with half my head blown off.”

“Tell me,” said Bruce, between the contemplative puffs of a cigar, “what induced you to think of suicide?”

“It was a combination of circumstances,” replied the other. “You must understand that I was somewhat worried about financial and family matters when I came to Monte Carlo. It was not to gamble, in a sense, that I remained here. I have loafed about the world a good deal, but I may honestly say I never made a fool of myself at cards or backing horses. At most kinds of sport I am fairly proficient, and in pigeon-shooting, which goes on here extensively, I am undoubtedly an expert. For instance, all this season I have kept myself in funds simply by means of these competitions.”

His hearer nodded approvingly.

“Well, in the midst of my minor troubles, I must needs go and fall over head and ears in love – a regular bad case. She is the first woman I ever spoke two civil words to. We met at a picnic along the Corniche Road, and she sat upon me so severely that I commenced to defend myself by showing that I was not such a surly brute as I looked. By Jove, in a week we were engaged.”

The barrister indulged in a judicial frown.

“No. It’s none of your silly, sentimental affairs in which people part and meet months afterwards with polite inquiries after each other’s health. I am not made that way; neither is Phil – Phyllis is her name, you know. This is for life. I am just bound up in her, and she would go through fire and water for me. But she is rich, the only daughter of a Midland iron-master with tons of money. Her people are awfully nice, and I think they approve of me, though they have no idea that Phil and I are engaged.”

He paused to gulp down a strong decoction of brandy and soda. The difficult part of his story was coming.

“You can quite believe,” he continued, “that I did not want to ask her father, Sir William Browne – he was knighted by the late Queen for his distinguished municipal services – to give his daughter to a chap who hadn’t a cent. He supposes I am fairly well off, living as I do, and I can’t bear acting under false pretences. I hate it like poison, though in this world a man often has to do what he doesn’t like. However, this time I determined to be straight and above board. It was a very odd fact, but I just wanted £3000 to enable me to make a move which, I tell you, ought to result in a very fair sum of money, sufficient, at any rate, to render it a reasonable proposition for Phil and me to get married.”

Claude was an appreciative listener. These love stories of real life are often so much more dramatic than the fictions of the novel or the stage.

“The opportunity came, to my mind, in this big tournament. I had no difficulty of getting odds in six or seven to one to far more than I was able to pay if I lost. Phil came into the scheme with me – she knows all about me, you know – and we both regarded it as a certainty. Then the collapse came. She wanted to get the money from her mother to enable me to pay up, but I would not hear of it. I pretended that I could raise the wind some other way. The fact is I was wild with myself and with my luck generally. Then there was the disgrace of failing to settle on Monday, combined with the general excitement of that dream and a fearfully disturbed night. To make a long story short, I thought the best thing to do was to try a final plunge, and if it failed, to quit. I even took steps to make Phil believe I was a bad lot, so that she might not fret too much after me.”

Mensmore’s voice was a little unsteady in this last sentence. The barrister tried to cheer him by a little bit of raillery:

“I hope you have not succeeded too well?” he laughed.

“Oh, it is all right now. I mean that I left her some papers which would bring things to her knowledge that, unexplained by me, would give any one a completely false impression.”

The subject was evidently a painful one, so Bruce did not pursue it.

“About this speculation of yours,” he said. “Are you sure it’s all right, and that you will not lose your money?”

“It is as certain as any business can be. It is a matter I thoroughly understand, but I will tell you all about it. If you will pardon me a moment I will bring you the papers, as I should like to have your advice, and it is early yet. You don’t want to go to bed, I suppose?”

“Not for hours.”

Mensmore rose, but before he reached the door a gentle tap heralded the appearance of the hall-porter.

“There is a letter for the gentleman. Monsieur is not in his room. He is reported to be here, so I bring it.”

Mensmore took the note, read it with a smile and a growing flush, and handed it to the barrister, saying: “Under the circumstances I think you ought to see this. Isn’t she a brick?”

The tiny missive ran:

“Dearest One, – You must forgive me, but we are both so miserable about that wretched money that I told mother everything. She likes you, and though she gave me a blowing up, she has promised to give me £500 to-morrow. We can never thank her sufficiently. Do come around and see me for a minute. I will be in the verandah until eleven.

“Ever yours,“Phyllis.”

Claude returned the note.

“Luck! you’re the luckiest fellow in the South of France!” he said. “Why, here’s the mother plotting with the daughter on your behalf. Sir William hasn’t the ghost of a chance. Off you go to that blessed verandah.”

When Mensmore had quitted the hotel Bruce descended to the bureau to take up the threads of his neglected quest. The letter to Sydney H. Corbett was still unclaimed, and he thought he was justified in examining it. On the reverse of the envelope was the embossed stamp of an electric-lighting company, so the contents were nothing more important than a bill.

An hour later Mensmore joined him in the billiard-room, radiant and excited.

“Great news,” he said. “I squared everything with Lady Browne. Told her I was only chaffing Phil about the five hundred, because she spoiled my aim by shrieking out. Sir William has chartered a steam yacht to go for a three weeks’ cruise along the Gulf of Genoa and the Italian coast. They have put him up to ask me in the morning to join the party. Great Scott! what a night I’m having!”

They parted soon afterwards, and next morning Bruce was informed that his friend had gone out early, leaving word that he had been summoned to breakfast at the Grand Hotel, where Sir William Browne was staying.

During the afternoon Mensmore came to him like a whirlwind. “We’re off to-day,” he said. “By the way, where shall I find you in London?”

The barrister gave him his address, and Mensmore, handing him a card, said, “My permanent address is given here, the Orleans Club, St. James’s. But I will look you up first. I shall be in town early in March. And you?”

“Oh, I shall be home much sooner. Good-bye, and don’t let your good luck spoil you.”

“No fear! Wait until you know Phyllis. She would keep any fellow all right once he got his chance, as I have done. Good-bye, and – and – God bless you!”

During the next three days Bruce devoted himself sedulously to the search for Corbett. He inquired in every possible and impossible place, but the man had utterly vanished.

Nor did he come to claim his letter at the Hotel du Cercle. It remained stuck on the baize-covered board until it was covered with dust, and the clerk of the bureau had grown weary of watching people who scrutinized the receptacle for their correspondence.

Others came and asked for Corbett – sharp-featured men with imperials and long moustaches – the interest taken in the man was great, but unrequited. He never appeared.

At last the season ended, the hotel was closed, and the mysterious letter was shot into the dustbin.

CHAPTER XI

THEORIES

Bruce announced his departure from Monte Carlo by a telegram to his valet.

Nevertheless, he did not expect to find that useful adjunct to his small household – Smith and his wife comprised the barrister’s ménage– standing on the platform at Charing Cross when the mail train from the Continent steamed into the station.

Smith, who had his doubts about this sudden trip to the Riviera, was relieved when he saw his master was alone. “Sir Charles Dyke called this afternoon, sir,” he explained. “I told Sir Charles about your wire, sir, and he is very anxious that you should dine with him to-night. You can dress at Portman Square, and if I come with you – ”

“Yes; I understand. Bundle everything into a four-wheeler.”

“Sir Charles thought you might come, sir, so he sent his carriage.”

London looked dull but familiar as they rolled across Leicester Square and up Regent Street. Your true Cockney knows that he is out of his latitude when the sky is blue overhead. Let him hear the tinkle of the hansoms’ bells through a dim, fog-laden atmosphere, and he knows where he is. There is but one London, and Cockneydom is the order of Melchisedek. Claude’s heart was glad within him to be home again, even though the band was just gathering in the Casino gardens, and the lights of Monaco were beginning to gleam over the moon-lit expanse of the Mediterranean.

At Wensley House the traveller was warmly welcomed by the baronet, who seemed to have somewhat recovered his health and spirits.

Nevertheless, Bruce was distressed to note the ineffaceable signs of the suffering Sir Charles Dyke had undergone since the disappearance of his wife. He had aged quite ten years in appearance. Deep lines of sorrowful thought had indented his brow, his face was thinner, his eyes had acquired a wistful look; his air was that of a man whose theory of life had been forcibly reversed.

At first both men fought shy of the topic uppermost in their minds, but the after-dinner cigar brought the question to Dyke’s lips:

“And now, Claude, have you any further news concerning my wife’s – death?”

The barrister noted the struggle before the final word came. The husband had, then, resigned all hope.

“I have none,” he answered. “That is to say, I have nothing definite. I promised to tell you everything I did, so I will keep my promise, but you will, of course, differentiate between facts and theories?”

The baronet nodded an agreement.

“In the first place,” said Bruce, “let me ask you whether or not you have seen Jane Harding, the missing maid?”

“Yes. It seems that she called here twice before she caught me at home. At first she was very angry about a squabble there had been between Thompson and herself. I refused to listen to it. Then she told me how you had found her at some theatre, and she volunteered an explanation of her extraordinary behavior. She said that she had unexpectedly come into a large sum of money, and that it had turned her head. She was sorry for the trouble her actions had caused, so, under the circumstances, I allowed her to take away certain clothes and other belongings she had left here.”

“Did she ask for these things?”

“Yes. Made quite a point of it.”

“Did you see them?”

“No.”

“So you do not know whether they were of any value, or the usual collection of rubbish found in servants’ boxes.”

“I have not the slightest notion.”

“Have they ever been thoroughly examined by any one?”

“’Pon my honor, I believe not. Now that you remind me of it I think the girl seemed rather anxious on that point. I remember my housekeeper telling me that Harding had asked her if her clothes had been ransacked by the detectives.”

“And what did the housekeeper say?”

“She will tell you herself. Let us have her up.”

“Don’t trouble her. If I remember aright the police did not examine Jane Harding’s room. They simply took your report and the statements of the other servants, while the housekeeper was responsible for the partial search made through the girl’s boxes for some clue that might lead to her discovery.”

“That is so.”

The barrister smoked in silence for a few minutes, until Sir Charles broke out rather querulously:

“I suppose I did wrong in letting Harding take her traps?”

“No,” said Bruce. “It is I who am to blame. There is something underhanded about this young woman’s conduct. The story about the sudden wealth is all bunkum, in one sense. That she did receive a bequest or gift of a considerable sum cannot be doubted. That she at once decided to go on the stage is obvious. But what is the usual course for a servant to pursue in such cases? Would she not have sought first to glorify herself in the sight of her fellow-servants, and even of her employers? Would there not have been the display of a splendid departure – in a hansom – with voluble directions to the driver, for the benefit of the footman? As it was, Jane Harding acted suddenly, precipitately, under the stress of some powerful emotion. I cannot help believing that her departure from this house had some connection, however remote, with Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”

“Good heavens, Claude, you never told me this before.”

“True, but when we last met I had not the pleasure of Miss Marie le Marchant’s acquaintance. I wish to goodness I had rummaged her boxes before she carried them off.”

“And I sincerely echo your wish,” said Sir Charles testily. “It always seems, somehow, that I am to blame.”

“You must not take that view. I really wonder, Dyke, that you have not closed up your town house and gone off to Scotland for the fag-end of the shooting season. You won’t hunt, I know, but a quiet life on the moors would bring you right away from associations which must have bitter memories for you.”

“I would have done so, but I cannot tear myself away while there is the slightest chance of the mystery attending my wife’s fate being unravelled. I feel that I must remain here near you. You are the only man who can solve the riddle, if it ever be solved. By the way, what of Raleigh Mansions?”

The baronet obviously nerved himself to ask the question. The reason was patent. His wife’s inexplicable visit to that locality was in some way connected with her fate, and the common-sense view was that some intrigue lay hidden behind the impenetrable wall of ignorance that shrouded her final movements.

Bruce hesitated for a moment. Was there any need to bring Mrs. Hillmer’s name into the business? At any rate, he could fully answer Sir Charles without mentioning her at this juncture.

“The only person in Raleigh Mansions who interests me just now is one who, to use a convenient bull, is not there.”

“Yes?”

“This person occupies a flat in No. 12, his name is Sydney H. Corbett, and he left his residence for the Riviera two days after your wife was lost.”

“Now, who on earth can he be? I am as sure as a man may be of anything that no one of that name was in the remotest way connected with either my wife or myself for the last – let me see – six years, at any rate.”

“Possibly. But you cannot say that Lady Dyke may not have met him previously?”

The baronet winced at the allusion as though a whip had struck him. “For heaven’s sake, Claude,” he cried, “do not harbor suspicions against her. I cannot bear it. I tell you my whole soul revolts at the idea. I would rather be suspected of having killed her myself than listen to a word whispered against her good name.”

“I sympathize with you, but you must not jump at me in that fashion. One hypothesis is as wildly impossible as the other. I did not say that Lady Dyke went to Raleigh Mansions on account of some present or bygone transgression of her own. I would as soon think of my mother in such a connection. But a pure, good woman will often do on behalf of others what she will not do for herself. Really, Dyke, you must not be unjust to me, especially when you force me to tell you what may prove to be mere theories.”

“Others? What others?”

“I cannot say. I wish I could. If I once lay hold of the reason that brought Lady Dyke to Raleigh Mansions, I will, within twenty-four hours, tell you who murdered her. Of that I am as certain as that the sun will rise to-morrow.”

And the barrister poked the fire viciously to give vent to the annoyance that his friend’s outburst had provoked.

“Pardon me, Bruce. Do not forget how I have suffered – what I am suffering – and try to bear with me. I never valued my wife while she lived. It is only now that I feel the extent of my loss. If my own life would only restore her to me for an instant I would cheerfully give it.”

If ever man meant his words this man did. His agitation moved the kindly hearted barrister to rise and place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry, Dyke,” he said, “that the conversation has taken this turn. These speculative guesses at potential clues distress you. If you took my advice, you would not worry about events until at least something tangible turns up.”

“Perhaps it is best so,” murmured the other. “In any event, it is of little consequence. I cannot live long.”

“Oh, nonsense. You are good for another fifty years. Come, shake off this absurd depression. You can do no good by it. I wish now I had taken you with me to Monte Carlo. The fresh air would have braced you up while I hunted for Corbett.”

“Did you find him?”

“No, but I dropped in for an adventure that would cheer the soul of any depressed author searching vainly for an idea for a short story.”

“What was it?”

Claude, who possessed no mean skill as a raconteur, gave him the history of the Casino incident, and the thrilling dénouement so interested the baronet that he lit another cigar.

“Did you ascertain the names of the parties?” he said.

“Oh yes. You will respect their identity, as the sensational side of the affair had better now be buried in oblivion, though, of course, all the world knows about the way we scooped the bank. The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, a worthy knight from Warwickshire, and her rather rapid swain is a youngster named Mensmore.”

“Mensmore!” shouted the baronet. “A youngster, you say?” and Sir Charles bounced upright in his excitement.

“Why, yes, a man of twenty-five. No more than twenty-eight, I can swear. Do you know him?”

“Albert Mensmore?”

“That’s the man beyond doubt.”

Dyke hastily poured out some whiskey and water and swallowed it. Then he spoke, with a faint smile: “You didn’t know, Bruce,” he said, “that you vividly described the attempted self-murder of a man I know intimately.”

“What an extraordinary thing! Yet I never remember hearing you mention his name.”

“Probably not. I have hardly seen him since my marriage. We were schoolboys together, though I was so much his senior that we did not chum together until later, when we met a good deal on the turf. Then he went off, roughing it in the States. It must be he. It is just one of his pranks. And he is going to marry, eh? Is she a nice girl?”

The baronet was thoroughly excited. He talked fast, and helped himself liberally to stimulants.

“Yes, unusually so. But I cannot help marvelling at this coincidence. It has upset you.”

“Not a bit. I was interested in your yarn, and naturally I was unprepared for the startling fact that an old friend of mine filled the chief part. What a fellow you are, Claude, for always turning up at the right time. I have never been in a tight place personally, but if I were I suppose you would come along and show me the way out. Sit down again and give me all the details. I am full of curiosity.”

Bruce had never before seen Sir Charles in such a hysterical mood. The anguish of the past three months had changed the careless, jovial baronet into a fretful, wayward being, who had lost control of his emotions. Undoubtedly he required some powerful tonic. The barrister resolved to see more of him in the future, and not to cease urging him until he had started on a long sea voyage, or taken up some hobby that would keep his mind from brooding upon the everlasting topic of his wife’s strange death.

Dyke’s fitful disposition manifested itself later. After he had listened with keen attention to all that Bruce had told him concerning Mensmore and Phyllis Browne, he suddenly swerved back to the one engrossing thought.

“What are you going to do about Corbett?” he asked.

“Find him.”

“But how?”

“People are always tied to a centre by a string, and no matter how long the string may be, it contracts sooner or later. Corbett will turn up at Raleigh Mansions, and before very many weeks have passed, if I mistake not.”

“And then?”

“Then he will have to answer me a few pertinent questions.”

“But suppose he knows nothing whatever about the business?”

“In that case I must confess the clue is more tangled than ever.”

“It would be curious if Corbett and Jane Harding were in any way associated.”

“If they were, it would take much to convince me that one or both could not supply at least some important information bearing on my – on our quest. If Mr. White even knew as much as I do about them he would arrest them at sight.”

“Oh, he’s a thick-headed chap, is White. By the way, that reminds me. He got hold of the maid, it seems, before she had bolted, and made her give him some of my wife’s clothes. By that means he established some sort of a theory about – ”

“About a matter on which we differ,” put in Bruce quietly. “Let us talk of something else.”