  Sir Charles Dyke, in sending off the hurried announcement of his wife’s death, forgot the “society” papers. Such a promising topic did not come in their way every week, and they made the most of it. Where did Lady Dyke die? Under what circumstances did she die? They rolled the morsel under their tongue in every conceivable manner. Details were not forthcoming. “Our representative called at Wensley House, Portman Square, but was informed that Sir Charles was in Yorkshire.” Inquiry by a local reporter from Sir Charles in person elicited no information. “Lady Dyke is dead,” wrote this enterprising journalist; “of that there can be no manner of doubt, but her husband states that for family reasons he is unable to supply the public with the precise facts concerning his wife’s demise.” This ill-advised authentic statement only fanned the flame. An evening journal got hold of the proceedings at the Putney Coroner’s Court which inquired into the death of a woman found in the Thames, and, with a portentous display of headlines, published an interview with the doctor giving particulars of the iron spike found imbedded in the skull. The paper was also able to state “on the best authority” that at this inquest Sir Charles Dyke and the missing A first-class sensation was in full swing and threatened to reach the question stage in the House of Commons when Bruce took hold of affairs. He went to Sir Charles Dyke’s solicitors, and induced them to send out the following authoritative communication to the press: “Much unnecessary pain is being caused to Sir Charles Dyke and to the relatives of his late wife by the comments which have appeared in many newspapers regarding Lady Dyke’s death. Her ladyship left her home on November 6th to pay a visit to her sister at Richmond, and since that date has not been seen or heard of. There was no possible reason for her disappearance. After a long and agonizing search, her husband and relatives have come to the conclusion that she met with some accident on the date named, with the result that her identity was not established, and she was probably buried from some hospital or other institution long before her friends seriously entertained the thought that she was dead. Every such case of accidental death followed by the interment of unknown persons by the authorities, occurring on or about November 6th, has since been rigidly investigated, but no definite trace has been found of the missing lady. Sir Charles Dyke determined to take the public step of announcing his wife’s death in the hope that any hitherto undiscovered clue might thereby come to light. But there are no grounds to suppose that any other explanation of the occurrence than that given will be forthcoming. The investigation has been in the hands of Scotland Yard throughout, so no good purpose can be served by further discussion in the press of what is now, and threatens to Several newspapers, of course, pointed out that they were helping forward the inquiry by noising it abroad, but thenceforth the paragraphs ceased, being eclipsed in interest by the revelations of a great divorce case in which there were no less than six titled co-respondents. One man was much puzzled by the original obituary notice and the semi-official statement supplied by the solicitors. Mr. White did not know what to make of them. He guessed that Bruce had inspired that “explanation,” and he read the concluding sentence many times. “It threatens to remain a mystery, does it not?” he murmured. “Just wait, Mr. Bruce, until I lay my hands on Corbett. Clever as you are, I think I will show you that Scotland Yard can occasionally get the better of your theories. Anyhow, Corbett will have to be very explicit about his movements before I am satisfied that he knows nothing about this business.” He had written to the Chief of Police at Cheyenne, and something definite would soon come to hand. Nevertheless, he felt somewhat shaken in his diagnosis of the crime. Wyoming was a long way from London, and the letter from Corbett, which he had in his possession, did not exactly confirm his suspicion that this man was concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke. He quickly became aware of Mrs. Hillmer’s departure, and at once jumped to the conclusion that she had recently left England for the United States. A close scrutiny of the passenger lists at Liverpool and Southampton did not help him much, and he ultimately resolved to call on Bruce, in the hope that a chance exclamation might reveal the barrister’s opinion of the situation. Claude was not at a loss to account for Mr. White’s presence. “I expected you,” he said. “Really now, may I ask why, sir?” “Because you have missed Mrs. Hillmer, and you want me to help you find where she has gone, and why.” The detective smiled. “I won’t say that you are wrong, sir,” he cried. “In these affairs it is always well to keep an eye on the woman, you know.” “When did Mrs. Hillmer leave Raleigh Mansions?” “On the 30th.” “It is now February 3. Four days ago, eh?” “That is the time. She might have left by the American line from Southampton or the Cunard from Liverpool on Wednesday, but she did not, and no one answering to her description is booked by the White Star to-morrow.” “Southampton! Liverpool! Do you think she has gone to America?” “Where else? She’s in league with Corbett, somehow, of that I am certain, and I think that the Monte Carlo address was a mere blind—a clever one, too, as it even deceived you, Mr. Bruce.” “Yes. It did deceive me.” “Then why are you so surprised at the suggestion that the lady should attempt to cross the Atlantic?” “Because I have not your rapid perception of the points of the case.” “That’s your way of pulling my leg, Mr. Bruce.” The barrister smiled. Mrs. Hillmer, of course, had gone to Monte Carlo. Once there she would have little difficulty in tracing the White Heather, and overtaking Mensmore. She would warn him of the police pursuit, and there would be a scene between them. How would it result? Would Mensmore, guilty, seek safety in flight? Would he, innocent, return to London and demand to be confronted with his accusers? For the life of him, Bruce could not say positively. Yet he felt the situation was too delicate to be dealt with by Mr. White’s bludgeon methods, and he forebore to speak. The detective interpreted his silence as an admission of inability to find a satisfactory explanation of Mrs. Hillmer’s absence. He went on: “Corbett is not at Monte Carlo.” “So I imagined.” “Well, it is a fact. The police have made constant inquiries for him at the Hotel du Cercle and elsewhere. Not the slightest trace of him can be found.” “I was there myself, you know.” “Yes, sir. I have not forgotten that. But it shows what a clever rascal the fellow is in concealing his identity. However, he could never have counted on my discovering that letter of his. Even if he is not in America we shall have some reliable data to go upon in answer to my queries.” “There I fully agree with you. You will have done a great deal if you thoroughly clear up the mystery regarding Corbett. May I ask you to let me know the result?” “With pleasure, sir. And now, can I request a favor in return?” “Certainly.” “Tell me, then, what is, in your opinion, the best way to find Mrs. Hillmer.” Bruce did not expect to be thus openly challenged on Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days’ start. It would take some time—possibly a telegram would not be sufficiently explicit—to obtain the desired assistance from the Continental police. Yes—in this instance, Mensmore must take his chances. “If I were you,” said Bruce, slowly weighing his words, “I would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Victoria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge of the morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it would be quite safe if you were to wire the authorities at Monte Carlo, asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at the Hotel du Cercle.” The detective started as though he had been shot. “What!” he cried, “you think she is there all the time?” “I think she has been there since Wednesday morning.” “That is what I mean. Why did you not tell me sooner?” “Because you never asked me. And now, Mr. White, one word of advice. Go slow.” “It’s all jolly fine telling me to go slow when I have no reason to go fast. The case even against Corbett is shadowy enough at present.” “Exactly. Wait until you can grasp a substance.” “I will, sir,” said White, jamming his hat on; “but when I lay my hands on Corbett I will grasp him hard enough.” It took the policeman all that day to satisfy himself that Mrs. Hillmer had really booked for the Riviera by the Club train from Charing Cross on the preceding Monday. Just as he verified the fact, came a reply from the Monte Carlo police: “Mrs. Hillmer arrived at the Hotel du Cercle on Wednesday. Left for Italy same afternoon. Shall we endeavor to trace her?” “Oh, bother,” he growled. “Corbett may be in Jerusalem by this time. And here have I been fussing about Wyoming or some other potato-patch in the Far West.” However, he wired again to Monte Carlo: “Yes. Locate Mrs. Hillmer, if possible. I will then telegraph instructions to local police.” When this message was despatched he felt easier in his mind. The chase was at least getting warm. “I cannot arrest him yet,” he reflected; “but if I once get fairly on his track, I will not lose sight of him again if I can help it. I suppose it will mean a trip to Italy for me. I must lay the evidence before the Treasury to see if a warrant is justified.” Two days passed without incident. Late on Sunday evening, February 5, a Continental telegram was handed to him at Scotland Yard: “Mrs. Hillmer’s present address, Hotel Imperiale, Florence.” He promptly wired the Chief of Police at Florence: “Keep Mrs. Hillmer, English visitor, Hotel Imperiale, under surveillance. Also watch her associates, particularly Englishman named Corbett, if there. Letter follows.” “That’s a good stroke of business,” said he, when the message was sent. “Now we shan’t be long!” It was in contented mood that he lit a cigar in his office, “Who’s the cable for, boy?” said the detective. “White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer. “That’s me.” He tore open the envelope, and found that the contents were coded, but he caught the word “Corbett” amidst the unintelligible jumble. With some excitement he rushed into the office to find the A B C Code, and after some confusion in deciphering the words, this was what he read: “Regret delay in replying to your communication. Corbett left New York in White Star steamer due Liverpool, February 4.” “February 4? Why, that’s yesterday. Good gracious, he’s here all the time. Well, of all the—” But exclamations were useless. Calling another plain-clothes man to accompany him, he drove off in mad haste to Sloane Square. About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten slip gummed on to a telegraph form. It was from Florence, and ran as follows: “My brother wildly excited regarding allegations. We start for London to-night. Meanwhile fearful complications expected. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my brother’s friend, is probably occupying his flat, and may be arrested. We both trust you to save him. Wire us at Modane or Gare du Nord. ”Gwendoline Hillmer.” So Bruce also raced off in a hansom towards Sloane Square.
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