“Inexorable Fate!” is a favorite phrase with the makers of books; but Fate, being feminine according to the best authorities, is also somewhat fickle in disposition. Not only is she not invariably inexorable, but at times she delights to play with her poor subjects, to dazzle them with surprise, as it were, to stupefy them with the sense of their sheer inability to foresee or understand her vagaries.

It was Bruce’s turn to receive the sharpest lesson in this respect that he ever remembered.

At breakfast the next morning he selected from a packet of unimportant letters one which required immediate attention. The financiers to whom he had written in conformity with his implied promise to Mr. Dodge had replied favorably with reference to the reconstruction of the Springbok Mine.

They informed Bruce confidentially that a thoroughly reliable man in Johannesburg, to whom they had cabled, reported very strongly in favor of the property. They would await his written statement before finally committing themselves. Meanwhile, if Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) were anxious to get the business advanced a stage, there was no reason why he (Bruce) should not assure them that, subject to the first satisfactory report being confirmed, his clients would underwrite the shares. The whole thing would thus go through in about three weeks. As for Bruce himself, they proposed to give him a commission of five per cent in fully paid shares for the introduction.

“Well, I never!” he laughed. “Now who would have thought such a thing possible? Why, if that rascal Dodge is right and this company is really a sound undertaking, my share of the deal will be £10,000. It seems wildly incredible, yet my friends know what they are writing about as a rule.”

An hour later he was in the city.

A smart brougham stood in front of the now thoroughly renovated offices of Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited), and out of it, at the moment the barrister detached himself from the chaos of Leadenhall Street, stepped the head of the firm.

He was making up the steps when Claude cried:

“Hello, Mr. Dodge, how is the junior partner?”

Dodge stopped, focussed Bruce with his sharp eyes, and smiled:

“Oh, it is you, is it? The young ’un is all right, thanks. Are you coming in?”

“That was my intention.”

“Come along then. I was hoping I would see you one of these days.”

“Has business improved recently?” inquired Bruce, as they entered the inner office.

“Yes, somewhat; but money is very tight still. However, we generally look for a spurt early in the New Year. Why do you ask?”

“No valid reason. A mere hazard.”

“Was it because you saw me drive up in a carriage?”

“Mr. Dodge, I never dreamt that self-consciousness was a failing of the members of the Stock Exchange.”

“Then that was the cause. I guessed it. I have been making inquiries about you, Mr. Bruce, and there is no use in trying to fool you, not a bit.”

“Have you another Springbok proposition on hand?”

“No; bar chaffing. You were the man who ferreted out the truth about that West Australian combination when everybody else had failed. And, now I think of it, you made me talk a lot the last time you were here. However, I am ready. Fire away! I will tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me—”

“Sh-s-sh! Do not perjure yourself for the sake of alliteration. Besides, it is I who have come to talk this time.”

“About Springboks?”

“Yes. The people I mentioned to you at my previous visit are prepared to underwrite the shares, provided that their agent’s report is as favorable in its entirety as a telegraphic summary leads them to believe.”

“Eh? That’s good news! When will they be in a position to complete?”

“As soon as they hear from South Africa by post. Say three weeks.”

“So long! But suppose I get an offer from some other quarter in the meantime? I cannot keep the proposal open indefinitely.”

“I have not asked you to do so, Mr. Dodge. Let me see—three shillings per share on, say, two hundred thousand shares is £30,000. It is a good deal of money. If any one likes to hand you a cheque for that amount without preliminary investigation, take it by all means.”

The notion tickled Dodge immensely.

“All right, Mr. Bruce. When people of that sort turn up we don’t sell ’em Springboks in the City. But there is no harm in you telling me your clients’ names.”

“Not in the least. They are the Anglo-African Finance Corporation.”

Mr. Dodge whistled. “By Jove, they’re the best backing I could have. This is a good turn, Mr. Bruce, and I shan’t forget it. You see, we’re a young firm, and association with well-known houses is good for us in every sense. I’m jolly glad now that Springboks are all right. It would never have done for me to introduce them to a risky piece of business. I am really much obliged to you. And now, how do we stand?”

“Kindly explain.”

“How much ‘com’ do you want?”

“Nothing.”

Mr. Dodge moved his chair backward several feet in sheer amazement. “Nothing, my dear sir! Nonsense! It is a big affair. Shall we say one per cent in cash, or two in shares. I am not very well off just now, or—”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself. I have already secured my commission—five per cent in fully paid shares.”

“But the people who put up the money don’t pay for the privilege as a rule.”

“That I know quite well. This case is different. I am not, nor ever have been, a financial go-between.”

“Didn’t you come to see me about the deal in the first instance?”

It was Bruce’s turn to hesitate.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I really wanted to know something about Mr. Corbett, and the Springbok business arose out of it.”

“Ah, that chap Corbett. I have been thinking about him. I wonder who he can be? Anyhow, I owe him my best wishes, as the mention of his name has had such excellent results.”

“Well, that is all,” said Bruce rising.

“Yes, thanks. I must now see about raising the money to pay my own call. I am interested in fifty thousand shares, you know.”

“Then you require some £7,500?”

“Yes. But that will be easy when I can say that the Anglo-African Finance people are with me. Besides, this morning—queer you should call immediately afterwards—I have had some wholly unexpected news.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Dodge was in a talkative vein, and Bruce was in no hurry.

“The very best!” went on Dodge gleefully. “You see, there is another man in this affair with me. I thought he was as stony-broke as I am myself—speaking confidentially, you know—when he suddenly writes to me saying that he had won a pot of money at Monte Carlo and could spare me £2,000. What’s the matter? Beastly trying weather, isn’t it? Try a nip of brandy.”

For once in his life the self-possessed barrister had blanched at a sudden revelation. But this was too much. He felt as though a meteorite had fallen on his head. Nevertheless, he grappled with the situation.

“Ill! No!” he cried. “How stupid of me. I have forgotten my morning smoke. May I light a cigar?”

“With pleasure. You know these. Try one.”

“You were saying—”

“That’s all. This young fellow, Mensmore his name is, got mixed up with me over a Californian mine. I thought he had lots of coin, so when Springboks came along he and I went shares in underwriting them. The public didn’t feed, so we were loaded. I tried all I knew to get him to pay up, but he absolutely couldn’t. And now at the very moment affairs look promising he writes offering £2,000. More than that, he says, if necessary, he can get the remainder of his half, £1750, from somebody. Where is his letter?”

Mr. Dodge looked on his table. “Oh, here it is. Addressed from ‘Yacht White Heather,’ if you please. Quite swell, eh? Sir William Browne! That’s the covey. I think I will let Sir William have ’em. It’s a good, solid sort of name to have on the share register.”

“I would if I were you,” said Bruce, hardly conscious of his surroundings.

“If you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a good morning for me. Come and have lunch.”

“No, thanks. I have a lot to attend to. By the way, where did Mensmore live?”

“I don’t know. His address was always at the Orleans Club.”

Somehow, Bruce reached the street and a hansom. As the vehicle rolled off westward he crouched in a corner and tried to wrestle with the problem that befogged his brain.

Was Albert Mensmore Sydney H. Corbett? Was he Mrs. Hillmer’s brother? The “Bertie” she had spoken of meant Albert as well as a hypothetical Herbert. Mensmore was an old schoolfellow of Sir Charles Dyke’s. In all probability he knew Lady Dyke as well. He lived in Raleigh Mansions under an assumed name, and quitted his abode two days after the murder.

Every circumstance pointed to the terrible assumption that at Mensmore’s hands the unfortunate lady met her death. And Bruce had sworn to avenge her memory!

He laughed with savage mirth as he reflected that he himself had helped this man to escape the punishment of Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed, pitifully amusing to think how the clever detective had used his powers to befool himself. The very openness of the clue had helped to conceal it the more effectually. Were it not for Dodge and his Springboks he might have gone on indefinitely covering up the criminal’s tracks by his own friendly actions. The situation was maddening, intolerable. Bruce wanted to seize the reins and flog the horse into a mad gallop through the traffic as a relief to his feelings.

Blissfully unconscious of the living volcano he carried within, the cabby on the perch did not indulge in any such illegal antics. He quietly drove along the Embankment and delivered his seething fare at his Victoria-street chambers.

Quite oblivious of commonplace affairs, the barrister threw a shilling to the driver and darted out.

The man gazed at his Majesty’s image with the air of one who had never before seen such a coin. It might have been a Greek obolus, so utter was his blank astonishment.

But Bruce was across the pavement, and cabby had to find words, else it would be too late.

“Here guv’nor,” he yelled, “what the ballyhooley do you call this?”

“What’s the matter?” was the impatient query.

“Matter!” The cabman looked towards the sky to see if the heavens were falling. “Matter!” in a higher key, as a crowd began to gather. “I tykes him from Leaden’all Street to Victoria. ’E gives me a bob, an’ ’e arsks me wot’s the matter. I’d been on the ranks four bloomin’ hours—”

“Oh, there you are!” and Bruce threw him half-a-crown before he disappeared up the steps.

Mr. White was watching for Bruce’s arrival. He wondered why the barrister was so perturbed, and resolved to strike while the iron was hot. So he, too, vanished into the interior.