Bruce sent a telegram to Mrs. Hillmer at Paris. “Matters satisfactorily arranged pending your arrival,” he wired, and early on Monday morning he received a reply:

He forwarded the message with a note to the detective, asking him to be present.

About one o’clock Corbett turned up.

“Guess I slept well last night after the excitement,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You seemed to skeer those chaps more with a few words, Mr. Bruce, than I did with a revolver.”

“The English police are not so much afraid of revolvers as they are of making mistakes,” was the answer.

“Now, is that so? On our side they wouldn’t have stopped to argy. Both of ’em would have drawn on me at once.”

“Then I am glad, for everybody’s sake, Mr. Corbett, that the affair happened in London.”

“Why, sure. But tell me. Has my friend Mensmore been getting himself into trouble?”

“Not so much as it looks. Others appear to have involved him without his knowledge, and he has lent color to the accusations by involuntary actions of a suspicious nature.”

“Well, if it is permissible, I should like to hear the straight story.”

Under the circumstances, Bruce thought that this stranger from America had a right to know why he was in danger of being arrested during his first twenty-four hours’ residence in the country, so he gave him a succinct narrative of the prima facie case against Mensmore.

Corbett listened in silence to the recital. When it ended he said:

“Mr. Bruce, my friend was incapable of murdering any woman. He was equally incapable of conducting any discreditable liaison with any woman. I have known him for years, and a straighter, truer, more honorable man I never met. I don’t know what his reason was for assuming my name, which he undoubtedly did, as the agent called this morning, and I find the flat is taken in my name.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, just that Mensmore had acted for me. The man seemed a bit puzzled, but he didn’t kick when I offered to pay up the rent owing since Christmas, and another quarter in advance.”

“I don’t suppose he did. The rent was due, then?”

“Yes. It seems that Mensmore, writing in my name, sent a letter from Monte Carlo a month ago, saying he would return about this time and settle up.”

“Thus proving his intention all along to come back to London. It is a queer muddle, Mr. Corbett, is it not?”

“Very; but you will pardon me, as an outsider, saying one thing—you all appear to have overlooked a clear trail.”

“And what is that?”

“What about Mrs. Hillmer? Who is she? Who are her friends? Who maintains her in such style? Bertie was with me four years and never mentioned her name. She could not have been rich by inheritance, as it was on account of their father going broke that Mensmore had to leave the Army and come to the States. It strikes me, Mr. Bruce, that the woman knows more about this affair than the man.”

“You may be right. But do not forget the absolute proofs we possess that the crime occurred in Mensmore’s chambers, and the extraordinary coincidence that he left England immediately afterwards.”

“I am not forgetting anything. Those facts tell both ways. Just because he quitted the country at the time somebody may have tried to throw the blame on him.”

The theory was plausible, though Bruce could not accept it. Nevertheless, after Corbett had taken his departure he could not help thinking about his references to Mrs. Hillmer. That there was force in them he could not deny, and with the admission came the unpleasant thought that perhaps he, Bruce, was in some sense responsible for the neglect to clear up her antecedents.

However, a few hours might explain much.

With unwonted impatience the barrister awaited the coming of night. He tried every expedient to kill time, and found each operation tedious.

He dined early, and as half-past seven came and passed he wondered why the detective did not appear.

But his doubts on this point did not last long.

“White is looking at Charing Cross to make sure of their arrival,” he said to himself.

At ten minutes to eight the detective came in hurriedly.

“They will be here directly,” he announced. “A servant has taken their luggage to Mrs. Hillmer’s place, and they are evidently driving straight here after taking some refreshment at the station.”

“Have you no faith in human nature, Mr. White? Could you not trust their words?”

“Well, sir, my experience of human nature is that you can very seldom trust anybody’s word.”

At last Smith announced Mrs. Hillmer and Mr. Mensmore.

When they entered Bruce was for the moment at a loss to know exactly how to receive them.

But Mrs. Hillmer settled the matter by greeting him with a quiet “Good-evening,” and seating herself. Mensmore stood near the door, very pale and stern-looking.

“It appears, Mr. Bruce,” he said, “that we met in Monte Carlo under false pretences. You were, it seems, a detective on the track of a murderer, and you were good enough to believe that I was the person you sought. It would have saved some misconception on my part had you explained our rÔles earlier. However, I am here, to meet the charge.”

Claude was not unprepared for this attitude on Mensmore’s part. But he was determined that it should not continue if he could help it.

“When we parted at Monte Carlo, Mensmore,” he said, “we parted as friends.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me what has happened since to cause this obvious change in your opinion of me?”

“Is it not true that you suspect me of murdering Lady Dyke?”

“No.”

“But why has my sister been told that I ran serious risk of being apprehended on that account?”

“Because we certainly did suspect a mysterious personage who called himself Sydney H. Corbett, and whose behavior was so unaccountable that the authorities required a reasonable explanation of it.”

“Do I understand, Bruce, that we meet with no more suspicion between us than when we last saw each other?”

“Most certainly.”

“Then I ask your pardon for my manner and words. I have suffered keenly during the last three days from this cruel thought. Let us shake hands on it.”

As their hands met they both heard Mrs. Hillmer stifle a sob. Mensmore turned to her.

“Now, Gwen,” he said, “don’t be foolish. We will soon clear up this miserable business. So far as we are concerned, all we need to do is to tell the truth and fear nobody.”

“That’s it,” said White. “If you adopt that course the matter will soon be ended.”

Mensmore turned to the speaker. He guessed his identity, but Bruce introduced the detective by name.

“Well,” said Mensmore, “I have come here to answer questions. What is it you want to know?”

Mr. White glanced at the barrister, and the other explained.

“I have, as you may already realize, taken more than a passive interest in this inquiry, so the questioning largely devolves on me. First, tell me why you adopted the name of Corbett?”

“Simply enough, though stupid, I now admit. When I returned from the States I was very hard up, but managed to pick up a subsistence by writing for the sporting press, and occasionally backing horses. But I knew this could not last, so I tried to secure some financial interests in the City. In doing so I made the acquaintance of a man named Dodge, and committed myself to the underwriting of a new venture named the Springbok Mine. This fell through at the time, and with this collapse came other demands. I hate being worried by creditors, so when my sister offered to take and furnish a flat for me, near her own, I thought I would live quietly for a time and conceal my name so as to have peace there at any rate. Therefore, I assumed the name of a friend in America, little thinking that I should land both him and myself into such trouble by doing it. That is the explanation. By the way, what has happened to Corbett?”

“He is all right. He expects to see you to-night. You know Sir Charles Dyke, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Intimately?”

“Well, no, not exactly. He and I were at school together at Brighton, at Childe’s place.”

“At Brighton?”

“Yes. I was a little chap when Dyke was a senior. After he left, the headmaster changed the school to a place called Seton Lodge, at Putney, on account of cramming operations for Army exams.”

“Then you were at Putney?”

“Yes, for two years.”

“And Dyke was not?”

“No; that I am sure of.”

“Have you and Sir Charles been friendly since?”

Mensmore’s face hardened somewhat as he answered, “I have seen very little of him, and hardly ever spoken to him.”

“Why? Did you quarrel?”

“N-no, but we just did not happen to meet. Bear in mind, I was in business some years ago, and I am not yet thirty.”

“Did you know his wife?”

“I have never, to my knowledge, seen her.”

“How, then, can you account for the fact that she visited your flat at Raleigh Mansions on November 6.”

“I say that such a statement is mere nonsense.”

“But if it can be proved?”

“It cannot.”

“I assure you, on my honor, that it can.”

“But look here, Bruce. Why should she come to see me? I question greatly if she knew of my existence.”

“Nevertheless, it is the fact.”

“I can only tell you it is not. I left London on November 8, and on the two previous evenings I dined alone. Mrs. Robinson, my housekeeper, can tell you that not another soul entered my flat for a week prior to my departure, except my sister and—and—I had forgotten—some workmen.”

“Some workmen?”

“Yes; some fellows from a furniture warehouse.”

“What were they doing?”

“Well, don’t you see, I told you I was not well off, and my sister furnished my flat for me, in August last that was, but the drawing-room was left bare for a time. Just before I left for France she decided to refurnish her drawing-room, and she gave me the whole fit-out. The things were brought in by the men who brought her purchases.”

At this astounding revelation Bruce and the detective were utterly taken aback. It was with difficulty that the barrister enunciated his next words clearly.

“Can you tell me with absolute certainty the date of this change of the furniture?”

“Oh yes. It was the day before I started for the Riviera; that must have been November 7.”

“Are you positive of this?”

“Undoubtedly. Is it a matter of importance? Gwen, you know all about it. Besides, the bills for your new furniture will show the exact date of delivery, and it was the same day.”

Mrs. Hillmer’s face was hidden by her veil, but she nodded silently.

Three people in the room knew the significance of Mensmore’s straightforward words; he alone was unaware of the direction towards which the investigation now tended.

“Let us analyze the matter carefully,” said Bruce, who had recovered his self-possession, though he was almost terrified at the possibilities of the situation. “Did the whole of the contents of your drawing-room come from your sister’s flat?”

“Every stick. There was nothing there before but the bare boards.”

“Do you remember a handsome ornamental fender being among these articles?”

“Perfectly. My housekeeper said the men broke it during the transit. They denied this, and looked for the piece chipped off, but could not find it. She told me about it that night.”

“Did you mention it to Mrs. Hillmer?”

“No. To tell the honest truth, Gwen and I had quarrelled a couple of days before. That is to say, we disagreed seriously about a certain matter, and it was this which led to my making off to Monte Carlo. Therefore it was hardly likely I should mention such a trivial matter to her.”

“May I ask what you quarrelled about?”

“I have told her since that it ought to be made known, but she has implored me not to reveal it, so I cannot. But she will tell you herself that we agreed I should be at liberty to make this guarded explanation.”

Bruce and the detective exchanged glances of wondering comprehension.

“I do not think we need question Mr. Mensmore further,” said the barrister to White.

“No,” was the reply. “The matter is clear enough. Mrs. Hillmer must tell us how that furniture came to be transferred from her premises on the morning of the 7th.”

“If she chooses.”

The barrister’s tone was sad, and its ominous significance was not lost on his hearers.

Mrs. Hillmer raised her veil. Her face was deathly pale and tense in its fixed agony. But in her eyes was a light which gave a curious aspect of resolve to her otherwise painful aspect of utter grief.

“I do not choose,” she said quietly, looking, not at Bruce or the detective, but at her brother.

For a little while no one spoke. Mensmore at last broke out eagerly:

“Don’t act absurdly, Gwen. I cannot even guess where all this talk about the furniture is leading us, but I do know that you are as innocent of any complicity in Lady Dyke’s death as I am, so it is better for you to help forward the inquiry than to retard it.”

“I am not innocent,” said Mrs. Hillmer, her words falling with painful distinctness upon the ears of the three men. “Heaven help me! I am responsible for it!”

Her brother started to his feet, and caught her by the shoulder.

“What folly is this,” he cried. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“Fully. My words are like sledge-hammers. I will forever feel their weight. I tell you I am responsible for the death of Lady Dyke.”

“Then how did she die, Mrs. Hillmer?” said Bruce, whose glance sought to read her soul.

“I do not know. I do not want to know. It matters little to me.”

“In other words, you are assuming a responsibility you should not bear. You were not even aware of this poor lady’s death until I told you. Why should you seek to avert suspicion from others merely because Lady Dyke is shown to have met her death in your apartments?”

“But how is it shown?” interrupted Mensmore vehemently. He was more disturbed by his sister’s unaccountable attitude than he had ever been by the serious charge against himself.

“Easily enough,” said White, feeling that he ought to have some share in the conversation. “A piece of the damaged fender placed in your rooms, Mr. Mensmore, was found in the murdered lady’s head.”

“Was it?” he cried. “Then, by Heaven, I refuse to see my sister sacrificed for anybody’s sake. She has borne too long the whole burden of misery and degradation. I tell you, Gwen, that if you do not save yourself I will save you against your will. That furniture came to my room because—”

“Bertie, I beseech you, for the sake of the woman you love, to spare me.”

Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on her knees before him and caught hold of his hands, while she burst into a storm of tears.

Mensmore was unnerved. He turned to Bruce, and said:

“Help me in this miserable business, old chap. I don’t know what to say or do; my sister had no more connection with Lady Dyke’s death than I had. This statement on her part is mere hysteria, arising from other circumstances altogether.”

“That I feel acutely,” said the barrister. “Yet some one killed her, and, whatever the pain that may be caused, and whoever may suffer, I am determined that the truth shall come out.”

“I tell you,” wailed Mrs. Hillmer between her sobs, “that I must bear all the blame. Why do you hesitate? She was killed in my house, and I confess my guilt.”

“This is rum business,” growled Mr. White aloud, half unconsciously.

At that moment the door opened unexpectedly, and Smith entered.

Before Bruce had time to vociferate an order to his astounded servitor the man stuttered an excuse:

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Sir Charles Dyke has called, and wants to know if you will be disengaged soon.”

CHAPTER XXIII