The first difficulty experienced by the barrister in his self-imposed task was the element of mystery purposely contributed by Lady Dyke herself. To a man of his quick perception, sharpened and clarified by his legal training, it was easy to arrive at the positive facts underlying the trivial incidents of his meeting with the missing lady at Victoria Station.

Briefly stated, his summary was this: Lady Dyke intended to go to Richmond at a later hour than that at which his unexpected presence had caused her to set out. She had resolved upon a secret visit to some one who lived in Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square – some person whom she knew so slightly as to be unacquainted with the exact address, and, as the result of this visit, she desired subsequently to see her sister at Richmond.

Sir Charles Dyke was apparently in no way concerned with her movements, nor had she thought fit to consult him, beyond the mere politeness of announcing her probable absence from home at the dinner hour.

To one of Bruce’s analytical powers the problem would be more simple were it, in a popular sense, more complex. In these days, it is a strange thing for a woman of assured position in society to be suddenly spirited out of the world without leaving trace or sign. He approached his inquiry with less certainty, owing to Lady Dyke’s own negative admissions, than if she had been swallowed up by an earthquake, and he were asked to determine her fate by inference and deduction.

It must be remembered that he was sure she was dead – murdered, and that her body had been lodged by human agents beneath an old drain-pipe at Putney.

What possible motive could any one have in so foully killing a beautiful, high-minded, and charming woman, whose whole life was known to her associates, whom the breath of scandal had never touched?

The key of the mystery might be found at Raleigh Mansions, but Bruce decided that this branch of his quest could wait until other transient features were cleared up.

He practically opened the campaign of investigation at Putney. Mild weather had permitted the workmen to conclude their operations the day before the barrister reached the spot where the body had been found – that is to say, some forty-eight hours after he had resolved neither to pause nor deviate in his search until the truth was laid bare.

A large house, untenanted, occupied the bank, a house with solid front facing the road, and a lawn running from the drawing-room windows to the river. Down the right side of the grounds the boundary was sharply marked by a narrow lane, probably a disused ferry road, and access to this thoroughfare was obtained from the lawn by a garden gate.

A newly marked seam in the roadway showed the line of the drainage work, and Bruce did not glance at the point where the pipe entered the Thames, as the structural features here were recent.

He went to the office of the contractor who had carried out the alterations. An elderly foreman readily answered his questions.

“Yes, sir. I was in charge of the men who were on the job. It was an easy business. Just an outlet for rain from the road. An old-fashioned affair; been there thirty or forty years, I should think; all the pipes were crumbling away.”

“Why were the repairs effected at this moment?”

“Well, sir, the house was empty quite a while. You see it used to be a school, a place where young gents were prepared for the army. It was closed about a year ago, and it isn’t everybody as wants so many bedrooms. I do hear as how the new tenant has sixteen children.”

“The incoming people have not yet arrived?”

“No, sir.”

“Can you tell me the name of the schoolmaster?”

“Oh, yes. When I was younger I have done a lot of carpenter’s work for him. He was the Reverend Septimus Childe.”

Bruce made a note of the name, and next sought the local police-inspector.

“No, nothing fresh,” said the latter, in reply to a query concerning the woman “found drowned.”

“I suppose these things are soon lost sight of?” said Bruce casually.

“Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren’t. It’s wonderful occasionally how a matter gets cleared up after years. Of course we keep all the records of a case, so that the affair can be looked into if anything turns up.”

“Ah, that brings me to the most important object of my visit. A small piece of iron was found imbedded in the woman’s skull.”

The inspector smiled as he admitted the fact.

“May I see it? I want either the loan of it for a brief period, or an exact model.”

Again the policeman grinned.

“I don’t mind telling you that you are too late, sir.”

“Too late! How too late?”

“It’s been gone to Scotland Yard for the best part of a week.”

So others besides the barrister thought that the Putney incident required more attention than had been bestowed upon it.

Bruce concluded his round by a visit to the surgeon who gave evidence at the inquest.

The doctor had no manner of doubt that the woman had been murdered before being placed in the water, the state of the lungs being proof positive on that point.

“It was equally indisputable that she was put to death by malice aforethought?”

“Oh, yes. A small iron spike was absolutely wedged into the brain through the hardest part of the skull.”

“What was the nature of the injuries that caused death?”

“This piece of iron penetrated the occipital bone at the lowest part, and injured the cerebellum, damaging all the great nerve centres at the base of the brain.”

“Would death ensue instantly?”

“Yes. Such a blow would have the effect of a high voltage electric current. Complete paralysis of the nerve centres means death.”

“Then I take it that great force must have been used?”

“Not so much, perhaps, as the nature of the wound seems to imply; but considerable – sufficient, at any rate, to break the piece of iron.”

“It was broken, you say? Was it cast-iron?”

“Yes, of good quality. Off some ornament or design, I should imagine. But it snapped off inside the head at the moment of the occurrence.”

“Curious, is it not, for a person to be killed in such a manner by such an instrument?”

“I have never before met such a case. Were it not for the way in which the body was jammed beneath a hidden drain-pipe, and the effective means taken to destroy the identity, I should have inclined to the belief that some strange accident had happened. At any rate, the murderer must have committed the crime on the spur of the moment, and seized upon the first weapon to hand.”

“You say she was forcibly placed where found?”

“Yes; the workmen’s description left no other idea.”

“Could not the tide have done this?”

“Hardly. One cannot be quite emphatic, as such odd things do happen. But it seems to be almost impossible for the tide at Putney to pack a body beneath a jutting drain-pipe in such a manner that the waist, or narrowest part, should be beneath the pipe and the body remain securely held.”

“Yet it is not so marvellous as the coincidence that this particular drain should need repairs at the precise period when this tragedy happened.”

“Quite so. It is exceedingly strange. Are you interested in the case? Have you reason to believe that this poor woman – ?”

“I hardly know,” broke in the barrister. “I have no data to go upon, but I feel convinced that I shall ultimately establish her identity. You, doctor, can help me much by telling me your surmises in addition to the known facts.”

The medico looked thoughtfully through the window before he exclaimed: “I am certain that the woman found in the Thames came from the upper walks of life. Notwithstanding the disfiguring effects of the water and rough usage, any medical man can rapidly appreciate the caste of his subject. She was, I should say, a woman of wealth and refinement, one who led an orderly, well-regulated life, whose surroundings were normal and healthy.”

Bruce thanked his informant and hurried back to London. A telegram to Inspector White preceded him. He had not long reached his Victoria-street chambers when the detective was announced. He soon made known his wishes. “I want you to give me that small piece of iron found in the head of the woman at Putney,” he said. “If necessary, I will return it in twenty-four hours.”

Mr. White’s face showed some little sign of annoyance. “It is against the rules,” he began; but Bruce curtly interrupted him.

“Very well, I will make direct application to the Commissioner.”

“I was going to say, Mr. Bruce, that although not strictly in accordance with orders, I will make an exception in your case.” And the detective slowly produced the piece de conviction from a large pocket-book.

In sober fact, the police officer was somewhat jealous of the clever lawyer, who saw so quickly through complexities that puzzled his slower brain. He was in nowise anxious to help the barrister in his inquiries, though keenly wishful to benefit by his discoveries, and follow out his theories when they were defined with sufficient clearness.

Bruce did not at first take the proffered article.

“Let me understand, Mr. White,” he said. “Do you object to my presence in this inquiry? Are you going to hinder me or help me? It will save much future misunderstanding if we have this point settled now.”

The detective flushed at this direct inquiry. “I will be candid with you, Mr. Bruce. It is true I have been vexed at times when you have overreached me; but I regret it immediately. It is foolish of me to try and solve problems by your methods. Kindly forget my momentary disinclination to hand over the only genuine link in the case.”

“In what case?”

“In the case of Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”

“Ah! Then you think it is in some way connected with the woman found at Putney?”

“I am sure of it. The woman at Putney, whether Lady Dyke herself or not I cannot tell, wore some of her ladyship’s clothes. When we have ascertained the means and the manner of the death of the woman buried at Putney we shall not be far from learning what has become of Lady Dyke.”

“How have you identified the clothes?”

“I managed to gain the confidence of the lady’s maid, who gave evidence at the inquest. She, of course, is quite positive that the body was not that of her mistress, but when I had examined some of Lady Dyke’s linen I no longer doubted the fact.”

“If you knew all this, how comes it that more did not transpire at the coroner’s inquiry?”

“In such affairs an inquest is rather a hindrance to the police. It is better to lull the guilty person or persons into the belief that the crime has passed into oblivion. They know as well as we do that Lady Dyke is buried at Putney. We have failed to establish her identity by the evidence of the husband and servants. The linen and clothes, our sole effective testimony, remain in our possession; so, taking everything into consideration, I prefer that matters should remain as they are for the present.”

“Really, Mr. White, I congratulate you. You will perhaps pardon me for saying that some of your colleagues do not usually take so sensible a view.”

The policeman smiled at the compliment. “I am learning your method, Mr. Bruce,” he said.

As he spoke, Smith entered with a note endorsed “Urgent.”

It was in the handwriting of Sir Charles Dyke, and even the imperturbable barrister could not resist an exclamation of amazement when he read:

“My Dear Bruce, – My wife’s maid has vanished. She has not been near the house for three days. The thing came to my ears owing to gossip amongst the servants. There is something maddening about these occurrences. I really cannot stand any more. Do come to see me, there’s a good fellow.”

“Well, I’m jiggered!” said the detective. “The blessed girl must have been spirited away a few hours after I saw her. Maybe, Mr. Bruce, we are all wrong. Has she gone to join her mistress?”

“Possibly – in the next world.”

Nothing would shake the barrister’s belief that Alice, Lady Dyke, was dead.

CHAPTER IV
NO. 61 RALEIGH MANSIONS

Really, the maid deserved to have her ears pulled.

People in her walk in life should not ape their betters. Lady Dyke, owing to her position, was entitled to some degree of oddity or mystery in her behavior. But for a lady’s maid to so upset the entire household at Wensley House, Portman Square, was intolerable.

Sir Charles became, if possible, more miserable; the butler fumed; the housekeeper said that the girl was always a forward minx, and the footman winked at Buttons, as much as to say that he knew a good deal if he liked to talk.

The police were as greatly baffled by this latter incident as by its predecessor. The movements of the maid were quite unknown. No one could tell definitely when she left the house. Her fellow-servants described the dress she probably wore, as all her other belongings were in her bedroom; but beyond the fact that her name was Jane Harding, and that she had not returned to her home in Lincolnshire, the police could find no further clue.

So, in brief, Jane Harding quickly joined Lady Dyke in the limbo of forgetfulness.

Bruce, however, forgot nothing. Indeed, he rejoiced at this new development.

“The greater the apparent mystery,” he communed, “the less it is in reality. We now have two tracks to follow. They are both hidden, it is true, but when we find one, it will probably intersect the other.”

The new year was a few days old when Bruce made his first step through the bewildering maze which seemed to bar progress on every side. He received a report from the man, a pensioned police-officer, who had conducted a painstaking search into the history and occupation of every inhabitant of Raleigh Mansions.

Two items the barrister fastened on to at once.

“At No. 12, top floor right, entrance by first door on Sloane Square side, is a small flat occupied by a man named Sydney H. Corbett. He passes as an American, but is probably an Englishman who has resided in the United States. He does not mix with other Americans in London, and is of irregular habits. He frequents race meetings and sporting clubs, is reported to belong to a Piccadilly club where high play is the rule, and has no definite occupation. He occasionally visits a lady who lives at No. 61, same mansions, ground floor, and sixth door. They have been heard to quarrel seriously, and the dispute appears always to have concerned money. Corbett went to Monte Carlo early in December. His address there is ‘Hotel du Cercle,’ and the local post-office has a supply of stamped and addressed envelopes in which to forward his correspondence.

“At No. 61, as already described, resides Mrs. Gwendoline Hillmer. She lives in good style, rents a brougham and a victoria, and is either a wealthy widow or maintained by some one of means. She dresses well, and goes out a good deal to theatres, but otherwise leads a rather lonely life. Her most frequent visitor is, or was, a gentleman who looked like an officer in the Guards, and, much less often, the aforesaid Sydney H. Corbett. Her servants, except the maid, live out. The maid, who is a sort of companion, is talkative, but does not know much, or, if she does, will not speak.”

Bruce weighed these statements very carefully. They did not contain any positive facts that promised well for the elucidation of Lady Dyke’s visit to the mansions on that fateful November evening, but the absolute colorlessness of the reports concerning the other occupants rendered them quite impossible of individual distinction.

After an hour of puzzled thought the barrister finally decided upon a course of action. He would see Mrs. Gwendoline Hillmer, and trust to luck in the way of discoveries.

A quiet smile lit up his handsome, regular features as he proceeded to array himself in the most fashionable clothes he possessed, paying the utmost attention to every detail in a manner that amazed his valet.

When at last that worthy was despatched to the nearest florist’s for a boutonniere, he communicated his bewilderment to the hall-porter.

“My guv’nor’s going out on the mash,” he said confidentially. “I thought he would never look at a woman; but, bless you, Jim, we’re all alike. When the day comes we all rush after a petticoat.”

It was nearly six o’clock when Bruce walked down Victoria Street. For some reason, he did not call a hansom, and it was almost with a start that he found himself purchasing a ticket to Sloane Square at the Underground Railway office. At this precise hour and place he had last seen Lady Alice on earth. The memory nerved him to his purpose.

A few minutes later he pressed the electric bell of No. 61 Raleigh Mansions. As he listened to the slight jar of the indicator within, he smiled at the apparent fatuity of his mission.

He had one card, perhaps a weak one, to play, it was true, but he hoped that circumstances might prevent this from being tabled too early in the game.

The door opened, and a youthful housemaid stood before him, the simple wonder in her eyes showing that such visitors were rare.

“Is Mrs. Hillmer at home?” he said.

“I’ll see sir, if you give me your name.”

“Surely you know whether or not she is at home?”

The girl stammered and blushed at this unexpected query. “Well, sir,” she said, “my mistress is in, but I do not know if she can receive any one. She is dressed to go out.”

“Ah! that’s better. Now, take her my card, and say that while I will not detain her, my business is very important.” This with a sweet smile that put the flurried maid entirely at her ease.

The girl withdrew, after hesitating for a moment to decide the important question as to whether or not she should close the door in his face.

Another smile, and she did not.

He was thus free to note the luxurious and tasteful air of the general appointments, for the entrance hall usually reveals much of the characteristics of the inmates. Here was every evidence of refinement and wealth. All the display had not been lavished on the drawing-room.

As he waited, conscious of the fact that his colloquy with the servant had been overheard, a lady crossed from one room to the other at the end of the passage. Her smart but simple dress, and the quick scrutiny she gave him, as though discovering his presence accidentally, caused him to believe – rightly, as it transpired – that this was the maid-companion described by his assistant.

Not only had she obviously made her appearance in order to look at him, but the housemaid had carried his message to a different section of the flat.

The girl returned. “My mistress will see you in a few minutes,” she said. “Will you kindly step into the dining-room?”

He followed her, sat down in a position where the strong glare of the electric lamps would fall on any one who stood opposite, and waited developments.

The furniture was solid and appropriate, the carpet rich, and the pictures, engravings for the most part, excellent. This pleasant room, warmed by a cheerful fire, impressed Bruce as a place much used by the household. Books and work-baskets were scattered about, and a piano, littered with music, filled a corner. There were a few photographs of persons and places, but he had not time to examine these before the lady of the house entered.

Her appearance, for some reason inexplicable to the barrister himself, took him by surprise. She was tall, graceful, extremely good-looking, and dressed in a style of quiet elegance. Just the sort of woman one would expect to find in such a well-appointed abode, yet more refined in manner than Bruce, from his knowledge of the world, thought he would meet, judging by the hasty inferences drawn from his subordinate’s report. She was self-possessed, too. With calm tone, and slightly elevated eyebrows, she said:

“You wish to see me, I understand?”

“Yes. Allow me first to apologize for the hour at which I have called.”

“No apology is necessary. But I am going out. Perhaps you will be good enough not to detain me longer than is absolutely necessary.”

She stood between the table and the door. Bruce, who had risen at her entrance, was at the other side of the room. Her words, no less than her attitude, showed that she desired the interview to be brief. But the barrister resolved that he would not be repelled so coolly.

Advancing, with a bow and that fascinating smile of his, he said, pulling forward a chair:

“Won’t you be seated?”

The lady looked at him. She saw a man of fine physique and undoubted good breeding. She hesitated. There was no reason to be rude to him, so she sat down.

Claude drew a chair to the other side of the hearthrug, and commenced:

“I have ventured to seek this interview for the purpose of making some inquiries.”

“I thought so. Are you a policeman?” The words were blurted out impetuously, a trifle complainingly, but Bruce gave no sign of the interest they had for him.

“Good gracious, no,” he cried. “Why should you think that?”

“Because two detectives have been bothering me, and every other person in these mansions, about some mysterious lady who called here two months ago. They don’t know where she called, nor will they state her name; as if any one could possibly know anything about it. So I naturally thought you were on the same errand.”

“Confound that rascal White,” growled he to himself.

But Mrs. Hillmer went on: “If that is not your business, would you mind telling me what it is?”

Now Bruce’s alert brain had been actively engaged during the last few seconds. This woman was not the clever, specious adventuress he had half expected to meet. It seemed more than ever unlikely that she could have any knowledge of Lady Dyke or the causes that led to her disappearance. He was tempted to frame some excuse and take his departure. But the certainty that his missing friend had visited Raleigh Mansions, and the necessity there was for exploiting every line of inquiry, impelled him to adopt this last resource.

“It is not concerning a missing lady, but concerning a missing gentleman that I have come to see you.”

The shot went home.

Why, for the life of him, he could not tell, but his companion was manifestly disturbed at his words.

“Oh,” she said.

Then, after a little pause: “May I ask his name?”

“Certainly. He is known as Mr. Sydney H. Corbett.”

She gave a slight gasp.

“Why do you put it in that way? Is not that his right name?”

“I have reason to believe it is not.”

Mrs. Hillmer was so obviously distressed that Bruce inwardly reviled himself for causing her so much unnecessary suffering. In all probability, the source of her emotion had not the remotest bearing upon his quest.

Then came the pertinent query, after a glance at his card, which she still held in her hand:

“Who are you, Mr. – Mr. Claude Bruce?”

“I am a member of the Bar, of the Inner Temple. My chambers are No. 7 Paper Buildings, and my private residence is given there.”

“And why are you interested in Mr. Sydney Corbett?”

“Ah, in that respect I am at this moment unable to enlighten you.”

“Unable, or unwilling?”

He indulged in a quiet piece of fencing:

“Really, Mrs. Hillmer,” he said, “I am not here as in any sense hostile to you. I merely want some detailed information with regard to this gentleman, information which you may be able to give me. That is all.”

All this time he knew that the woman was scrutinizing him narrowly – trying to weigh him up as it were, not because she feared him, but rather to discover the true motive of his presence.

Personally, he had never faced a more difficult task than this make-believe investigation. He could have laughed at the apparent want of connection between Lady Dyke’s ill-fated visit to Raleigh Mansions and this worrying of a beautiful, pleasant-mannered woman, who was surely neither a principal nor an accomplice in a ghastly crime.

“Well, I suppose I may consider myself in the hands of counsel. Tell me what it is you want to know!” Mrs. Hillmer pouted, with the air of a child about to undergo a scolding.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Corbett’s present address?” he said.

“No. I have neither seen him nor heard from him since early in November.”

“Can you be more precise about the period?”

“Yes, perhaps.” She arose, took from a drawer in the sideboard a packet of bills – receipted, he observed – searched through them and found the document she sought. “I purchased a few articles about that time,” she explained, “and the account for them is dated November 15. I had not seen my – ” She blushed, became confused, laughed a little, and went on. “I had not seen Mr. Corbett for at least a week before that date – say November 8th or 9th.”

Lady Dyke disappeared on the evening of the 6th!

Bruce swallowed his astonishment at the odd coincidence of dates, for he said, with an encouraging laugh, “Out with it, Mrs. Hillmer. You were about to describe Mr. Corbett correctly when you recollected yourself.”

Mrs. Hillmer, still coloring and becoming saucily cheerful, cried, “Why should I trouble myself when you, of course, know all that I can tell you, and probably more? He is my brother, and a pretty tiresome sort of relation, too.”

“I am obliged for your confidence. In return, I am free to state that your brother is now in the South of France.”

“As you are here, Mr. Bruce,” she said, “I may as well get some advice gratis. Can people writ him in the South of France? Can they ask me to pay his debts?”

“Under ordinary circumstances they can do neither. Certainly not the latter.”

“I hope not. But they sometimes come very near to it, as I know to my cost.”

“Indeed! How?”

Mrs. Hillmer hesitated. Her smile was a trifle scornful, and her color rose again as she answered: “People are not averse to taking advantage of circumstances. I have had some experience of this trait in debt-collectors already. But they must be careful. You, as a legal man, must know that demands urged on account of personal reasons may come very near to levying blackmail.”

“Surely, Mrs. Hillmer, you do not suspect me of being a dun. Perish the thought! You could never be in debt to me.”

“Very nice of you. Don’t you represent those people on Leadenhall Street, then?”

“What people?”

“Messrs. Dodge & Co.”

“No; why do you ask?”

“Because my brother entered into what he called a ‘deal’ with them. He underwrote some shares in a South African mine, as a nominal affair, he told me, and now they want him to pay for them because the company is not supported by the public.”

“No, I do not represent Dodge & Co.”

“Is there something else then? Whom do you represent?”

“To be as precise as permissible, I may say that my inquiries in no sense affect financial matters.”

“What then?”

“Well, there is a woman in the case.”

Mrs. Hillmer was evidently both relieved and interested.

“No, you don’t say,” she said. “Tell me all about it. I never knew Bertie to be much taken up with the fair sex. I am all curiosity. Who is she?”

He did not take advantage of the mention of a name which in no way stood for Sydney. Besides, perhaps the initial stood for Herbert. He resolved to try another tack.

Glancing at his watch he said: “It is nearly seven o’clock. I have already detained you an unconscionable time. You were going out. Permit me to call again, and we can discuss matters at leisure.”

He rose, and the lady sighed: “You were just beginning to be entertaining. I was only going to dine at a restaurant. I am quite tired of being alone.”

Was it a hint? He would see. “Are you dining by yourself, then, Mrs. Hillmer?”

“I hardly know. I may bring my maid.”

Claude now made up his mind. “May I venture,” he said, “after such an informal introduction, to ask you to dine with me at the Prince’s Restaurant, and afterwards, perhaps, to look in at the Jollity Theatre?”

The lady was unfeignedly pleased. She arranged to call for him in her brougham within twenty minutes, and Bruce hurried off to Victoria Street in a hansom to dress for this unexpected branch of the detective business.

When he told his valet to telephone to the restaurant and the theatre respectively for a reserved table and a couple of stalls, that worthy chuckled.

When his master entered a brougham in which was seated a fur-wrapped lady, the valet grinned broadly. “I knew it,” he said. “The guv’nor’s on the mash. Now, who would ever have thought it of him?”