Mr. White was actually inclined to preserve silence while they walked to Victoria Street. The events of the preceding hour had not exactly conduced to the maintenance, in the eyes of his brother officer, of that pre-eminent sagacity which he invariably claimed.

His companion rubbed in this phase of the matter by saying: “I should think, Jim, you will give Raleigh Mansions wide berth for some time to come, after making two bad breaks there.”

But it was no part of Bruce’s scheme that the detective should be rendered desperate by repeated failures. “It is not Mr. White’s fault,” he said, “that these errors have occurred. They are rather the result of his pertinacity in leaving no clue unsolved which promises to lead to success. When this case ends, if ever it does end, I feel sure he will admit that he has never before encountered so much difficulty in unravelling the most complex problems within his experience.”

“That is so,” chimed in the senior detective. “The thing that beats me in this affair is the want of a beginning, so to speak. One would imagine it the work of a lunatic if Lady Dyke herself had not contributed so curiously to the mystery of her disappearance.”

“There you are, White; that is the true scent. Find the motive and we find the murderer, if Lady Dyke was wilfully put to death.”

“If she was, Mr. Bruce? Have you any doubt about it?”

“There cannot be certainty when we are groping in the dark. But the gloom is passing; we are on the eve of a discovery.”

At Bruce’s residence White’s colleague left him. Soon the barrister and the policeman were sitting snugly before a good fire.

There Claude took him step by step through each branch of his inquiry as it is known to the reader.

He omitted nothing. The discovery of Jane Harding and of Mensmore, the latter’s transactions with Dodge & Co., his dramatic coup at Monte Carlo and its attendant love episode—all these were exhaustively described. He enlarged upon Mrs. Hillmer’s anxiety when the tragedy became known to her, and did not forget Sir Charles Dyke’s amazement at the suggestion that his old playmate might prove to be responsible for the death of his wife.

He produced the waxen moulds of the piece of iron found on the body at Putney, and the ornamental scroll from which it had been taken.

At this bit of evidence Mr. White’s complacency forsook him. Thus far he had experienced a feeling of resentment against Bruce for having concealed from him so much that was material to their investigation.

But when he realized that a powerful link in the chain of events had all along been placidly resting before his eyes his distress was evident, and the barrister came to his rescue.

“You are not to blame, White,” he said, “for having failed to note many things which I have now told you. You are the slave of a system. Your method works admirably for the detection of commonplace crime, but as soon as the higher region of romance is reached it is as much out of place as a steam-roller in a lady’s boudoir. Look at the remarkable series of crimes the English police have failed to solve of late, merely because some bizarre element had intruded itself at the outset. Have you ever read any of the works of Edgar Allan Poe?”

The detective answered in the affirmative. “The Murders of the Rue Morgue” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget” were familiar to him.

“Well,” went on Bruce, “there you have the accurate samples of my meaning. Poe would not have been puzzled for an hour by the vagaries of Jack the Ripper. He would have said at once—most certainly after the third or fourth in the series of murders—‘This is the work of an athletic lunatic, with a morbid love of anatomy and a morbid hatred of a certain class of women. Seek for him among young men who have pestered doctors with outrageous theories, and who possess weak-minded or imbecile relatives.’ Then, again, take the murder on the South-Western Railway. Do you think Poe would have gone questioning bar-tenders or inquiring into abortive love affairs? Not he! Jealous swains do not carry pestles about with them to slay their sweethearts, nor do they choose a four-minutes’ interval between suburban stations for frenzied avowals of their passion. Here you have the clear trail of a clever lunatic, dropping from the skies, as it were, and disappearing in the same erratic manner. That is why I tell you most emphatically that neither you nor I have yet the remotest conception as to who really killed Lady Dyke.”

“Surely things look black now against this Mensmore?”

“Do they? How would it have fared with an acquaintance of one of the unfortunate women killed by Jack the Ripper had the police found him in the locality with fresh blood-stains on his clothes? What would have resulted from the discovery of a chemist’s mortar among the possessions of one of Elizabeth Camp’s male friends? Come now, be honest, and tell me.”

But Mr. White could only smoke in silence.

“Therefore,” continued Bruce, “let us ask ourselves why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit the crime. Personally, notwithstanding all that we apparently know against him circumstantially, I should hardly believe Mensmore if he confessed himself to be the murderer!”

“Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce?”

“Because Mensmore is normal and this crime abnormal. Because the man who would blow out his brains on account of losses at pigeon-shooting never had brains enough to dispose of the body in such fashion. Because Mensmore, having temporarily changed his name for some trivial reason, would never resume it with equal triviality with this shadow upon his life.”

“Then why have you told me all these things that tell so heavily against him?”

“In order that, this time at least, you may feel that the production of a pair of handcuffs does not satisfactorily settle the entire business.”

“I promise there shall be no more arrests until this affair is much more decided than it is at present.”

“Good. I shall make a detective of you after my own heart in time.”

“Yet I cannot help being surprised at the very strange fact that his own sister should seem to suspect him!”

“Ah! Now you have struck the true line. Why did she have that fear? There I am with you entirely. Let us ascertain that and I promise you an important development. Mrs. Hillmer and Mensmore are both concerned in the disappearance of Lady Dyke, yet neither knew that she had disappeared, and both are deeply upset by it, for Mrs. Hillmer flies off to warn her brother, and the brother posts back to London the moment it comes to his ears through her. There, you see, we have a key which may unlock many doors. For Heaven’s sake let it not be battered out of shape the instant it reaches our hands.”

But Mr. White was quite humble. “As I have told you,” he said, “I have done with the battering process.”

“I am sure of it. And now listen to the most remarkable fact that has yet come to light. Lady Dyke’s body was taken from Raleigh Mansions to Putney in a four-wheeler. The cabman was forthwith locked up by the police and clapped into prison for three months. He was released yesterday, and will be here within the next quarter of an hour.”

The detective’s hair nearly rose on end at this statement.

“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?”

“That is the last shot in my locker.”

“I’m jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you would say was that you did the job yourself.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you thought that; eh, my friend?”

White positively blushed.

“Oh! that’s chaff,” he said. “But why the dickens did the police lock up this cabman—the only witness we could lay our hands upon? Why, I myself questioned every cabman in the vicinity several times.”

“Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the journey, and subsequently thought he was Phaeton driving the chariot of the sun. But, there, he will tell you himself. I met him yesterday morning outside Holloway Jail, and persuaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not gone on the spree again with disastrous results.”

The entrance of Smith—obviously relieved to see his master and the “tec” on such good terms—to announce the arrival of “Mr. William Marsh,” settled any doubts as to the cabman’s intentions, and his appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three months “hard” had made the cab-driver a new man.

Recognition was mutual between him and Mr. White.

“Hello, Foxey,” cried the latter. “It’s you, is it?”

“Me it is, guv’nor; but I didn’t know there was to be a ‘cop’ here”—this with a suspicious glance at Bruce and a backward movement towards the door.

“Do not be alarmed,” said the barrister; “this gentleman’s presence implies no trouble for you. We want you to help us, and if you do so willingly I will make up that lost fiver you received for driving two people to Putney the night you were arrested.”

The poor old cabman became very confused on hearing this staggering remark. Up to that moment he regarded Bruce as the agent for a charitable association, and there was no harm, he told his “missus,” in trying to “knock him for a bit.”

He stood nervously fumbling with his hat, but did not answer. White knew how to deal with him.

“Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You need one to cheer you up. Answer this gentleman’s questions. He means you no harm.”

“Honor bright?”

“Honor bright.”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do. No soda, thank you, sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that’s better stuff ’n they keep in Holloway.”

Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling them what he knew. Substantially, his story was identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.

“Can you describe the gentleman?” said the barrister.

“No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and well-dressed, and talked in the ’aw-’aw style. It might ha’ been yerself for all I could tell.”

“Do you think it was I?”

Foxey scratched his head.

“No, p’r’aps it wasn’t, now I come to rec’llect. He ’ad a moustache, and you ’aven’t. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you ’ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor, an’ this chap wasn’t neither—just an every-day sort of toff.”

“Could you swear to him if you saw him?”

“That I couldn’t, sir. I am a rare ’and at langwidge, but I couldn’t manage that.”

“Why?”

“Because that night, sir, I were as full as a tick when I started. Lord love you, it must ’ave poured out of me afterwards when I started fightin’ coppers. Mr. White, ’e knows, I ain’t no fightin’ man as a rule.”

“And the lady? Did you see her?”

“No, sir. Leastways, I seed a bundle which I took to be a lydy, but her face was covered up with a shawl, and she was lyin’ ’eavy in ’is arms as though she was mortal bad. He tell’d me she was sick.”

“Did he? Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure it was a shawl?”

A vacuous smile spread over Foxey’s countenance as he answered, “I ain’t sure of anythink that ’appened that night.”

“But were you not surprised when a man hired your cab under such peculiar circumstances, and paid you such a high fare?”

“We four-wheelers are surprised at nothink, sir. You don’t know all wot goes on in kebs. Why, once crossin’ Waterloo Bridge—”

“Never mind Waterloo Bridge, Foxey,” put in the detective. “Keep your wits fixed on as much as you can remember of November 6.”

“Where did he tell you to drive to?” went on Bruce.

“Just Putney. I was to drive my’ardest. I recollect wantin’ to pull up at the Three Bells, but ’e put ’is ’ead out an’ said, ‘Go on, driver. I am awfully late already.’ So on I went.”

“Where did you stop?”

“I don’t know no more than the child unborn. By that time the drink was yeastin’ up in me. The fare kept me on the road ’e wanted by shoutin’. When we pulled up, ’e carries ’er into a lane. There was a big ’ouse there. I know that all right. After a bit ’e comes back and tips me a fiver. With that I whips up the old ’oss and gets back to the Three Bells. You know the rest, as the girl said when she axed the Bench to—”

“Yes, we know the rest,” interrupted Bruce, “but I fear you are not able to help us much.”

“This isn’t a five-pun’ job, eh, guv’nor?” said Foxey anxiously.

“Hardly at present. We shall see. Can you say exactly where you drew up your cab when the lady was carried into it?”

“Sure as death,” replied the cabman, in the hope that his information might yet be valuable. “It was outside Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”

“We know that—”

“It seems to me, sir, as ye know as much about the business as I do,” broke in Marsh.

“Were you in the Square or in Sloane Street?”

“In Sloane Street, of course. Right away from the Square.”

“Not so very far away, surely.”

Foxey was doubtful. His memory was hazy, and he feared lest he should be mistaken. “No, no,” he said quickly, “not far, but still well in the street.”

“Were there many people about?”

“You could ’ardly tell, sir; it was that foggy and nasty. If the lydy ’ad bin dead nobody would ’ave noticed ’er that night.”

“Did any one besides yourself see the gentleman carrying the lady into the cab?”

“I think not. I don’t remember anybody passin’ at the time.”

“Did the gentleman keep your cab waiting long at the kerb before he brought the lady out?”

“It might ’a’ bin a minute or two?”

“No longer?”

“Well, sir, it’s ’ard for me to say, especially after bein’ away for a change of ’ealth, so to speak.”

“Did not the lady speak or move in any manner?”

“Not so far as I know, sir.”

“And do you mean to tell me that, although you had been drinking, you were not astonished at the whole business?”

“I never axes my fares any questions ’cept when they says ‘By the hour.’ Then I wants to know a bit.”

“Yes; but this carrying of a lady out of a house in such fashion—did not this strike you as strange?”

“Strange, bless your ’eart, sir. You ought to see me cartin’ ’em off from the Daffodil Club after a big night—three and four in one keb, all blind, paralytic.”

“No doubt; but this was not the Daffodil Club at daybreak. It was a respectable neighborhood at seven o’clock, or thereabouts, on a winter’s evening.”

“It ain’t my fault,” said Foxey doggedly. “Wot was wrong with the lydy? Was it a habduction?”

“The lady was dead—murdered, we believe.”

The cabman’s face grew livid with anxiety.

“Oh, crikey, Mr. White,” he cried, addressing the detective, “I knew nothink about it.”

“No one says you did, Foxey,” was the reply. “Don’t be frightened. We just want you to help us as far as you can, and not to get skeered and lose your wits.”

Thus reassured, Marsh mopped his head and said solemnly:

“I will do wot lies in my power, gentlemen both, but I wish I ’adn’t bin so blamed drunk that night.”

“You say you would not recognize your fare if you saw him,” continued Bruce. “Could you tell us, if you were shown a certain person, that he was not the man? You might not be sure of the right man, but you might be sure regarding the wrong one.”

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t Mr. White, and it wasn’t a lot of other people I know. I think if I saw the man who really got into my keb, I would be able to swear that ’e was like him, at any rate.”

“All right. That will do for the present. Leave us your address, so that we may find you again if necessary. Here is a sovereign for you.”

When Marsh had gone, Bruce turned to the detective.

“Well,” he said, “if Mensmore were here now, I suppose you would want to lock him up.”

“No,” admitted White sadly; “the more I learn about this affair the more mixed it becomes. Still, I don’t deny but I shall be glad to have Mensmore’s explanation of his movements at that time. And so will you, Mr. Bruce.”

CHAPTER XXII