Louis Tracy

“I wonder if I shall have such exciting times to-day as I had yesterday,” said Bruce to himself, as he unfolded his Times next morning at breakfast.

Affairs had so jumbled themselves together in his brain the previous evening that he had abandoned all effort to elucidate them. He retired to rest earlier than usual, to sleep soundly, save for a vivid dream in which he was being tried for his life, the chief witnesses against him being Mrs. Hillmer, Phyllis Browne, and Jane Harding, the latter varying her evidence by entertaining the Court with a song and dance.

The weather, too, had improved. It was clear, frosty, and sunlit—one of those delightful days of winter that serve as cheerful remembrances during periods of seemingly interminable fog overhead and slush beneath.

During a quiet meal he read the news, and, with the invaluable morning smoke, settled himself cosily into an armchair to consider procedure.

In the first place he carefully weighed those utterances of Mensmore at Monte Carlo, which he could recall, and which seemed by the light of later knowledge, to bear upon the case.

Mensmore had alluded to “family troubles,” to “worries,” and “anxieties,” that practically drove him from England.

Some of these, no doubt, referred to the Springbok speculation. Others, again, might have meant Mrs. Hillmer or some other presently unknown relative. But in Mensmore’s manner there was nothing that savored of a greater secrecy than the natural reticence of a gentleman in discussing domestic affairs with a stranger.

This man had practically been snatched from death. At such a moment it was inconceivable that he could cloak the remorse of a murderer by the simulation of more honorable motives, in themselves sufficiently distressing to cause him deliberately to choose suicide as the best way of ending his difficulties.

The policeman had summarized the testimony against Corbett as insufficient to curtail the remarkable powers of endurance of a cat. But to Bruce the case against Mensmore, alias Corbett, stood in clearer perspective. Now that he calmly reasoned the matter he felt that the balance of probabilities swung away from the hypothesis that Mensmore was the actual slayer of Lady Dyke, and towards the theory that he was in some way bound up with her death, whether knowingly or unknowingly it was at present impossible to say.

The new terror to Bruce was Mr. White.

“Why, if that animated truncheon knew what I know of this business he would arrest Mensmore forthwith. If he did, what would result? A scandal, a thorough exposure, possibly the ruin of Mensmore’s love-making if he be an innocent man. That must be stopped. But how, without forewarning Mensmore himself?—and he may be guilty. Chance may favor White, as it favored me, in disclosing the identity of the missing Corbett. And what of the real Corbett? What on earth has he got to do with it, and why has Mensmore taken his name? If ever I get to the bottom of this business I may well congratulate myself. The sole result of all my labor thus far may be summed up in a sentence—I have not yet come face to face with the man whom I can honestly suspect as Lady Dyke’s murderer. Not much, my boy!”

Claude uttered the last sentence aloud, startling Smith, who was clearing the table.

“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Smith.

“Oh, nothing. I was only expressing an opinion.”

“I thought, perhaps, sir, you was thinkin’ of Mr. White.”

“What of him?”

“Your remark, sir, hexactly hexpresses my hopinion of ’im.”

Smith was not a badly educated man, but the least excitement produced an appalling derangement of the letter “h” in his vocabulary.

“Mr. White is a sharp fellow in his own way, Smith.”

“Maybe, but why should ’e come pokin’ round ’ere pryin’ into your little affairs-deecur?”

“My what?”

“Sorry, sir, but that’s what a French maid I once knew called ’em. Flirtations, sir. Mashes.”

“Smith, have you been drinking?”

“Me, sir?”

“Well, explain yourself. I never flirted with a woman in my life.”

“That’s what I told ’im, sir. ‘My master’s a regular saint,’ says I, ‘a sort of middle-aged ankyrite.’ But Mr. White ’e wouldn’t ’ave it at no price. ‘Come now, Smith,’ says ’e, ‘your guv’nor’s pretty deep. ’E’s a toff, ’e is, an’ knows lots of lydies—titled lydies.’ ‘Very like,’ says I, ‘but ’e doesn’t mash ’em.’ ‘Then what price that lydy who called for ’im in a keb afore ’e went away? An’ who’s ’e gone to Monte Carlo with?’ This was durin’ your absence, sir.”

“Go on, Smith. Anything else?”

“Well, sir, that rather flung me out of my stride, as the sayin’ is, as I ’ad seen the lydy in question. An’ Mr. White ’as a nasty way of putting you on your oath, so to speak. But I never owned up.”

Claude laughed.

“Excellent. Mr. White has a keen nose for false scents. I have already told him to let my affairs alone. He means no harm.”

But the reference to a “lydy in a keb” had suggested an immediate plan of action to the barrister. He would call to see Mrs. Hillmer. He wrote a note asking her if he might come to tea that afternoon, and sent it by a boy messenger.

In return he received this answer.

“Mrs. Hillmer will be at home at four o’clock if Mr. Bruce cares to call then.”

“Whew!” he whistled. “What’s in the wind there? This is an uncommonly stiff invitation. That rascal White has upset her, I’ll be bound. I must choke him off somehow. Suppose he were to find that damaged bracket! He would have Mensmore under trial at the Old Bailey in double-quick time. After I leave Mrs. Hillmer I must visit No. 12 again, and carry off that pair of brackets before White discovers them, as he will haunt the place in future.”

Bruce had a set of skeleton keys in his possession.

They were in his pocket when he approached Raleigh Mansions at the appointed hour.

The same trim maid opened the door for him and ushered him into the drawing-room. On the occasion of his first visit he was taken to the dining-room. It was a small matter, but Bruce paid heed to such.

Mrs. Hillmer appeared, very stately and undemonstrative. She greeted him coldly, seated herself at a distance, and said, in a cold, well-controlled voice:

“I did not expect the honor of another visit from you, Mr. Bruce.”

“Why not?”

There was a fight brewing, and he would let the enemy open fire. The glitter in her eyes showed that the batteries were ready to be unmasked. He was not mistaken.

“Why not? Because I believed you to be a gentleman. Once you had stooped to sending your myrmidons to pester me I imagined that you would keep yourself in the background.”

There was an indignant ring in her words as she concluded. When a woman is angry her own speech acts as a trumpet-call and fires her blood. Mrs. Hillmer began, as she intended, in icy disdain. She ended in tremulous anger.

“You allude to Mr. White?” said the barrister, looking steadily at her.

“Yes, that is the man. Some hireling from Scotland Yard. How could you so meanly induce my confidence at our first meeting? I have never been so deceived in a man in my life, and I have had a surfeit of bitter experience already.”

“Brother and sister are alike. They have led queer lives,” mused Bruce. Aloud he said:

“Your experience, Mrs. Hillmer, should at least lead you not to condemn any one unheard. May I explain that which is to you incomprehensible at this moment?—justly so, I admit.”

“Explanations! I am a child in the hands of such as you. How can I hope to fathom your real intent? Presumably, if I accept your apologies now, it will be a prelude to further visits by impudent police officers.”

“I am not here to apologize, Mrs. Hillmer.”

“What then, pray?”

“To plead with you. For Heaven’s sake do not distrust me. It may ruin those whom you hold dear. Listen to me first, and try to believe me afterwards.”

He was so thoroughly in earnest, so impressive in manner, that she did not know what to make of him. In her despair, she adopted a woman’s chief resource—her eyes filled with tears.

But he anticipated her.

“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he cried, “let us act like sensible people. Compose yourself, order in some tea, and after an interlude I will tell you all about it. Candor is an indispensable element of confidence.”

Mrs. Hillmer rose, made an effort to choke back her agitation, went out, and called to the maid for tea. She returned in a few moments. When they were alone Bruce said, with a smile:

“A little poudre de ris is an excellent corrective for signs of grief.”

The lady blushed, and there was a perceptible return to her former pleasant manner.

“You are incorrigible, I fear,” she cried.

“Not a bit. Impressionable, rather. Now, I am going to startle you considerably, so be prepared. And do not jump at conclusions. Though startling, my news is not alarming. All may yet end well.”

Mrs. Hillmer was manifestly anxious, but she promised to try to understand him fully before she formed any judgment.

“Then,” said he, “I can clear the air a good deal by a simple statement. Mr. White is no agent of mine, and I have seen your brother, Albert Mensmore, at Monte Carlo.”

Mrs. Hillmer gave a little gasp of surprise. “You have seen Bertie?”

“Yes; your brother, is he not?”

“My half-brother, to be exact. My father was married twice. I—I am the elder of the two by four years.”

“Apart from the compliment, you do not look it. But what you say explains the total absence of likeness between you.”

“Possibly. People said we each resembled our mother. And Bertie, you know, has led a somewhat adventurous career. He roughed it a good deal in America. But what has all this got to do with detectives, and recent inquiries, and that sort of thing?”

“Much. The last time we met I told you that your brother was mixed up in some little affair with a lady.”

Mrs. Hillmer laughed, a trifle constrainedly. “If you knew Bertie as well as I do, you would not harbor suspicions concerning him. He never had a love affair in his life. Indeed, he is something of a woman-hater.”

“No doubt he was. But he has changed his opinions. He is in love, and is engaged to be married to a very charming girl. Thus far, his beliefs and his good fortune have pulled against each other.”

“Bertie engaged to be married! Good gracious! Who is she? And how can he support a wife? He is poor, and in debt, and he won’t even let me help him.”

“I have stated the facts, nevertheless. The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, and they are now yachting with a large party in the Mediterranean.”

“Are her people against the match? Is that why this Scotland Yard man—?”

“No. Mensmore is on board Sir William’s yacht. But there is another lady, missing from her home for nearly three months, who is believed to be dead—murdered, the police say—and with whom your brother was in some indefinable way associated.”

“Do they dare to say that Bertie killed her?” Mrs. Hillmer’s color rose and her eyes flashed fire again.

“They say nothing. They are simply doing their duty in trying to discover the truth. And you may take it from me, as an undoubted fact, that the last place this lady visited before her death was one of the flats in these mansions. All present indications point to your brother’s residence as being that place. Now, I pray you, be calm, and try to help me, for I have acted in this matter as your friend and as your brother’s friend. At this very moment I am concealing his identity and his whereabouts from the police, who are searching for him under the assumed name of Corbett. If he is guilty of this crime, then I must hand him over to justice, for the murdered woman was a dear and good friend of mine. If he is innocent, as, indeed, I believe him to be, I will strive to help him and save his good name from the tarnish of being arrested on such an odious charge.”

During this recital Mrs. Hillmer became deathly pale. Her agitation was the greater inasmuch as she forcibly controlled herself. But she could not remain seated. She sprang to the window and looked out, in the vain effort to seek inspiration from the gathering gloom of the street. Then she turned, and spoke very slowly:

“I think I understand. I must have faith in you, Mr. Bruce. Who—was—the lady?”

The barrister thought deeply before replying. He had previously decided upon this supreme step, but he hesitated now that it was imminent. There was no help for it.

“Her name,” said he, “is one which is well known to the world. Lady Dyke, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, is missing from her home since the evening of November 6 last. She met with a violent death that night, and I—not the police—have good reason to believe that she was killed in your brother’s residence.”

Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on a lounge, buried her white face in her hands and moaned, in a perfect agony of terror:

“Oh, my God! What shall I do? What shall I do?”

This outburst astounded Bruce. He did not know what to make of it. His intelligence had certainly taken his hearer by surprise. What interpretation was he to place upon her words and her unrestrained actions?

“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she broke in vehemently, running to him and clutching him by the arm:

“He is innocent, Mr. Bruce. He must be innocent. He could not lift his finger to any woman. You must save him—do you hear?—save him, or you will have his blood on your soul. It was true, then, that you came here to hunt for him. Save him, if you hope for mercy yourself when you are dying.”

In her passion she shook him violently, and for an instant they looked intently at each other—the woman tensely piteous, entreating; the man amazed and questioning.

“Do you not see,” he said at last, “that your vehemence reveals your thoughts? For anything you know to the contrary, your brother may have committed the crime. Nay, it requires but slight knowledge of human nature to read your suspicions lest it be true. At this moment I am convinced that you are, in your heart, less sceptical than I of his guilt.”

Mrs. Hillmer flung herself again upon the lounge, silent, tearful, torn with violent emotion, which she vainly tried to suppress.

He tried to reason with her.

“It will, perhaps, serve to clear up a mystery that deepens each moment if you place your trust in me,” he said. “Tell me fully and openly any cause you may have for fearing that your brother may be implicated in this terrible business. I ask you to adopt this course in all faith. I have seen your brother under most trying circumstances; I have been with him at an hour when it would be impossible for him to conceal his burden if the weight of Lady Dyke’s death lay upon him. Yet I think him innocent. I think that chance has contributed to gather evidence against him. If I can learn even a portion of the truth it will enable me to quickly dispel the barrier of uncertainty that now hinders progress.”

“What is it you want to know?”

Mrs. Hillmer’s voice was hollow and broken. The barrister was shocked at the effect of his revelation, but he was forced to go on with the disagreeable task he had undertaken.

“Do you mean,” he asked, “that you will answer my questions?”

“So far as I can.”

“Would it not be better to tell me in your own words what you have to say?”

Mrs. Hillmer looked up, and the agony in her face filled him with keen pity.

“Oh, Heaven help me to do what is right!” she cried.

“Your prayer will surely be answered. I am certain of that. A great wrong has been committed by some one, and the innocent must not suffer to shield the guilty.”

Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head and did not utter a word for some minutes. She appeared to be reasoning out some plan of action in a dazed fashion. When decision came she said in low tones:

“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have time. When I am ready I shall send for you.”

He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead with her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.

“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.

“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving you. When I have determined something which is not now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either case I only can judge—and suffer.”

“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we part. Did you know of Lady Dyke’s death before to-day?”

She came to him and looked him straight in the face, and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”

Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of this painful interview did not prevent him from noting the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some one hurried into the interior of a room.

In their excitement they forgot that their voices might attract attention, and ladies’ maids are proverbially inquisitive.

CHAPTER XVI