Bruce announced his departure from Monte Carlo by a telegram to his valet.

Nevertheless, he did not expect to find that useful adjunct to his small household—Smith and his wife comprised the barrister’s mÉnage—standing on the platform at Charing Cross when the mail train from the Continent steamed into the station.

Smith, who had his doubts about this sudden trip to the Riviera, was relieved when he saw his master was alone. “Sir Charles Dyke called this afternoon, sir,” he explained. “I told Sir Charles about your wire, sir, and he is very anxious that you should dine with him to-night. You can dress at Portman Square, and if I come with you—”

“Yes; I understand. Bundle everything into a four-wheeler.”

“Sir Charles thought you might come, sir, so he sent his carriage.”

London looked dull but familiar as they rolled across Leicester Square and up Regent Street. Your true Cockney knows that he is out of his latitude when the sky is blue overhead. Let him hear the tinkle of the hansoms’ bells through a dim, fog-laden atmosphere, and he knows where he is. There is but one London, and Cockneydom is the order of Melchisedek. Claude’s heart was glad within him to be home again, even though the band was just gathering in the Casino gardens, and the lights of Monaco were beginning to gleam over the moon-lit expanse of the Mediterranean.

At Wensley House the traveller was warmly welcomed by the baronet, who seemed to have somewhat recovered his health and spirits.

Nevertheless, Bruce was distressed to note the ineffaceable signs of the suffering Sir Charles Dyke had undergone since the disappearance of his wife. He had aged quite ten years in appearance. Deep lines of sorrowful thought had indented his brow, his face was thinner, his eyes had acquired a wistful look; his air was that of a man whose theory of life had been forcibly reversed.

At first both men fought shy of the topic uppermost in their minds, but the after-dinner cigar brought the question to Dyke’s lips:

“And now, Claude, have you any further news concerning my wife’s—death?”

The barrister noted the struggle before the final word came. The husband had, then, resigned all hope.

“I have none,” he answered. “That is to say, I have nothing definite. I promised to tell you everything I did, so I will keep my promise, but you will, of course, differentiate between facts and theories?”

The baronet nodded an agreement.

“In the first place,” said Bruce, “let me ask you whether or not you have seen Jane Harding, the missing maid?”

“Yes. It seems that she called here twice before she caught me at home. At first she was very angry about a squabble there had been between Thompson and herself. I refused to listen to it. Then she told me how you had found her at some theatre, and she volunteered an explanation of her extraordinary behavior. She said that she had unexpectedly come into a large sum of money, and that it had turned her head. She was sorry for the trouble her actions had caused, so, under the circumstances, I allowed her to take away certain clothes and other belongings she had left here.”

“Did she ask for these things?”

“Yes. Made quite a point of it.”

“Did you see them?”

“No.”

“So you do not know whether they were of any value, or the usual collection of rubbish found in servants’ boxes.”

“I have not the slightest notion.”

“Have they ever been thoroughly examined by any one?”

“’Pon my honor, I believe not. Now that you remind me of it I think the girl seemed rather anxious on that point. I remember my housekeeper telling me that Harding had asked her if her clothes had been ransacked by the detectives.”

“And what did the housekeeper say?”

“She will tell you herself. Let us have her up.”

“Don’t trouble her. If I remember aright the police did not examine Jane Harding’s room. They simply took your report and the statements of the other servants, while the housekeeper was responsible for the partial search made through the girl’s boxes for some clue that might lead to her discovery.”

“That is so.”

The barrister smoked in silence for a few minutes, until Sir Charles broke out rather querulously:

“I suppose I did wrong in letting Harding take her traps?”

“No,” said Bruce. “It is I who am to blame. There is something underhanded about this young woman’s conduct. The story about the sudden wealth is all bunkum, in one sense. That she did receive a bequest or gift of a considerable sum cannot be doubted. That she at once decided to go on the stage is obvious. But what is the usual course for a servant to pursue in such cases? Would she not have sought first to glorify herself in the sight of her fellow-servants, and even of her employers? Would there not have been the display of a splendid departure—in a hansom—with voluble directions to the driver, for the benefit of the footman? As it was, Jane Harding acted suddenly, precipitately, under the stress of some powerful emotion. I cannot help believing that her departure from this house had some connection, however remote, with Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”

“Good heavens, Claude, you never told me this before.”

“True, but when we last met I had not the pleasure of Miss Marie le Marchant’s acquaintance. I wish to goodness I had rummaged her boxes before she carried them off.”

“And I sincerely echo your wish,” said Sir Charles testily. “It always seems, somehow, that I am to blame.”

“You must not take that view. I really wonder, Dyke, that you have not closed up your town house and gone off to Scotland for the fag-end of the shooting season. You won’t hunt, I know, but a quiet life on the moors would bring you right away from associations which must have bitter memories for you.”

“I would have done so, but I cannot tear myself away while there is the slightest chance of the mystery attending my wife’s fate being unravelled. I feel that I must remain here near you. You are the only man who can solve the riddle, if it ever be solved. By the way, what of Raleigh Mansions?”

The baronet obviously nerved himself to ask the question. The reason was patent. His wife’s inexplicable visit to that locality was in some way connected with her fate, and the common-sense view was that some intrigue lay hidden behind the impenetrable wall of ignorance that shrouded her final movements.

Bruce hesitated for a moment. Was there any need to bring Mrs. Hillmer’s name into the business? At any rate, he could fully answer Sir Charles without mentioning her at this juncture.

“The only person in Raleigh Mansions who interests me just now is one who, to use a convenient bull, is not there.”

“Yes?”

“This person occupies a flat in No. 12, his name is Sydney H. Corbett, and he left his residence for the Riviera two days after your wife was lost.”

“Now, who on earth can he be? I am as sure as a man may be of anything that no one of that name was in the remotest way connected with either my wife or myself for the last—let me see—six years, at any rate.”

“Possibly. But you cannot say that Lady Dyke may not have met him previously?”

The baronet winced at the allusion as though a whip had struck him. “For heaven’s sake, Claude,” he cried, “do not harbor suspicions against her. I cannot bear it. I tell you my whole soul revolts at the idea. I would rather be suspected of having killed her myself than listen to a word whispered against her good name.”

“I sympathize with you, but you must not jump at me in that fashion. One hypothesis is as wildly impossible as the other. I did not say that Lady Dyke went to Raleigh Mansions on account of some present or bygone transgression of her own. I would as soon think of my mother in such a connection. But a pure, good woman will often do on behalf of others what she will not do for herself. Really, Dyke, you must not be unjust to me, especially when you force me to tell you what may prove to be mere theories.”

“Others? What others?”

“I cannot say. I wish I could. If I once lay hold of the reason that brought Lady Dyke to Raleigh Mansions, I will, within twenty-four hours, tell you who murdered her. Of that I am as certain as that the sun will rise to-morrow.”

And the barrister poked the fire viciously to give vent to the annoyance that his friend’s outburst had provoked.

“Pardon me, Bruce. Do not forget how I have suffered—what I am suffering—and try to bear with me. I never valued my wife while she lived. It is only now that I feel the extent of my loss. If my own life would only restore her to me for an instant I would cheerfully give it.”

If ever man meant his words this man did. His agitation moved the kindly hearted barrister to rise and place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry, Dyke,” he said, “that the conversation has taken this turn. These speculative guesses at potential clues distress you. If you took my advice, you would not worry about events until at least something tangible turns up.”

“Perhaps it is best so,” murmured the other. “In any event, it is of little consequence. I cannot live long.”

“Oh, nonsense. You are good for another fifty years. Come, shake off this absurd depression. You can do no good by it. I wish now I had taken you with me to Monte Carlo. The fresh air would have braced you up while I hunted for Corbett.”

“Did you find him?”

“No, but I dropped in for an adventure that would cheer the soul of any depressed author searching vainly for an idea for a short story.”

“What was it?”

Claude, who possessed no mean skill as a raconteur, gave him the history of the Casino incident, and the thrilling dÉnouement so interested the baronet that he lit another cigar.

“Did you ascertain the names of the parties?” he said.

“Oh yes. You will respect their identity, as the sensational side of the affair had better now be buried in oblivion, though, of course, all the world knows about the way we scooped the bank. The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, a worthy knight from Warwickshire, and her rather rapid swain is a youngster named Mensmore.”

“Mensmore!” shouted the baronet. “A youngster, you say?” and Sir Charles bounced upright in his excitement.

“Why, yes, a man of twenty-five. No more than twenty-eight, I can swear. Do you know him?”

“Albert Mensmore?”

“That’s the man beyond doubt.”

Dyke hastily poured out some whiskey and water and swallowed it. Then he spoke, with a faint smile: “You didn’t know, Bruce,” he said, “that you vividly described the attempted self-murder of a man I know intimately.”

“What an extraordinary thing! Yet I never remember hearing you mention his name.”

“Probably not. I have hardly seen him since my marriage. We were schoolboys together, though I was so much his senior that we did not chum together until later, when we met a good deal on the turf. Then he went off, roughing it in the States. It must be he. It is just one of his pranks. And he is going to marry, eh? Is she a nice girl?”

The baronet was thoroughly excited. He talked fast, and helped himself liberally to stimulants.

“Yes, unusually so. But I cannot help marvelling at this coincidence. It has upset you.”

“Not a bit. I was interested in your yarn, and naturally I was unprepared for the startling fact that an old friend of mine filled the chief part. What a fellow you are, Claude, for always turning up at the right time. I have never been in a tight place personally, but if I were I suppose you would come along and show me the way out. Sit down again and give me all the details. I am full of curiosity.”

Bruce had never before seen Sir Charles in such a hysterical mood. The anguish of the past three months had changed the careless, jovial baronet into a fretful, wayward being, who had lost control of his emotions. Undoubtedly he required some powerful tonic. The barrister resolved to see more of him in the future, and not to cease urging him until he had started on a long sea voyage, or taken up some hobby that would keep his mind from brooding upon the everlasting topic of his wife’s strange death.

Dyke’s fitful disposition manifested itself later. After he had listened with keen attention to all that Bruce had told him concerning Mensmore and Phyllis Browne, he suddenly swerved back to the one engrossing thought.

“What are you going to do about Corbett?” he asked.

“Find him.”

“But how?”

“People are always tied to a centre by a string, and no matter how long the string may be, it contracts sooner or later. Corbett will turn up at Raleigh Mansions, and before very many weeks have passed, if I mistake not.”

“And then?”

“Then he will have to answer me a few pertinent questions.”

“But suppose he knows nothing whatever about the business?”

“In that case I must confess the clue is more tangled than ever.”

“It would be curious if Corbett and Jane Harding were in any way associated.”

“If they were, it would take much to convince me that one or both could not supply at least some important information bearing on my—on our quest. If Mr. White even knew as much as I do about them he would arrest them at sight.”

“Oh, he’s a thick-headed chap, is White. By the way, that reminds me. He got hold of the maid, it seems, before she had bolted, and made her give him some of my wife’s clothes. By that means he established some sort of a theory about—”

“About a matter on which we differ,” put in Bruce quietly. “Let us talk of something else.”

The other moved restlessly in his chair, but yielded. For the remainder of the evening they discussed questions irrelevant to the course of this narrative.

It was late when they separated, but Bruce found Smith sitting up for him at home.

That faithful servitor bustled about, stirring the fire and turning up the lights. Finally he nervously addressed his master:

“Pardon me, sir, but there was a policeman here asking about you to-night, sir.”

“A policeman!”

“Well, sir, a detective—Mr. White, of Scotland Yard. I knew him, sir, though he did not think it. He came about ten o’clock, and asked where you were.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Well, sir,” and Smith shifted from one foot to the other, “I thought it best to let him know the truth, sir.”

“Good gracious, Smith, he is not going to handcuff me. You did quite right. What did he say?”

“Nothing, sir; except that he would call again. He wouldn’t leave his name, but I know’d him all right.”

“Thank you. Good-night. It was unnecessary that you should have remained up. But I am obliged to you all the same.”

The barrister laughed as he went to his room. “Really,” he said to himself, still highly amused, “White will cap all his previous feats by trying to arrest me. I suspect he has thought of it for a long time.”

And Mr. White had thought of it.

CHAPTER XII