“Num-bah Nine-ninety-two—Captain Maltravers, please. Nine-ninety-two. Num-bah Nine-ninety-two!”

Thrice the voice of the page—moving and droning out his words in that perfunctory manner peculiar unto the breed of hotel pages the world over—sounded its dreary monotone through the hum of conversation in the rather crowded tearoom without producing the slightest effect; then, of a sudden, the gentleman seated in the far corner reading the daily paper—a tall, fair-haired, fair-moustached gentleman with “The Army” written all over him in capital letters—twitched up his head, listened until the call was given for the fourth time, and, thereupon, snapped his fingers sharply, elevated a beckoning digit, and called out crisply: “Here, my boy—over here—this way!”

The boy went to him immediately, extended a small, circular metal salver, and then, lifting the thumb which held in position the hand-written card thereon, allowed the slip of pasteboard to be removed.

“Gentleman, sir—waiting in the office,” he volunteered.

“Captain Maltravers” glanced at the card, frowned, rose with it still held between his fingers, and within the space of a minute’s time walked into the hotel’s public office and the presence of a short, stout, full-bearded “dumpling” of a man with the florid complexion and the country-cut clothes of a gentleman farmer, who half sat and half leaned upon the arm of a leather-covered settle nervously tapping with the ferule of a thick walking-cane, a boot whose exceedingly high sole and general construction mutely stood sponsor for a withered and shortened leg.

“My dear Yard; I am delighted to see you!” exclaimed the “captain” as he bore down on the little round man and shook hands with him heartily. “Grimshaw told me that you would be coming up to London shortly, but I didn’t allow myself to hope that it would be so soon as this. Gad! it’s a dog’s age since I’ve seen you. Come along up to my own room and let us have a good old-fashioned chat. Key of Nine-ninety-two, please, clerk. Thanks very much. Come along, Yard—this way, old chap!”

With that he linked his arm in his caller’s, bore him clumping and wobbling to the nearby lift, and thence, in due course, to the door of number Nine-ninety-two and the seclusion which lay behind it. He was still chattering away gayly as the lift dropped down out of sight and left them, upon which he shut the door, locked it upon the inside, and stopping long enough to catch up a towel and hang it over the keyhole, turned on his heel and groaned.

“What! am I not to have even a two days’ respite, you indefatigable machine?” he said, as he walked across the room and threw himself into a chair with a sigh of annoyance. “Think! it was only this morning that I ventured upon the first casual bow of a fellow guest with the dear ‘Baron’; only at luncheon we exchanged the first civil word. But the ice was broken and I should have had him ‘roped in’ by teatime—I am sure of it. And now you come and nip my hopes in the bud like this. And in a disguise that a fellow as sharp as he would see through in a wink if he met you.”

“It was the best I could do, Cleek—I’m not a dabster in the art of making up, as you know.” Mr. Narkom’s voice was, like his air, duly apologetic. “Besides, I hung around until I saw him go out before I ventured in; although I was on thorns the whole blessed time. I had to see you, old chap—I simply had to—and every minute was of importance. I shouldn’t have ventured to come at all if it hadn’t been imperative.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Cleek, recovering his good humour instantly. “Don’t mind my beastly bad temper this afternoon, there’s a good friend. It’s a bit of a disappointment, of course, after I’d looked forward to a clear field just as soon as Waldemar should return, but——It is you, first and foremost, at all times and under all circumstances. Other matters count as nothing with me when you call. Always remember that.”

“I do, old chap. It’s because I do that I went to the length of promising Miss Larue that I’d lay the case before you.”

“Miss Larue? A moment, please. Will the lady to whom you refer be Miss Margaret Larue, the celebrated actress? The one in question who treated me so cavalierly last August in that business regarding the disappearance of that chap James Colliver?”

“Yes. He was her brother, you recollect, and—don’t get hot about it, Cleek. I know she treated you very badly in that case, and so does she, but——”

“She treated me abominably!” interposed Cleek, with some heat. “First setting me on the business, and then calling me off just as I had got a grip on the thing and was within measuring distance of the end. I can’t forgive that; and I never could fathom her reason for it. If it was as you yourself suggested at the time, because she shrank from the notoriety that was likely to accrue to her from letting everybody in the world know that ‘Jimmy the Shifter’ was her own brother, she ought to have thought of that in the beginning—when she acknowledged it so openly—instead of making such an ass of me by her high-handed proceeding of calling me off the scent at its hottest, as if I were a tame puppy to be pulled this way and that with a string. I object to being made a fool of, Mr. Narkom; and there’s no denying the fact that Miss Larue treated me very badly in that James Colliver case—very badly and very cavalierly indeed.”

Unquestionably Miss Larue had. Even Mr. Narkom had to admit that; for the facts which lay behind these heated remarks were not such as are calculated to make any criminal investigator pleased with his connection therewith. Clearly set forth, those facts were as follows:

On the nineteenth day of the preceding August, James Colliver had disappeared, as suddenly and as completely and with as little trace left behind as does a kinematograph picture when it vanishes from the screen.

Now the world at large had never heard of James Colliver until he did disappear, and it is extremely doubtful if it would have done so even then but that circumstances connected with his vanishment brought to light the startling disclosure that the worthless, dissolute hulk of a man who was known to the habituÉs of half the low-class public houses in Hoxton by the pseudonym of “Jimmy the Shifter” was not only all that time and drink had left of the once popular melodramatic actor Julian Monteith, but that he was, in addition thereto, own brother to Miss Margaret Larue, the distinguished actress who was at that moment electrifying London by her marvellous performance of the leading rÔle in The Late Mrs. Cavendish.

The reasons which impelled Miss Larue to let the public discover that her real name was Maggie Colliver, and that “Jimmy the Shifter” was related to her by such close ties of blood, were these: The Late Mrs. Cavendish was nearing the close of its long and successful run at the Royalty, and its successor was already in rehearsal for early production. That successor was to be a specially rewritten version of the old-time favourite play Catharine Howard; or, The Tomb, the Throne, and the Scaffold, with Miss Larue, of course, in the part of the ambitious and ill-fated Catharine. Preparations were on foot for a production which would be splendidly elaborate as to scenery and effects, and absolutely accurate as to detail. For instance, the costume which Henry VIII had worn at the time of his marriage with Catharine Howard was copied exactly, down to the minute question of the gaudy stitchery on the backs of the gloves and the toes of the shoes; and permission had been obtained to make the mimic betrothal ring which the stage “Henry” was to press upon the finger of the stage “Catharine” an exact replica of the real one, as preserved among the nation’s historic jewels. Not to be outdone in this matter of accuracy, Miss Larue naturally aimed to have the dresses and the trinkets she wore as nearly like those of the original Catharine as it was possible to obtain. As her position in the world of art was now so eminent and had brought her into close touch with the elect, it was not difficult for the lady to borrow dresses, and even jewels, of the exact period from the heirlooms treasured by members of the nobility, that these might be copied in mimic gems for her by the well-known theatrical and show supply company of Henry Trent & Son, Soho.

To this firm, which was in full charge of the preparation of dresses, properties, and accessories for the great production, was also entrusted the making of a “cast” of Miss Larue’s features and the manufacture therefrom of a wax head with which it was at first proposed to lend a touch of startling realism to the final scene of the execution of Catharine on Tower Hill, but which was subsequently abandoned after the first night as being unnecessarily gruesome and repulsive.

It was during the course of the final rehearsals for this astonishing production, and when the army of supers who had long been drilling for it at other hours was brought for the first time into contact with the “principals,” that Miss Larue was horrified to discover among the members of that “army” her dissolute brother, “Jimmy the Shifter.”

For years—out of sheer sympathy for the wife who clung to him to the last, and the young son who was growing up to be a fine fellow despite the evil stock from which he had sprung—Miss Larue had continuously supplied this worthless brother with money enough to keep him, with the strict proviso that he was never to come near any theatre where she might be performing, nor ever at any time to make known his relationship to her. She now saw in this breaking of a rule, which heretofore he had inviolably adhered to, clear evidence that the man had suddenly become a menace, and she was in great haste to get him out of touch with her colleagues before anything could be done to disgrace her.

In so sudden and so pressing an emergency she could think of no excuse but an errand by which to get him out of the theatre, and of no errand but one—the stage jewels which Messrs. Trent & Son were making for her. She therefore sat down quickly at the prompt table, and, drawing a sheet of paper to her, wrote hurriedly:

Yours faithfully,
Margaret Larue.

This she passed over to the stage manager, with a request to “Please read that, Mr. Lampson, and certify over your signature that it is authentic, and that you vouch for having seen me write it.” After which she got up suddenly, and said as calmly as she could: “Mr. Super Master, I want to borrow one of your men to go on an important errand to Trent & Son for me. This one will do,” signalling out her brother. “Spare him, please. This way, my man—come quickly!”

With that she suddenly caught up the note she had written—and which the stage manager had, as requested, certified—and, beckoning her brother to follow, walked hurriedly off the stage to a deserted point in the wings.

“Why have you done this dreadful thing?” she demanded in a low, fierce tone as soon as he came up with her. “Are you a fool as well as a knave that you come here and risk losing your only support by a thing like this?”

“I wanted to see you—I had to see you—and it was the only way,” he gave back in the same guarded tone. “The wife is dead. She died last night, and I’ve got to get money somewhere to bury her. I’d no one to send, since you’ve taken Ted away and sent him to school, so I had to come myself.”

The knowledge that it was for no more desperate reason than this that he had forced himself into her presence came as a great relief to Miss Larue. She hastened to get rid of him by sending him to Trent & Son with the note that she had written, and to tell him to carry the parcel that would be handed to him to the rooms she was occupying in Portman Square—and which she made up her mind to vacate the very next day—and there to wait until she came home from rehearsal.

He took the note and left the theatre at once, upon which Miss Larue, considerably relieved, returned to the duties in hand, and promptly banished all thought of him from her mind.

It was not until something like two hours afterward that he was brought back to mind in a somewhat disquieting manner.

“I say, Miss Larue,” said the stage manager as she came off after thrice rehearsing a particularly trying scene, and, with a weary sigh, dropped into a vacant chair at his table, “aren’t you worried about that chap you sent with the note to Trent & Son? There’s been time for him to go and return twice over, you know; and I observe that he’s not back yet. Aren’t you a bit uneasy?”

“No. Why should I be?”

“Well, for one thing, I should say it was an extremely risky business unless you knew something about the man. Suppose, for instance, he should make off with the jewels? A pretty pickle you’d be in with the parties from whom you borrowed them, by Jove!”

“Good gracious, you don’t suppose I sent him for the originals, do you?” said Miss Larue with a smile. “Trent & Son would think me a lunatic to do such a thing as that. What I sent him for was, of course, merely the paste replicas. The originals I shall naturally go for myself.”

“God bless my soul! The paste replicas, do you say?” blurted in Mr. Lampson excitedly. “Why, I thought—Trent & Son will be sure to think so themselves under the circumstances! They can’t possibly think otherwise.”

“‘Under the circumstances’? ‘Think otherwise’?” repeated Miss Larue, facing round upon him sharply. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Lampson? Good heavens! not that they could possibly be mad enough to give the man the originals?”

“Yes, certainly! Good Lord! what else can they think—what else can they give him? They sent the paste duplicates here by their own messenger this morning! They are in the manager’s office—in his safe—at this very minute; and I was going to bring them round to you as soon as the rehearsal is over!”

Consternation followed this announcement, of course. The rehearsal was called to an abrupt halt. Mr. Lampson and Miss Larue flew round to the front of the house in a sort of panic, got to the telephone, and rang up Trent & Son, who confirmed their worst fears. Yes, the man had arrived with the note from Miss Larue something over an hour ago, and they had promptly handed him over the original jewels. Not all of them, of course, but those which they had finished duplicating and of which they had sent the replicas to the theatre by their own messenger that morning. Surely that was what Miss Larue meant by the demand, was it not? No other explanation seemed possible after they had sent her the copies and—Good Lord! hadn’t heard about it? Meant the imitations? Heavens above, what an appalling mistake! What was that? The man? Oh, yes; he took the things after Mr. Trent, senior, had removed them from the safe and handed them over to him, and he had left Mr. Trent’s office directly he received them. Miss Larue could ascertain exactly what had been delivered to him by examining the duplicates their messenger had carried to the theatre.

Miss Larue did, discovering, to her dismay, that they represented a curious ruby necklace, of which the original had been lent her by the Duchess of Oldhampton, a stomacher of sapphires and pearls borrowed from the Marquise of Chepstow, and a rare Tudor clasp of diamonds and opals which had been lent to her by the Lady Margery Thraill.

In a panic she rushed from the theatre, called a taxi, and, hoping against hope, whirled off to her rooms at Portman Square. No Mr. James Colliver had been there. Nor did he come there ever. Neither did he return to the squalid home where his dead wife lay; nor did any of his cronies nor any of his old haunts see hide or hair of him from that time. Furthermore, nobody answering to his description had been seen to board any train, steamship, or sailing-vessel leaving for foreign parts, nor could there be found any hotel, lodging-house, furnished or even unfurnished apartment into which he had entered that day or upon any day thereafter.

In despair, Miss Larue drove to Scotland Yard and put the matter into the hands of the police, offering a reward of £1,000 for the recovery of the jewels; and through the medium of the newspapers promised Mr. James Colliver that she would not prosecute, but would pay that £1,000 over to him if he would return the gems, that she might restore them to their rightful owners.

Mr. James Colliver neither accepted that offer nor gave any sign that he was aware of it. It was then that Scotland Yard, in the person of Cleek, stepped in to conduct the search for both man and jewels; and within forty-eight hours some amazing circumstances were brought to light.

First and foremost, Mr. Henry Trent, who said he had given the gems over to Colliver, and that the man had immediately left the office, was unable, through the fact of his son’s absence from town, to give any further proof of that statement than his own bare word; for there was nobody but himself in the office at the time, whereas the door porter, who distinctly remembered James Colliver’s entrance into the building, as distinctly remembered that up to the moment when evening brought “knocking-off time” James Colliver had never, to his certain knowledge, come out of it!

The next amazing fact to be unearthed was that one of the office cleaners had found tucked under the stairs leading up to the top floor a sponge, which had beyond all possible question been used to wipe blood from something and had evidently been tucked there in a great hurry. The third amazing discovery took the astonishing shape of finding in an East End pawnbroker’s shop every one of the missing articles, and positive proof that the man who had pledged them was certainly not in the smallest degree like James Colliver, but was evidently a person of a higher walk in life and more prosperous in appearance than the missing man had been since the days when he was a successful actor.

These circumstances Cleek had just brought to light when Miss Larue, having found the gems, determined to drop the case, and refused thereafter so much as to discuss it with any living soul.

That her reason for taking this unusual step had something behind it which was of more moment than the mere fact that the jewels had been recovered and returned to their respective owners there could hardly be a doubt; for from that time onward her whole nature seemed to undergo a radical change, and, from being a brilliant, vivacious, cheery-hearted woman whose spirits were always of the highest and whose laughter was frequent, she developed suddenly into a silent, smileless, mournful one, who shrank from all society but that of her lost brother’s orphaned son, and who seemed to be oppressed by the weight of some unconfessed cross and the shadow of some secret woe.

Such were the facts regarding the singular Colliver case at the time when Cleek laid it down—unprobed, unsolved, as deep a mystery in the end as it had been in the beginning—and such they still were when, on this day, at this critical time and after an interval of eleven months, Mr. Maverick Narkom came to ask him to pick it up again.

“And with an element of fresh mystery added to complicate it more than ever, dear chap,” he declared, rather excitedly. “For, as the father vanished eleven months ago, so yesterday the son, too, disappeared. In the same manner—from the same point—in the selfsame building and in the same inexplicable and almost supernatural way! Only that in this instance the mystery is even more incomprehensible, more like ‘magic’ than ever. For the boy is known to have been shown by a porter into a room almost entirely surrounded by glass—a room whose interior was clearly visible to two persons who were looking into it at the time—and then and there to have completely vanished without anybody knowing when, where, or how.”