There was quite a large gathering for dinner. Places like Genoa contain a number of highly interesting personages if the visitor discovers them. The British race produces a richer variety of human flotsam and jetsam than any other. These derelicts come to anchor in out-of-the-way parts of the earth. They seem to have been everywhere and have done everything, while the whole world is an open book to them.
Thus there was no lack of variety in the conversation, and, as usual in such assemblies, it dealt more with persons than with incidents.
Phyllis had arranged the guests, so it may be taken for granted that her lover was near her – in fact, he sat exactly opposite. The lady he took in to dinner was the wife of an English doctor, and the British consul at the port was Miss Browne’s table companion.
The consul was a chatty man, who kept himself well informed concerning society events.
“By the way,” he said to Phyllis, “did you ever meet Lady Dyke?”
“No, her name is not familiar to me.”
“Do you mean the wife of Sir Charles Dyke?” said Mensmore; and the sudden interest he evinced caused Phyllis to glance at him wonderingly.
“Yes, that is she.”
“I know Sir Charles well. What is there new about his wife?”
“She is dead.”
“Good Heavens! Dead! When, and how?”
Mensmore was so obviously agitated that others present noticed it, and Phyllis marvelled much that in all their confidence the name of Dyke had never escaped his lips.
The consul, too, was a little nonplussed by the sensation caused by his words.
“I fear,” he said, “that I have blurted out the fact rather unguardedly. The Dykes are friends of yours?”
“No, no, not in that sense. Sir Charles I have known for many years. But are you sure his wife is dead?”
“My authority is an announcement in the Times to hand by to-day’s post. I should not have mentioned it were not her ladyship so well known in society, and the affair is peculiar, to say the least.”
“Peculiar – how?”
In his all-absorbing interest in the consul’s statement, Mensmore paid no heed to the curious looks directed at him; he had become very pale, and was more excited in manner than the circumstances appeared to warrant.
“In this sense: The paper is the issue of January 28, yet the notice says that Lady Dyke died on November 6. This is odd, is it not? A woman of her position could hardly have quitted life so quietly that no one would trouble to publish the fact until nearly three months after the event.”
“It is extraordinary – inexplicable!”
“Did you know Lady Dyke personally, Bertie?” put in Phyllis timorously.
The question restored Mensmore to some sense of his surroundings.
“I have never even seen her,” he said, trying desperately to be commonplace; “but her husband is an old schoolfellow of mine, and I have heard much of both of them since their marriage. I am quite shocked by the news.”
“I can only repeat my regret for having spoken of it so carelessly,” said the polite consul.
“Oh, I am glad to know of it since it has happened. Poor Lady Dyke! How strange that she should die!”
Phyllis had the tact to change the conversation, and Mensmore gradually recovered his self-possession. A woman’s eyes are keener than a man often gives her credit for; and Phyllis saw quite plainly that after the first effect of the news had passed it, in some indefinable way, seemed to have a good effect on her lover. But if a woman’s intuition is seldom at fault her reasoning faculties are narrow.
Trying to arrive at a solution of the mystery attending Mensmore’s behavior, Phyllis suddenly became hot all over.
She felt furiously and inordinately jealous of a woman she did not know, and who was admittedly dead before Mensmore and she herself had met.
Hence her nose went high in the air when Bertie claimed her for the first dance.
“Who is this Lady Dyke in whom you are so deeply interested?” she said, drawing him beneath a sheltering awning.
“As I said,” replied Mensmore, “she is the wife of an old acquaintance of mine.”
“But you must have been very fond of her to feel so keenly when you heard of her death?”
“Fond of her! I have never, to my knowledge, laid eyes on her.”
“Oh!” And the tone was somewhat mollified. “Then why did you look so worried during dinner?”
“Simply because I know Sir Charles.”
“What a dear, sympathetic little boy you are! When I die, Bertie, I suppose you will drop down stiff from grief at once.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. We are missing all this delightful music.”
And they whirled away down the snowy deck, forgetful of all things save one, that they were in love.
Now, what a pity it was that Bruce was not on board the White Heather that night. Many complications, and not a little misery, would have been avoided thereby.
CHAPTER XIX
WHERE MRS. HILLMER WENT
Sir Charles Dyke, in sending off the hurried announcement of his wife’s death, forgot the “society” papers.
Such a promising topic did not come in their way every week, and they made the most of it. Where did Lady Dyke die? Under what circumstances did she die? They rolled the morsel under their tongue in every conceivable manner.
Details were not forthcoming.
“Our representative called at Wensley House, Portman Square, but was informed that Sir Charles was in Yorkshire.” Inquiry by a local reporter from Sir Charles in person elicited no information. “Lady Dyke is dead,” wrote this enterprising journalist; “of that there can be no manner of doubt, but her husband states that for family reasons he is unable to supply the public with the precise facts concerning his wife’s demise.”
This ill-advised authentic statement only fanned the flame. An evening journal got hold of the proceedings at the Putney Coroner’s Court which inquired into the death of a woman found in the Thames, and, with a portentous display of headlines, published an interview with the doctor giving particulars of the iron spike found imbedded in the skull.
The paper was also able to state “on the best authority” that at this inquest Sir Charles Dyke and the missing lady’s personal maid were called in to identify the body, but failed.
A first-class sensation was in full swing and threatened to reach the question stage in the House of Commons when Bruce took hold of affairs.
He went to Sir Charles Dyke’s solicitors, and induced them to send out the following authoritative communication to the press:
“Much unnecessary pain is being caused to Sir Charles Dyke and to the relatives of his late wife by the comments which have appeared in many newspapers regarding Lady Dyke’s death. Her ladyship left her home on November 6th to pay a visit to her sister at Richmond, and since that date has not been seen or heard of. There was no possible reason for her disappearance. After a long and agonizing search, her husband and relatives have come to the conclusion that she met with some accident on the date named, with the result that her identity was not established, and she was probably buried from some hospital or other institution long before her friends seriously entertained the thought that she was dead. Every such case of accidental death followed by the interment of unknown persons by the authorities, occurring on or about November 6th, has since been rigidly investigated, but no definite trace has been found of the missing lady. Sir Charles Dyke determined to take the public step of announcing his wife’s death in the hope that any hitherto undiscovered clue might thereby come to light. But there are no grounds to suppose that any other explanation of the occurrence than that given will be forthcoming. The investigation has been in the hands of Scotland Yard throughout, so no good purpose can be served by further discussion in the press of what is now, and threatens to remain, a mystery rendered more complex by the simplicity of its leading features.”
Several newspapers, of course, pointed out that they were helping forward the inquiry by noising it abroad, but thenceforth the paragraphs ceased, being eclipsed in interest by the revelations of a great divorce case in which there were no less than six titled co-respondents.
One man was much puzzled by the original obituary notice and the semi-official statement supplied by the solicitors.
Mr. White did not know what to make of them. He guessed that Bruce had inspired that “explanation,” and he read the concluding sentence many times.
“It threatens to remain a mystery, does it not?” he murmured. “Just wait, Mr. Bruce, until I lay my hands on Corbett. Clever as you are, I think I will show you that Scotland Yard can occasionally get the better of your theories. Anyhow, Corbett will have to be very explicit about his movements before I am satisfied that he knows nothing about this business.”
He had written to the Chief of Police at Cheyenne, and something definite would soon come to hand.
Nevertheless, he felt somewhat shaken in his diagnosis of the crime. Wyoming was a long way from London, and the letter from Corbett, which he had in his possession, did not exactly confirm his suspicion that this man was concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke.
He quickly became aware of Mrs. Hillmer’s departure, and at once jumped to the conclusion that she had recently left England for the United States. A close scrutiny of the passenger lists at Liverpool and Southampton did not help him much, and he ultimately resolved to call on Bruce, in the hope that a chance exclamation might reveal the barrister’s opinion of the situation.
Claude was not at a loss to account for Mr. White’s presence.
“I expected you,” he said.
“Really now, may I ask why, sir?”
“Because you have missed Mrs. Hillmer, and you want me to help you find where she has gone, and why.”
The detective smiled.
“I won’t say that you are wrong, sir,” he cried. “In these affairs it is always well to keep an eye on the woman, you know.”
“When did Mrs. Hillmer leave Raleigh Mansions?”
“On the 30th.”
“It is now February 3. Four days ago, eh?”
“That is the time. She might have left by the American line from Southampton or the Cunard from Liverpool on Wednesday, but she did not, and no one answering to her description is booked by the White Star to-morrow.”
“Southampton! Liverpool! Do you think she has gone to America?”
“Where else? She’s in league with Corbett, somehow, of that I am certain, and I think that the Monte Carlo address was a mere blind – a clever one, too, as it even deceived you, Mr. Bruce.”
“Yes. It did deceive me.”
“Then why are you so surprised at the suggestion that the lady should attempt to cross the Atlantic?”
“Because I have not your rapid perception of the points of the case.”
“That’s your way of pulling my leg, Mr. Bruce.”
The barrister smiled.
Mrs. Hillmer, of course, had gone to Monte Carlo. Once there she would have little difficulty in tracing the White Heather, and overtaking Mensmore.
She would warn him of the police pursuit, and there would be a scene between them.
How would it result? Would Mensmore, guilty, seek safety in flight? Would he, innocent, return to London and demand to be confronted with his accusers?
For the life of him, Bruce could not say positively. Yet he felt the situation was too delicate to be dealt with by Mr. White’s bludgeon methods, and he forebore to speak.
The detective interpreted his silence as an admission of inability to find a satisfactory explanation of Mrs. Hillmer’s absence.
He went on:
“Corbett is not at Monte Carlo.”
“So I imagined.”
“Well, it is a fact. The police have made constant inquiries for him at the Hotel du Cercle and elsewhere. Not the slightest trace of him can be found.”
“I was there myself, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I have not forgotten that. But it shows what a clever rascal the fellow is in concealing his identity. However, he could never have counted on my discovering that letter of his. Even if he is not in America we shall have some reliable data to go upon in answer to my queries.”
“There I fully agree with you. You will have done a great deal if you thoroughly clear up the mystery regarding Corbett. May I ask you to let me know the result?”
“With pleasure, sir. And now, can I request a favor in return?”
“Certainly.”
“Tell me, then, what is, in your opinion, the best way to find Mrs. Hillmer.”
Bruce did not expect to be thus openly challenged on the matter. It was one thing to withhold his own theories and discoveries from this representative of the majesty of the law, but quite another to refuse to help a detective with whom he was nominally working.
Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days’ start. It would take some time – possibly a telegram would not be sufficiently explicit – to obtain the desired assistance from the Continental police. Yes – in this instance, Mensmore must take his chances.
“If I were you,” said Bruce, slowly weighing his words, “I would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Victoria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge of the morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it would be quite safe if you were to wire the authorities at Monte Carlo, asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at the Hotel du Cercle.”
The detective started as though he had been shot.
“What!” he cried, “you think she is there all the time?”
“I think she has been there since Wednesday morning.”
“That is what I mean. Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“Because you never asked me. And now, Mr. White, one word of advice. Go slow.”
“It’s all jolly fine telling me to go slow when I have no reason to go fast. The case even against Corbett is shadowy enough at present.”
“Exactly. Wait until you can grasp a substance.”
“I will, sir,” said White, jamming his hat on; “but when I lay my hands on Corbett I will grasp him hard enough.”
It took the policeman all that day to satisfy himself that Mrs. Hillmer had really booked for the Riviera by the Club train from Charing Cross on the preceding Monday.
Just as he verified the fact, came a reply from the Monte Carlo police:
“Mrs. Hillmer arrived at the Hotel du Cercle on Wednesday. Left for Italy same afternoon. Shall we endeavor to trace her?”
“Oh, bother,” he growled. “Corbett may be in Jerusalem by this time. And here have I been fussing about Wyoming or some other potato-patch in the Far West.”
However, he wired again to Monte Carlo:
“Yes. Locate Mrs. Hillmer, if possible. I will then telegraph instructions to local police.”
When this message was despatched he felt easier in his mind.
The chase was at least getting warm.
“I cannot arrest him yet,” he reflected; “but if I once get fairly on his track, I will not lose sight of him again if I can help it. I suppose it will mean a trip to Italy for me. I must lay the evidence before the Treasury to see if a warrant is justified.”
Two days passed without incident.
Late on Sunday evening, February 5, a Continental telegram was handed to him at Scotland Yard:
“Mrs. Hillmer’s present address, Hotel Imperiale, Florence.”
He promptly wired the Chief of Police at Florence:
“Keep Mrs. Hillmer, English visitor, Hotel Imperiale, under surveillance. Also watch her associates, particularly Englishman named Corbett, if there. Letter follows.”
“That’s a good stroke of business,” said he, when the message was sent. “Now we shan’t be long!”
It was in contented mood that he lit a cigar in his office, before walking home for dinner, but a messenger with the badge of the Commercial Cable Company in Northumberland Avenue bustled past him.
“Who’s the cable for, boy?” said the detective.
“White, Scotland Yard,” was the answer.
“That’s me.”
He tore open the envelope, and found that the contents were coded, but he caught the word “Corbett” amidst the unintelligible jumble.
With some excitement he rushed into the office to find the A B C Code, and after some confusion in deciphering the words, this was what he read:
“Regret delay in replying to your communication. Corbett left New York in White Star steamer due Liverpool, February 4.”
“February 4? Why, that’s yesterday. Good gracious, he’s here all the time. Well, of all the – ”
But exclamations were useless. Calling another plain-clothes man to accompany him, he drove off in mad haste to Sloane Square.
About an hour later Bruce received a typewritten slip gummed on to a telegraph form. It was from Florence, and ran as follows:
“My brother wildly excited regarding allegations. We start for London to-night. Meanwhile fearful complications expected. Mr. Corbett, of Wyoming, my brother’s friend, is probably occupying his flat, and may be arrested. We both trust you to save him. Wire us at Modane or Gare du Nord.
”Gwendoline Hillmer.”
So Bruce also raced off in a hansom towards Sloane Square.
CHAPTER XX
MR. SYDNEY H. CORBETT
The detective glanced up at Bruce’s chambers while passing through Victoria Street.
“I wonder what he would think if he knew what we are after,” he said to his colleague, one of the two who accompanied him when the barrister was arrested by mistake.
“What are we after?” said the policeman.
“This time we are going to nail the right Corbett,” was the confident answer.
“Will we cart him off?”
“Well, now, that depends. I think I am quite right in collaring him unless he explains to my satisfaction, which is hardly likely.”
“The charge is one of murder, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Who did he kill?”
“Well, up to now it hasn’t come out, for the sake of the family. But if Corbett is here you will know soon enough.”
“It’s a funny way to go to work.”
“Commissioner’s orders, my boy. I am not to reveal the la – the name until it cannot be helped. However, as I have said so much, I don’t mind telling you it’s a woman, and a big one too.”
“Big! Fat, do you mean?”
“No. A woman of high position.”
“Phew! A regular society scandal, I suppose?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
On arrival at Sloane Square they quickly ascended to No. 12 Raleigh Mansions.
A stout, elderly woman answered their knock, and a glance at her face revealed the map of Ireland, although her name was Saxon Robinson.
“Mr. Corbett in?” inquired White.
“Faix, he’s not.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know, misther, an’ if I did I wouldn’t be afther telling when axed in an oncivil manner.”
“All right, Mrs. – ”
“Robinson’s my name, if that’s anny use to ye.”
“Very well, Mrs. Robinson. We wish to have a word with Mr. Corbett, and we will be much obliged if you can tell us when he is likely to return, if he is in London.”
“Arrah, it’s meself is mixed intirely about him. Sure this Mr. Corbett is in London right enough, and is comin’ in to dinner in half-an-hour, so by yer lave I’ll jist go on wid me wurruk.”
“May we come in and wait for him?”
Mrs. Robinson surveyed them suspiciously, but seemingly decided in their favor.
“Stip in here, gintlemen both,” she said, and conducted them to the sitting-room.
A fire now burned brightly in the grate wherein Bruce had made his pregnant discovery. The damaged bracket still stared at White, so to speak, but he saw it not.
Mrs. Robinson bustled away to the kitchen, and the two officers sat silently waiting developments. Suddenly a thought occurred to White, and he went into the passage.
“Mrs. Robinson,” he said, “what did you mean by referring to this Mr. Corbett?”
A quick step came bounding up the stairs, and a key rattled in the lock.
“You’d betther ax him yerself,” responded the housekeeper pithily, and the door opened to admit a handsome, well-knit man, tall and straight, with the clearly cut features of the true Westerner, and the easy carriage of one accustomed to the freedom of the prairie.
He was quietly dressed. The only sign that he was not a Londoner was given by his wide-awake felt hat, the last token of environment relinquished by a wandering citizen from the region of the Rockies. In the semi-darkness of the interior he could but dimly discern the form of the detective behind the ready-tongued housekeeper.
“There’s two gintlemen to see ye, Misther Corbett,” said she.
“Well, now, that’s curious,” he answered cheerfully. “I can only see one of you, but I’m glad to have you call, stranger, anyway. Come right in. Are you sent by my friend to kinder cheer me up? I find this big city of yours a powerful kind of tonic after Wyoming. Come right in.”
Mr. White was as greatly nonplussed by the newcomer’s attitude as by his flow of language.
Within the drawing-room Corbett caught sight of the second detective. “Hello! Here’s the other one. Ve-ry glad to meet you both. Now, if you’ll just tell me your names we’ll get along straight away, as I guess you know mine all right.”
The man was genuinely pleased by this unexpected visit. He smilingly pushed towards them a box of cigars, green ones, and helped himself to a weed.
“My name,” said the detective, “is Inspector White, of Scotland Yard, and my friend here accompanies me officially.”
“And hasn’t he got a name?”
“Yes; but it doesn’t matter.”
“Well, if it doesn’t matter, we won’t quarrel. I guess you’ve got a message of some sort for me, else you wouldn’t trouble to climb these stairs. Why don’t you have el-e-vators in these big buildings?”
“As I said,” began Mr. White, “we are from Scotland Yard.”
“That’s so. I’ve got that fixed O.K. Your name is I. White, from Scotland Yard. I don’t know where Scotland Yard is, but we’ll worry along without the geography of it.”
“I am in the police. My title is Inspector. It is not my Christian name. Scotland Yard is the headquarters of the London police.”
The American’s eyes opened wide in wonder at this announcement, and a perplexing thought seemed to occur to him. But he said quietly:
“I’ll figure it out better when you tell me why you’ve been good enough to call. And suppose we all sit down. I’m not used to stone pavements. I’m tired.”
“Your name is Sydney H. Corbett?” said the detective severely, though he took a chair.
“So my people always told me.”
“And you have occupied these chambers since August last?”
“Have I?”
“So I am informed.”
“Get along with your story.”
“You have just returned to England from Wyoming. The New York police cabled me that you arrived in Liverpool yesterday.”
“Did they now? That was real cute of ’em.”
“I want to ask you, in the first instance, the exact date of your departure from this country.”
Before replying to the detective Corbett looked at him fixedly, as though he was trying to read what was passing in his mind.
At last he said with a smile:
“Say, what are you after, Mr. White of Scotland Yard? What’s the game? Who’s been fooling you?”
“That is not the way to talk to me, sir. Answer my question fully and properly, or it may be worse for you.”
“Jehosh! Have you come to wipe the floor with me?”
“Are you going to reply to me or not?”
“I’m not going to speak square to any man who comes along and puts a thing like you do.”
“Very well. I can get my information by other means. You leave me no alternative – ”
Mr. White had half risen and was about to add, “but to arrest you,” when, with a rapidity known only to those accustomed to “draw” from boyhood, Corbett whipped a revolver from a hip pocket and covered the bridge of White’s nose with the muzzle.
“Just you sit still, right there, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, or I will let daylight through you and your nameless friend if he interferes. You’d better believe me. By gad! I won’t speak twice.”
Neither White nor his companion were cowards. But they were quite helpless. They had not grappled with the circumstances with sufficient alertness, and they were utterly at this man’s mercy. They were away from the door, and a table separated them from Corbett, while there was that in his eye which told them he would shoot if either of them moved. They both sprang to their feet, and glared at him impotently.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Corbett, with the utmost coolness, “let me persuade you to sit down again and go on with your story, which interests me.”
White was scarlet with wrath and annoyance.
“Let me tell you – ” he roared.
“Sit down!”
“Make the best of it, Jim,” murmured the other policeman; and the queer gathering resumed their seats.
“That’s better,” said Corbett genially. “Now, we’ll have a nice little chat. Am I correct in supposing that you were about to march me off to jail just now, when I spoilt the proposition?”
“There’s no use in resisting,” growled White. “You cannot escape. If you have an atom of sense left you will come with us quietly, as it’s all up with you.”
“It looks like it,” said Corbett, with a grim smile. “But if it’s so bad a case as all that, there’s no desperate hurry, is there?”
“You’re only making matters more difficult for yourself.”
“Maybe. But as I happen to be a citizen of the United States, I allow that I can’t be whipped off to prison just because a fool like you thinks it’s good for me. I’ve been a law-abiding man all my life, and I’ve lived in places where each man made his own law. If you can show good cause for your action, I’ll stand the racket. At present I regard you as a blamed idiot.”
The situation overcame the detective. He could only mutter:
“Time will show who’s the idiot.”
“I’m getting hungry, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, and I’ve a kind of notion that the old lady is ready with the eatables. Will you be good enough to say what you’re after?”
“I came here to ask you to account for your movements, and, failing a satisfactory explanation, to arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
“For being concerned in the murder of Lady Dyke, on or about November 6 last.”
“Lady Dyke?”
“Yes.”
“Arrest me?”
“Yes.”
“I placed you right away. You are a blamed idiot, Mr. White of Scotland Yard.”
This repetition of his name and address goaded the detective almost beyond endurance.
“Now you know the charge,” he shouted, “are you coming with us quietly, or – ”
“Or what?”
The revolver still hovered across the table.
“Are we going to sit here all night?”
It was a weak conclusion, but to suggest an attack was sheer madness under the conditions.
“I guess not,” was the calm answer. “I want my dinner, and I mean to have it.”
“Very well. Eat your dinner and have done with it.”
“That’s better. You and your friend shall join me. We’ll have a nice little talk and straighten out matters, which have got kinder mixed.”
This was too much for White’s associate. He burst out laughing.
“I allowed there was a joke in the deal, somewhere,” went on Corbett, “but I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. Now, Mr. White of Scotland Yard, are you going to act like a reasonable man, or must I keep your nose in line with the barrel?”
White was saved from deciding which horn of the dilemma he would land on, for a sharp rat-tat at the door induced silence, and a moment later Bruce’s voice was heard inquiring:
“Is Mr. Corbett in?”
“Faix, there may be a half-a-dozen of him in by this time,” cried Mrs. Robinson. “I dunno where I am, at all, at all. The gintlemen are in the parlor, sir.”
And Bruce entered.
In order to enfilade the new-comer scientifically, Corbett backed to the corner. Claude glanced at the three, saw the revolver, and said with a comical air of relief:
“Thank goodness, nothing has happened. Put away your pistol, Mr. Corbett; you will not need it.”
Although the barrister’s manner differed considerably from the brusque methods adopted by Mr. White, the American remained on his guard. He said stiffly:
“You all seem to know me fairly well; but if you had the advantage of closer acquaintance, you would allow that I am not the man to be rushed on a confidence trick. If somebody doesn’t explain quick I will lose my temper, and there will be trouble.”
“I sympathize with you!” cried Bruce. “But the first thing you must learn in this country is to keep dry cigars for your visitors. Our respective tastes differ in that respect.”
“I guess I’ll cotton to you, stranger; but I’m tired holding this pistol.”
“Put it away, then. I tell you it is not wanted. White, listen to me. You have hit upon the wrong man.”
“Wrong man!” cried the detective, feeling more confident in the barrister’s presence. “Why, I’ve had a cable about him from New York.”
“Possibly; but you’re mistaken, nevertheless. Mr. Corbett has not been within five thousand miles of England for years, possibly not in his life.”
“Bully for you, stranger!” broke in Corbett.
“Then who is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett whom you believe, as well as I, to be the murderer of Lady Dyke?”
“Steady, White. The last time I saw you I appealed to you to go slow. The man whom you want, simply because he happens to be the real occupant of these rooms, is at present travelling to London as fast he can from Florence, and his sister, Mrs. Hillmer, is with him.”
“Florence! Mrs. Hillmer!” gasped the policeman. “I’ve just arranged to have her watched there.”
“Your arrangements, though admirable, are somewhat late in the day.”
“Then what is her brother’s name?”
“Albert Mensmore. For some reason, hidden at this moment, he lived here under the name of the gentleman who has, I see, been giving you a practical lesson in the art of not jumping at conclusions.”
“Have you known this long?”
“For some weeks.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I have no definite reason for connecting Mensmore with Lady Dyke’s death. If I had, his action in returning to London the moment he hears of the charge would shake my belief.”
“Who told him?”
“Mrs. Hillmer.”
“Oh, this business is quite beyond me. I can’t fathom it a little bit.”
And White sank dejectedly to his chair again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, gentlemen,” said Corbett, pocketing his revolver; “but it dawns upon me that I shan’t be required to shoot anybody or sleep in jail to-night.”
“Why didn’t you answer my questions properly, and save all this nonsense?”
“I’ll tell you why, sir. The name of a friend of mine has been mentioned. Albert Mensmore has been more than a brother to me. I allowed you meant mischief to him, as you thought you were talking to him all the time. I don’t know much about you, but I hope that your first action would not be to give away your chum if he is in trouble.”
The detective did not answer, though his look of astonishment at Corbett’s declaration of motive was eloquent enough.
“Before we quit this business,” went on the American, “let me say one thing. Any man who tells you that Albert Mensmore murdered a woman is telling you a lie. I don’t know anything about this Lady Dyke, or how she may have died, but I do know my friend. He’s good in a tight place, but, to think of him killing a woman – Jehosh, it’s sickening.”