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Title: Dorcas Dene, detective
Her adventures (second series)
Author: George R. Sims
Release date: March 14, 2026 [eBook #78210]
Language: English
Original publication: London: F.V. White & Co, 1898
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78210
Credits: Payton D. Cooke
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DORCAS DENE, DETECTIVE ***
Dorcas Dene, Detective
Her adventures
_Second Series_
by George R. Sims
Table of Contents
I. THE MISSING PRINCE
II. THE MORGANATIC WIFE
III. THE HOUSE IN REGENT'S PARK
IV. THE CO-RESPONDENT
V. THE HANDKERCHIEF SACHET
VI. A BANK HOLIDAY MYSTERY
VII. A PIECE OF BROWN PAPER
VIII. PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN
IX. THE ONE WHO KNEW
-----
_I. THE MISSING PRINCE_
I was talking to Mr. Alfred Moul, the amiable manager of the Alhambra,
and complimenting him upon the new decorations of the theatre, but
he was not listening to what I said. I saw at once that he had
something on his mind, so using the privilege of an old friend I
asked him what was worrying him.
"That," he said, pointing to the big box usually reserved for
royalty.
"But there's nobody in it."
"Exactly--that's why I'm worried. I received an intimation
yesterday that the box was to be reserved for his Royal Highness
Prince ---- of ----, who is in London for a few days, and it is now a
quarter to ten and his Royal Highness has not turned up. The ballet
was due to commence at 9.30, and I can't put it off any longer. You'll
excuse me, won't you--I must go and tell Jacobi to start the overture--
I can't keep a packed house waiting for a foreign prince if he _is_
the heir to a throne!"
Mr. Moul left me, and a few minutes later Mr. Jacobi, all smiles,
took the place he has occupied for so many years, and, tapping on his
desk, commenced the long-overdue overture to the gorgeous ballet which
was attracting all London to the Alhambra.
I had come to see Mr. Moul privately on a matter of business. I had
seen the ballet on the night of its production, and so I turned to go
away. As I jostled my way through the crowded promenade I felt a tug
at my coat sleeve, and looking round I recognised a detective
inspector who had assisted Dorcas Dene on one or two occasions, and
to whom I had been introduced at Oak Tree Road.
"Mrs. Dene saw you talking to Mr. Moul just now, Mr. Saxon," he
said, "and she told me to bring you to her."
"Mrs. Dene here," I exclaimed.
"No--she was, but she left. She's waiting for us at the Cavour.
We are going to have some supper, and she hopes you will join us."
A minute later I was seated at a quiet corner table with Dorcas
and Inspector Carr, and the smiling and ever courteous Philippe was
personally attending to our wants, and impressing upon the waiter who
was taking our orders that everything was to be _soigné._
"Now," I said to Dorcas, as soon as the menu had been settled and
the waiter had brought us the wine, "what on earth were you doing at
the Alhambra?"
"I went to see if the Prince was going to occupy his box."
"And he didn't. I really don't see what personal interest you can
have in the matter, which after all is not a very remarkable one.
Probably his Royal Highness has another engagement and couldn't get
away."
Dorcas looked at the inspector, and the inspector replied for her.
"The fact is, Mr. Saxon," he said, "Mrs. Dene and myself are trying
to fathom one of the greatest mysteries of modern times, and we've
just come to the point where we want the assistance of a linguist.
Mrs. Dene, directly she saw you at the Alhambra, said you were the
very man to help us."
"I am very much obliged," I replied, nodding gratefully to Dorcas,
"but it is evidently a police matter by your being concerned in it,
and you have plenty of linguists on the staff at the Yard?"
"Yes, and as a matter of fact they are, most of them, at the
present moment busily engaged in trying to solve the mystery for
themselves. But I am particularly anxious to score in this matter,
and being sure that the others are quite on the wrong scent, I went
to Mrs. Dene, for whose talents you know I have always had an intense
admiration, and told her the case and my view. She started another
theory altogether, and I was so struck by it that I abandoned mine
and took hers up. That is why we were together at the Alhambra when
we so fortunately discovered you."
"I _am_ a bit of a linguist," I replied when the inspector had
finished, "but Greek is not one of my accomplishments, and up to
the present, all you have said is Greek to me. Tell me what the case
is in plain English."
Dorcas laughed. "In plain English," she said, "his Royal Highness
Prince ---- of ---- left his hotel yesterday evening unaccompanied by
any member of the small suite he has with him, and he has not been
seen or heard of since."
"A Royal Prince lost in London!" I exclaimed, dropping the piece
of grilled fowl which I had just raised on my fork. "Impossible! That
sort of thing can only happen in a new Arabian Night."
"There is so little impossibility about it," said the inspector
gravely, "that the suite are distracted. The news has been telegraphed
to the Prince's relatives, and communications are passing hourly
between the secret police of ---- and our chiefs. There are
twenty detectives at the present moment searching London, in the
hope of discovering his Royal Highness's whereabouts. This morning,
immediately on receipt of the news, the chief of the police in the
Prince's capital, accompanied by half a dozen officers, started for
England."
"But there has been nothing in the newspapers?"
"No--so far the secret has been admirably kept. There are strong
political reasons why the matter should not be divulged. The Prince
is the heir to the throne, and the rumour that he had disappeared
might lead to the gravest consequences in his capital."
"But after all," I said, "it may not be serious. The Prince is
young--if report speaks truly, he is also flighty, and fond of
adventure. He may be amusing himself."
"No," said Dorcas, emphatically, "that story won't hold water for
a moment. Had he intended to absent himself for private amusement, he
would certainly have communicated with the distinguished officer who
is in attendance upon him. He would know that his absence would cause
alarm, and lead to police inquiries, and he would not risk that. His
Royal Highness is _unable_ to communicate the reason of his mysterious
absence, and therefore he must be either lying somewhere too ill to
make his identity known, or he must be in the power of those who
prevent him from sending a message."
"How did he go out--in what dress?" I asked.
"In ordinary evening dress. He speaks English fluently, and knows
London fairly well. Princes do not carry large sums of money about
with them, because they are not in the habit of paying cash. His
valet declares that he had not more than five pounds in money about
him at the most."
"Did he say where he was going when he went out?"
"No. It was ten o'clock. He had dined quietly in his apartments
at the hotel--our own Royal Family, you know, are all away from
London--and after dinner he said he was going for a stroll
through the streets. He did not desire to be accompanied by
anyone."
"And no one has seen him since he left the hotel last night?"
"No one, so far as can be ascertained. He is not sufficiently well
known to attract special attention as a prince, and in evening dress
he would pass easily as an ordinary English gentleman. But from ten
last night until the present moment all trace of him has been lost.
He has dropped completely and suddenly out of existence."
We had finished our supper, and M. Philippe had ordered us some
coffee, and had brought us a bottle of liqueur brandy from the Emperor
Napoleon's cellar, and Dorcas had given us permission to light our
cigarettes.
"Well," I said, after I had puffed my smoke into several rings, and
gazed thoughtfully into the centre of each, "the Prince has
disappeared, the entire detective force of London has started in hot
pursuit of him, but Mrs. Dorcas Dene and Mr. Inspector Carr are going
to find him. When?"
"To-night, we hope," replied Dorcas, shaking her head as the
inspector offered to fill her liqueur glass.
"That's all right; and you have done me the distinguished honour
of inviting me to join in the search because I speak one or two
foreign languages. What language do you want me to speak?"
"None."
I stared in astonishment. "If I am to speak none, what use will
my knowledge be to you?"
"You can listen," replied Dorcas, "and tell us afterwards what you
have heard. It may be in French, it may be in German, it may be in
Italian."
"I understand. But how are you going to arrange that people shall
talk in these languages before me, and on the subject in which you
are interested?"
"That is Mr. Carr's task," said Dorcas. "He will introduce you
into certain society this evening and arrange for your safety."
"And you really think we shall unravel the mystery of the Prince's
disappearance to-night?"
"I hope so. But whether we shall be able to manage entirely by
ourselves depends upon how far my theory is correct. Inspector Carr
wants to bring off a big thing, you see. He wants to be able to
inform his Chief that Prince ---- of ---- is back at the hotel, and
have all the credit of having restored the heir to the throne of ----
to his friends without the slightest reference to his disappearance
finding its way into the Press."
"The truth is, Mr. Saxon, that my Chief has given this job to the
foreign lot at the Yard, and I can't see that they are any cleverer
than we Englishmen. I want an English detective to do this job,
because it's a very big one, and there's a lot hanging to it. I want
to show them that an English detective is quite as clever as a
foreigner, and I think, with Mrs. Dene's help, and you to do the
'lingo,' I may pull it off. At any rate, we'll have a good try. I'm
working with Dorcas Dene, and I reckon she's worth all the foreigners
in our place put together."
"That's a very big compliment you are paying me, Mr. Carr," said
Dorcas, smiling. "However, I think my information with regard to the
Prince has been of some use to you, and if my idea _is_ correct, we
may not have such a difficult task after all. But we'd better be
going."
The inspector wanted to pay the bill, but I insisted on making the
supper mine, and having bidden Philippe good-night, we took our
departure.
In Leicester Square we found a four-wheeled cab waiting for us.
Directly we were in the cab the detective handed me a revolver.
"You'd better slip that into your pocket in case of accidents,"
he said, "but don't use it if you can help."
The cab went on for a little while, and then stopped suddenly,
and looking out of the window I saw we were in Soho Square.
The inspector asked us to get out, and we walked round the square,
we two smoking, and Dorcas between us. The square was in darkness
and quite deserted, as Soho Square generally is late at night.
Presently we saw a female coming slowly round the square. Dorcas
took my arm and led me across the road. The detective went on into
the shadow, and the female figure stopped close by him.
"What is it?" I said. "Does this woman know where the Prince is?"
"No, she hasn't an idea what we are after. She is the English wife
of a foreign Anarchist who lives in London. Mr. Carr knows her. She
is devotedly attached to her husband, and at the present moment she
is bargaining for his life."
"For his life?"
"Yes, he is wanted by the foreign police. Carr found out two or three
days ago where to lay his hand on him. If he is taken and sent back to
Madrid, where he was concerned in an outrage, his death is a certainty.
I advised Mr. Carr to get at the wife and make terms. I wanted certain
information to act upon to-night. If she gives that information it may
be the means of our finding the Prince. For that information Mr. Carr
is promising the poor creature that her husband shall be allowed to
escape."
"Can you promise that?"
"Yes--our Government won't mind letting off an Anarchist if
the result is what I confidently anticipate it will be."
"And that result----?"
"Will be the execution of five of the most dangerous men in Europe."
"Are they all in London, then--these five men?"
"No, they are all in prison on the Continent. They are to be executed
the day after to-morrow at seven o'clock in the morning."
"You mean the five Anarchists concerned in the ---- outrage. What
on earth can all this have to do with the mysterious disappearance
of Prince ---- of ---- in London?"
"If I am wrong in _my_ theory--nothing. If I am right--everything.
But here comes the inspector, and I hope with good news."
There was no doubt about the nature of the detective's news. His first
words settled that. "Got 'em," he said, "but we must make haste, the
meeting's at one o'clock."
"Where?" said Dorcas.
"Round the watchman's fire where the road's up in Kennington Lane.
Old Charley's information as to their last meeting was correct, you
see."
"Excellent! Then now the arrangements you made this afternoon in
anticipation will have to be carried out?"
"Yes--I told you if your idea was right I could guess the gang that
were in it. I saw old Charley the watchman, and told him I'd give him
a fiver to let me hide, but of course it wouldn't have been any good,
because I don't understand their language, but Mr. Saxon can manage
that splendidly."
I began to realise what was expected of me, and I didn't relish
the situation.
"It's all right," said the inspector; "the only light is old Charley's
bucket of coke and the dull red lamps on the barriers. You'll be
railed off with poles lying in a hole in the roadway and a tarpaulin
over that, and the tilted-up truck that he makes his shelter with
will be in front of you--and I shall be there with you, so there's
not the slightest occasion for alarm. If it comes to that I'll have
a couple of plain clothes men round the corner out of sight ready to
run up when I whistle, but of course I want to avoid that if possible.
All I want to do to-night is to know what these men say--not to take
any of them."
"But are you sure you can rely on the watchman--he might betray us!"
"Not a bit of it. He lodged in a house with one of them--that's how
they got to know him. They come and sit on a plank across two barrels
in front of the fire and talk. All he gets out of them is a sup at the
brandy bottle and some baccy. I've promised him a fiver. Come along."
We got into the cab again, and I began to clutch my revolver. I was
half sorry I had gone to the Alhambra. I couldn't back out of the
thing now without appearing a coward.
Dorcas, I think, guessed I was nervous, and reassured me. She had
every confidence in the inspector, who was an old hand with desperate
men, and she was sure I was quite safe with him. She strongly advised
no extra aid being had, as it would cause delay. After all, there
were three of us, for the watchman would be on the side of the police.
When we got to within a couple of streets of the place, we got out.
Dorcas was to keep the cab, and drive to a square in the neighbourhood
and wait for us. The cab was driven by her regular man, so that she
would be all right.
* * * * * *
It was half-past twelve when the inspector, after a short and
hurried conversation with a night-watchman sitting in front of his
coke fire where the road was up in Kennington Lane, pointed out to us
our place of concealment. We had to get down into the cavity commenced
for the re-drainage. Fortunately it was deep enough for us to stand
upright in. The tarpaulin was not necessary. By placing a couple of
planks across with a space between we were completely hidden. The men
might have walked over our heads and never suspected our presence.
Old Charley, by the detective's directions, shifted his truck and
his fire back so as to bring the plank on which the men would sit
quite close to our hiding-place. They would sit with their backs
towards us. Buttoning our over-coats closely to we descended into
our quarters, and were duly planked in.
It seemed an hour before there were signs of an arrival, but the
conspirators were punctual, for as the clock was striking one they
commenced to arrive. I guessed there were four of them by the
different voices I heard. One, I gathered from the conversation,
which was entirely in French, had arrived from Manchester only a
couple of hours previously, in obedience to a telegram which had been
sent him.
The conversation was not particularly intelligible to me at first.
The men made mysterious allusions which would have been puzzling to
me in English, but which in a foreign language were absolutely beyond
my comprehension.
At first they muttered a good deal, the habit of caution being strong
upon them, but gradually they became animated, and secure in the
impossibility of Old Charley understanding a word they said, and the
utter loneliness of the place at that hour in the morning, they began
to talk with greater freedom and in a louder tone.
Their conversation was principally directed to the fate of their
comrades, the five Anarchists who were lying under sentence of death,
and whose execution was a matter now of some thirty hours.
"We will save them," said the man who seemed to be the ruling spirit;
"our brave comrades shall not die--we may even compel the Government
to set them secretly at liberty."
The man from Manchester, who was evidently considerably in the dark
as yet, said he was glad to hear it, but what did they propose to
do--threaten to blow up London or Paris, or what?
"No," replied the leader, "threats are of no avail. We have tried
all that, and the only result is that the friends of Anarchy are
everywhere driven out by the police authorities, and many of those
who have to fly are innocent men and only with us in sympathy."
"Then what will you do?" asked the Manchester Anarchist. "We are
a thousand miles away. What can we in London do to paralyse the arm
of a foreign government?"
"Hold a hostage," growled the leader, and the others growled in
approval.
"And where are you to find the hostage?"
"We _have_ found him. That is why we have summoned you, who are one
of the Council of Determination for England."
"Found a hostage--it must be a big one to save our comrades."
"It is a big one. We have done a thing which will ring through the
world, and make the Governments of Europe grow pale, and tyrants
tremble on their thrones. We have at our mercy the heir to the throne
of ----."
I gripped the detective's arm in my excitement.
"Prince ---- at your mercy! Yes, I remember he is in London. You
will threaten to assassinate him--but that is no good. He will be
watched and guarded--the police will surround him day and night."
"It is too late. He is already our prisoner."
"Your prisoner! Bravo--bravissimo! But, thunder of Heaven, how
have you done that?"
"We have done it--it is enough."
"And where is he? If he has disappeared the police must be moving
heaven and earth to find him--if they suspect us every Anarchist
in England will be arrested."
"They do not suspect us. The fools! they do not see our object.
They think he has gone out of his mind or slipped off with a woman.
We have heard their foreign spies talking. Ha! ha! what fools they
are!"
"Then you have him safe where he is not likely to be found or to
escape?"
"He will not be found. He cannot escape."
"Good. Then what do we do next?--for the hour draws near. There is
but to-morrow between our comrades and the vengeance of the tyrants."
"To-morrow morning I telegraph in our agreed secret language to a
comrade in France. He telegraphs from a small post-office in the
country where they do not understand English his message in English
to the Prince's father: 'If our five comrades do not receive a
remission of the death sentence by midnight, and that remission is
announced by official publication, of which our comrade in your
capital will acquaint us, you have signed the death warrant of your
son. He is in our power, and he will be assassinated at the hour
fixed for the execution of our comrades. If you attempt to betray
us or make use of this message, we may be taken, but your son will
have ceased to live. Decide!"
"Excellent!" said the Anarchist from Manchester, "but the Prince's
father has no power over the ---- Government. They may execute our
comrades all the same."
"No--the Prince is married to the sister of the Queen of ----. She
cannot sign the death warrant of her sister's husband."
"And if our comrades are reprieved?"
The Prince, if he gives us his oath to remain silent and give the
police no clue which might lead to our identification, shall have
his liberty. Are we not generous?"
"Too generous to the tyrants! Ah, it would be good to keep this
royal scamp and hang him--I would be the hangman for nothing!"
"Our programme is settled then," said the leader. "Now each to his
home a separate way. The police may tumble by accident on the truth,
and it is well to be cautious and keep apart. I will see to the
sending of the message at once. I will go to one of the chief offices
that are open all night. I had to wait for the Council of Four--now
we are agreed, I can act."
We heard the men move, and bid old Charley, who little suspected
that he had been witness to a plot for the murder of the heir to a
European throne--not one of the first importance, but a throne
for all that--good night, and presently the last sound of
footsteps had died away.
Then we crept out of our hiding-place, knowing that the darkness of
the night covered us, and I told the inspector what I had heard.
"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed, "then Dorcas Dene was right after all.
The Prince has been kidnapped by desperate Anarchists, and his life
is at their mercy. Let us go to her at once. I am not sure, seeing
how desperate the case is, that I dare keep this to myself--I ought
to report it to my chief at once."
We found Dorcas and told her, and the inspector explained that he
thought he ought to return to the Yard at once and report everything.
Dorcas looked up at the great detective quietly.
"I shouldn't do that if I were you," she said. "We should be losing
time. It will be much better for you to find the Prince yourself
and set him at liberty."
"But how--how can we find him?"
"It is simplicity itself," replied Dorcas, "now we know that four men
have the secret. If you do as I suggest I think we shall have his
Royal Highness sleeping a great deal more comfortably to-morrow night
than he is at present."
Suddenly Dorcas grasped the inspector's arm.
"Look--that man--at the corner yonder. He is watching us."
The detective gave a quick glance. "It is the girl's husband!" he
cried. "He was one of them."
_II. THE MORGANATIC WIFE_
The place was deserted.
The figure of the watching Anarchist, which for a moment had stood
out clear and distinct as he came momentarily into the light of the
opposite lamp-post, was now scarcely visible. He had drawn back and
stood in the shadow of a doorway.
"He doesn't know we've seen him," said Dorcas under her breath.
"If he knew he would have moved further away than that."
"Yes--but he's evidently watching us for some reason," exclaimed the
Inspector. "The men separated and went in different directions--old
Charley told us so when we came out of our hiding-place. Why has
Vossche taken up his station there?"
"The explanation probably is that his road lay this way--he noticed
a four-wheel cab stopping here and wondered what it was doing.
Anarchism is a desperate game, and the men who play it see a possible
danger in everything. He wanted to satisfy himself why the cab was
waiting, and saw you and Mr. Saxon come across. He may know you or
he may not, but he evidently means to keep here till we drive off."
"And what can he do then?"
"That depends. If he has recognised you as a Scotland Yard man he
will at once take means to communicate with the others and inform
them of the suspicious circumstances. But he may follow us."
"How can he? We're riding and he's on foot."
"The best thing for us to do is to drive off slowly. We shall find
out then if he means following us and how he is going to do it."
Dorcas put her head out of the off-side window and said to the
driver in a low voice, "Go on slowly."
The man gathered his reins together and let the horse go his own pace.
In a minute or two there was a slight jar on the springs behind.
"I thought he'd do that," said Dorcas, quietly pulling the window up
so that the sound of our voices could not be carried outside. "Now
you two, get ready. Turn the handles of the doors quietly and get
ready to spring out. You can do it safely at the pace we're going,
which is only a crawl. By the time you are out the man will be level
with you or a foot or two ahead. Before he can jump off you can seize
both his arms and secure him."
"We shan't get anything out of him," said the detective. "He's a
desperate fellow, and would die rather than betray the cause."
"At any rate we can prevent him giving the others the tip. A hint
to them that a Scotland Yard man had been seen in the neighbourhood
of their meeting place to-night might be fatal to our chances of
finding the Prince. Are you ready?"
We turned the door handles noiselessly.
"Now," said Dorcas, and the next minute we had made a jump for the
roadway. I nearly fell, but recovered myself as the astonished cabman
pulled up short. In a second the Inspector had Jean Vossche by one
arm, and before he could cry out I had him by the other. As we dragged
him from his uncomfortable perch he struggled like a madman, and we
had to use both our hands to hold him.
Dorcas stepped quietly out of the cab, and came to our assistance.
Slipping her hand into my pocket she pulled out the revolver and
pressed the cold muzzle to the Anarchist's forehead.
"Don't make a noise," she said, "and please don't move. I'm not
used to firearms, and it might go off."
The man, recovering himself with an effort, gasped out in broken
English, "What I do?--I only ride behind your dam cab! Let me go!"
"Sorry we can't oblige you, Mr. Jean Vossche. We've room for one
inside--you'll be much more comfortable there. But as it's dark,
and you're a reckless sort of beggar, I'll just slip the darbies on
you. I didn't know I should want them, but 'It's always handy to have
'em in the house,' as the song says."
With a dexterity born of long practice, Inspector Carr slipped the
handcuffs on his prisoner, and taking the revolver from Dorcas,
politely pointed to the interior of the cab.
"He'll kick a bit, perhaps," said the Inspector to Dorcas. "You'd
better get up by the driver. I'm going to deposit him at the nearest
police-station--there's one just round the corner."
"Then I'll walk," said Dorcas, "and join you there. Do you know
the officer on duty?"
"If I don't he'll know me. We can have a chat with our friend if
you want it, but he's safer within four walls."
We assisted Mr. Jean Vossche into the cab and got in with him.
The Inspector gave the cabman the address of the nearest
police-station, and Dorcas walked on.
Ten minutes later Inspector Carr had explained the situation to
the officer on duty at the police-station, and Mr. Jean Vossche,
still manacled, was accommodated with a chair in the Inspector's
office, into which presently Dorcas Dene was introduced.
Her first request was that the man might be taken outside for the
present. Two constables were called in and the prisoner removed.
"Now, Mr. Carr," said Dorcas, "you've got to decide what we are
going to do at once. So far my theory, that the disappearance of the
Prince was connected with the approaching execution of five Anarchists
in ----, has been borne out to the letter."
"Absolutely," replied the detective. "But having found that out my
duty is to inform my chief. The whole of these men may be captured."
"Quite so--but that won't give the Prince his freedom. As these men
were all at the meeting it is certain that they are none of them
responsible for the safe keeping of the prisoner."
"That's true."
"Therefore by arresting them you only make the Prince's situation
graver. You must bear in mind that he is held as an hostage. He is
to be liberated on condition the Anarchists of ---- are spared. The
wretches who have him in their power are not likely to be more
merciful to him because instead of five Anarchists being spared four
more have been arrested. You could have got Vossche at any time. The
only reason for seizing him to-night is to prevent him alarming the
others."
"And I've given my oath to Vossche's wife that for her information
her husband shall be allowed to get off."
"That I presume the authorities can easily arrange. There are plenty
of Anarchists and Fenians who are supposed to be at present in her
Majesty's gaols, who have been pardoned and are enjoying their
liberty--the price of their valuable information--in the colonies."
"Yes--of course that can be arranged in Vossche's case if we save
the Prince through his wife's information. But what I want to know
now is--now that we have ascertained that you were right, and the
Prince has been captured by the foreign Anarchists in London,
where are we going to find the captive? Vossche won't tell us."
"No. I told you if the Anarchists had the Prince we would find him
by to-morrow, and I didn't count then on getting the information
from Vossche or any of them. But Vossche may be useful in saving us
time, and every hour is of vital importance now."
"What can he do?"
"Guide us to the place where the Prince is concealed."
"He won't, I tell you, I know his character."
"He won't do it willingly, perhaps, but will you let me try an
experiment?"
"Certainly."
"Then go out now and search the prisoner and see if he has any
money about him."
"And if he has, I'm to take it?"
"No--leave it in his possession."
The Inspector, with a puzzled look on his face, went out to obey
Dorcas's directions. I turned to her eagerly.
"Do you really think you know where the Prince is concealed?"
I said.
"I have a very strong idea. Now Vossche has been arrested he may
confirm it. That will assist us to concentrate all our efforts in
one direction."
"You know a good deal about the Prince, I suppose?--or you have been
making inquiries to-day?"
"I don't know very much, but what I do know suggests very strongly
a clue to the means by which the Prince was secured. In the first
place," said Dorcas, "when Inspector Carr brought me all the
information he possessed I saw at once that it would have been almost
impossible for rough, suspicious-looking foreigners like those
Anarchists to have seized the Prince in the public thoroughfares
--even at night. He would not have ventured alone into by-ways and
alleys where such a thing was possible. It was evident that he was
going out with a definite object, and that object was not merely to
stroll through the streets. Had it been that, he would have been
accompanied by one of his suite, or if he had gone alone he would
have kept to thoroughfares where his capture would certainly have
attracted attention. A number of ruffians seizing a gentleman in
evening dress and dragging him away would have been noticed. If he
had been hustled into a cab the police would have found the cabman
by this. Therefore the conclusion is that he went out with the
intention of going somewhere, and he did not want his suite to know
where that somewhere was."
"You mean that, wherever he is, he was 'lured' there?"
"Certainly--and for a Prince to be lured into a trap the lurer must
be someone with whom he had a previous acquaintance. A Prince would
not accept an invitation from a stranger to meet her or to call upon
her late at night."
"_Her_--you think there is a petticoat in the case?"
"I am certain there is. Now look at the facts we have to go upon.
It is only reasonable to assume that the Prince went willingly and
unsuspectingly at the invitation of a lady to call upon her late in
the evening. It is certain that he is in the power of a number of
foreign Anarchists in London. The task then is to establish a link
between a lady who could induce the Prince to come out alone at night
and the men who through her action were able to keep him a prisoner,
and make his captivity a means to secure the reprieve of the condemned
Anarchists of ----."
"And there is such a woman?"
"Let us see. A month ago a mysterious paragraph went the round of the
London Press. A lady had been to a theatre, and had lost in the stalls
--or thought she lost there--a magnificent diamond ornament.
"The loss was advertised, and a description of the jewel given. A
few days later a mysterious paragraph appeared in the papers to the
effect that a well-known pawnbroker had read the advertisement, and
announced that the jewel was in his possession. He had at once
communicated with the lady, and had returned the jewel to her.
"Next day the manager of the theatre, considering that the paragraph
was a reflection on his staff, called upon the lady, with the result
that a further mysterious paragraph went the round of the Press. It
was to the effect that the lady had been mistaken in supposing that
she lost her jewel in the theatre. It had evidently been stolen from
her while she was getting into her carriage, and the thieves had
succeeded in getting it pawned by a woman who stated that she was
lady's-maid to the owner, gave the owner's correct address, and
pawned it in the ordinary way, but in the lady's name.
"The story interested me, and knowing the pawnbroker, I called upon
him and found that the jewel was the property of a Countess Elstein,
and he had the more readily accepted it from the lady's-maid, as it
bore an inscription which showed that it had formerly been in the
possession of a lady of the Royal house of ----, and the pawnbroker
--who, of course, had frequent dealings with the aristocracy--knew
that the Countess Elstein had been the morganatic wife of Prince
---- of ----. There was considerable scandal when the Prince married
the sister of the Queen of ----, and his connection with the Countess
was hinted at in several of the Society papers.
"I made inquiries, and found that the Countess had been in London
for some weeks, and was living in a house in the Inner Circle,
Regent's Park, a house standing in its own grounds, which she had
taken furnished for a period from the owner, who had gone abroad for
some time, having a wife in delicate health."
"And you really believe that it was the Countess Elstein--the
Prince's morganatic wife--who induced him to visit her last evening,
and that the invitation was a trap? What would a lady like that be
doing in an Anarchist conspiracy?"
"Let me finish," said Dorcas. "The moment the ornament was recovered
from the pawnbroker, no further notice was taken. I ascertained from
the police that the pawnbroker had not given them any information as
to the person who pawned it. He had been compensated by the Countess,
and she had personally requested that nothing further should be done
in the matter, as to bring the case into court would necessitate the
story of the bracelet being told. She did not wish the gift of his
Royal Highness Prince ---- of ---- to his morganatic and now
discarded wife to figure in the police reports. You know that I like
to investigate these little Society mysteries--they keep my hand in,
and one never knows when the facts may be useful. I found that the
Countess undoubtedly took the jewel with her to the theatre. It was
fastened on to her arm by her maid, a Frenchwoman, and I at once
jumped to the conclusion that the Frenchwoman was in the robbery--that
she had given information of her mistress's ornament, and certain
particulars which had helped the thieves to get possession of it. For
all we know, the thief might have occupied the next stall, and
followed the Countess out in the crowd. But the Countess did not
suspect her maid, or she would have discharged her, I suppose. The
maid's name is Zelie Vossche."
"Vossche!--why, that is the name of the Anarchist here now!"
"Yes, Zelie Vossche, who is maid to the Prince of ----'s morganatic
wife, is sister to Jean Vossche, one of the Anarchists who hold the
Prince as hostage for the safety of the condemned Anarchists of ----."
"That certainly establishes a link," I exclaimed, "but there is one
thing I don't see yet. I can understand you connecting the Prince's
mysterious absence from his hotel with the Countess Elstein, but why
did that suggest to you that there might be an Anarchist plot at the
bottom of the whole thing?"
"That came about from the conversation I had with Inspector Carr
this morning. He had a theory that the Prince was engaged in some
affair of gallantry, and I at once told him that if there was a lady
in the case it was probably the Countess. Then I told him the story
of the diamond bracelet, and that I suspected the robbery had been
'put up' by the maid, Zelie Vossche.
"He was startled at the name, and at once told me that a Jean Vossche
was one of a group of Anarchists at present in London about whom the
police were uneasy, as they appeared to be meditating some big coup.
That there was a Vossche resident in the house of the Prince's
morganatic wife, and a Vossche a dangerous Anarchist, at once caused
me to connect the Prince's disappearance with an Anarchist plot, and
I remember that the papers had reported that the Anarchists of Europe
had forwarded several threatening letters to the authorities in ----
in connection with the approaching executions there. Then the
Inspector told me that he could, he thought, get at Vossche's wife,
and find out at least what Vossche was doing if he approached her
with an offer which would be to her husband's benefit. I determined
that we would at once follow the clue in that direction as far as we
could, and I think you will acknowledge that events have so far quite
justified my plan of action."
"Indeed they have," I replied, "and in a most remarkable manner.
But here comes the Inspector."
"Well," said Dorcas, turning to the detective, "what have you found
on Vossche?"
"Nothing that will be useful to us. He has no papers at all, and he
refuses to say anything."
"Any money?"
"Yes, he has three sovereigns in his waistcoat and about twelve
shillings in loose silver in his pocket."
"Where you left them, I hope?"
"Yes--as you wished it."
"Very well then. Can you drive?"
"Drive? Yes, I can--but whatever do you want to know that for?"
"Send out and get a hansom cab to the door. The police will
satisfy the man it is all right. You must put on his coat and badge,
get an old hat--there's sure to be one here that will come down
well over your forehead--turn up your coat collar, get up on the
box, and drive a little way away. There are no cabs in this
neighbourhood at this time of night, so you'll have to send to the
stand, which is a quarter of a mile away, for one. Let them bring
a hansom or four-wheeler--it doesn't matter which. Send at
once."
The Inspector went out and instructed the officer in charge, and
presently returned and said a cab had been sent for.
"Very well--the police must requisition it for you when it comes. They
will undertake to let the driver have his cab again to-morrow morning,
and you'll pay him liberally for taking his place on the box."
"But what am I to drive a cab for? We've got our own man outside."
"Yes, but Mr. Saxon and I are going to take him."
"Then what am I to drive an empty cab for?"
"It won't be empty, I hope. If it is you must come all the same, but
I am hoping that you will have Vossche inside."
"Vossche?"
"Yes--after he has escaped from here----"
"Escaped!--Vossche!"
"Yes--if he sees an empty hansom he is pretty certain to hail it and
jump in, in case he should be pursued."
"Vossche is to escape and I'm to drive him away in a cab?"
"Yes. If he gets in--and I'm pretty sure he will--it will be his
best means of eluding pursuit--he'll tell you to drive somewhere.
He will be in a desperate hurry to get to the people who have the
Prince in their care. He'll want to let them know that the police
are at work in the right direction and put them on their guard.
When he gets in if he only says 'Drive on,' you must say 'How far?'
Get his destination out of him on some excuse or other."
"And take him to it?"
"No--go a little way and then say your horse is lame. Turn him out
as far from a cab-stand as you possibly can, then drive on to us--
we'll wait at the corner of the Westminster Bridge-road."
"And then?"
"And then we'll go on to the Inner Circle, Regent's Park, and get
into the Countess of Elstein's house."
"We shall want help, if we're to do that."
"You can put as many police in the front as you can get together, but
we're going to climb over the park railings and get in the back way.
Now let's arrange for Vossche to escape. Call me the chief here."
The officer in charge of the station came in and Inspector Carr
made a clean breast of as much as he wanted to tell. The officer
hesitated at the idea of the escape.
"Well," said the Inspector, "after all he isn't charged, is he? You
are only minding him for me, and I'll promise he won't get away.
He's going in my cab."
The officer opened his eyes with astonishment. "This is a very
daring idea," he said.
"Yes," said the Inspector, "but it's Dorcas Dene's, and I think it
will be the means of our making sure of the whereabouts of the Prince."
"Very well," said the officer. "Of course you take all responsibility
--the case is yours, not mine. How is the escape to be arranged?"
The Inspector looked at Dorcas.
"After we have gone," she said, "and Mr. Carr has got possession of
the cab and put on the driver's coat and badge, have the prisoner
brought in as though you were going to examine him. Remove his
handcuffs previously in the cell. A constable will guard him and
one will stand in the doorway.
"Suddenly you can pretend to fall ill, stagger and fall into the
constable's arms who is by the prisoner. Probably the man at the
door will rush to your assistance. Vossche is certain to see his
chance and make a desperate effort to bolt. He will be strong enough
to overpower the constable even if he has not left the door to run
to your assistance. You must clutch at the officers in your fit and
hinder them for a minute. By that time the man will be out and into
the cab which will be at hand."
The officer hesitated. "It will be playing a comedy. I never heard
of such a proposition, and I don't think I ought to be a party to it."
"You really must help us in this," exclaimed Dorcas, earnestly. "I am
sure if you do, and we discover the Prince, that Inspector Carr will
gladly testify to the admirable manner in which his efforts were
seconded by you. And if Prince ---- of ---- has any sense of
gratitude, he will, when he hears the story, present you with a
diamond pin. Remember this case is _not_ going into the newspapers,
and 'our Special Crime Investigator' will never have even the tip
of his little finger in the pie. The instructions from the Chief
Commissioner are that the most perfect silence is to be maintained
on the subject by all officers engaged in the search. Even the people
at the Prince's hotel have been informed by his suite that his Royal
Highness is gone into the country."
"Very well," said the officer, after a few minutes' reflection,
"I'll do it."
A constable came in to say that a hansom had been secured.
Dorcas wished the officer good-night, and shook hands with him,
and we went out to our four-wheeler, leaving Inspector Carr and the
local officer together.
When we got to Westminster Bridge-road we pulled up and waited.
Ten minutes later we heard a hansom tearing along at a furious
rate.
"There's no one in the cab," said Dorcas, looking into the vehicle
as it hove in sight. "Carr's got rid of him."
At that moment the vehicle came full into the light of the
street lamp.
Dorcas looked up at the box seat and uttered a cry of terror.
One glance was sufficient to tell me the cause of her dismay.
The man who was driving the hansom so furiously that the few
stragglers who were about in the street shouted out that it was a
runaway was not Inspector Carr.
_It was Jean Vossche, the Anarchist!_
_III. THE HOUSE IN REGENT'S PARK_
When the hansom which should have been driven by Inspector Carr,
and should have had Jean Vossche inside, dashed past us empty and
with Jean Vossche, the Anarchist, driving furiously, Dorcas Dene
stood for a moment dumbfounded.
"Something must have happened to Carr," I exclaimed. "Vossche
could only have got possession of the cab after a struggle."
"No," said Dorcas, "I don't imagine there has been a struggle.
You forget Carr carried a loaded revolver and Vossche was searched
at the station. It is possible that an accident happened. Vossche
got possession of the cab and drove off because he is in a desperate
hurry to warn his accomplices that they were watched to their
meeting-place to-night."
"And if he succeeds in warning them?"
"The first thing they will do will be to prevent all possible
means of rescuing the Prince. And they can do that in a moment."
"How?"
"By killing him."
"Why should they do that? Dead, he ceases to be a hostage, and in
sacrificing him they sacrifice the last hope of saving the lives of
the condemned men."
"They can kill him and conceal the body so that his fate may remain
uncertain. The ---- Government are certain to reprieve the prisoners
in the hope of saving the Prince's life."
"Then they may have killed him already--he may have been
murdered the night of his disappearance."
"No--they would hesitate to do that, because it _might_ have been
found out, and then their last card would have been played. But now
they are desperate. They will guess that they are suspected of being
concerned in his Royal Highness's disappearance. Self-preservation
is the first law of nature, and to save their own skins they will
sacrifice even their comrades. I have made up my mind what to do.
Come--we must be going."
"What about Carr?--are we going to leave him to his fate?"
"We cannot help him. If he is injured he will have been found by
passers-by or the police and attended to by now."
"Then where are we going?"
"To Scotland Yard."
* * * * * *
As the cab drove rapidly towards the famous detective establishment
on the Embankment, Dorcas explained her motive for no longer acting on
her own responsibility. So long as she was with Carr she was assisting
a properly-authorised police officer to investigate a sensational
affair. But Carr being absent--probably disabled, possibly
insensible--she was no longer justified in taking any further
steps in the matter. It was her duty to communicate her knowledge to
the properly-constituted authorities.
When Dorcas arrived at the Yard and sent her name to the chief
officer on duty, she was instantly admitted. Beckoning me to follow
her, she proceeded along a passage, and we were ushered into the
presence of a handsome, smooth-shaven gentleman with a small grey
moustache.
This gentleman rose as we entered and greeted Dorcas with a polite
bow. Directly she said that she had called to give information with
respect to the missing Prince, his official manner vanished and he
leant forward to listen.
"My chief is with the Home Secretary at this very minute," he said.
"Up to the present we have not the slightest clue. What is your
information?"
Dorcas related rapidly the events of the evening, and, as she
proceeded, the pleasant face of the official became grave and
anxious.
"We knew of these men, of course," he said, "but we never for a
moment connected his Royal Highness's disappearance with them. Their
arrest ought to be a mere matter of hours, for we know where to lay
hands on every Anarchist in England. But their arrest would only
retard rather than hasten the rescue of their prisoner. We don't
know where they have concealed him."
"At any rate there is someone who does."
"Who is that?"
"The Countess Elstein. I am convinced that it was to the Countess's
that the Prince went that night."
"We had an idea ourselves that the Countess must know something,"
replied the officer, "but on inquiring at her residence we were
informed that she had left London for the Continent the previous day.
The maid, a French-woman, was to follow her, so she told our man, and
join her mistress in Vienna in a week's time."
"Didn't you think it curious then," said Dorcas, "that the Countess
should have gone abroad and left her maid behind?"
"There was really nothing to think about in the matter. All that we
expected of the Countess was that she _might_ know something of
the Prince's movements, but she certainly would be no party to any
evil befalling him or any scandal arising in connection with him and
herself. She receives a handsome allowance from the Prince, and she is
hardly likely to have done anything which would imperil that."
"Well," said Dorcas, "you may be right, but the name of the Countess's
maid is Zelie Vossche. She may have communicated to her brother that
the Prince was coming. If I am right in my theory, the capture was
effected in the Countess's house."
"It might have been outside."
"Hardly; had it been outside your men must by this time have found
a clue. His captors wouldn't have dragged him from Regent's Park
without being observed by someone."
"But if it was in the house the capture took place the servants
must have known it."
"I don't think so. The Prince's visit would be arranged for under
any circumstances--the servants would be purposely kept out of
the way. Zelie, the maid, who is evidently in her mistress's
confidence, probably for a good reason, seeing that that affair of
the bracelet was not proceeded with--would let him in."
"But the Countess----"
"There I am in doubt," said Dorcas. "She may have been a party to
the outrage--she may have known nothing about it. But I am
convinced that the Prince entered that house and never left it."
"But, good heavens! if that has been your idea, why did you not
communicate with us at once?"
"You forget," said Dorcas, quietly, "it was not until after the
Anarchist meeting in Kennington Road to-night that I had any
certainty that my theory was correct."
The official touched a bell and a constable entered.
"Ask Superintendent Johnson to come to me at once."
The constable saluted and retired.
"What do you propose to do?" said Dorcas.
"Send Superintendent Johnson with a number of men at once to the
Countess's residence."
Dorcas laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Of course it is presumption on my part, but may I give you a
word of advice?"
"I shall listen to anything you say with the greatest respect,
because it seems to me that so far you have done more than all our
people put together in getting on the right trail--though of course
I feel strongly that you ought to have communicated with us before
this. What is your advice?"
"That you don't send Superintendent Johnson and his men to _alarm_
the Countess. Remember that one false movement may result in the
assassination of the Prince."
"That is true--but we _must_ satisfy ourselves that the Prince is
or is not there."
"Of course. My own intention, had Inspector Carr remained with
me, was to go to the Countess's house at once. But we should have
gone cautiously to work to avoid a mishap."
"One can be too cautious in a desperate affair like this. Even as
it is, this man Vossche has had time to communicate with the Prince's
captors. If his Royal Highness is a prisoner in the Regent's Park
house, he may already have been conveyed away."
"If he has I shall know it!"
"_You_ will know it--how?"
"Directly I heard from Inspector Carr of the Prince's disappearance,
and came to the conclusion that the Countess Elstein might have been
the instrument employed to get him into a trap, I put two of my
assistants whom I can trust--they are both retired police officers--
on the case. One has been watching the entrance in the Inner Circle,
and the other is concealed in the Park watching the grounds."
"That was well done at any rate. But now we must get inside the house."
"I quite agree with you. But there are two ways of doing it. Will
you let the Superintendent and his men go to work _my_ way?"
The officer hesitated. "It isn't usual," he said, "for our men to
act under the orders of a private detective, even one so famous and
so talented as Dorcas Dene, but under _all_ the circumstances I
consent. Up to a certain point Johnson will obey your instructions.
But if he finds that they do not look like resulting in immediate
success, then he will obey mine."
"I accept the terms," replied Dorcas, rising. Then she added, "I
presume there is no objection to my friend here accompanying us. He
is my husband's personal friend and my own, and has frequently
rendered me valuable assistance."
The official eyed me over as if mentally appraising my value, and
then with a patronising little nod exclaimed, "Oh, certainly if you
wish it--but I presume he is not a newspaper man? Whatever happens
we don't want this affair to be chattered about by the Press."
I assured the official that he might rely on my absolute discretion,
and that I quite understood the necessity of silence, and a minute
later Superintendent Johnson entered the room.
* * * * * *
Jean Vossche _had_ entered the house of Countess Elstein in the
Inner Circle of Regent's Park.
Dorcas's man had seen a man answering Vossche's description come up
and enter the grounds about half an hour previously. He was walking.
The cab left alone would have attracted attention. Vossche had driven
on to the cab-stand at Clarence Gate, which at that hour of the
morning was only occupied by a couple of four-wheelers, the drivers
of which were inside fast asleep. A hansom standing by itself on the
rank would not excite the slightest suspicion.
Dorcas, when she heard how the desperado had disposed of his vehicle,
murmured, "My compliments!--that man knows what he is about!"
Superintendent Johnson proved himself to be a tactician of the first
water. He readily fell in with Dorcas's suggestions, but managed to
add one or two of his own which Dorcas, not to be outdone in
amiability, readily acquiesced in. She did so the more willingly as
the Superintendent's suggestions were generally those which Dorcas
had made a minute or two earlier. Dorcas explained her idea rapidly.
"The Inner Circle is deserted, and my men can get over the gate," said
the Superintendent, "and in among the laurels ready for a signal."
"I am afraid of that," said Dorcas. "There is gravel in the front
garden, and a gravel scrunch might be heard. Remember, Vossche is
inside, and the front may be watched. My proposition is that we get
in at the back."
The Superintendent said nothing for a moment. Then suddenly as if
struck by an idea he exclaimed, "I propose that we get in at the
back. Don't you think it will be safer? They won't expect anybody
that way because the back runs down to the ornamental waters and the
Park is closed."
"An excellent idea," replied Dorcas, nudging my arm. "Leave a few
of your men under the trees on the opposite side of the roadway--
ready to dash in at your signal."
"Yes, when I blow my whistle they can rush in at the front garden."
"I shouldn't whistle," said Dorcas. "We might want to surprise the
inmates before they can escape. It's a dark night and they might some
of them get away. I should imitate the noise of a cat. That would mean
nothing except to those who were waiting for the sound."
The Superintendent probably thought that for a man in his position
it would be undignified to moe-row, for he made no reply. But a minute
later he said to Dorcas, "I've given my men their instructions. My
signal to them will be the bark of a dog--I think it will be
safer than whistling, don't you?"
"An admirable idea!" replied Dorcas. "Now let us go round to the
Outer Circle. We can get into the Park by climbing over the rails."
"But to get into the grounds we must cross the water."
"No--we can get over the bridge and climb over the iron rails on
the other side."
Dorcas, myself, the Superintendent, and two men made our way rapidly
over the bridge opposite the Botanical Gardens and then climbed over
into the private enclosure by York Gate and so went into the vast
deserted Park.
Crossing the bridge that spans the ornamental water we made our
way along the water's edge until we reached the private grounds of
the villa occupied by the Countess. The grounds sloped to the edge
of the water and were not in any way protected, as they could only
be approached from the lake. No one could enter them by day without
attracting the attention of the park-keepers, and at night the Park
was carefully cleared, so there was practically no danger of
intrusion.
As we crept cautiously through the high laurels, choosing a path
that was out of sight of the house in case there should be anyone
watching, Dorcas suddenly halted and "quacked." There were scores of
ducks asleep upon the island on the lake. But she quacked in a
peculiar manner--two quacks, then one quack--then two, then one.
Across the grounds from a laurel bush near a summer house came a low
"quack, quack."
"What's that?" exclaimed the Superintendent.
"My signal. My man is over yonder--he'll make his way to us--let
us stop here."
Our strained ears caught the rustle of the bushes, and presently
a man emerged from the laurels in front of us and came to Dorcas.
"No one's been about all night," he said, "till about a quarter of
an hour ago, when a man came out, went to the shed yonder by the
water, and got a boat hook. He went to the water's edge, and tried
the depth, and then went back into the house again."
Dorcas gave a little cry which she instantly suppressed.
"What do you think that means?" said the Superintendent.
"The worst, I'm afraid," said Dorcas. "It looks as though they were
going to drop something into the water that they wanted to conceal.
We must hesitate no longer. Your men must break in from the front,
and we must try from the back. Hush!"
There was a sound of a door opening.
We peered through the laurel bushes, and saw two figures coming
slowly across the grounds. They were carrying a heavy burden between
them.
"Make a dash for the door," said the Superintendent to Dorcas's man.
"Rush through and open the front door if you can, and let my men in.
Are you armed?"
"I have my revolver," replied the man.
As the figures came nearer our man dashed out. There was a cry, and
the burden dropped. But our man had dashed in at the open door. At
the same time Superintendent Johnson's whistle shrieked out on the
quiet night.
Then we all dashed forward--the Superintendent and one of his men
seized one of the figures, and I and another man seized the other.
Dorcas snatched a bull's-eye from one of the officers, and flashed
it in the faces of the prisoners.
We had captured Jean Vossche and his sister, the lady's maid.
In a moment there were dark figures hurrying across the lawn. The
police in front had come through. Handing the prisoners over to them,
the Superintendent knelt down, and then examined the lifeless body
lying on the ground.
It was a female. Round her body was a stout cord, and attached to
the cord two heavy weights.
The Superintendent examined the woman's face by the light of the
lantern. On the temple was a fearful bruise, as though the poor
creature had been struck by a bludgeon.
Dorcas, with trembling lips, knelt down beside the body, and as
the light fell on the features, examined them carefully.
"It is the Countess Elstein!" she said.
At that moment the officers who had Jean Vossche uttered a cry.
The man, with a desperate effort, had wrenched himself free. Before
he could be seized again he had dashed across the grounds, leapt the
iron railings, and disappeared into the darkness of the Park.
* * * * * *
Leaving the police in charge of Zelie and the body, we went into
the house, which was in possession of some of the Superintendent's
men. A sergeant met us at the door.
"There's a gentleman in one of the rooms," he said. "I can't make
him out at all."
We followed the officer upstairs to a back room. There we found a
dark gentleman lying on a sofa. His legs and hands were fastened
together with cords, and he seemed to be in a heavy sleep. We tried
to rouse him, but he only opened his eyes and looked at us, and then
his head dropped down again.
"It's the Prince--thank God!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "He's
under the influence of some drug, I should think."
"Probably," said Dorcas, "that's how they've kept him quiet. Send one
of your men for a doctor."
We tried our best to restore the Prince to consciousness, but failed.
When the doctor, who had been fetched from Baker-street, came, he at
once found it to be a case of drugging, and said the Prince had
probably been kept under the influence of a strong narcotic for some
time. He had brought certain remedies with him, acting on the
information the police officer who fetched him had given him, and
gradually the Prince came to himself. A couple of hours later a
brougham arrived with the Chief of Police and the Prince's
aide-de-camp, and his Royal Highness was quietly taken to the
doctor's house, and Zelie Vossche, who remained obstinately silent,
was removed in custody.
* * * * * *
His Royal Highness Prince ---- of ---- was able next day to
communicate his adventures to the authorities.
He had arranged to visit the Countess, his morganatic wife, the
evening he left the hotel. There were certain matters he wished to
discuss with her, but he was anxious that their meeting should be a
private one. Zelie Vossche had probably obtained knowledge of the
intended interview, and had communicated it to her brother, who saw
in it an opportunity of assisting the condemned Anarchists of ----.
He communicated with his associates.
When the Prince arrived at the house in Regent's Park late at night
the servants had been sent away to a house the Countess had in the
country. The Countess was leaving for this house next day, and Zelie
advised her to send them on first: then they would not see and gossip
about the visit of the Prince, as they might find out who he was.
Zelie and the Countess were alone when the Prince arrived. But after
Zelie had let him in she admitted Vossche and two of his accomplices.
They waited till the Prince was leaving, then seized and gagged him
and carried him to the upstairs room. The Countess rushed out,
hearing the noise, but was struck down by Vossche. When it was found
she was dead they carried the body to a bedroom, laid it on the bed,
and locked the door.
The next morning Zelie telegraphed to the servants that their
mistress was going to pay a visit and would not arrive till the end
of the week.
The Prince in the meantime was drugged to keep him from attempting
to make a noise. He was fed and tended by Vossche and Zelie, as it
was not the Anarchists' intention that he should be assassinated if
they saved the lives of their comrades.
But when Vossche discovered that a Scotland Yard man was on his
track and that probably he would be traced to the house in Regent's
Park, his first task on escaping was to get rid of the Countess's
body. What the Prince's fate would have been could only be
conjectured.
Vossche and Zelie after disposing of the Countess's body would
probably have made their escape, hoping that a desire to conceal the
adventure of the Prince might lead the police to make no active
search for them.
The story of the murder was gathered from Zelie herself, who was
naturally anxious to prove that she had no active share in the
crime, but only acted to shield her brother and his accomplices
afterwards.
Accepting her story as true the authorities at the inquest put
her name forward as that of an accomplice, and supported her
statement that Vossche was the actual murderer.
They did this not only because they were inclined to believe it,
but as an encouragement to Zelie not to make any statement with
regard to the share which the Prince had played in the tragedy. The
motive of the crime was supposed to be robbery.
A reward for the arrest of Jean Vossche was offered but never claimed.
The Continental Police acting on instructions were as remiss as our
own in endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of the notorious
Anarchist.
As soon as he was restored to health the Prince returned to his
father's court, much to the relief of everybody concerned, especially
the heads of the Royal Family of ----, who were saved the unpleasant
task of rescuing from the scaffold five of the most infamous
scoundrels of modern times.
Inspector Carr is a disappointed man. After all his exertions he
was unable to crown himself with the glory of having found and rescued
the missing Prince. Had he been a better coachman all might have been
well, but in his joy at having Jean Vossche for a fare he forgot about
his horse and drove into a market wagon, the driver of which was fast
asleep. He was pitched off the box into the roadway and lay there
stunned. Jean Vossche, anxious to get on, leaped out and bent over the
insensible man. Possibly he discovered then the trick which had been
played on him. At any rate, jumping on to the box, he drove off at
full speed. When the Inspector came to himself he found that he had
been very kindly taken to St. Thomas's Hospital by a policeman who
thought he was a cabman whose horse had bolted.
* * * * * *
Dorcas Dene has a beautiful diamond brooch which she never wears.
It is the gift of his Royal Highness Prince ---- of ---- who somehow
came to hear of the important part she had played in his rescue.
The one great drawback to her joy in possessing it is that poor Paul
cannot see how beautiful it is. But sometimes when she holds it in
the light he stares at it with his poor sightless eyes and declares
that really the stones must be _very_ brilliant, for it doesn't
seem _quite_ so dark when she holds them up before him.
_IV. THE CO-RESPONDENT_
I had gone down for a week's rest to Brighton, and had put up at
the "Old Ship." The "Old Ship," Brighton, has been to me "a home from
home" for more years than I care to count. Among my most pleasant
recollections of my youth is the smiling face of that fine old
English host, "Mr. Arthur," brother of the proprietor, Mr. Robert
Bacon. All Brighton lovers who "have come to forty year" remember
Mr. Arthur, and still on quiet evenings when old Brightonians gather
together in the famous hostelry it is rare indeed that the name of
Mr. Arthur does not come up in the conversation. What Mr. Gresham
Bacon is to the young Old Shipites to-day, Mr. Arthur was to the
middle-aged Old Shipites of twenty years ago.
Mr. Arthur's name came up on the occasion of the visit to which
I have referred at the commencement of this narrative. There had
been an unusual number of ladies in the coffee-room, and after
dinner, noticing Mr. Gresham Bacon in the hall, I could not help
remarking on the fact.
In the former days the "Old Ship" rather discouraged lady visitors,
and so they were not admitted to the coffee-room, and there was no
ladies' drawing-room. The house was essentially a bachelors' resort,
and if a man brought his wife he had to take a private sitting-room
for her and to keep her there.
"Ladies in the coffee-room, a French table d'hôte and the electric
light at the 'Old Ship'!" I exclaimed. "It's enough to make
'Mr. Arthur' turn in his grave."
Gresham Bacon laughed.
"Yes," he said, "if anyone had suggested ladies in the coffee-room
in his day the dear old boy would have had a fit. But other times,
other manners, and the 'Old Ship' has had to be fitted out as a modern
vessel, and she must sail with the times."
I put on my hat, Commodore Gibson, arrayed as befitted in the "Old
Ship" in blue serge, gilt buttons, and a yachting cap, gave me a brush
down, and as soon as Mr. "Fatty" Coleman, whose portly form completely
filled the doorway, had been temporarily dislodged, I passed out into
the street, and Gresham Bacon, who had followed me, invited me to come
and have my after-dinner coffee at his "arch."
Everyone knows that the "arches" under the King's-road at Brighton
have been rented by private persons, and turned into luxurious
"smoking-rooms by the sea." Mr. Gresham Bacon's arch is renowned for
its hospitality, and one meets there in the season most of the
notabilities of Upper Bohemia, who still look upon Brighton as the
ideal spot for a jaded Londoner. Dr. Brighton is no quack, but he has
the courage to adopt as his motto, "Health restored while you wait,"
and thousands of hard-working Englishmen and Englishwomen who suffer
from an occasional run-down of the nervous system have still a
child-like and beautiful faith in him. There is only one disadvantage
in the Brighton cure, if you are in search of quiet as well as health.
At Brighton you meet people you know all day long, and everybody wants
you to dine with him, or to drink with him, or to "go somewhere." A
man can have hundreds of friends and be as little disturbed by them
in London as if he were on a desert island. But in Brighton you meet
someone you know every minute of the day.
I had not been half an hour in Gresham Bacon's arch before half a
dozen London men had dropped in whom I knew intimately, but whom I
rarely met at home because we were all Londoners.
One of them, a dramatist of repute, had with him the only stranger
of the party. The stranger was introduced to us as Count von Phalsdorf,
and as soon as the name had been pronounced the dramatist, with the
instinct of his art strong upon him, looked round to see what sort
of an effect he had made.
It was certainly a big one. As the dramatist slowly and distinctly
pronounced the name every man in the arch gave a little gasp, and the
eyes of the dramatist gleamed with a feverish delight.
"I met the Count at my hotel," he said with a smile, "we became
friendly; he has heard a good deal of the Brighton arches, and I took
the liberty of bringing him with me to-night to show him yours,
Gresham."
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Mr. Bacon, feeling that as the host he
must say something, but there was a hesitancy in his speech which
we all understood.
The Count was a handsome man--in his uniform he must have looked a
perfectly military Adonis. In ordinary evening dress he was far and
away the most distinguished-looking person in our little assembly.
He spoke English fluently, and his manners were perfect. But--well,
it was a very big "but" indeed.
The Law Courts had just given us one of those sensational scandals
in high life which are the delight of the evening newspapers and a
godsend to the gentlemen who make out the newspaper contents bills,
and to the headline merchants generally.
An English gentleman bearing a name which has been an honourable
one in English history since the days of the Conquest had brought an
action for divorce against his wife, a lady of lineage equal to his
own, and had obtained a decree nisi. The lady had up to the time of
the proceedings been considered beyond reproach. When her husband
separated from her under circumstances which reflected upon himself,
there was universal sympathy for her. She had been everywhere
received in society as an injured lady, and it was a great shock to
all who knew her when, after some few years of separation, her
husband filed a petition for divorce, alleging unwifely conduct on
her part, and giving the name of the co-respondent.
The case against the lady was certainly strong. The evidence of the
petitioner's witnesses could hardly leave any doubt in the minds
of the jury that the neglected wife had sought consolation and
companionship elsewhere. The husband had separated from his wife on
a question which involved no legal proceedings. It had been a mutual
agreement of incompatibility of temper, and it was generally
understood that the "temper" was all on the side of the husband.
He had left his wife and had gone to reside in the country.
But now the roof had been lifted by the Asmodeus of the Law Courts,
and the husband was revealed as an injured man, whose honour had
been sacrificed to the wife's admiration for a handsome foreigner.
The co-respondent was called, and--this was the most sensational
part of the story--he had naturally, after the manner of
co-respondents from the earliest days of Divorce Courts, solemnly
protested his entire innocence. And then suddenly the petitioner's
counsel had handed him a letter and exclaimed in the fierce tones
of a cross-examining Old Bailey barrister, "Now, sir, on your oath!
Did you write that letter?" And the co-respondent staring wildly in
front of him, and gazing at the respondent, who was seated with her
mother at the solicitor's table, had, with a look of mingled horror
and pity in his eyes, faltered out "Yes."
"Then," exclaimed the counsel, "I will read it to the jury." And
he read it, and its contents left no manner of doubt in the mind of
anyone that such a letter could not have been written by an innocent
man to an innocent woman.
While the letter was being read the grey-haired mother almost shrank
from her daughter's side, and the daughter, her face white and her
lips trembling, uttered an hysterical cry and rose hurriedly, and
leant across and spoke to her counsel. The husband's counsel had
nothing more to ask the co-respondent. He was quite satisfied with
his admission that he wrote that letter. It carried the jury's
verdict with it.
Then the wife's counsel rose and begged permission to put his client
in the box at once, and permission was granted him.
Every eye was fixed on the lady as, trembling and almost hysterical,
she fell rather than walked into the witness-box.
"You have heard that letter read?" said her counsel.
"Yes."
"On your oath, have you ever received such a letter?"
"Never--as God is my judge. I have learnt the contents of it for the
first time now."
"And is there any truth in the charges that have been made
against you?"
"Not one word."
"Have you ever received Count von Phalsdorf under your roof?"
"Never."
"Have you ever spoken to him?"
"Frequently--but as one speaks to any gentleman to whom one has been
introduced."
"You have heard the evidence of the hotel servants at Nice, of your
own maid, of the servants at your London residence. Do you deny
their statements?"
"Absolutely, and on my oath."
But the oath of the respondent availed nothing against the evidence
of the other side, which was about as conclusive as it could possibly
be, and the result of the trial was a decree nisi, and the husband
to have the custody of the children, one a girl of fourteen and the
other a boy of twelve.
And the co-respondent in this remarkable case was the Count von
Phalsdorf, and all who had read the letter had made up their mind,
without being able to say exactly why, that the Count was an infernal
scoundrel in the first place to have so cruelly compromised such an
amiable and gentle lady, and an infernal fool in the second place to
have written such a dangerous and damning love-letter to a married
woman.
And that is the reason that, with the details of the case fresh in
our memories, we all of us felt that the dramatist had been guilty
of an exceedingly unpleasant practical joke in introducing the Count
into the little friendly circle gathered together in Mr. Gresham
Bacon's arch.
We felt it so much that we were so decidedly uncomfortable, the
laws of hospitality preventing us telling the Count what we thought
of him, that one by one we rose and remembered an appointment and
went, and when there was nobody left but the host, the dramatist rose
too, and with a grin that was meant to be a smile, bade Gresham
Bacon good-night, and took the Count away with him.
It was about nine o'clock when we broke up, and having nothing to
do, I went into the Brighton Alhambra and spent the evening there.
It was half-past eleven when I returned to the "Old Ship."
The night-porter opened the door to me, and seeing that I was going
towards the smoke-room came after me.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but the waiter on your floor
asked me to be sure and tell you when you came in that there is a
letter in your sitting room waiting for you. The gentleman in No. 6
gave it to him to give to you."
"Oh," I said to myself. "The usual, I suppose. It's somebody who
wants to keep me up half the night playing poker. I shall have to
make an excuse."
I went to my room and found a letter on my table. Directly I had
seen the handwriting on the envelope I uttered an exclamation of
surprise and opened it eagerly.
"Dear Mr. Saxon,--Paul and I are staying here. Our sitting-room is
No. 6. If you come in before twelve and have nothing better to do,
come in and see us.
"Yours always,
Dorcas Dene.
"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure!" I exclaimed, as I shook
hands with Paul and Dorcas. "Whatever are you doing at Brighton?
Having a few days' rest, I suppose."
"I'm having the rest," said Paul, with a smile, "but Dorcas is
here on business."
"On a case? Is it an interesting one?"
"Very interesting," said Dorcas, "but a very unpleasant one in
many ways, and I'm not very confident about the result."
"What is it? a murder--a robbery--or a mysterious
disappearance?"
"No; this time it is a divorce."
"A divorce! But I thought you never touched that branch of the
profession."
"I don't as a rule, but in this case the circumstances are
peculiar, and I am deeply interested in one of the parties to
the suit."
"The husband?"
"No, the wife. You have read the case, I expect, because it has
been in all the papers. It is the one in which Count von Phalsdorf
was the co-respondent."
"Good gracious!" I exclaimed; "how singular! I've met the man this
evening. He's here in Brighton."
"Of course--that is why I am here."
"But I don't quite understand where you can come in as a detective
now. You're rather late, are you not, seeing that the case is
practically decided, for the judge has granted a decree nisi?"
"Exactly--and nisi means 'unless'--which is, unless before the
expiration of six months certain facts should be brought to the
knowledge of the Court--or the Queen's Proctor I suppose it would be
--which would prevent the judge making the decree absolute."
"I don't know what the process is," I answered with a smile,
"because I have never been divorced, but after having read the
evidence in this case I can't for the life of me see what possible
chance you have of putting a different complexion on the affair."
"Nor did I," said Dorcas, "when I was first consulted. The unhappy
lady came to me with her mother the day after the trial. Both were in
a state of the greatest excitement and distress. 'Mrs. Dene,' said
the old lady, 'my daughter is the victim of the wickedest lies that
were ever uttered in a court of justice. She is an absolutely innocent
woman. But everything is against her, and on the evidence taken I
confess myself the jury could have come to no other verdict. But they
have perjured themselves--the whole of my wicked son-in-law's
witnesses. We come to you as our last hope. We have heard how clever
you are. We have been told that if anyone can save my dear daughter
from the shame and infamy which she has no right to bear, it is you.'
"I shook my head and explained that I never took up divorce cases--
I didn't think that they were a woman's work, and I objected
altogether to the methods employed by the detectives and private
enquiry agents who were usually associated with the business.
"The wife added her entreaties to her mother's. With tears in her
eyes she declared that unless her innocence could be proved she would
put an end to her existence. She could not live on under the suspicion
of guilt. She would never see her children again or look into their
innocent faces until this foul stain had been removed from her name.
'Ah, madam!' she cried, her voice choked with hysterical sobs, 'for
my children's sake I ask you to help me. Think--think of the heritage
of shame which will be handed down to them if I cannot prove that
these horrible allegations against me are only a fabric of lies built
up by the perjured witnesses in my husband's pay.'
"I watched the lady narrowly as she spoke. There was not the slightest
doubt as to the genuineness of her emotion, and the idea of her
innocent children suffering all their lives from the branding of
their mother as an adulteress strongly appealed to my woman's heart.
"I asked them to wait while I re-read the case. I fetched my
newspaper file and ran through the evidence, and when I had finished
I was still utterly unable to see things in a hopeful light. However,
they appealed to me so pitifully that at last I consented to take up
the wife's case professionally, and after going over every point with
her carefully, and impressing her with the necessity of telling me
absolutely everything that occurred, even if it weakened rather than
strengthened her position, I sent them away with the assurance that
I would do my best, and that they should hear from me in a fortnight.
Earlier than that I could not guarantee to have made any progress
either one way or the other. I ascertained yesterday that the
co-respondent had come to Brighton, so brought Paul with me and came
here. I am convinced that my one chance of finding a weak spot in
the enemy's armour--always supposing that there is one--will come
through Count von Phalsdorf."
"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I also have read the case carefully
over, and it seems to me that even _you_ will be unable to put a
different construction upon it. You don't imagine that there is the
slightest foundation for the wife's contention, that the whole of
the husband's witnesses committed deliberate perjury?"
"No; I believe that they gave their evidence truthfully."
"Then that makes your task an impossible one. The evidence taken
altogether is damning. There isn't a weak link in it. Just let me
run over it with you."
"By all means," said Dorcas.
"Very well. There is the evidence of the meeting at Nice."
"Undisputed by the wife!" exclaimed Dorcas. "She admits that when
at the Hôtel de France, with her mother, she was introduced to the
Count von Phalsdorf by an English lady of her acquaintance. The Count
was understood to be a young man of position, and well known in
Berlin society."
"And is that denied?"
"It is not denied that he _was_ all that was claimed for him three
years ago. He is undoubtedly a man of high birth, and he was at one
time in a very enviable position, but he had ceased to be that when
my client met him at Nice. As a matter of fact, I have ascertained
that he left Berlin over two years ago in disgrace. He had lost
large sums by gambling, and had engaged in a transaction to replenish
his purse when the discovery led to his banishment from Court and
from Berlin society. He left Berlin practically a ruined man. Though
his father is wealthy, he took his son's disgrace so much to heart
that he has refused to recognise him and does not allow him a
farthing."
"Very well. We will take it that the Count is an exile, that he has
no money from his father, and that he is in bad odour generally.
That is rather an argument in favour of his behaving discreditably
than otherwise."
"Quite so; I am not arguing; I am only telling you the Count's
exact position. That is the first thing I had to make sure of. Now
go on with the evidence."
"Two witnesses--servants from the hotel--swear that they frequently
saw the Count in the lady's company. One declares that late one
night, after the other lady, the respondent's mother, had retired to
rest, she heard voices in the private sitting-room. Wishing to go in
to fetch a tray for one of the waiters, she knocked, and there was
sudden silence. She tried the door, found it locked, and went away.
Ten minutes afterwards she saw the Count, who occupied a room in the
same corridor, come out and go into his own room. Do you suggest that
the girl committed perjury?"
"No; I believe she stated the thing exactly as she saw it."
"The next witness is the lady's maid. She declares that on the
morning following the night referred to by the hotel servant she
found one of the Count's pocket-handkerchiefs, marked with his name,
in her mistress's sitting-room. She said nothing to her mistress or
to the Count, not wishing to embarrass them. She kept the
handkerchief and produced it in court."
"Quite true."
"Examined as to what occurred in London after her mistress's return,
the lady's maid states that the Count called frequently, but that
there was great secrecy about his visits. On several occasions she
admitted him as late as twelve o'clock at night, when the other
servants had been sent to bed. Do you believe that when she says this
she is committing perjury?"
"On the contrary; I believe that she admitted the Count in this
manner frequently."
"She also states that on more than one occasion she went to bed and
did not sit up to let him out."
"I have no doubt it was so."
"Then comes the evidence of the footman. One night, having been out
to the theatre on leave, he returned about one in the morning, and
was letting himself in at the area gate, having the key, when he
heard the front door opened quietly, and saw the Count come out. Do
you think he was committing perjury, or was mistaken?"
"Neither; I believe that the man gave his evidence in a
straightforward manner and with evident reluctance."
"And now the letter--the letter which was sprung upon the Count
suddenly, and I should say unexpectedly--the letter which he was
fain to admit was in his handwriting. That letter is distinctly the
letter of a successful lover to the lady of his heart. It leaves no
room for doubt. Consider the words, 'And, darling, if the worst
happens, and your husband learns our secret, remember that I have
bound myself by the most solemn vows to take you when the law has set
you free and make you my honoured wife. Have no fear, then, darling,
as to the future.' Do you believe that the Count wrote that letter?"
"Yes; if he had denied it on oath I should have believed he wrote it.
It was proved to be unmistakably in his handwriting."
"There is evidence of the finding of that letter. It came into the
hands of the petitioner through the private inquiry agent who had
been shadowing the wife to procure evidence for the divorce. He
called in the lady's absence from town with the card of a first-class
firm of upholsterers at the West End, and a light cart, and said the
firm had been instructed to call for the escritoire in the bedroom to
repair it--a leg had been accidentally broken. The piece of
furniture was delivered to him, and he opened the desk and took out
the papers, acting under the instructions of the lady's husband. Do
you think that story is untrue?"
"Most likely that is where the letter was found."
"Dorcas admits the truthfulness of nearly all the evidence," said
Paul, who had been listening quietly. "We have talked it over
together--but she has a view."
"Your view first, dear," said Dorcas, taking her husband's hand.
"There was no light at all until _you_ saw a gleam."
"Ah, I wasn't always blind," said Paul with a deep sigh. "I was a
man of the world as well as an artist, and I knew something of human
nature in those days. And now that I am blind and I sit and think in
the eternal darkness I see many things clearly that were dim and
vague then."
"You have both arrived at the same conclusion?" I asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Dorcas--"that is, very nearly--we still have one slight
difference of opinion."
"And you both, in spite of this damning evidence, believe that this
lady whom a jury has found guilty, and whom a judge has, by his
decision, publicly condemned, is innocent?"
"Yes," replied Dorcas in a firm voice. "In spite of all the
evidence, the bulk of which has undoubtedly been truthfully given,
in spite of the letter written by the co-respondent and found in the
wife's escritoire, we both believe that she is a pure and innocent
woman."
"And you think you will be able to prove that?"
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. "That I can't say, but I am going
to try."
At that moment the waiter knocked at the sitting-room door and
entered with a letter.
"It was sent by the last train from town, madam--the messenger said
it was to be given to you at once."
Dorcas broke it open and read it, then handed it to me. I took the
letter from her outstretched hand:
"I saw my little girl this evening by arrangement in the presence
of her governess. Some time before the trial she was sent away to
school. I sent her half-a-dozen handkerchiefs as a present and put
them in an old handkerchief sachet I had had for many years. This
evening my little one said suddenly, 'Oh, mamma, when you sent me
those handkerchiefs I didn't feel in the pocket of the sachet; but
this morning I found this in it--you must have left it there.'
And she handed me in the governess's presence a portrait of Count von
Phalsdorf. On the back was written, 'To my own darling--Heinrich.'
What does it mean? Let me see you at once or I shall go mad and believe
that I really am guilty."
"Dorcas," I said, as I put the letter down, "you are wasting your
time. This woman is trying to impose upon you. She is simply hoping
against hope that you will find a possible explanation which she can
use in self-defence, and so pose as an injured woman unjustly
condemned."
"On the contrary," said Dorcas, "this may give me the very clue I
want to make the mystery clear and save my client. I shall go to
town the first thing to-morrow and see what else I can find in that
Handkerchief Sachet."
_V. THE HANDKERCHIEF SACHET_
While I was at breakfast the following morning at the "Old Ship,"
I inquired of my waiter if the lady and gentleman in No. 6 had left,
and was informed that they had gone to town by the nine o'clock
train.
I asked if they were returning that evening, and the waiter said
he didn't think so, as they had taken their luggage and given up
their apartments.
I was very anxious to know more of this mysterious divorce case,
and to ascertain how Dorcas fared in her investigations, and I was
therefore considerably disappointed to find that she was not expected
back again at Brighton. I had hoped that if anything was to be
ascertained in connection with the handsome co-respondent, Count von
Phalsdorf, I should have been permitted the privilege of assisting
Dorcas in her investigations.
And now the venue had been presumably shifted to London, and
although possibly the Count might remain at Brighton, I was wofully
in the dark as to Dorcas's views, and had not even the chance of
doing a little amateur Sherlock Holmes business on my own account.
After breakfast I strolled along the front as far as the Métropole,
and there, reclining peacefully in a basket-chair outside the hotel,
with a pipe in his mouth and a straw hat tilted over his eyes, I found
the dramatist who had introduced us to the Count at Gresham Bacon's
arch the previous evening.
Being old acquaintances, we naturally dropped into conversation, and
presently I led him on to the subject that was nearest my heart.
"I can't say much about the Count," said the dramatist. "I really
don't know much of him. I had been introduced to him at the Lyric
Club, and when I found him here and people nudging each other and
saying in a whisper who he was, I thought it would be rather a lark
to play him up a bit. That is why I brought him round to the arch
last night--deuced good-looking fellow, isn't he?"
"Yes; there is no denying his good looks. But what is your private
opinion of him? Apart from the present scandal hasn't he the
reputation of being a bad lot?"
"My dear fellow, I should say, from what I have heard, that
Phalsdorf is about as warm as they make 'em. I know that he ran up
scores wherever he lived when he first came to London, and that
people fought shy of him at cards, and I'm told that at one time he
was trying to borrow a bit wherever he could. But I suppose he must
have come into money, or made it up with his friends in Germany, who
are rich, for he certainly isn't hard up now. Before he went to Nice
last year and got into this pickle, he had paid up several men to
whom he owed small sums, and he seemed generally to be in good
feather. I know he's all right so far as coin goes now, for he has
the best of everything and he pays as he goes."
"This case will cost him something, at any rate."
"Yes, but he doesn't seem to trouble. The petitioner, you know,
didn't claim damages."
"Is he staying here long?"
"He tells me he thinks of being here a fortnight. Says his nerves
have given way a bit over this affair, and he wants to pull himself
together."
The hint that the Count intended to prolong his stay at Brighton
rather raised my hopes. I thought that there was every probability
that Dorcas would return to Brighton, especially as she had led me
to believe that she attached a good deal of importance to keeping
the Count under observation.
Two days passed and there was no sign of Dorcas. I made up my mind
that I would return to town. It was hot at Brighton, and the sea and
the sun together had begun to have their usual effect upon my liver,
and to make me irritable. The work I had brought with me to do lay on
the little writing-table in my sitting-room untouched. Every day I
saw the now notorious co-respondent on the front, either walking or
driving. If I went to the theatre, he was in the stalls; if I went to
the Brighton Alhambra, he was in a private box. The handsome Prussian
haunted me, and whenever I saw him I found myself wondering how
Dorcas Dene was getting on with her case, and what possible use a
handkerchief sachet could be against the overwhelming evidence of
the guilty love of Dorcas's unfortunate client and Count Heinrich
von Phalsdorf.
I had packed up my things with the assistance of the boots and an
obliging chambermaid. I had given notice at the office that I
intended to leave by the one o'clock train. I had an hour to spare,
and I went out, intending to take a stroll on the pier and get as
much fresh air as possible during the limited time now left me.
Just as I got to the pier-head I noticed Count von Phalsdorf coming
along, followed by a woman selling flowers. The woman's face was
bronzed, and she wore a white sun-bonnet. The Count was walking with
another gentleman--a man I had never seen before.
The flower-woman was persistent. The Count turned and told her he
did not want any flowers, but she still followed him up and begged
him to buy a button-hole. She had been out all the morning, and she
hadn't sold a flower.
She was a youngish woman, and a pretty woman. The Count, I suppose,
was too gallant a man to hold out long as she pleaded so earnestly,
and so at last he put his hand in his pocket and gave her a coin.
"Oh, no, sir," said the young woman, "I'm not a beggar. Please take
your flower." She picked out a mounted carnation, and, putting down
her basket, drew a pin from a cushion hanging to her apron-string,
gently took hold of the lappel of the Count's coat, and fastened the
flower into his button-hole. But she was not a deft florist, for she
bungled and made quite a long job of it before the flower was
properly fixed.
I had been watching the operation, for, as I have explained, the
Count had generally impressed himself upon me, and whenever I saw him
I always found myself staring hard at him. While the flower-woman
was fixing the button-hole a young man crossed from the opposite side
of the road and, holding out sixpence, asked for a flower.
He had to wait till the flower-woman had finished with the Count,
and so the four people--the Count and his friend, the flower-woman
and the young man--formed a little group round the flower basket for
a minute or two.
As soon as the Count's floral decoration was completed he moved away
with his friend. The young man who had come up as a voluntary
customer was politely attended to.
But to my surprise I noticed that the woman and the young man were
conversing together in a low tone during the operation.
The woman saw that I was watching her, and, turning her head, she
gave a glance which nearly caused me to tumble backwards over the
rail against which I was leaning.
That glance was an instantaneous revelation. The flower-woman in the
sun-bonnet was Dorcas Dene!
Before I had recovered from my astonishment the young man moved away
and Dorcas came over to me.
"Buy a button-hole, sir?" she said. Then, without waiting for my
reply, she whispered, "I'll come to the 'Old Ship' this evening at
eight," and was gone.
Needless to say I returned to the hotel at once and unpacked--that
is a process I can always accomplish without the aid either of the
chambermaid or the boots--and sent word to the office that I had
changed my mind and should not be leaving at present.
Soon after eight o'clock the waiter came up to my sitting-room and
said that a lady wished to see me, and a minute later Dorcas Dene
--not, I am glad to say, attired as a hawker of flowers--was sitting
in the easy-chair and enjoying my confession of the turn which the
sudden revelation of the flower-woman's identity had given me that
morning.
"It was a good plan as it turned out," she said, "but it bothered
me a long time before I could think how to hold the Count in the
public streets long enough for one of my witnesses to identify him."
"The young man then was one of your witnesses?"
"Yes," said Dorcas, "and an important one."
"But surely it would have been easy enough for anyone to identify
the Count without all that elaborate business. He makes no mystery
of himself, and goes about continually."
"Quite so," replied Dorcas, "but my witness had only seen him
once or twice before, and then he wore a beard and he didn't call
himself Count von Phalsdorf. I had to hold the Count to be identified,
because what my witness had to look for was a peculiar scar just
under the chin, a mark the Count, I expect, received in a duel in
his old student days."
"I have never noticed that mark," I said.
"No," said Dorcas, "it is only visible when the Count raises his
chin. That's why I wanted to put that nice spiky carnation into his
button-hole. When a man has a flower like that fixed you will notice
that he instinctively raises his chin and stretches his neck. I've
seen them frequently in the flower-shops. It was noticing that that
made me hit on the flower-woman idea last night in town. I came down
this morning with my witness by an early train, and travelled
third-class in my 'make-up,' basket and all."
"And how did you get rid of it?"
"Oh, that was easy enough. I went to a friend's house, and it didn't
take me five minutes."
"Well, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I've no doubt you've done something
very clever, but I'm a little in the dark. You left Brighton some
days ago to upset the evidence of half a dozen witnesses in a divorce
case, with a handkerchief sachet, and here you are in Brighton going
through an elaborate performance in order to make the co-respondent
hold up his chin. I suppose the sachet told you nothing, and you've
started on entirely new lines."
"That is just where you are wrong, my clever gentleman," replied
Dorcas, with a malicious little smile. "If it had not been for the
handkerchief sachet I should never have thought of playing the
little trick I did this morning."
"Then, as they say in the story books, 'Let us begin at the
beginning.' You went to town to examine a handkerchief sachet, the
property of the divorced woman, which after the trial was over was
found to contain a photograph of the co-respondent, with a
compromising inscription."
"Exactly. I called on my client immediately after my arrival in town.
I had wired her to have the sachet in her possession, and I
proceeded at once to inquire into its story.
"She had purchased for her daughter, who was at school, six pretty
handkerchiefs. Going to her drawer one day she found the old sachet.
She thought it would be a pretty present for the girl, who had often
admired it. Taking her own handkerchiefs out she put in the six others
for the child.
"While the drawer was open, the maid came in and asked her to look
at some dresses which she had laid out in the opposite room and say
which of them she--the maid--might have. The lady went into the
adjoining room. The maid stayed behind a moment to pick up some
hair-pins which had fallen on the floor, and then joined her mistress.
"When her mistress returned to the room she locked the drawer she had
been examining and did not open it until the next day, when she took
out the handkerchief sachet, put it in a cardboard box, and sent it
to her daughter.
"That was about a month before the trial came on.
"The photograph of the Count, which only came into the lady's
possession the day she wrote me to Brighton, was found in an inner
pocket of the sachet. This is why the child did not find it in taking
out the handkerchiefs. It was quite by chance that she discovered the
pocket, and feeling in it, drew out the photograph of Phalsdorf,
which, on her first meeting with her mother, she handed to her.
"Having ascertained the facts, and accepting the lady's denial of
any previous knowledge of the photograph, I examined the sachet
carefully. The reason I attached so much importance to this discovery
I will tell you. The thing for which a lady is most likely to send
her maid to her room is a pocket-handkerchief. 'Fetch me another
handkerchief,' is what I frequently say to my own servant. Now, no
woman of my client's position carrying on an intrigue would be likely
to place a portrait of her lover in a drawer to which she would in the
ordinary course of events frequently send her maid. To place a
portrait with an incriminating inscription in a handkerchief sachet
would be absolutely to court detection.
"I felt that I was in possession of at least one piece of what I
suspected to be manufactured evidence. What I wanted to arrive at, if
possible, was, 'Who put that portrait in the handkerchief-sachet?'"
"But, Dorcas," I exclaimed, interrupting, "neither the sachet nor
the portrait were ever referred to at the trial. They were not part
of the evidence you have to disprove."
"No; but they were _intended_ to be. Remember what happened. The
lady sent the sachet to her child. That was not an anticipated event.
By an accident the manufactured evidence had been sent out of the
house. If it had not been, I have not the slightest doubt it would
have found its way into the possession of the husband's detectives,
just as the letter in the escritoire did."
"And that letter--that damning letter----"
"Was, I expect, placed in the escritoire by the same person who
placed the photograph in the handkerchief sachet."
"And--and you found out who that was?"
"I think I have."
"But--you mustn't be cross with me for not quite following your line
of argument--the photograph was written on by Count von Phalsdorf--
the letter was in his handwriting."
"Undoubtedly."
"They were both intended for the lady. How is it they failed to reach
her hands and fell into someone else's?"
"That you will see more clearly when I have told you what I have
learnt from the sachet."
"Go on then--I shall be very glad to know."
"I examined the sachet carefully," continued Dorcas, "and found that,
with half a dozen handkerchiefs in it, if I slipped the photograph
in in a hurry, it slipped into the pocket. I then turned the pocket
inside out and examined the lining, which was of a light blue satin.
Just at the edge of the lining was a slight black ink smear."
"From the photograph--_the ink was wet!_" I exclaimed.
"No, the photograph was inscribed with a violet lead pencil--the
ink smear was from the finger of the person who thrust the photograph
into the sachet in a hurry. The lining must have rubbed the side of
the finger. Directly I noticed that I asked the lady if she remembered
what her maid was doing at the time she--the maid--asked her to step
into the next room and examine the dresses.
"'She was making out a list of things I wanted put into my trunks--I
was going away for a few days with my mother.'
"'What was she writing with?'
"'A pen and ink.'
"'Was she a good writer?'
"'No,' replied the lady, 'a clumsy one--she generally inked the side
of her fingers. I remember when she came into the inner room telling
her not to touch the dresses--her fingers were inky.'"
"Good gracious, Dorcas!" I exclaimed, "then if the maid was conspiring
to ruin her mistress, half the evidence that appears so damning can
be accounted for."
"Of course it can. I am sure that the maid put that photograph into
the sachet, intending it to be found as evidence. The presumption is
that she also found an opportunity of slipping the Count's
compromising letter into the escritoire. It is certain that she gave
the escritoire up to the man who pretended to come for it from a
furniture firm. Now, see how easily the other evidence can be
accounted for, if we accept a plot in which the maid was concerned.
She lets the Count in late at night. She gives the orders, her
mistress having retired to her own apartments, to the servants to go
to bed. She arranges to let the Count in and let him out just as she
hears the footman clanging the area gate."
"But Nice--the servant's evidence there?"
"The servants never saw the lady with the Count in the locked
sitting-room. If the lady had gone to bed, what was easier than for
the maid to admit the Count, lock the door, chat with him in an
undertone, and then let him go out and cross the corridor to be seen
by the servants who were about? As to the handkerchief, well, he
would only have to put it on the sofa for her to find it."
"But presuming, Dorcas, that such an infamous conspiracy as this
has been worked against the honour of an innocent woman, there must
have been another party to it--the Count himself."
"That is what I said to myself directly the handkerchief sachet had
incriminated the maid. If the maid worked this, she must have been
_employed_ to do so--instructed what to do by someone cleverer than
herself, and the Count must have been one of her fellow-conspirators.
He must have set himself deliberately to make everything appear
conclusive of the lady's guilt."
"One can hardly believe that of a man in the Count's position."
"It is difficult--and I felt that my next step must be to find out
if the Count could under any circumstances have lent himself to such
an infamy. I had already, as you know, obtained certain information
concerning him before I commenced my inquiries. Inquiring in a
neighbourhood which he was known to have frequented before he
suddenly appeared in Nice, elegantly dressed, and with money at his
command, I discovered that from the house he lodged in--it is in
Soho--he had suddenly moved. He came in one evening quite jolly,
and a few minutes afterwards he sent for the landlady and said, 'I'm
going. Send my things to Victoria Station--here's what I owe you.'
He paid and went away that instant. I inquired and found that on the
evening of his sudden desire to leave, the rooms above him had been
let to a young German, an artist. All the landlady could think was
that perhaps the Count didn't like to have fellow lodgers who were
Germans.
"The artist was still living there. I interviewed him. He had heard
of Count von Phalsdorf having lived there, but he did not know him by
sight. There could be no possible reason why the Count should move
because of him.
"Then I asked him if he knew of anyone, a German, who might wish to
avoid him.
"'Yes,' he said, 'there is one fellow. A year or two ago I was very
hard up, and I was living in a very poor place. Below me was a young
German fellow who said he was a gentleman and certainly talked like
one. One night we were talking over our troubles, and he said that he
was desperate. He didn't know what he should do. I said I was the
same. Then he asked me if I was particular. I said I didn't know what
he meant. Then he told me that at a cheap restaurant he had been to
he had met an Italian who had offered to introduce him to a firm of
private inquiry agents--people who got up evidence in divorce cases.
They wanted young good-looking men of gentlemanly manners and
appearance.'
"'What for,' I said. 'To be detectives?'
"'No,' he said, 'to compromise women. The Italian told me that a
good-looking clever fellow might make a big haul at that game.'
"'I felt dreadfully indignant at the bare idea, and I said to him,
"Well, I'd sooner starve than lend myself to such infamy as that,
wouldn't you?"
"'He said, "Oh, I don't know--I think if the firm made it worth my
while I'd sooner do that than starve."
"'I was so shocked by such a brutal speech that I called him an
insulting name, and he struck me--as a matter of fact he gave me a
sound hiding, and said if we were in Germany he'd kill me. I was a
bit afraid after that, for he was a strong fellow, and the next day
I left.
"'That's the only German I know who perhaps might feel ashamed of
himself, and not want to meet me again.'
"'What was this German's name?'
"'Well, he called himself Carl Hansen.'
"'Should you know him again if you saw him?'
"If I met him I could always identify him by one thing.'
"'What is that?'
"'He had a curious scar under his chin. I noticed it when he knocked
me down and stood over me that night threatening to kill me.'
"That young artist was the man I brought down to Brighton to-day,"
said Dorcas. "He, too, has changed his appearance by growing a beard,
and I don't think the Count recognised him, but he recognised the
Count _by the scar under his chin._"
When Dorcas had finished her narrative I could scarcely speak. That
such an infamous business could be carried on in the nineteenth
century here in England seemed to me inconceivable.
"Do you really think," I said, presently, "that Count von Phalsdorf
has been deliberately employed to enable the husband of the lady to
get a divorce?"
"I am sure of it," said Dorcas. "The firm of inquiry agents he
employed are entirely unscrupulous. I believe that they found the
Count and bribed the lady's maid, and worked the whole thing.
Probably this handsome Adonis who left his own country in disgrace,
and was at his wits' end for money, has had a couple of thousand
pounds for his services."
"But why should the husband be so eager for a divorce?"
"My dear fellow--directly the decree is made absolute he intends to
marry the lady who is really the cause of his first separation from
his wife."
* * * * * *
The decree was never made absolute. The information that Dorcas
had been able to gather was communicated to the Queen's Proctor, and
the lady's maid was arrested on a charge of perjury. The Count, who
had scented danger, disappeared, and was fortunately for himself
nowhere to be found when the police began to make anxious inquiries
for him. The private inquiry agent, who had been the prime mover in
the infamous conspiracy, was criminally prosecuted, and was with the
lady's maid sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.
The husband protested that he had accepted the evidence tendered
as genuine, and that all he had done was to promise a large sum to
the firm in the event of their services obtaining him a divorce.
Being a man of high position, the more merciful view of his conduct
was taken. It was agreed that he had been deceived by the people to
whom he had entrusted the inquiry, which he was led to make by the
information which they assured him they already had of his wife's
unfaithfulness.
* * * * * *
While everything had appeared to point to the guilt of the unhappy
lady, Dorcas Dene had triumphantly vindicated her honour, and
restored to her her good name, and the right to claim the love and
respect of her children.
"And I think," said Paul, when we were talking the case over
afterwards over our pipes in the little garden at Oak Tree Road,
"that if I had ever had any compunction about my good little wife
turning private detective, the last vestige of it would have vanished
with the result of this case. No soldier on the field of battle, no
missionary in a heathen land, no gentlewoman at the bedside of the
sick ever did a nobler deed than my little wife when she saved the
honour of this poor lady from the wretches who had so vilely plotted
against her."
_VI. A BANK HOLIDAY MYSTERY_
I had been away for a holiday trip to Switzerland, and had been
staying for some time at Lucerne. I like Lucerne, because there you
can have a great deal of Swiss scenery without going through any
great exertion to enjoy it. I am quite content to take everything
that I am told about the joys of Alpine climbing in good faith,
without trying the experience for myself. I am very fond of the top
of a mountain, and if there is a railway all the way up and a decent
restaurant within easy distance of the summit, nothing delights me
more than to be a mountaineer for one day only. But I object strongly
to melodramatic adventures with guides and ropes, and crevasses and
ice axes. From Lucerne you can ascend Pilatus--by rail. From the
neighbourhood of Lucerne you can make a pleasant trip up the
Righi--by rail. And when you don't want mountains you can have
quiet trips on the Lake, and come back in the evening to a big hotel,
decent cooking, the electric light, a railway station, the English
newspapers, and civilisation.
I had spent a lazy fortnight in Lucerne, and it had done me an
immense amount of good. When I returned to town I felt inclined for
a little excitement.
Sitting alone in my study one beautiful September afternoon a day
or two after my return, I had a sudden inspiration. "I will go and
call on the Denes," I said to myself. Dorcas told me before I went
away that they were going to Scotland for their holiday, but they
expected to be back by the end of August.
Eight o'clock that evening found me in front of the familiar
wooden door. I rang the bell, and the servant who answered it
informed me that Mrs. Dene was out, but that Mr. Dene was in the
drawing-room with Mrs. Lester.
Paul, who had heard my voice in the hall, stood at the open door,
"Come in, my dear fellow," he said. "Dorcas is out, but I don't think
she'll be very long. We were to expect her at nine."
Mrs. Lester was not in a particularly good humour. Soon after I
came in she picked up her work and retired to her own apartment.
"What's the matter with the old lady, Paul?" I said. "She doesn't
seem very amiable to-night."
"No," replied Paul, picking up Toddlekins, the bulldog, who had put
his paws upon his master's knee as a gentle hint that he wanted to
be nursed; "Mrs. Lester is cross with Dorcas."
"What about?"
"Oh, it's really nothing--only Dorcas isn't very well. Our holiday
in Scotland was interrupted, and Dorcas had to return to town to
take up a case that worried her a great dal, and left her quite
knocked over; and just as she was through with it and we had made up
our minds to try a little sea trip, another case came along, and
Dorcas is now engaged on it."
"But why should Mrs. Lester be disagreeable about that? She, I
presume, wouldn't want to go on the sea trip with you, and business
is business."
"Yes. But this case isn't business. Dorcas has taken it up to oblige
a poor woman who cannot even afford to pay expenses out of pocket."
"Ah, I see--that is why Mrs. Lester objects."
"Yes; she says it is idiotic of Dorcas to ruin her health and lose
her much-needed holiday worrying about other people's affairs, when
there isn't anything to be made by it."
"She has reason on her side. After all, her daughter's health is her
first consideration."
"Yes; and unfortunately the old lady considers that in this instance
Dorcas is doubly foolish to work for nothing. I'll tell you the
facts, and then you'll understand my mother-in-law's attitude better."
Paul was smoking a cigarette, so I asked his permission to light my
pipe, which he granted with a pleasant smile. I can always follow
the plot of a story better when I have a pipe in my mouth.
"Ten days ago," said Paul, "just as we were packing to go away,
there was a ring at the bell, and the servant came in and said that
an old lady wished to see Mrs. Dene. The 'consulting room,' as we
call it, was being 'turned out,' so the old lady was shown into the
drawing-room.
"I knew by the voice and the manner in which she introduced
herself that she was not a very promising client. She began by
apologising for the liberty she had taken, and seemed so confused
and nervous that Dorcas invited her to sit down and 'collect
herself.'
"'You're very kind, ma'am,' said the old lady, 'but I'm taking a
liberty, I'm sure.'
"'Never mind about the liberty,' said Dorcas. 'Sit down and tell
me why you've come to see me.'
"The old lady, after a good deal of gasping and a few tears,
eventually became composed enough to tell her story.
"She had read in the papers about the famous lady detective, Dorcas
Dene, and what wonderful things she had done, and, being in great
distress of mind about an only daughter who had disappeared, and
being unable to get any information through the police, she had
determined to come and bring her case before Mrs. Dene.
"'You want me to take it up professionally,' said my wife.
"'Well, ma'am, that's where I feel that I'm taking a liberty. I'm
only a poor woman. My daughter, who was in a West End house of
business, was my right hand. It was she who kept the home, and a good
girl she was, and the best of daughters. I am a widow, and let part
of my house in lodgings, but my daughter earned good money, and now
she's left me in such a sudden and mysterious way I don't know what
to do. I know, of course, that you are paid a great deal of money for
what you do, and you deserve it--but--you see--I--I am not in a
position----'
"'I understand,' said my wife. 'You can't afford to pay for my
services.'
"'No, ma'am--I'm sorry to say I can't, not at once--but for my dear
girl's sake I'll sell everything I have in the world, and if perhaps
you could make the terms easy for me, and take a little at a time
--oh, dear--oh, dear--of course it's a liberty to ask such a thing--
but I'm nearly distracted with grief and--and you must forgive me.'
"The old lady broke down, and there was no doubt in my mind that
her grief was genuine. I did not _see_ it, but I _heard_ it. Every
tone of her voice rang true.
"'Well,' said my wife, soothingly, 'tell me all about your daughter
first, and we can discuss my terms afterwards.'
"Briefly this is what the old lady had to tell:
"Her name was Edwards. Her daughter Miriam, who was eight-and-twenty,
was a 'tryer-on' at one of the West End drapery houses. She was a
tall, graceful, lady-like young woman, and, as the old lady observed
parenthetically, 'everything looked well on her.' She put the mantles
on for ladies to see how they looked. She came home every evening.
Some six months ago Miriam Edwards had informed her mother that she
had made the acquaintance of a gentleman--a Mr. John Carlton--who
was in a good position, so she understood, in the City. She had met
him accidentally one evening in the street when she was being annoyed
by a man who was following her. He had interfered, and, seeing she
was upset, had asked and obtained the privilege of seeing her as far
as her door. The next evening she encountered him again. He explained
that he left his office at the same time every evening, and walked
home, which accounted for their meeting. He walked a little way with
her. In that way the acquaintance commenced and gradually ripened
into affection on her part, and presumably on Mr. Carlton's, for he
made her an offer of marriage, and begged that he might be introduced
to her mother. Miriam told her mother everything, and Mr. Carlton
became a constant visitor. He was most gentlemanly, seemed to have
plenty of money, made the girl one or two handsome presents, and the
marriage was arranged to take place in September. Mr. Carlton
explained that he would not allow his wife to remain in business--he
could afford to keep her. He took Miriam and her mother about to look
for a little house, and early in August he said he had taken one and
would furnish it and give up his present lodgings, move into it, and
get everything ready for his wife. At the end of July he asked Miriam
to leave her situation, and handed her twenty pounds in gold. 'This,'
he said, 'will enable you to buy certain things, and will compensate
your mother for the loss of your salary. He did the whole thing in a
very nice and gentlemanly way, and explained that Mrs. Edwards, if she
found that the lodging-house did not pay sufficiently well, could
sell off and come to live with them.
"On the August Bank Holiday Miriam left home to meet her lover. They
were going to see the house he had taken. From that hour Mrs. Edwards
had never seen her daughter again, or heard a single word from her or
from Mr. Carlton. She had gone to a magistrate and to the police, but
nothing had been discovered, and now, as her last hope, she came to
my wife.
"When she had finished her narrative, which was, of course, far more
disjointed than I have given it to you," said Paul, "my wife commenced
to cross-examine her.
"'Your daughter was engaged with your consent to this Mr. Carlton.
Did they write to each other?'
"'No,' said the lady, 'I don't think so--you see they met almost
every evening.'
"'But sometimes he might not be able to keep the appointment. Try
and think--did he never send a message by anyone?'
"'Yes, I remember now,' said the old lady. 'Twice when she had
missed him there was a telegram for her the next morning.'
"'The next morning,' said my wife. 'Ah, he telegraphed and spent
sixpence when he could have written for a penny. He didn't want her
to have any of his handwriting in her possession!'
"'You think, then,' said the old lady, nervously, 'that Mr. Carlton's
at the bottom of my poor girl's disappearance--that he never intended
to marry her, but has 'ticed her away, the villain!'
"'I don't say _that_,' said my wife. 'I really haven't any right to
form an opinion at all as yet, but the fact that he never _wrote_
during the whole of his courtship is a point I must bear in mind.
Now, another question. Did your daughter ever write to him?'
"'Yes, I think so--I'm sure so--I have seen her write and go out and
post the letter.'
"'Did you see the address?'
"'No.'
"'Where did he tell you he lived?'
"'He was in lodgings, I understood; it was a house in the Hampstead
Road, I remember.'
"'Did you ever go there?'
"'No ma'am, I never went out with them; I had the house to look after,
and a young man doesn't want his sweetheart's mother with him.'
"'Quite so. Did your daughter ever go to his lodgings?'
"'Oh no, she wouldn't do that. I have young men lodgers; I shouldn't
like them to bring young women to their rooms.'
"'Then you only think he lived in Hampstead Road because----.'
"'Well, ma'am, I remember his saying so; and I suppose that's where
my daughter wrote to him.'
"'You say he was something in the City. Do you remember a business
address ever being mentioned?'
"'No ma'am; my poor girl told me he was in a very good position. He
said he was on the Stock Exchange, whatever that is. He said he was
a confidential clerk to a big firm, and his salary was £500 a year.
You see, ma'am, I thought it was a good match for my girl. He was a
man of five-and-thirty--very quiet, quite the gentleman, and he
certainly had money to spend, and treated her most handsomely.'
"'I understand. But you've been to the police and told your story.
What have they done?'
"'They've inquired on the Stock Exchange. There's no one known there
by the name of Mr. John Carlton.'
"'He never wrote, and he gave a _false_ description of himself,'
said my wife. 'I don't think there is much doubt that Mr. John
Carlton is at the bottom of your daughter's mysterious disappearance.
At any rate he must know she has disappeared; otherwise he would have
called at your house and made inquiries concerning her.'
"'I'm sure it must be that,' said the old lady; 'but why hasn't my
poor girl written to me? She was a kind and loving daughter--she must
know the state of anxiety I am in. If--if he has deceived her--
persuaded her to live with him without being married--surely she
might have found some means to send me a line to let me know she is
alive.'
"'Yes,' said my wife, '_that_ is the mystery I have to unravel.'
"'You will take the case up, then?'
"'Yes.'
"'Ah, find my poor girl for me, ma'am; let her know that I will
forgive her everything if she will only come to me and let me see
her once again. I'll pay you when I can--I'll----'
"'Never mind about that,' said my wife, 'you shall pay me when you
like--or not at all. I'll take the case up.'
"'God bless you for that; God bless you for that!'
"My wife sat silent for a moment; then she said to the old lady,
'I'll do the best I can for you, and I hope I shall be able to solve
the mystery, and at least to let you know the truth. Now go home.
Leave me your address, and to-morrow I will come to your house. I
shall want to go over everything your daughter has left behind. I
suppose she didn't take much with her?'
"'Nothing but the clothes she stood upright in. I'm sure that when
she left the house in the morning she intended to come back again
that evening.'
"'Then to-morrow I'll call and see if I can find anything that may
help us in her search among her things. Good-night.'
"The old lady with a profusion of thanks bade my wife good-night.
The next day my wife went to her house, and----"
The door had opened noiselessly--neither I nor Paul had heard
a sound. We were both startled when a familiar voice exclaimed--
"Good evening. Paul, dear, what are you telling Mr. Saxon about
your wife in her absence?"
Dorcas Dene came towards me and held out her hand. Then she took
off her hat, plunged the long hat pin into it violently, and flung it
on the table, and sat down wearily in an armchair.
"You are tired," I said. "Paul tells me you have not been very well."
"No, I'm played out--I'm no good."
"You are no nearer, dear?" said Paul gently. "You have found out
nothing?"
"Yes, I've found out _something_," answered Dorcas, with a sigh,
"but it's the sort of thing that is worse than nothing."
"Why?"
"Because it is something I don't understand. I have found Miriam
Edwards but----"
"You have found her? Then your task is accomplished."
"No."
Dorcas turned to me. "Paul has told you the story so far as he
knows it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then you will understand what I have to add to it. After poor old
Mrs. Edwards had left on the night of her visit, I made up my mind
that this was no ordinary case of abduction. The girl had not been a
consenting party, because she would in that case have found some
means of soothing her mother's fears and preventing the publicity of
a police inquiry. It looked to me like a long-planned plot, because
Mr. Carlton had been so careful not to write, and had evidently
purposely deceived the mother as to his address.
"The next day I went to the old lady's house. It was a thoroughly
respectable place, and I was more favourably impressed with the old
lady than ever. My mother, you know, differs with me over this case.
She thinks I am giving my time to the task of finding a worthless
girl who has eloped with a man her superior in station, but from the
first I was inclined to believe that the girl was the victim of some
deep-laid scheme.
"At the house I went over all Miriam Edwards's possessions. I
searched every drawer, I felt in all her pockets, I read every scrap
of paper with writing on it that she had left behind, and I found
absolutely nothing. I didn't expect to find that Mr. John Carlton had
given away a photograph of himself, so I was not disappointed, but I
did hope to discover something that had been his, and that would give
me a clue, however slight, to go upon.
"I was absolutely in despair, and was bidding the old lady good-bye
in the little parlour which she kept as her own sitting-room, when I
noticed an old-fashioned blotting-book.
"'Is that yours?' I said.
"'Yes.'
"'Is that the blotting-book your daughter used when she wrote a
letter?'
"'Yes, always.'
"'Thank you. I'll take it with me if you'll allow me.'
"I brought the old blotting-book home. It contained only two sheets
of cheap pink blotting paper, and these had evidently been used for
years, for they were faded and blackened with ink marks.
"However, I got a hand glass and studied the reflected pages as well
as I possibly could. In a glass, as of course you know, the writing
which is reversed on the blotting pad is reflected in its original
form. After some half-hour's close study I was rewarded by finding--
indistinct, but still legible--the name of John Carlton. Miriam
Edwards had evidently addressed an envelope to him. It took me some
time, though, to discover the address, for that had been crossed and
recrossed with other blottings, but at last I had succeeded in making
out the number 317A. The rest was absolutely illegible, but I
remembered that the old lady had said she had heard Hampstead Road
mentioned by her daughter, and so I set out to look for
317A, Hampstead Road.
"It was not a private house, but a stationer's shop. I went in and
asked if anyone named Carlton had ever lived there. The man behind
the counter said no, but he had some recollection of such a name--
probably it was that of someone who had letters addressed there.
"'Oh, you have letters addressed here?'
"'Yes; anyone can have their letters sent here. We charge a penny
for taking care of them.'
"It was evident to me at once that this was the address at which
Carlton had pretended to live. As a matter of fact, it was only the
address at which he received letters.
"I described Carlton as well as I could from Mrs. Edwards's
description, and the proprietor said he remembered such a person
distinctly. He was in the habit of coming for letters, but not
frequently. The letters, so far as he remembered, were always in a
female handwriting. He didn't think he could identify the writing now
if it were shown to him. He didn't take any particular notice of the
handwriting of customers' letters. Mr. Carlton had not come for any
letters for weeks.
"That information and a portrait of Miriam Edwards, taken just before
she disappeared, were all that I had to go upon, and you will confess
they were not much.
"The portrait was the most valuable. I had a couple of dozen copies
made by the photographer who had the negative, and I got my assistant,
the retired police-sergeant, to take me round to the railway police
at the various stations of London, and I sent one to Brighton,
Hastings, Portsmouth, and various seaside towns, to my correspondents
there. We have always in our business a good many agents whom we use
for local information, you know. I sent one to Boulogne, and one to
Calais, and I hoped that perhaps eventually I might receive some
information, however meagre, which might put me on the direct track.
"Fortune favoured me. Yesterday I received a telegram. A woman
corresponding exactly with the photograph had arrived at Dover, and
had inquired of one of the porters if he could tell her of quiet
respectable lodgings in the town. The porter had been struck by the
likeness to the photo which the railway police-officer had shown him,
and he at once recommended her to the constable's own house--the
constable's wife kept a lodging-house--and then informed the
constable what he had done. A telegram was at once sent to me. I went
down the first thing this morning with Mrs. Edwards. When we arrived
the 'lady' was out, but the constable's wife, who had been apprised
by her husband of our business, showed us into a sitting-room.
"I went upstairs to the first floor, which the new lodger had
taken for a week. I examined the things in the bedroom, and had a
good professional pry into everything. In a drawer I found a watch
and a locket. I showed them to Mrs. Edwards. She recognised them at
once as having been given to Miriam by Mr. Carlton. She remembered
that she wore them the day she went away. I asked the landlady what
jewellery her lodger wore, and she said the only thing she had
noticed was a ring with two small diamonds and a sapphire in the
centre.
"'It is my poor girl!' exclaimed the old lady, almost beside
herself with excitement. 'That was just the ring he gave her as an
engagement ring.'
"I begged her to be calm and not to give way yet, as it was most
important we should gather as much information as possible before we
revealed ourselves.
"While we were talking the landlady looked out of the window, and
exclaimed, 'She's coming up the street--she'll be here directly.'
"We went out of the room and up to the second floor.
"The landlady opened the door and let her lodger in.
"In a few minutes she came upstairs and told us that the lady had
taken off her hat and was sitting in her room.
"Quietly we came downstairs. I tried the handle and flung the door
open, exclaiming, 'Miss Edwards, your mother has come to see you.'
"The woman started to her feet with a cry of surprise.
Mrs. Edwards rushed in and cried out, 'Miriam--my darling!'
"Then she started and drew back, her face white with terror.
"'It is her living image,' she cried; 'but it is _not my daughter!_'"
_VII. A PIECE OF BROWN PAPER_
When Dorcas told us that Mrs. Edwards refused to accept as her
daughter Miriam the woman who was her living image, and had in her
possession the watch, the locket, and the ring which Miriam Edwards
had worn on the day she disappeared, I could not keep back an
exclamation of astonishment.
"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "it _must_ have been Miriam Edwards.
The mother must have made a mistake."
"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I still believe
that it _was_ Miriam Edwards, but let me tell you what happened.
"The lady, as soon as she had recovered from her first surprise
at our intrusion, exclaimed, 'What do you want here? What do you
mean by calling me Miriam, and what does this old lady mean by
calling me her daughter? Are you lunatics?'
"'No,' I replied. 'If we are mistaken you must excuse us--but you
are the absolute double of a young lady of whom we are in search,
and you have in your possession jewellery which undoubtedly belonged
to her. If you are not Miriam Edwards, you must please explain how
you come to be in possession of Miriam Edwards's property.'
"'What property do you mean?'
"'You have a watch and a locket in your bedroom, and a ring on
your finger--that one with the diamonds and sapphire--which
were Miss Edwards's.'
"'Indeed!' said the lady indignantly; 'so you have dared to search
my things in my absence; how otherwise could you have known that I
have the watch and locket I left in the drawer?' Then, turning to the
landlady who had followed us in, she exclaimed, 'I shall be glad of
an explanation. What do you mean by letting strangers have access to
my property in my absence?'
"'I'm sure I beg pardon, ma'am,' said the landlady, 'but I really
believed what this lady (pointing to me) told me, that you were
Mrs. Edwards's daughter, and I--I didn't see any harm.'
"'There is harm--a great deal of harm--and I shall leave your house
at once and take lodgings elsewhere. As to the property you claim as
Miss Edwards's,' she said, turning to me, 'it has been in my
possession for years--if necessary, I can prove it.'
"I looked at Mrs. Edwards, who appeared very upset, and was trembling
violently.
"'It isn't my daughter, ma'am,' she said; 'it isn't her voice--and
perhaps, after all, I may be mistaken about the jewellery.'
"'You are,' said the lady, 'and now perhaps you will have the
goodness to leave my rooms.'
"I could not refuse. The old lady had taken away any chance I had
of making a distinct charge by hesitating about the jewellery. So I
bowed with as much dignity as I could muster, and we went out and sat
downstairs and talked the strange affair over.
"'Her living image, ma'am,' said Mrs. Edwards to me, 'and I don't
wonder the photograph deceived your friends here, but it's not my
daughter. A mother must know her own child.'
"'But it _is_ the jewellery--you know it is. Why did you say you
weren't sure in her presence?'
"'Well, ma'am, I felt frightened at what we'd done. We'd made a
mistake about her, and of course I might be mistaken about the
jewellery. There's plenty made of the same pattern, I suppose.'
"I understood the old lady's nervousness. With people of her class
there is always a terror of doing anything illegal. But I was
convinced in my own mind that I had found Miriam Edwards--the
likeness and the three articles of jewellery could hardly be mere
coincidences.
"We remained for some time talking downstairs, and presently the
landlady came down.
"'She's gone, Mrs. Dene,' she said. 'She packed, and I went for a
cab, and glad I was to let her go.'
"'You let her go without telling me! Where has she gone?'
"'I don't know--I didn't wait to hear.'
"'But, my good woman, I must know! I want to follow this person up.
You ought to have told me she was going so soon. I should then have
been able to ascertain where she had gone.'
"The landlady shook her head. 'I didn't want any more trouble,'
she said. 'After all, she might have brought an action against me,
you know, for letting you overhaul her property. That kind of thing
gets about and might injure my letting if it got into the papers. I
don't want any paragraphs about my place, especially my husband being
a constable.'
"'But you were quite right in what you did. We identified the
property as that of the missing woman of whom we are in search.'
"'Well, Mrs. Dene, you see it's not a police search--it's only
private--and the old lady here said it _wasn't_ her daughter, and
she _might_ be mistaken about the jewellery. That didn't leave me
nor you a leg to stand on, and it gave the woman a clear case against
me if she wanted to be nasty--so I was glad to let her go quietly.'
"What could I do? I went out and succeeded in finding the flyman
who had been called. He had driven the lady to the station and she
had caught the train to London.
"There was nothing more to be done. I came up to town with
Mrs. Edwards, and here I am, as far off as ever."
"But," said Paul, "you said when you began your story that you had
found Miriam Edwards. Do you really believe that the mother wouldn't
know her own daughter?"
"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I have an idea that
the old lady _refused_ to recognise her daughter. She may have seen
something--have learnt something--from the woman's glance or manner
which caused her to deny the identity in the presence of strangers.
I can't make it out. I can't believe that the extraordinary
likeness and the three articles of jewellery were accidental."
Dorcas rose from the sofa and paced the room.
"It must have been Miriam Edwards!" she cried. "It must have been!
I have been fooled! But why--why should that old lady say it was
not her daughter when it was? I'm not going to let the mystery rest
there. Good night, Mr. Saxon--I don't want to talk--I want
to think. Come and see me again in a couple of days."
"Will you be able to tell me then what the explanation of the
mystery is?"
"Perhaps--I hope so."
There was nothing more to be said after that peremptory dismissal,
so I shook hands and left.
* * * * * *
I called again in a couple of days. Dorcas was out. I saw Paul, but
he could tell me nothing. For the first time in her professional
career, his wife was not confiding in him.
"When I ask her," he said, "how she is getting on, she only says,
'Wait--I don't know anything myself. I have an idea, but I can't
explain it. Don't ask me to talk about it. Let me think.'"
It was quite a week later that I received a little note from Dorcas.
It was short and to the point.
"You can come this evening."
* * * * * *
I found Dorcas alone in the drawing-room. Paul had gone out with
Mrs. Lester to a friend's house.
Dorcas was pale and looked very grave.
"You have unravelled the mystery of Miriam Edwards?"
"Yes, I know everything now. It is a strange story."
"And the woman in the lodgings was the old lady's daughter?"
"No--the jewellery was Miriam Edwards's jewellery, but the woman who
was her living image and was wearing it was the wife of the man who
passed himself off as Mr. John Carlton."
"Good heavens! Do you mean to say that the man was married to a
woman who was the exact counterpart of the woman he was courting?"
"Yes; but let me tell you the details of this peculiar case exactly
as I arrived at them.
"After the extraordinary result of my visit to Dover, I decided to
act entirely by myself, and to leave Mrs. Edwards under the
impression that I had abandoned the case.
"I was suspicious of her--wrongly as I now know--but I could not get
rid of the idea that the daughter had, when she found herself in her
mother's presence, managed in some way to convey a warning to the
old lady--to impress her with the idea that there would be danger in
recognition. I thought the matter out till my head ached, but I could
see no other solution of the difficulty.
"I made up my mind that the first thing I had to do was to find
that Dover lady who had Miriam Edwards's face and Miriam Edwards's
jewellery again. The clue to the mystery lay there, and it was no
good searching for it anywhere else.
"I went back to Dover and interviewed the constable's wife. Now
that her lodger had gone, and she felt safe from legal proceedings,
she was eager to render me all the assistance in her power. She let
me search the rooms, which were unlet. There was nothing--not
even a scrap of paper or a thread. I turned up the carpets, I opened
cupboards and doors, I searched the grates, I looked in the chimney
ornaments--everywhere where some scrap that would mean nothing
to the ordinary observer, but which yet might serve as a clue to a
trained detective, might be lying. I found nothing but an ordinary
hairpin.
"Then I asked the landlady if anything had been taken from the
room since her lodger left.
"'Nothing,' she said.
"'Now try and think. When she came in she unpacked her boxes. Did
you notice anything? Do you remember anything that could give me the
slightest indication as to the profession or habits of the woman?'
"'Nothing. She didn't unpack much--only a few things, and those
you saw in the drawers.'
"There was nothing on her handkerchiefs or the linen I saw, because
I looked carefully for traces of Miriam Edwards. It was all new and
unmarked. The trunks in the room were locked.
"Suddenly the landlady gave a little start.
"'I do remember something now; but I'm sure that won't be of any
use to you.'
"'I don't know. What was it?'
"'The day she came in she undid her trunk and took out one or two
things, and among them a pair of boots. The boots were wrapped up in
brown paper. She threw the piece of paper in the grate, and going
into her room to tidy up I took it away.'
"'Was there anything written on the paper?'
"'It was brown paper--I don't think so. It was scrobbled up.'
"'Where is the paper? Have you got it?'
"'Yes, it's in the kitchen with the paper put by to light fires. It
won't be used because we never use the brown paper--it smells so.
I think I can find it.'
"She went out and presently brought me two pieces of 'scrobbled up'
brown paper.
"'I've only brought these pieces, because that's all that there is
there.'
"I took the pieces and unfolded them carefully. On the end of one
piece was a torn gummed label--a portion of the label which drapers
stick on parcels which are sent out for delivery. The paper had been
torn through the label. All that was on it was this:
SHOOL
Tott
Mrs.
1/7
13642
_Paid_
"There was absolutely nothing on the other piece of brown paper.
"I folded the piece with the torn label carefully and put it in
my pocket.
"'You can't get anything from that, surely?' said the landlady.
"'I don't know,' I said. 'At any rate the lady wrapped her boots
up in it, and it may be of more service to me than you imagine.'
"I returned to town, and the next morning I went to Messrs. Shoolbred
and Co. of Tottenham Court Road, and asked to see one of the managers.
"I explained my business, and showed him the torn label on the piece
of brown paper.
"'That is our label,' he said. 'It would be gummed on a parcel sent
out for delivery. The 1/7 means the first of July. The 13642 is the
number of the order, and we shall find it in the Cash Sales Day Book
for the 1st of July, because the "Paid" means that the articles,
whatever they were, were bought and paid for at the time. If you will
take a seat I will have the books referred to.'
"In about a quarter of an hour the manager returned with a slip of
paper. 'Here,' he said, 'is the label traced.' I took the slip of
paper and read:
Mrs. Coombes,
17, Hansworth Road,
Notting Hill Gate.
Sold for cash.
Then followed a small list of feminine underwear, and on the bottom
of the paper '4 p.m. delivery.'
"I left the magnificent establishment in the Tottenham Court Road
with a beating heart. I had found out where the brown paper had come
from in which the lady who took lodgings at Dover and had Miriam
Edwards's jewellery in her possession had wrapped up her boots.
"But the date caused me to put my considering cap on. On July 1
Miriam Edwards was at home with her mother, and certainly would not
have been having articles sent to Notting Hill Gate in the name of
Mrs. Coombes.
"I went straight to the address in Hansworth Road. No. 17 was a
small, double-fronted house. In the front garden was a notice-board:
'This House to Let--Keys at the Agents'--Messrs. Dever & Co.'
"I noted the address given and went to it. I inquired what the rental
of No. 17 was, and was informed it was £100 a year.
"'Might I inquire why the last tenant left it, and a few particulars?'
"The clerk informed me that the house was in good sanitary repair,
had a large garden, and it was a most eligible residence. The late
tenant had left it on account of his wife's death.
"'Let me see,' I said, 'he was a Mr. Coombes, was he not?'
"'Yes--Mr. John Coombes.'
"Then I entered into conversation with the clerk, who seemed quite
willing to chat, and I inquired about Mr. John Coombes. He had lived
in the house for some time, and was a gentleman of independent means.
He did nothing. His wife was a very charming woman, but her fate had
been a sad one. She had been subject to epileptic fits, and had been
drowned in her bath during a seizure.
"'Ah,' I said, 'that is very terrible. How long ago was this?'
"'It was on the night of last Bank Holiday.'
"'Was there an inquest?'
"'Oh, yes, the inquest was held on the following Thursday.'
"'Ah,' I said, 'I'm afraid my friends who are looking for a house
wouldn't care to take one which has been the scene of such a
tragedy--I will communicate with them and let you know.'
"I left the house-agents', my brain in a whirl. What could it mean?
On the very day that Miriam Edwards disappeared Mrs. Coombes had been
drowned in her bath. The woman, who was the living image of Miriam
Edwards, and had her jewellery in her possession, had wrapped up her
boots in a piece of brown paper which had been directed to
Mrs. Coombes.
"I went to the British Museum and searched the newspaper files.
I found the inquest.
"The tragedy happened on Bank Holiday. Mr. John Coombes explained
in his evidence before the coroner that the two servants had had
leave, it being Bank Holiday, to be out all day. In the evening his
wife said she would have a bath. She had complained of the heat. She
went into the bath-room. She was a long time gone, and going upstairs
and not hearing any sound he opened the bath-room door, and found her
lying with her face under water. He got her out, and called to a
neighbour from a window to go for a doctor.
"Dr. William Ferguson deposed that he was the regular medical
attendant. He had attended Mrs. Coombes occasionally for epileptic
fits, to which she was subject. When he arrived he found her dead.
The cause of death was drowning. He had no doubt that she had a fit
in the bath.
"After further evidence the coroner expressed himself satisfied,
and the jury found a verdict of 'Accidentally drowned owing to an
epileptic seizure while in a bath,' and expressed their sympathy
with the bereaved husband.
"That evening I called upon Dr. William Ferguson, obtaining an
introduction to him from an eminent physician who is a personal
friend of mine.
"He readily gave me the particulars. He had known Mrs. Coombes
for some years, but had not had to visit her often. The fits from
which she suffered were not frequent--perhaps two a year. The
Coombes were a most devoted couple. He had no doubt the cause of
death was what he had suggested. Had he made a post-mortem? Yes. The
body was quite healthy, and there was nothing else to cause death.
The epileptic seizure in the bath fully accounted for the accident.
He had known several cases in the course of his professional
experience.
"How long after the accident did he see the body? About an hour.
He was out at the time he was sent for. Life must have been extinct
when the body was taken out of the bath. Probably the unfortunate
lady had been under the water for ten minutes or a quarter of an
hour when her husband discovered her.
"The next day I made particular inquiries in the neighbourhood.
Mr. Coombes had moved immediately after the funeral. The furniture
had been sold by auction. I found the auctioneers. They had
forwarded the proceeds to Mr. Coombes' solicitors.
"I found the solicitors. They wanted to know what Mr. Coombes'
affairs had to do with me. I explained that having read the inquest
in the papers I had formed the idea that Mrs. Coombes was a relative
of mine whom I had not seen for some years. They gave me
Mr. Coombes' address. He was living in chambers in Great
Russell Street.
"Then I went to Mrs. Edwards and asked her to come with me. I had
an idea that I might be able to give her some information as to her
daughter's fate. We went to Great Russell Street, and I asked to see
Mr. Coombes.
"The porter told us that he was out, but was expected back at
about four o'clock. At a quarter to four we returned. Mr. Coombes
had not come in.
"At about ten minutes past four a gentleman came hurrying along.
"As he came near, Mrs. Edwards gave a cry, and, had I not caught her,
would have fallen to the ground.
"'What is it?' I said.
"'That--that man!' gasped the old lady. 'It is John Carlton.'
"The man was quite near us; he was turning into Russell Chambers.
"I went up to him, and said, 'Mr. John Coombes, _alias_ John Carlton,
where is Miriam Edwards?'
"At that moment I heard a shriek; I looked round--the old lady had
fainted. I ran to her assistance.
"When I had, with the help of the hall porter, lifted her up,
Mr. John Coombes had disappeared.
"I sent the old lady home and waited. Mr. Coombes did not return.
Then I went to Scotland Yard and saw one of the heads, and gave him
all the particulars in my possession.
"Official information was soon obtained. Mr. John Coombes, whose
wife had died in her bath from an epileptic fit, was not quite
unconsoled for the loss of his partner. The lady was insured for
£5,000 in a life assurance office. The policy was an old one, and
dated from the time of her marriage.
"The claim had not been paid, owing to certain formalities, but it
was not disputed. No idea of fraud had entered anyone's head. But
it is disputed now, and when Mr. Coombes is found he will be charged
with wilful murder."
"He murdered his wife!" I exclaimed.
"No," said Dorcas, "he murdered Miriam Edwards."
"But----"
"He didn't murder his wife, because the woman we found at Dover, who
was so like Miriam, _was_ his wife. There is no doubt they were very
fond of each other. All the evidence we could obtain pointed to that
fact. But he was in desperate need of money, so we found out, and his
accidental meeting one night with a girl who was the exact counterpart
of his wife in form and feature put a diabolical idea into his head.
"He laid his plans well. He courted Miriam Edwards. On the Bank
Holiday he sent his wife away quietly, probably telling her to keep
out of the way for a time, for reasons on which his safety depended.
He got Miriam Edwards to the house on the pretence that it was the
one he had taken as a future home for them to live in when they were
married. The servants were away. The poor girl was done to death in
that house in some way which defied detection. The presumption is
that she was chloroformed. That would leave her powerless, and all
trace of the crime would have vanished before the post-mortem
examination. She was rendered insensible and laid in the bath, under
the water, and the rest was easy. There would be no resistance, no
outcry, only certain death, which would look like accident.
"The resemblance of Miriam Edwards to Mrs. Coombes deceived everyone
but the mother. The doctor never dreamed that the body he was called
in to see was not that of Mrs. Coombes, the patient he was attending
for epileptic fits."
"But surely," I said, "all this cannot be proved? The person who
might do so is not likely to speak, for she is his wife, and the man
was presumably alone, and would not convict himself."
"No; we can only assume that the thing happened as I have said. But
we are certain that Miriam Edwards is in the coffin at Highgate
which lies under the stone on which is the inscription, 'Sacred to
the Memory of Jane, the beloved Wife of John Coombes.' The grave is
to be opened by the Home Secretary's order.
"That is the mystery of the disappearance of Miriam Edwards."
"But the jewellery?"
"Must have been taken from the body of Miriam Edwards by Coombes
and given to his wife when he met her shortly afterwards. In all
probability it was his wife's jewellery first, and he borrowed it to
give to Miriam, for the purposes of his villainous plot."
* * * * * *
Later on I learned further particulars from Dorcas.
When the body was exhumed by the Home Secretary's order, poor old
Mrs. Edwards recognised her daughter by certain birth-marks. There was
no doubt that Dorcas's theory was correct, and that the scoundrel had
murdered his wife's double in order to obtain his wife's insurance
money.
John Coombes made good his escape. It is probable that, getting
abroad, he was there joined by his wife, who may still be in ignorance
of her husband's motive in disappearing for a time and travelling
about under a false name. Or she may have been a party to the
crime.
* * * * * *
Dorcas was congratulated by the chiefs of Scotland Yard on the
marvellous skill with which she had elucidated a mystery which at one
time looked like baffling even her exceptional abilities.
It would probably have been a mystery still but for the fortunate
discovery of that Piece of Brown Paper with the torn label of
Messrs. Shoolbred and Co. upon it, in which Mrs. Coombes had wrapped
up her boots.
_VIII. PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN_
I was busy writing in my study one evening about ten o'clock when
there came a loud ring at the bell.
I am suspicious of loud rings after the last postal delivery. They
generally mean a long colloquy at the front door between my servant
and the bell-ringer, and as long as that colloquy lasts I am nervous
and excited. I live in a constant terror of being interrupted in my
evening's work. I set the night apart for the exercise of the
vocation by which I earn my daily bread, and any interruption is
fatal.
In times gone by I occasionally yielded to urgent messages and
plausible tales, and gave the caller the five minutes demanded, but
I invariably found that I had been victimised by a bore with an axe
to grind, or a professional beggar who hoped that I should part with
a sovereign or some loose silver in order to get rid of the
interruption.
Only those who have had actual experience of the dodges by which
unwelcome visitors obtain access to a busy man whose name may happen
to be before the public will understand the terror with which an
author who is working against time hears a ring at his front door
bell at ten o'clock at night. I have known men who have suffered
such systematic persecution in this direction that they have, in
sheer nervous terror, left London and buried themselves in
out-of-the-way places, and even then they have not secured the
privacy which was their heart's desire.
"But that," as Rudyard Kipling has it, "is another story." On the
present occasion I had just made up my mind to walk out into the hall
and tell the intruder in strong language to go away, and never to
touch my bell again at that hour of the night, if he valued his life,
when my servant entered.
"I'm very sorry, sir," she said, "but it is an old gentleman, and
he says he must see you; and he seems very upset, sir, and I thought
I'd better bring his card."
I snatched the extended card with an angry exclamation and looked
at it. Then, with a sigh of resignation, I pushed my work away from
me and said, "Show the gentleman in."
The name on the card was "Sir Joshua Broome," and Sir Joshua Broome
was a City magnate, a gentleman who had on more than one occasion
done me friendly service, and I could hardly drive him from my door
on the plea that I was engaged now that my servant had admitted that
I was at home.
Directly Sir Joshua entered my study I saw that he was prey to the
most violent agitation. He apologised in a trembling voice for his
intrusion at that hour--he knew that my evenings were sacred to my
work--but the matter on which he had come to see me was of the most
vital importance to himself.
He had heard me speak of my friend Dorcas Dene, the lady detective.
Would I give him her address?
I wondered what on earth Sir Joshua Broome could want with a private
detective, but I wrote down the number in Oak Tree Road and handed
it to him.
He thanked me, and rose to go. I saw at once that he was ill, and
having a great liking for the fine old fellow, I offered to accompany
him to Oak Tree Road and introduce him to Dorcas personally.
He was evidently relieved by my offer. "It would be a great kindness
to me if you would," he said, "but I mustn't take you from your
writing!"
"I shan't do any more to-night," I said, and I spoke the truth. The
thread was broken, and I might as well go and see Dorcas as sit
staring at the ceiling till midnight in the vain hope of recapturing
my lost ideas.
Seeing that he was really eager for me to accompany him, I put on
my hat, lit a cigar, and went out into the street with him.
Sir Joshua's brougham was at the door.
I gave the coachman the address, and in ten minutes we were ringing
the bell of the garden gate in Oak Tree Road. My companion was still
agitated. When we got out of the carriage he leant on my arm for
support.
He had only spoken once during the journey.
When I said to him, "I trust it is not serious, Sir Joshua?" he
replied, "I don't know what to think, but if you care to hear my
story stay while I tell it to Mrs. Dene--I owe you every
confidence after your goodness in bringing me to her."
* * * * * *
"Now, Sir Joshua," said Dorcas, as soon as I had made the
introduction and explained that my friend was not only willing but
anxious that I should assist at the conference, "let me understand
in what way you think I can be of service to you."
"I will explain as briefly as I can," replied Sir Joshua. "You
are possibly acquainted with my history, because it has lately been
in the papers, and I am, I suppose, a well-known public man.
Commencing in a very small way of business, I became in time a
leading City merchant, and I have lately received the honour of
knighthood in connection with the services I have been able to
render my political party.
"At the last Drawing Room my wife, Lady Broome, was presented to
her Majesty. That is a week ago. This evening, on returning from
the City to my home at Wimbledon, I found a number of letters
awaiting me. Among them was this."
He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Dorcas.
"Read that," he said, "and you will understand why I have ventured
to intrude upon you at such an hour as this."
Dorcas opened the letter and read it out aloud. It was written in
a disguised female hand:
"Sir Joshua Broome,--I see your wife's name on the list of ladies
presented to the Queen.
"It will be a nice disgrace to you and her and all your family when
you see in the _Court Circular_ that the presentation of Lady Broome
has been cancelled by the Queen's command.
"Well, that is what will happen if my information gets to the Lord
Chamberlain's ears. I know something about Lady B. before you
married her.
"The Queen does not have people of her sort presented at Court.
Lady B., before you married her, had been in prison, and I can
prove it.
"But I'll hold my tongue for a thousand pounds. If you'll pay that
for the sake of your reputation in the City and your wife's in
society, put a line in the agony column of the _Daily Telegraph_--
'To One Who Knows.--Agree terms.'--and I'll arrange where the
bank-notes are to be sent.
"But don't try Scotland Yard or anything of that sort, because if I
am arrested I'll speak what I know, and it will be in every
newspaper in England.
"This is genuine, and had better be attended to quickly.
--Yours, ONE WHO KNOWS."
"It is an infamous attempt to blackmail!" exclaimed Sir Joshua,
as Dorcas finished the letter. "There is not a word of truth in it.
But it is a terrible thing to have said even in an anonymous letter.
I want you to take the matter up, Mrs. Dene, and try and find out
who the scoundrel is."
"Yes," said Dorcas, looking keenly at the knight, "I can quite
understand that you are anxious to know; but, as there is not a word
of truth in it, why not put it in the hands of the police?"
"But my wife's name--the allegation is so serious--the scandal
would be so terrible!"
"What scandal?" said Dorcas, quietly. "You say that the story is
an infamous fabrication--that there is absolutely no truth in
it. Neither you nor Lady Broome can be injured by attempting to bring
the author of such a letter as this to justice."
"I don't see it that way. It's horrible--I wouldn't have such a
thing as this get about for worlds. The police would go to the
Lord Chamberlain with it."
"Well?"
"And he would have to take some notice of it."
"If there is no word of truth in it, you and your wife would have
only his sincere sympathy."
"I can't do it!" exclaimed Sir Joshua, rising and pacing the room.
"I come to you to conduct the investigation for me privately. I want
to know who wrote the letter--that, it seems to me, is the first
thing to be done. Will you undertake the task of finding the writer?"
"Certainly--if you wish it--that is my business. But I must be placed
in possession of the facts. Nothing must be kept back from me. If
the allegation were true it would be comparatively easy to trace the
author of it. We should then be able to work among those who were
_likely_ to know. As you say it is false, the field is very largely
extended. Anyone can trump up a charge that is false--only those who
know the facts can put forward a charge that is true."
"You must take it from me that this thing is a lie," exclaimed the
knight somewhat testily. "I will answer for my wife's good name with
my life."
"Very well," said Dorcas. "Then what I have to find is either
someone who believes that you are weak enough to part with £1,000 in
order to prevent a lying communication, which you can easily disprove,
being sent to the Lord Chamberlain, or someone who has a grudge
against your wife, and thinks that this letter will cause you to be
suspicious of her.
"Now you must excuse me asking you certain questions, but it is
important I should have facts to go upon.
"Who was Lady Broome when you married her?--who were her people,
and how long had you known her before you made her your wife?"
Sir Joshua did not tell his story well--he was too excited to be
concise. But briefly the facts as he gave them to Dorcas Dene were
these.
Some ten years previously, being a widower with two sons and a
young daughter, he engaged a governess for his little girl, who was
then fourteen.
The governess came to him with excellent references. She had no
relatives, and apparently no friends, for she had no correspondence.
She was a Miss Grey. Her Christian name was Margaret. She was a very
handsome girl, and Mr. Broome--he was not Sir Joshua then--fell in
love with her. After she had been in his service six months he
proposed to her.
She asked time to consider his proposal and went away. A few days
later he received a letter from her declining his offer, and saying
that under the circumstances of course she could not return to his
house. She had obtained a situation elsewhere. She presumed that he
would give her a reference to a lady.
The lady eventually wrote to him, and he replied that she was
everything that she could wish--he could do no less, and he was
only speaking the truth. Miss Grey had won the regard of everyone in
the house.
For two years after that he neither saw nor heard of Margaret Grey.
Then one day he accidentally met her in Kensington Gardens. She was
out of a situation and living in lodgings. He proposed to her again
and this time was accepted.
Two months later the marriage took place, and he had never had
the slightest reason to regret it.
His children were devoted to her and she to them, and she was
greatly admired wherever she went. There was not a more graceful or
more beautiful woman at the Drawing Room, and he had every reason to
be proud of her.
"I have no doubt of it," said Dorcas, "but you must excuse me for
saying that all this is no _proof_ that your wife has not at
some point in her career been in one of her Majesty's prisons. Have
you shown her this letter?"
"Yes."
"What does she say?"
"She is naturally terribly upset at such a monstrous charge--she is
quite prostrated by it."
"And of course she indignantly denies it?"
"Of course. Good heavens, madam! you don't suppose that I have
really married an ex-convict and presented her to the Queen! I tell
you this is a vile conspiracy to frighten me out of £1,000."
"Yes, of course that is so under _any_ circumstances," said Dorcas.
"Now, if you please, you must furnish me with the date of Miss Grey's
first coming to you, the names and addresses of the people to whom
she referred you, and the date of your marriage to her."
"I can do that from memory. Miss Grey came to me in the spring of
'87, and left me in the autumn. We met again early in '90, and were
married in the spring of that year."
"And the references?"
"She came to me in answer to an advertisement I inserted in the
_Times._ She referred me to the family with whom she had been
living, an American gentleman, a Mr. Garrod and his wife, who were
returning to America with the two children to whom Miss Grey had been
governess. That was why she was leaving."
"Where did you see Mrs. Garrod?"
"It was Mr. Garrod I saw. He was staying at the Langham Hotel."
"Where had Miss Grey been governess to the Garrods?"
"They had been travelling about England. For some months previous
to Margaret leaving them she and the children had been with Mr. Garrod
on the Continent; Mrs. Garrod, who was Mr. Garrod's second wife, and
not the mother of the children, had returned to America on account of
a relative's illness."
"And when Miss Grey met you again two years after she had left
your employment, did she tell you where she had been living?"
"With the lady who had referred to me. She lived with her as
governess to her daughters until the lady, owing to a reverse of
fortune, was compelled to dispense with her services. But if these
particulars are absolutely necessary to enable you to trace the
writer of this letter I will obtain every information of my
wife--she can, of course, give them more accurately than I can."
"Naturally," said Dorcas, rising. "And now, Sir Joshua, if you will
allow me, I will come to Wimbledon to-morrow morning, and see Lady
Broome myself. It is quite possible she may be able to tell me
something which will give me a clue. Good night."
"Good night," said Sir Joshua, rising. "I presume you will take
this matter up and go into it thoroughly. I wish no expense spared."
"You may rely upon me," said Dorcas. "If Lady Broome will assist me I
have no doubt we shall run the writer to earth in a very short time.
"But the first thing I shall do on your behalf will be to advertise
in the _Daily Telegraph:_ 'One who Knows.--Will agree terms if date
and particulars sent.' We shall then at least be in communication
with the writer."
Sir Joshua bowed, and Dorcas and I accompanied him to the door, and
stood watching while the lights of his carriage disappeared as the
brougham turned into the St. John's Wood Road.
"What do you think of it?" I said when we had returned to the
drawing-room where Paul, who had heard the visitor depart, had
already preceded us. "Do you think poor old Sir Joshua has really
made a terrible mistake in presenting his wife?"
"I'll tell you after I've seen Lady Broome," said Dorcas. "To-day
is Tuesday--come in on Thursday evening. Make it late--say
eleven o'clock. I shall probably know a good deal more about the
case by that time."
* * * * * *
At eleven o'clock on Thursday evening when I arrived at Oak Tree
Road Dorcas was out, but Paul informed me she had sent a wire to say
she should be at home at midnight.
It was a quarter-past twelve when she came, and she was evidently
tired with a long day's work.
"Well," I said, as we gathered round the supper table--late supper
was a feature of the Dene _ménage,_ and one necessitated by the
exigencies of Dorcas's profession--"what news of the Broome case?
Did you see Lady Broome?"
"Yes, I saw her the following morning, and found her all that her
husband had described her--handsome, graceful, and charming. But
of course I saw her at a great disadvantage. This anonymous threat
was preying on her mind."
"Did she give you the particulars you wanted?"
"To a certain extent, but the writer of the letter has given them
more fully.
"My advertisement appeared in the _Daily Telegraph_ this morning.
At twelve o'clock Sir Joshua received this telegram, handed in at
the Central Office."
I took the telegram from Dorcas and read it.
"Old Bailey, November Sessions, 1886. Six months' imprisonment.
See case. Send notes--Thomson, c/o Winter, 17, Wellborough Street,
Borough, or must communicate Chamberlain."
"Good gracious!" I said, as I returned the telegram to Dorcas,
"that's definite enough, and the sender evidently doesn't fear
arrest, as he gives address."
"Yes, the charge is definite enough, and I've referred to the Old
Bailey records.
"Margaret Grey, governess, aged twenty-five, was sentenced to six
months' imprisonment for stealing some rings from a jeweller's tray
while examining goods.
"The jeweller's suspicions being aroused by the hasty manner in
which she turned to leave the shop after saying that the articles
were too dear, he stopped her, and two valuable rings were found in
the palm of her glove. At the police-station she at first refused
to give her name, but ultimately admitted that it was Margaret Grey,
and that she was a governess.
"She desired that her employer might be telegraphed for.
"Her employer, a Mr. John Garrod, attended at the police-court and
said Miss Grey had been in his employ for some time and bore a most
estimable character. He felt convinced she had no dishonest
intention; at the most it was a case of kleptomania. He expressed
his willingness if she were discharged to take her back immediately
into his employ, but the magistrate committed her for trial.
"At the Central Criminal Court the judge, taking everything into
consideration, sentenced Margaret Grey to six months' imprisonment."
"Garrod!" I exclaimed. "Why, that was the name of the gentleman
Sir Joshua saw at the Langham Hotel--it was he who gave Miss Grey
her reference."
"Exactly," replied Dorcas, "and the date--the spring of 1887-- would
tally with the date at which Margaret Grey would be liberated."
"But what does Lady Broome say to this?"
"She can say nothing. The excitement and worry of the last two days
have had such an effect upon her that she has been taken seriously
ill. The doctor fears brain fever unless she is kept absolutely
quiet. She is at present in bed, and nothing must be said to her
on the subject."
"And what does Sir Joshua propose to do?"
"He is beside himself with terror and grief, and has placed himself
absolutely in my hands, to do whatever I think best."
"And what have you done?"
"I have been first of all to No. 17, Wellborough Street. It is a
small tobacconist's shop, kept by a man named Winter and his wife.
"From what I can gather the tobacco business is a blind, and Winter
is a betting man. I suspect he is really something a good deal less
respectable than that.
"The plans of the blackmailer are well laid, and I can see exactly
how it will work if the money is sent there in an envelope addressed
to Thomson.
"If the police should be watching they will see plenty of people pass
in and out, and they won't be able to discover which of them is the
customer for the letter.
"If they tell Winter they are police--which would be unlikely and
foolish--he will say he knows nothing of the matter; he often has
letters and parcels left there for customers, and he doesn't know
who Thomson is.
"If there is any delay in asking, then he will say that the letter
came and Thomson called and took it away, and he will describe
Thomson as someone exactly opposite to the real Thomson in
appearance.
"But my own idea is that neither Thomson nor Winter are afraid of
the police, and are convinced that Sir Joshua will be frightened
into paying blackmail.
"This charge against his wife, under the peculiar circumstances, is
not one which a wealthy and well-known man would care to give to the
scandal-loving public, who are always ready to say, 'Ah, you may
depend there's something in it!' His wife's beauty and her diamonds
made a sensation at the Drawing Room, and Sir Joshua would hardly
care to make her the heroine of a blackmailing case, and to inform
everybody that his second wife, the beautiful Lady Broome, was his
children's governess."
"Your arguments, my dear Dorcas, would be excellent supposing the
charge were untrue, but you have the strongest possible evidence that
the blackmailers have facts on their side. Margaret Grey _was_
imprisoned for theft, and the employer of Margaret Grey, who spoke
for her in court, was Mr. John Garrod, who six months later gave her
a reference to Sir Joshua Broome, and stated that he was her last
employer. What can possibly be urged against such evidence as that?"
"One thing, and one thing only," said Dorcas, as she handed
Toddlekins, the bulldog, the Spratt's biscuit which he always looked
for at supper-time.
"And that is?"
"This--that the governess recommended to Sir Joshua Broome by
Mr. John Garrod called herself Margaret Grey.
"If she was the Margaret Grey who was tried and sentenced at the
Old Bailey, it was an exceedingly foolish thing for her to start on
a new career in the old name.
"If Mr. John Garrod was willing to conceal the imprisonment from
Sir Joshua, he would certainly have been willing to consent to the
young lady assuming an alias.
"_Why didn't she ask him to?_"
_IX. THE ONE WHO KNEW_
A week had gone by since Dorcas had informed me of Lady Broome's
serious illness, and the only communication I had received with
regard to the terrible charge contained in the anonymous letter was
a little note from Dorcas herself, telling me that I had better not
come until I heard from her again, as the case would probably keep
her from home for some days.
On the morning of the eighth day, while I was smoking my
after-breakfast pipe and skimming the _Daily Telegraph_, there
was a sharp ring at the bell and presently my servant entered with a
telegram.
The telegram was as follows:
"Meet me, Charing Cross. First-class waiting room. Noon. You can
help me. Dorcas."
I was at Charing Cross Station at quarter to twelve. Punctually
on the stroke of noon, Dorcas entered the waiting-room.
"I'm so glad you've come," she said. "You can help me in the
Broome case."
"I shall be delighted. I have been expecting to hear something
about it from you every day."
"There has been nothing really satisfactory to report," exclaimed
Dorcas, "but I think we shall get on the right track to-day. I have
been rather hindered by the illness of Lady Broome."
"How is she?--not worse, I hope."
"No, she is better. Her husband has been able to convince her that
he has the most absolute faith in her innocence, and he has told a
little white story which under the circumstances is pardonable. He
has assured her that the blackmailers, finding no money has been sent,
are reducing their terms, which is practically a confession that they
dare not put their threat into execution."
"But what has really happened? Have they shifted their ground?"
"Not an inch. This morning, Sir Joshua received a letter informing
him that 'One Who Knows' would give him only one more day's grace.
Unless the money was sent to the address given by ten o'clock this
evening the particulars of Lady Broome's trial and conviction would
be sent to the Lord Chamberlain's office without fail."
"And have you discovered who the person is who 'knows,' and who is
willing to have a thousand pounds in bank-notes entrusted to this man
Winter?"
"Yes, I have been keeping observation on No. 17, Wellborough Street,
and my assistant, the sergeant, has been helping me. I don't think
there is the slightest doubt that the writer of the letter is Winter's
wife--or at least the woman who passes as Mrs. Winter. She is a
good-looking woman of about two or three and thirty, well educated,
and in every way I should say the man's superior. But she is a heavy
drinker. The people in the neighbourhood through whom inquiries have
been made for me say that Mrs. Winter, when sober, is a well-mannered,
lady-like person. She speaks like a woman of education, but with a
slight American accent."
"That doesn't tell you much about her."
"Is there nothing that strikes you as peculiar in the description
I have given?" said Dorcas quietly.
"No," I replied, "except that it is peculiar that a lady-like woman
of education should be living with a man who, if your suspicions
are correct, must be a very disreputable person."
"That has no bearing on the case," replied Dorcas. "What _I_ think
is peculiar is that she has a slight American accent."
"Why should that be peculiar in connection with this case?"
"The reason that _I_ think so is this. Mr. John Garrod, who gave
evidence in favour of Margaret Grey, and at the expiration of
Margaret Grey's sentence, recommended a Margaret Grey to Sir
Joshua Broome, was an American."
"Yes, of course--that is so. But there are thousands of American
women in London."
"Yes--but there is still a coincidence which may be the first
finger-post on the high road to the Truth. If my suspicion that
this woman is the writer of the letter is correct--and I can't
conceive anybody else allowing a thousand pounds to be entrusted to
Winter--then we have these two facts to consider side by side. The
only person who appeared to know anything about Margaret Grey in
court was an American. The person who is now using the knowledge of
the trial of Margaret Grey for the purpose of blackmailing Margaret
Grey's husband speaks with an American accent."
"But one was a man and the other is a woman."
"Exactly," said Dorcas, "and so my next step must be to see if the
man _knows_ the woman."
"You have found Mr. Garrod?"
"Yes--late last night--that is why I telegraphed to you this morning.
I cabled to New York a week ago for information. Yesterday my
correspondent cabled that a John Garrod, a well-known citizen of New
York, had left for London a month previously. Last night I succeeded,
through the kindness of the _New York Herald's_ London agency, in
tracing Mr. John Garrod to the Hotel Métropole. We are going to call
on him now."
"But how do you know that it is the same John Garrod?"
"I gave my correspondent a full description of the gentleman I
wanted from the information Sir Joshua furnished me with. You forget,
Sir Joshua saw him at the Langham Hotel."
We had been talking as we walked and I had been too interested in
the conversation to notice which way we were going. It was therefore
with something like a start that I heard Dorcas exclaim, "Here we are
at the Métropole. Now for Mr. John Garrod."
"But will he see us?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," said Dorcas, "I think so. I made an appointment last
night with an introduction from the London correspondent of the
_Herald_, who is a friend of mine."
"Does he know you are a private detective?"
"No, he only knows that my name is Mrs. Dene, and that I am calling
upon him with an introduction from the _Herald._ That is a pass-word
with all good Americans."
"And why have you brought me?"
"Because I want a witness to our conversation. When you are
cross-examining anyone the presence of a third party is invaluable.
It is the presence of an audience that worries a witness in a
cross-examination in a court of law. If the witness and the counsel
were fighting their duel alone in a room, half the counsel's
advantage would be gone."
Dorcas went to the Inquiry Office and sent up her name to
Mr. Garrod, and in a few minutes the page returned with a request
that we would follow him.
We were shown into a sitting-room on the second floor, and found
Mr. John Garrod, a tall, grey-haired, military-looking American of
the best type.
He received us courteously, but I thought somewhat suspiciously,
and at once asked Dorcas to what he was indebted for the pleasure of
the interview.
"I will tell you in a few words, Mr. Garrod," said Dorcas, shifting
her chair a little, so that her back was to the window, the light
from which fell full on the American's face.
"This gentleman, Mr. Saxon, and myself are interested in a will, of
which Mr. Saxon is one of the executors. Among those to whom money is
left is a Miss Margaret Grey, formerly a governess in your employ."
Mr. Garrod's face flushed at the mention of the name of Margaret
Grey, and then became deathly pale.
"I--I certainly at one time had a person of that name in my house,"
he said, after a pause. "But it is a good many years since we parted.
Why do you come to me about her?"
"Because she is described in the will as residing with you."
"And how did you know that I was in London?"
"The _New York Herald_ people, to whom I went to inquire if you were
known in America, kindly informed me that you were here. I came to
you with their introduction."
"Yes, I remember--of course. Well, I am sorry that I am unable to give
you any information as to my former governess's present whereabouts."
He rose to emphasise the fact that the interview was at an end, but
Dorcas was by no means anxious to terminate it.
"I am sorry," she said, "because our inquiries in other quarters led
us to believe that you _would_ know something. After her release from
prison she returned to you."
The American stared at Dorcas open-mouthed for a moment, and then in
a trembling voice he exclaimed, "You know that! You know that she
was convicted!"
"Yes, we found that out. We got the details of the case from the
Central Criminal Court's Sessions Reports, which are published
regularly in book form. I suppose there was no doubt of the poor
girl's guilt?"
Mr. Garrod hesitated. "I--I don't wish to say anything. I did my
best to procure her acquittal."
"Oh, yes, you behaved most generously. And after her release----"
"She went away. I can tell you nothing. I have never seen her since.
It was a most painful affair to me then--it is most painful to me to
talk about now. I can give you _no_ information as to Miss Grey's
present whereabouts, and must beg you to excuse me--I have a business
appointment in the City."
Dorcas rose from her chair, but did not move towards the door.
"Well, then, I must be frank with you, Mr. Garrod, although you
won't be frank with me. I am determined to trace Margaret Grey's
subsequent movements. I am a private detective, acting in the
interests of Sir Joshua Broome, to whom you recommended Miss Grey.
Why did you not tell us that she left you to go to Sir Joshua?"
Mr. Garrod bit his lip, and his brow clouded.
"Why should I?" he said, defiantly.
"Because Sir Joshua Broome has a right to know how you justify
your conduct in recommending to him as a governess to his children
a woman whom you knew to be a convicted thief."
"I don't know how you have found all this out, or why after all
these years you have come here to charge me with it," exclaimed the
American, "but I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that when
I recommended Miss Grey to Mr. Broome--I didn't know he was Sir
Joshua--I recommended a young lady whom I believed to be an
honest woman."
"But she had just served a sentence of six months' imprisonment
for stealing rings from a jeweller's shop. Innocent or guilty, you
had no right to conceal that fact from a gentleman who came to you
for Miss Grey's character."
"I had not--but I did. I was in a terrible predicament, and I did
the best I could. I am quite sure that Miss Grey has done nothing to
disgrace the strong recommendation I gave her to Mr. Broome."
"Nothing--on the contrary, her employer found her such an amiable
and estimable woman that he married her. Your former governess is
now Lady Broome."
"Then, in Heaven's name, madam, why do you come to me with this
made-up story of a will? Why have you been cross-examining me as
to Miss Grey's past when you are well acquainted with it, and she
is now in an excellent position and beyond the reach of calumny?"
"That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Garrod. At the present moment
Lady Broome is being blackmailed by a person who has a knowledge of
the Old Bailey conviction."
"Blackmailed!"
"Yes. About a fortnight ago Lady Broome was presented at a Drawing
Room. A day or two afterwards her husband received this." Dorcas
handed him the anonymous letter.
Directly he glanced at it, he exclaimed: "My God!--it is too horrible!"
"What is horrible?" exclaimed Dorcas, starting forward and gazing
steadily in his face. "You have not read the letter. Is it the
handwriting you recognise?"
There was no answer.
"I know who wrote this letter," exclaimed Dorcas, "so probably do you."
"You know?--who is it then?" asked the American in a hoarse voice.
"A woman who calls herself Mrs. Winter--a woman who lives at 17,
Wellborough Street, Borough, and speaks with an American accent."
For a moment John Garrod stood silent. He was evidently a prey to
strong emotion.
"Madam," he said, "if you will leave this letter with me for six
hours I will undertake that no more shall be heard of this infamous
threat."
Dorcas shook her head.
"That may be," she said, "but that will not clear the matter up.
There can be no going back now. I must either prove that Lady Broome
is innocent of this foul charge, or I must repeat to Sir Joshua your
acknowledgement that you were present in court when she was
convicted and sentenced."
"If you will trust me with this letter I will give you my word of
honour that I will call upon Sir Joshua Broome this evening and tell
him all I know. Will you trust me?"
"No," said Dorcas. "I must keep the letter, but you may have this
telegram which contains the name and address of the sender. Here is
the telegram and here is Sir Joshua's address."
She scribbled the Wimbledon address on a card and handed it to him.
"I shall be there at nine this evening," he said.
"And I shall be waiting for you," replied Dorcas.
Directly we were outside in Northumberland Avenue Dorcas turned to
me and said, "I have brought the American man and the woman with
the American accent together, you see."
"Do you think Mr. Garrod is going to see Mrs. Winter?"
"Of course he is. He recognised the handwriting. I was certain of
it the minute his eyes fell upon the letter."
"Am I to come to Wimbledon to-night?"
"Certainly. Sir Joshua told the beginning of the story in your
presence--there is no reason you should not hear the end of it
in his."
"And you think that Lady Broome is innocent--that she was wrongfully
convicted?"
"On the contrary, I don't believe she was ever convicted at all.
But to-night will clear up the mystery one way or the other.
Good-bye till then."
"Are you going to Wellborough Street?"
"No," said Dorcas, "what's the good? If anybody has to pay that
thousand pounds now it won't be Sir Joshua Broome, but Mr. John
Garrod."
"But if it is a conspiracy, the conspirators may be warned by
Garrod's visit and escape."
"If they run away," said Dorcas, "I shall know where to find them
if I want them. The sergeant is running up Sir Joshua's bill to an
enormous extent. He is going into Winter's place and putting a
sovereign on almost every horse in every race, and Winter thinks
he has found what I believe is known in the language of the
fraternity as 'a first-class mug.'"
* * * * * *
At nine o'clock that evening Sir Joshua sat in the big library of
his house at Wimbledon, anxiously waiting to renew his acquaintance
with Mr. John Garrod. Dorcas, who had told the fine old fellow the
result of her day's work, was in the boudoir with Lady Broome, who
was now sufficiently recovered to be up, but much too unwell to risk
an interview with her old employer.
Sir Joshua had given me a cigar, and I had made myself comfortable
in a big easy chair. We were neither of us talking. We were both too
anxious and excited to do more than think.
At a few minutes past nine Mr. Garrod was announced and shown into
the library. Sir Joshua received him courteously and begged him to be
seated, and sent the servant for Mrs. Dene.
"Now, sir," said Sir Joshua, when our little party was complete
"Mrs. Dene informs me that she showed you the letter containing the
infamous charge against my wife, and that you promised to bring the
matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and to put me in possession of
the facts to-night. Is that the position?"
"It is, Sir Joshua," said Mr. Garrod, speaking slowly and with
evident emotion, "and I am here to fulfil my promise. I am going to
place the whole facts before you, and then leave you to decide how
you will deal with me. I shall place myself absolutely in your
hands.
"In the first place, let me at once ease your mind on one point.
When I sent Miss Grey to you I gave her the character she thoroughly
deserved."
"Then," said Dorcas, interrupting, "Miss Margaret Grey, who is at
present Lady Broome, could never have been a convicted thief."
"She never was. This is how it happened. I came to Europe with my
two children and my second wife for a stay of two or three years. I
had lost my first wife some years previously and had married again.
My second wife was a young lady of good birth, but, at the time I met
her, was, owing to family reverses, earning her living as a female
clerk in a big New York hotel.
"It was a marriage that made a good deal of talk among my friends
and acquaintances, and so I came to Europe with her, bringing my
children with me. In London I went to a scholastic agency and engaged
a governess. Miss Margaret Grey was sent to me and proved in every
way an acquisition.
"Soon after I came to Europe I made a terrible discovery. One day
to my horror, while out shopping with my wife, I noticed her pick up
something from the counter and conceal it in her muff. I instantly
exclaimed out loud, 'Wait a moment--let me ask the price,' and
when the shopman came back I pointed to the article and paid for
it.
"My wife was a kleptomaniac!
"I spoke to her seriously when we got home. I flung myself on my
knees and begged her to think of what this would mean to me if it
were discovered. I pointed out to her that if she were arrested and
imprisoned the story would go to America, and that she would put a
lasting shame upon me and mine.
"She promised me with tears in her eyes that she would not do
anything of the sort again, and I believed her. I gave her all the
money she could want. I gratified her every wish that there might be
no temptation for her to steal again.
"After travelling about the Continent we came to London, and
eventually I took a furnished house at Richmond, where I lived with
my wife and children, with Miss Grey as their governess.
"One day my wife went to town alone in the morning. In the evening
I received a telegram from Bow Street. I hurried there and found that
my wife had been arrested for stealing a couple of rings from a
jeweller's tray. In her terror when asked for her name and address
she had at first refused it, but presently a diabolical idea entered
her head. She gave her name as Margaret Grey, said she was a
governess, and begged that I, her employer, might be telegraphed for."
"Then it was your wife who was convicted as Margaret Grey!"
exclaimed Sir Joshua, springing up in his excitement.
"Yes. Ah, you must not blame me too much for what happened afterwards
--think of the terrible position I was in. I was called to give
evidence on behalf of Margaret Grey, my governess. If I had said,
'This woman has given a false name--she is my wife,' my one hope of
getting her off would have been lost, and the case, which was now an
ordinary one of theft, and one briefly reported in the papers, would
have been written up and headlined all over the country, and would
have been cabled to America. I clutched at a straw, and let the
deception go on. After all, I might succeed in getting her acquitted
if I contended it was kleptomania. I know I ought to have told the
truth, but think what it would have meant to me. I still hoped that
even if the worst happened to my wife I might, when she was released,
reclaim her, and take her back to America without her shame ever
being known.
"My first care when I found what had happened was to send my children
abroad with Miss Grey. I knew that Miss Grey never read the papers,
and would not see the case, but at Richmond one or two people would
know her name, and she might be questioned as to the similarity.
Abroad, even if the case were fully reported--and I intended to do
my best to keep it out--Miss Grey would not be likely to hear of it.
"My wife was convicted, and sentenced at the Sessions to six months'
imprisonment. Then I joined Miss Grey and my children abroad. When
the sentence was nearly served, and the time was coming for my
unhappy wife to be liberated, I returned. I saw Mr. Broome's
advertisement in the _Times_, and answered it on behalf of Miss Grey,
who had declined to go with us to America. I told her that my wife
had gone home to see a relative who was ill. It was in that way I
accounted for her long absence.
"I hoped--and my hope was justified--that very few people would have
seen the case. The report was only a few lines, and recorded the fact
that Margaret Grey, aged twenty-five, had been convicted of theft. In
only one paper did the reporter give my name as having been called as
a witness to character. Mr. Broome had evidently not seen it, for when
I mentioned that the lady's name was Margaret Grey he made no remark.
"I was obliged to give her real name. How could I have asked her to
take another? It would have aroused her suspicions at once, and
possibly all would have been discovered.
"Mr. Broome was satisfied with my recommendation, and when I left
for America with my wife and children I had the satisfaction of
knowing that Miss Grey had found a comfortable home, and that she had
not suffered in any way from my unhappy wife's appropriation of her
name at the police-court.
"Unfortunately, after my wife's release, she gave way to habits of
intemperance. Our life was a most unhappy one. After two years of
misery she left me with a man who was coming to England, and from
that day I heard no more of her--until--until----"
"Until this morning," said Dorcas.
"Yes," replied Mr. Garrod, with a deep sigh. "Your conjecture is
correct. I recognised the handwriting, though it was disguised. I
went to the address you gave me, and there I found the wretched woman
whom I had married, and from whom after her flight I had obtained a
divorce.
"I insisted upon seeing her. I told the man Winter who I was, that
I knew the infamous conspiracy they had hatched between them, and
that unless my wife saw me I would go to the police and bring the
facts before them.
"Winter yielded to my threats, and I had an interview with my wife.
I insisted on a confession, telling her that if she refused it I
would go to Scotland Yard and tell the whole story, no matter what
the consequences might be to myself.
"I insisted on her telling me how she had discovered Lady Broome--
I wanted to know for your sake, Sir Joshua, and for your wife's, if
the wretched woman had any accomplice beyond the man who passes for
her husband.
"Her story was a simple one, and is probably true. On the occasion
of the last Drawing Room she was in the crowd watching the carriages
drive into the gates of the Palace. Your wife was pointed out by
someone in the crowd. 'That's Lady Broome, Sir Joshua Broome's wife,'
said a bystander. My wife looked, and instantly recognised our former
governess, Margaret Grey.
"She told the man Winter, and between them they hit upon the idea
of blackmailing you. They calculated that the facts they would refer
you to would be so strong that no denial on Lady Broome's part would
allay your terror, and that rather than have the matter gone into by
the Lord Chamberlain, and the scandal discussed far and near in the
Press and in Society, you would send the money.
"Now that you know the truth, Sir Joshua, there is no more to be
feared from her. But I am responsible to you for my share in the
transaction, and I will make any public acknowledgement you wish."
"There is no necessity," said Sir Joshua, rising. "We shall never
hear any more of the matter from these people, and if we ever hear
of it from any other quarter, we can prove at once how the mistake
has arisen."
Mr. Garrod rose, and Sir Joshua put out his hand.
"You have my hearty sympathy in your misfortune, sir," he said,
"and I quite understand the terrible position you were in when you
found your wife had given her name to the police as Margaret Grey."
* * * * * *
We spent the rest of the evening with Lady Broome, now happily
relieved from all anxiety, and when we took our departure Sir Joshua
handed Dorcas a little envelope. She put it in her pocket, and
invited me to return to Oak Tree Road and have supper with Paul.
It was in Paul's presence that she opened the letter, and read
it aloud:
"My dear Mrs. Dene,--I and my wife owe you more than we can ever
repay. But for you I should probably have paid £1,000 to two
infamous wretches and have been a miserable man for the rest of
my days. The £1,000 belongs to you. Enclosed is a cheque for the
amount, which by no means represents our indebtedness to you for
the splendid service you have rendered us.--Believe me, dear
Mrs. Dene, Yours most sincerely, Joshua Broome."
"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Dorcas. "Isn't that a princely fee?"
Then she put her arm round her blind husband's neck, and drew his
face lovingly to hers.
"Ah, Paul, dear," she said, with a happy sigh, "now we can go away
together and have a long, long holiday."
_THE END_
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
- Underscores have been used to enclose words and phrases which are,
in the original text, italicized. As in: _Italics_
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