The days dragged by. The papers were full of the robbery, declaring that it had been executed so neatly as to betray the hand of experts.

A gang of Continental thieves was suspected, because, as a matter of fact, a robbery similar in detail had, six months before, taken place on the night express between Cologne and Berlin. In that case also a strange ticket-inspector had been seen. The stolen property had, no doubt, been thrown from the train to accomplices. Such method was perfectly safe for the thief, because, unless actually detected in the act of tossing out a bag or parcel, no evidence could very well be brought against him.

Therefore the police, and through them the newspapers, decided that the same gang was responsible for the theft of the Archduchess’s necklace as for the robbery in Germany.

Myself, I read eagerly every line of what appeared in the morning and evening press.

Many ridiculous theories were put forward by some journalists in working up the “story,” and more than once I found cruel and unfounded reflections cast upon the sole female member of the party—my dear wife.

This was all extremely painful to me—all so utterly incomprehensible that, as I sat alone in the silence of my deserted home, I felt that no further misfortune could fall upon me. The iron of despair had entered my very soul.

Marlowe called one afternoon, and I was compelled to make excuse for Sylvia’s absence, telling him she was down at Mrs. Shuttleworth’s.

“You don’t look quite yourself, old man,” he had said. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” I laughed faintly. “I’m a bit run down, that’s all. Want a change, I suppose. I think I shall go abroad.”

“I thought your wife had had sufficient of the Continent,” he remarked. “Curiously enough,” he added, as he sat back and blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke from his lips, “I thought I saw her the day before yesterday standing on the railway platform at Banbury. I was coming down from Birmingham to Oxford, and the train slowed down in passing Banbury. I happened to be looking out at the time, and I could have sworn that I saw her.”

“At Banbury!” I ejaculated, leaning forward.

“Yes. She was wearing a dark blue dress, with a jacket to match, and a small dark blue hat. She was with an elderly lady, and was evidently waiting for a train. She gave me the impression that she was starting on a journey.”

“How old was her companion?”

“Oh, she was about forty, I should think—neatly dressed in black.”

“It couldn’t have been she,” I said reflectively.

“My dear Owen, Mrs. Biddulph’s beauty is too marked for one to be mistaken—especially a friend, like myself.”

“Then you are quite certain it was she—eh, Jack?”

My tall friend stretched his long legs out on the carpet, and replied—

“Well, I’d have bet a hundred to a penny that it was she. She wasn’t at home with you on that day, was she?”

I was compelled to make a negative reply.

“Then I’m certain I saw her, old man,” he declared, as he rose and tossed his cigarette-end away.

It was upon my tongue to ask him what he had known of her, but I refrained. She was my wife, and to ask such a question would only expose to him my suspicions and misgivings.

So presently he went, and I was left there wretched in my loneliness and completely mystified. The house seemed full of grim shadows now that she, the sun of my life, had gone out of it. Old Browning moved about silent as a ghost, watching me, I knew, and wondering.

So Sylvia had been seen at Banbury. According to Jack, she was dressed as though travelling; therefore it seemed apparent that she had hidden in that quiet little town until compelled to flee owing to police inquiries. Her dress, as described by Jack, was different to any I had ever seen her wear; hence it seemed as though she had disguised herself as much as was possible. Her companionship with the elder woman was also somewhat strange.

My only fear was that the police might recognize her. While she remained in one place, she would, no doubt, be safe from detection. But if she commenced to travel, then most certainly the police would arrest her.

Fortunately they were not in possession of her photograph, yet all along I remained in fear that the manager of the Coliseum might make a statement, and this would again connect me with the gang.

Yes, I suppose the reader will dub me a fool to have married Sylvia. Well, he or she may do so. My only plea in extenuation is that I loved her dearly and devotedly. My love might have been misplaced, of course, yet I still felt that, in face of all the black circumstances, she was nevertheless true to those promises made before the altar. I was hers—and she was mine.

Even then, with the papers raising a hue-and-cry after her, as well as what I had discovered regarding her elopement, I steadfastly refused to believe in her guilt. Those well-remembered words of affection which had fallen from her lips from time to time I knew had been genuine and the truth.

That same night I read in the evening paper a paragraph as follows—

“It is understood that the police have obtained an important clue to the perpetrators of the daring theft of the diamond necklet belonging to the Archduchess Marie Louise, and that an arrest is shortly expected. Some highly sensational revelations are likely.”

I read and re-read those significant lines. What were the “sensational revelations” promised? Had they any connection with the weird mystery of that closed house in Porchester Terrace?

I felt that perhaps I was not doing right in refraining from laying before the Criminal Investigation Department the facts of my strange experience in that long-closed house. In that neglected garden, my own grave lay open. What bodies of other previous victims lay there interred?

I recollected that in the metropolis many bodies of murdered persons had been found buried in cellars and in gardens. A recent case of the discovery of an unfortunate woman’s body beneath the front doorsteps of a certain house in North London was fresh within my mind.

Truly the night mysteries of London are many and gruesome. The public never dream of half the brutal crimes that are committed and never detected. Only the police, if they are frank, will tell you of the many cases in which persons missing are suspected of having been victims of foul play. Yet they are mysteries never solved.

I went across to White’s and dined alone. I was in no mood for the companionship of friends. No one save myself knew that my wife had disappeared. Jack suspected something wrong, but was not aware of what it exactly was.

I went down to Andover next day and called upon the Shuttleworths. Mrs. Shuttleworth was kind and affable as usual, but whether my suspicions were ungrounded or not, I thought the rector a trifle brusque in manner, as though annoyed by my presence there.

I recollected what the man Lewis had told his friends—that he had seen Shuttleworth down in the Ditches—one of the lowest neighbourhoods—of Southampton. The rector had told him all that had transpired!

Why was this worthy country rector, living the quiet life of a remote Hampshire village, in such constant communication with a band of thieves?

I sat with him in his well-remembered study for perhaps an hour. But he was a complete enigma. Casually I referred to the great jewel theft, which was more or less upon every one’s tongue.

“I seldom read newspaper horrors,” he replied, puffing at his familiar pipe. “I saw something in the head-lines of the paper, but I did not read the details. I’ve been writing some articles for the Guardian lately, and my time has been so fully occupied.”

Was this the truth? Or was he merely evading the necessity of discussing the matter?

He had inquired after Sylvia, and I had been compelled to admit that she was away. But I did so in such a manner that I implied she was visiting friends.

Outside, the lawn, so bright and pleasant in summer, now looked damp and dreary, littered by the brown drifting leaves of autumn.

Somehow I read in his grey face a strange expression, and detected an eagerness to get rid of me. For the first time I found myself an unwelcome visitor at the rectory.

“Have you seen Mr. Pennington of late?” I asked presently.

“No, not for some time. He wrote me from Brussels about a month ago, and said that business was calling him to Spain. Have you seen him?” he asked.

“Not very recently,” I replied vaguely.

Then again I referred to the great robbery, whereat he said—

“Why, Mr. Biddulph, you appear as though you can’t resist the fascination that mysterious crime has for you! I suppose you are an ardent novel-reader—eh? People fond of novels always devour newspaper mysteries.”

I admitted a fondness for healthy and exciting fiction, when he laughed, saying—

“Well, I myself find that nearly half one reads in some of the newspapers now-a-days may be classed as fiction. Even party politics are full of fictions, more or less. Surely the public must find it very difficult to winnow the truth from all the political lies, both spoken and written. To me, elections are all mere campaigns of untruth.”

And so he again cleverly turned the drift of our conversation.

About five o’clock I left, driving back to Andover Junction, and arriving at Waterloo in time for dinner.

I took a taxi at once to Wilton Street, but there was no letter from Sylvia. She gave no sign. And, indeed, why should she, in face of her letter of farewell?

I dressed, and sat down alone to my dinner for the first time in my own dining-room since my wife’s disappearance.

Lonely and sad, yet filled with fierce hatred of those blackguardly adventurers, of whom her own father was evidently one, I sat silent, while old Browning served the meal with that quiet stateliness which was one of his chief characteristics. The old man had never once mentioned his missing mistress, yet I saw, by the gravity of his pale, furrowed face, that he was anxious and puzzled.

As I ate, without appetite, he chatted to me, as had been his habit in my bachelor days, for through long years of service—ever since I was a lad—he had become more a friend than a mere servant. From many a boyish scrape he had shielded me, and much good advice had he given me in those reckless days of my rather wild youth.

His utter devotion to my father had always endeared him to me, for to him there was no family respected so much as ours, and his faithfulness was surely unequalled.

Perhaps he did not approve of my marriage. I held a strong suspicion that he had not. Yet old servants are generally apt to be resentful at the advent of a new mistress.

I was finishing my coffee and thinking deeply, Browning having left me alone, when suddenly he returned, and, bending, said in his quiet way—

“A gentleman has called, Mr. Owen. He wishes to see you very particularly.” And he handed me a card, upon which I saw the name: “Henri Guertin.”

I sprang to my feet, my mind made up in an instant. Here was one actually of the gang, and I would entrap him in my own house!

I would compel him to speak the truth, under pain of arrest.

“Where is he?” I asked breathlessly.

“I have shown him into the study. He’s a foreign gentleman, Mr. Owen.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “But now, don’t be alarmed, Browning—just stay outside in the hall. If I ring the bell, go straight to the telephone, ring up the police-station, and tell them to send a constable here at once. My study door will be locked until the constable arrives. You understand?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Owen, but——” And the old man hesitated, looking at me apprehensively.

“There is nothing whatever to fear,” I laughed, rather harshly perhaps. “Carry out my orders, that’s all.”

And then, in fierce determination, I went along the hall, and, opening the study door, entered, closing it behind me, and as I stood with my back to it I turned the key and removed it.

“Well, M’sieur Guertin,” I exclaimed, addressing the stout man in gold pince-nez in rather a severe tone, “and what, pray, do you want with me?”