Like most men, Claude took a different view of events in the morning to that which he entertained over night.

Yesterday, the surprises of the hour were concrete embodiments, each distinct and emphatic. To-day they were merged in the general mass of contradictory details that made up this most bewildering inquiry.

That matters could not be allowed to rest in their present state was clear; that they would, in the natural course of things, reveal themselves more definitely, even if unaided, was also patent.

Mrs. Hillmer’s partial admissions, her brother’s evident knowledge of some salient features of the puzzle, that utterly strange letter in the admitted handwriting of Lady Dyke herself, and bearing the prosaic testimony of dates stamped by the Post-office—these sensational elements, when brought into juxtaposition, could not avoid reaction into clearer phases.

Long experience in criminal investigation told him that, under certain circumstances, the best course of all was one of inactivity.

On the basis of the accepted truism in the affairs of many people that “letters left unanswered answer themselves,” the barrister knew that there must be an outcome from the queer medley of occurrences at his residence on the Monday evening.

Reviewing the history of the past three months several odd features stood out from the general jumble.

In the first place, he wondered why he had failed to deduce any pertinent fact from the manner in which Mrs. Hillmer’s dining-room was furnished on the occasion of his first visit to Raleigh Mansions.

He distinctly remembered noting his reception in an unusual room littered with unusual articles, when the luxurious and well-appointed suite of apartments was considered as a whole. It was suggested to him at the time that the drawing-room, which he saw during his second visit, was dismantled earlier, but he did not connect this trivial incident with the feature in Mensmore’s flat that he noted immediately—namely, the discrepancies between the arrangement of the sitting-room and the other chambers in the place.

These things were immaterial now, but he indexed them as a guide for future use.

Lady Dyke’s motive for that secret visit to Raleigh Mansions—that was the key to the mystery. But how to discover it? Who was her confidant? To whom could he turn for possible enlightenment? It was useless to broach the matter again to her husband. The baronet and his wife had been friends sharing the same mÉnage rather than husband and wife. Her relatives had already been appealed to in vain. They knew nothing of the slightest value in this search for truth.

In this train of thought the name of Jane Harding cropped up. She was the personal maid of the deceased lady. She had sharp eyes and quick wits. Her queer antics shortly after the inquest were not forgotten. Here at least was a possibility of light if the girl would speak.

If she refused what could be her motive?

Anyhow it was worth while to make a fresh effort. Early in the afternoon he called at the stage-door of the Jollity Theatre.

“Is Miss Marie le Marchant still employed here?” he asked the attendant.

“I dunno,” was the careless answer.

“Well, think hard,” said the barrister, laying a half-crown on the battered blotting-pad which is an indispensable part of the furniture in the letter bureau of a theatre.

“Yes, sir, I believe she is, but she has been away on a week’s leave.”

“Indeed. Has she returned?”

“I was off last night, sir, but if you will pardon me a moment I’ll inquire from the man who took my place.”

The stage-doorkeeper disappeared into the dark interior, to return quickly with the information that Miss le Marchant had appeared as usual on Monday night.

“She was away most part of last week, sir,” added the man, “and I believe it wasn’t a holiday, as she was a-sort of flurried about it as if some one was ill.”

“Thank you. Do you know where she lives?”

A momentary hesitation was soon softened by another half-crown.

“It’s against the rules, sir. If you were to find yourself near Jubilee Buildings, Bloomsbury, you would not be far out.”

The information was sound. Miss Marie le Marchant’s name was painted outside a second-floor flat.

Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly woman whom he had no difficulty in recognizing.

“Is your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?” he said.

For a moment she could not speak for surprise.

“Well, I never,” she cried, “but London is a funny place. Do you know me, sir?”

“Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if they did not take you for her elder sister,” he said. Bruce’s smile was irresistible.

“My daughter is not in just now, sir,” replied Mrs. Harding, “but I expect her in to tea almost immediately.”

“Then may I come in and await her arrival?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pretentious but fairly comfortable nature of its appointments; the ex-lady’s maid’s legacy must have been a nice one to enable her to live in such style, as the poor pittance of a coryphÉe would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover, the presence of her mother in the establishment was a distinct factor in her favor.

Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-room. She seated herself near the window and resumed some sewing.

“Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?” he said, by way of being civil.

“In London, do you mean, sir? About two months. Ever since my daughter got along so well in her new profession. She’s a good girl, is my daughter.”

“Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then?”

“Oh yes, sir. Why, she’s been earning £6 a week, and last week she was sent for on a special engagement, which paid her so well that she’s going to buy me a new dress out of the money.”

“Really,” said the barrister, “you ought to be proud of her.”

“I am,” admitted the admiring mother. “I only wish her brother, who went off and ’listed for a sojer, had turned out half as well.”

Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry soldier in uniform on the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling at the intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable that the girl could be the recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother? In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her earnings? The story about “£6 a week” was a myth.

Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large plaque presentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory of tights, wig, and make-up. Across it was written, in the best theatrical style, “Ever yours sincerely, Marie le Marchant.” And no sooner had Bruce caught sight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement.

The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke.

Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature with his eyes. The resemblance was truly remarkable. What on earth could be the explanation of this phenomenon.

“Your daughter is a remarkably nice writer, Mrs. Harding,” he said, turning the photograph towards her.

“Yes,” said the complacent mother, “she taught herself when—before she went on the stage. She was always a clever girl, and when she grew up she improved herself. I wasn’t able to afford her much schooling when she was young.”

“I have seldom seen a nicer hand,” he went on. “Have you any other specimens of her writing? I should like to see them if they are not private.”

The smooth surface of the photograph might perhaps lend a deceptive fluency to the pen. He wanted to make quite sure that he was not mistaken.

“Oh yes. She’s just copying out the part of Ophelia in Hamlet. And she acts it beautiful.”

Mrs. Harding handed over a large MS. book, and there, written on the first page, was the name of the luckless woman whose fatal passion has moved millions to tears.

He admired Miss Marie le Marchant’s efforts in the matter of self-culture, but he was determined, once for all, to wrest from her some explanation of her actions.

The rattle of a key in the outer door caused him to throw aside the coveted “part,” and the young lady herself entered. A few weeks of stage experience had given her a more stylish appearance. There was a “professional” touch in the arrangement of her hat and the droop of her skirt.

She knew him instantly, and listened with evident anger to her mother’s explanation that “this gentleman has just called to see you, dear.”

“All right, mother,” she cried. “I see it is Mr. Bruce. Will you get tea ready while I talk with him? I shall be ready in two minutes.” This with a defiant look at the visitor.

When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp accents of ill-temper:

“What do you want with me, now?”

“I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke in the name of your dead mistress.”

The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant’s assurance failed her.

She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate:

“I—I—why do you ask me that question?”

“Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a very dangerous game.”

That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming to read the secrets of her heart.

Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of bursting into tears, she snapped viciously:

“I will tell you nothing. Go away.”

“You are obstinate, I know,” said Bruce, “but I must warn you that you are juggling with edged tools. You should not imagine that you can trifle with murder. What is your motive for deliberately trying to conceal Lady Dyke’s death? If you do not answer me you may be asked the question in a court of law.”

“You have no right to come here annoying me!” she retorted.

“I am not here to annoy you. I come, rather, as a friend, to appeal to you not to incur the grave risk of keeping from the authorities information which they ought to possess.”

“What information?”

“The reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke’s house so suddenly, the source from which you obtain your money, paid to you, doubtless, to secure your silence, the motive which impelled you to use your ability to imitate her ladyship’s handwriting in order to spread the false news that she is alive. This is the information needed, and your wilful refusal to give it constitutes a grave indictment.”

“I don’t care that for you, Mr. Bruce,” replied the girl, her face set now in a scarlet temper, while she snapped her fingers to emphasize the words. “You can do and say what you like, I will tell you nothing.”

“You cannot deny you wrote that letter to Sir Charles Dyke last Saturday?”

“I am waiting for my tea. Sorry I can’t ask you to join me.”

“Your flippancy will not avail you. See, here is the letter itself—your own production—written on paper of which you have a quantity in this very room.”

The shot was a bold one, and it very nearly hit the mark. She was staggered, almost subdued by this melodramatic production of the original, and his clever guess at the existence of similar notepaper in the house.

But her dogged temperament saved her. Jane Harding was British, notwithstanding her penchant for a French-sounding name, and she would have died sooner than beat a retreat.

“I will thank you to leave me alone, Mr. Bruce,” she said.

There was nothing for it but to retire as gracefully as possible, but the barrister was more than satisfied with the result of his visit. He had now established beyond a shadow of doubt that for some reason which he could not fathom the ex-lady’s maid not only knew of her mistress’s death, but wished to conceal it.

This desire, too, had the essential feature of every other branch of the inquiry; it grew to maturity long after the day when Lady Dyke was actually killed. What did it all mean?

From Bloomsbury he strolled west to Portman Square, and found Sir Charles on the point of going for a drive in the Park.

He briefly told him his discovery.

The baronet at first was sceptical. “Do you mean to say, Claude,” he cried, fretfully, “that I do not know my wife’s writing when I see it?”

“You may think you do, but when another person can imitate it exactly, of course, you may be deceived. Besides, if this girl, as is probable, was helped in her education by your wife, what is more likely than that Jane Harding should seek to copy that which she would consider the ideal of excellence. Don’t harbor any delusions in the matter, Dyke. The letter you received on Monday morning was written by Jane Harding. I am sure of that from her manner no less than from the accidental resemblance of the two styles of handwriting. What I could not find out was her motive for the deceit.”

“It is a queer business altogether,” said Sir Charles wearily; “I wish it were ended.”

CHAPTER XXV