Thus they reached the barrister’s chambers. Bruce asked the other to sit down for a moment while he obtained a model of the small lump of iron. He took it into his bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtained at Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided perfectly.
He handed the bit of iron to White without comment.
The latter said: “It had better remain in my keeping now, sir, but if you want to see it again, of course I will be glad – ”
“I shall never want it again,” said Bruce, and his voice was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experienced such a strain as the last hours had given him. “It is an accursed thing. It has caused one death already, and may cause others.”
“I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged,” cried the detective, “for this affair is the warmest I have ever tackled. However, I’ll get him, as sure as his name’s Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many addresses.”
Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a moment at the door, said quietly, “Is your name Corbett?”
“No, it ain’t, any more than yours is Black. See?”
Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were better friends thenceforth, but Mr. White was thoughtful as he passed into the street.
“This is a funny business,” he communed. “There isn’t enough evidence against Corbett to hang a cat, yet I think he’s the man. And Bruce is a queer chap. Was he cut up about me finding the letter, or has he got some notion in his head. He’s as close as an oyster. I wonder if he did dine at Hampstead on the evening of the murder, as he said at the inquest? I must inquire into it.”
CHAPTER XV
MRS. HILLMER HESITATES
“I wonder if I shall have such exciting times to-day as I had yesterday,” said Bruce to himself, as he unfolded his Times next morning at breakfast.
Affairs had so jumbled themselves together in his brain the previous evening that he had abandoned all effort to elucidate them. He retired to rest earlier than usual, to sleep soundly, save for a vivid dream in which he was being tried for his life, the chief witnesses against him being Mrs. Hillmer, Phyllis Browne, and Jane Harding, the latter varying her evidence by entertaining the Court with a song and dance.
The weather, too, had improved. It was clear, frosty, and sunlit – one of those delightful days of winter that serve as cheerful remembrances during periods of seemingly interminable fog overhead and slush beneath.
During a quiet meal he read the news, and, with the invaluable morning smoke, settled himself cosily into an armchair to consider procedure.
In the first place he carefully weighed those utterances of Mensmore at Monte Carlo, which he could recall, and which seemed by the light of later knowledge, to bear upon the case.
Mensmore had alluded to “family troubles,” to “worries,” and “anxieties,” that practically drove him from England.
Some of these, no doubt, referred to the Springbok speculation. Others, again, might have meant Mrs. Hillmer or some other presently unknown relative. But in Mensmore’s manner there was nothing that savored of a greater secrecy than the natural reticence of a gentleman in discussing domestic affairs with a stranger.
This man had practically been snatched from death. At such a moment it was inconceivable that he could cloak the remorse of a murderer by the simulation of more honorable motives, in themselves sufficiently distressing to cause him deliberately to choose suicide as the best way of ending his difficulties.
The policeman had summarized the testimony against Corbett as insufficient to curtail the remarkable powers of endurance of a cat. But to Bruce the case against Mensmore, alias Corbett, stood in clearer perspective. Now that he calmly reasoned the matter he felt that the balance of probabilities swung away from the hypothesis that Mensmore was the actual slayer of Lady Dyke, and towards the theory that he was in some way bound up with her death, whether knowingly or unknowingly it was at present impossible to say.
The new terror to Bruce was Mr. White.
“Why, if that animated truncheon knew what I know of this business he would arrest Mensmore forthwith. If he did, what would result? A scandal, a thorough exposure, possibly the ruin of Mensmore’s love-making if he be an innocent man. That must be stopped. But how, without forewarning Mensmore himself? – and he may be guilty. Chance may favor White, as it favored me, in disclosing the identity of the missing Corbett. And what of the real Corbett? What on earth has he got to do with it, and why has Mensmore taken his name? If ever I get to the bottom of this business I may well congratulate myself. The sole result of all my labor thus far may be summed up in a sentence – I have not yet come face to face with the man whom I can honestly suspect as Lady Dyke’s murderer. Not much, my boy!”
Claude uttered the last sentence aloud, startling Smith, who was clearing the table.
“Beg pardon, sir,” cried Smith.
“Oh, nothing. I was only expressing an opinion.”
“I thought, perhaps, sir, you was thinkin’ of Mr. White.”
“What of him?”
“Your remark, sir, hexactly hexpresses my hopinion of ’im.”
Smith was not a badly educated man, but the least excitement produced an appalling derangement of the letter “h” in his vocabulary.
“Mr. White is a sharp fellow in his own way, Smith.”
“Maybe, but why should ’e come pokin’ round ’ere pryin’ into your little affairs-deecur?”
“My what?”
“Sorry, sir, but that’s what a French maid I once knew called ’em. Flirtations, sir. Mashes.”
“Smith, have you been drinking?”
“Me, sir?”
“Well, explain yourself. I never flirted with a woman in my life.”
“That’s what I told ’im, sir. ‘My master’s a regular saint,’ says I, ‘a sort of middle-aged ankyrite.’ But Mr. White ’e wouldn’t ’ave it at no price. ‘Come now, Smith,’ says ’e, ‘your guv’nor’s pretty deep. ’E’s a toff, ’e is, an’ knows lots of lydies – titled lydies.’ ‘Very like,’ says I, ‘but ’e doesn’t mash ’em.’ ‘Then what price that lydy who called for ’im in a keb afore ’e went away? An’ who’s ’e gone to Monte Carlo with?’ This was durin’ your absence, sir.”
“Go on, Smith. Anything else?”
“Well, sir, that rather flung me out of my stride, as the sayin’ is, as I ’ad seen the lydy in question. An’ Mr. White ’as a nasty way of putting you on your oath, so to speak. But I never owned up.”
Claude laughed.
“Excellent. Mr. White has a keen nose for false scents. I have already told him to let my affairs alone. He means no harm.”
But the reference to a “lydy in a keb” had suggested an immediate plan of action to the barrister. He would call to see Mrs. Hillmer. He wrote a note asking her if he might come to tea that afternoon, and sent it by a boy messenger.
In return he received this answer.
“Mrs. Hillmer will be at home at four o’clock if Mr. Bruce cares to call then.”
“Whew!” he whistled. “What’s in the wind there? This is an uncommonly stiff invitation. That rascal White has upset her, I’ll be bound. I must choke him off somehow. Suppose he were to find that damaged bracket! He would have Mensmore under trial at the Old Bailey in double-quick time. After I leave Mrs. Hillmer I must visit No. 12 again, and carry off that pair of brackets before White discovers them, as he will haunt the place in future.”
Bruce had a set of skeleton keys in his possession.
They were in his pocket when he approached Raleigh Mansions at the appointed hour.
The same trim maid opened the door for him and ushered him into the drawing-room. On the occasion of his first visit he was taken to the dining-room. It was a small matter, but Bruce paid heed to such.
Mrs. Hillmer appeared, very stately and undemonstrative. She greeted him coldly, seated herself at a distance, and said, in a cold, well-controlled voice:
“I did not expect the honor of another visit from you, Mr. Bruce.”
“Why not?”
There was a fight brewing, and he would let the enemy open fire. The glitter in her eyes showed that the batteries were ready to be unmasked. He was not mistaken.
“Why not? Because I believed you to be a gentleman. Once you had stooped to sending your myrmidons to pester me I imagined that you would keep yourself in the background.”
There was an indignant ring in her words as she concluded. When a woman is angry her own speech acts as a trumpet-call and fires her blood. Mrs. Hillmer began, as she intended, in icy disdain. She ended in tremulous anger.
“You allude to Mr. White?” said the barrister, looking steadily at her.
“Yes, that is the man. Some hireling from Scotland Yard. How could you so meanly induce my confidence at our first meeting? I have never been so deceived in a man in my life, and I have had a surfeit of bitter experience already.”
“Brother and sister are alike. They have led queer lives,” mused Bruce. Aloud he said:
“Your experience, Mrs. Hillmer, should at least lead you not to condemn any one unheard. May I explain that which is to you incomprehensible at this moment? – justly so, I admit.”
“Explanations! I am a child in the hands of such as you. How can I hope to fathom your real intent? Presumably, if I accept your apologies now, it will be a prelude to further visits by impudent police officers.”
“I am not here to apologize, Mrs. Hillmer.”
“What then, pray?”
“To plead with you. For Heaven’s sake do not distrust me. It may ruin those whom you hold dear. Listen to me first, and try to believe me afterwards.”
He was so thoroughly in earnest, so impressive in manner, that she did not know what to make of him. In her despair, she adopted a woman’s chief resource – her eyes filled with tears.
But he anticipated her.
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he cried, “let us act like sensible people. Compose yourself, order in some tea, and after an interlude I will tell you all about it. Candor is an indispensable element of confidence.”
Mrs. Hillmer rose, made an effort to choke back her agitation, went out, and called to the maid for tea. She returned in a few moments. When they were alone Bruce said, with a smile:
“A little poudre de ris is an excellent corrective for signs of grief.”
The lady blushed, and there was a perceptible return to her former pleasant manner.
“You are incorrigible, I fear,” she cried.
“Not a bit. Impressionable, rather. Now, I am going to startle you considerably, so be prepared. And do not jump at conclusions. Though startling, my news is not alarming. All may yet end well.”
Mrs. Hillmer was manifestly anxious, but she promised to try to understand him fully before she formed any judgment.
“Then,” said he, “I can clear the air a good deal by a simple statement. Mr. White is no agent of mine, and I have seen your brother, Albert Mensmore, at Monte Carlo.”
Mrs. Hillmer gave a little gasp of surprise. “You have seen Bertie?”
“Yes; your brother, is he not?”
“My half-brother, to be exact. My father was married twice. I – I am the elder of the two by four years.”
“Apart from the compliment, you do not look it. But what you say explains the total absence of likeness between you.”
“Possibly. People said we each resembled our mother. And Bertie, you know, has led a somewhat adventurous career. He roughed it a good deal in America. But what has all this got to do with detectives, and recent inquiries, and that sort of thing?”
“Much. The last time we met I told you that your brother was mixed up in some little affair with a lady.”
Mrs. Hillmer laughed, a trifle constrainedly. “If you knew Bertie as well as I do, you would not harbor suspicions concerning him. He never had a love affair in his life. Indeed, he is something of a woman-hater.”
“No doubt he was. But he has changed his opinions. He is in love, and is engaged to be married to a very charming girl. Thus far, his beliefs and his good fortune have pulled against each other.”
“Bertie engaged to be married! Good gracious! Who is she? And how can he support a wife? He is poor, and in debt, and he won’t even let me help him.”
“I have stated the facts, nevertheless. The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, and they are now yachting with a large party in the Mediterranean.”
“Are her people against the match? Is that why this Scotland Yard man – ?”
“No. Mensmore is on board Sir William’s yacht. But there is another lady, missing from her home for nearly three months, who is believed to be dead – murdered, the police say – and with whom your brother was in some indefinable way associated.”
“Do they dare to say that Bertie killed her?” Mrs. Hillmer’s color rose and her eyes flashed fire again.
“They say nothing. They are simply doing their duty in trying to discover the truth. And you may take it from me, as an undoubted fact, that the last place this lady visited before her death was one of the flats in these mansions. All present indications point to your brother’s residence as being that place. Now, I pray you, be calm, and try to help me, for I have acted in this matter as your friend and as your brother’s friend. At this very moment I am concealing his identity and his whereabouts from the police, who are searching for him under the assumed name of Corbett. If he is guilty of this crime, then I must hand him over to justice, for the murdered woman was a dear and good friend of mine. If he is innocent, as, indeed, I believe him to be, I will strive to help him and save his good name from the tarnish of being arrested on such an odious charge.”
During this recital Mrs. Hillmer became deathly pale. Her agitation was the greater inasmuch as she forcibly controlled herself. But she could not remain seated. She sprang to the window and looked out, in the vain effort to seek inspiration from the gathering gloom of the street. Then she turned, and spoke very slowly:
“I think I understand. I must have faith in you, Mr. Bruce. Who – was – the lady?”
The barrister thought deeply before replying. He had previously decided upon this supreme step, but he hesitated now that it was imminent. There was no help for it.
“Her name,” said he, “is one which is well known to the world. Lady Dyke, wife of Sir Charles Dyke, is missing from her home since the evening of November 6 last. She met with a violent death that night, and I – not the police – have good reason to believe that she was killed in your brother’s residence.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself on a lounge, buried her white face in her hands and moaned, in a perfect agony of terror:
“Oh, my God! What shall I do? What shall I do?”
This outburst astounded Bruce. He did not know what to make of it. His intelligence had certainly taken his hearer by surprise. What interpretation was he to place upon her words and her unrestrained actions?
“Now, Mrs. Hillmer,” he began; but she broke in vehemently, running to him and clutching him by the arm:
“He is innocent, Mr. Bruce. He must be innocent. He could not lift his finger to any woman. You must save him – do you hear? – save him, or you will have his blood on your soul. It was true, then, that you came here to hunt for him. Save him, if you hope for mercy yourself when you are dying.”
In her passion she shook him violently, and for an instant they looked intently at each other – the woman tensely piteous, entreating; the man amazed and questioning.
“Do you not see,” he said at last, “that your vehemence reveals your thoughts? For anything you know to the contrary, your brother may have committed the crime. Nay, it requires but slight knowledge of human nature to read your suspicions lest it be true. At this moment I am convinced that you are, in your heart, less sceptical than I of his guilt.”
Mrs. Hillmer flung herself again upon the lounge, silent, tearful, torn with violent emotion, which she vainly tried to suppress.
He tried to reason with her.
“It will, perhaps, serve to clear up a mystery that deepens each moment if you place your trust in me,” he said. “Tell me fully and openly any cause you may have for fearing that your brother may be implicated in this terrible business. I ask you to adopt this course in all faith. I have seen your brother under most trying circumstances; I have been with him at an hour when it would be impossible for him to conceal his burden if the weight of Lady Dyke’s death lay upon him. Yet I think him innocent. I think that chance has contributed to gather evidence against him. If I can learn even a portion of the truth it will enable me to quickly dispel the barrier of uncertainty that now hinders progress.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Mrs. Hillmer’s voice was hollow and broken. The barrister was shocked at the effect of his revelation, but he was forced to go on with the disagreeable task he had undertaken.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that you will answer my questions?”
“So far as I can.”
“Would it not be better to tell me in your own words what you have to say?”
Mrs. Hillmer looked up, and the agony in her face filled him with keen pity.
“Oh, Heaven help me to do what is right!” she cried.
“Your prayer will surely be answered. I am certain of that. A great wrong has been committed by some one, and the innocent must not suffer to shield the guilty.”
Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head and did not utter a word for some minutes. She appeared to be reasoning out some plan of action in a dazed fashion. When decision came she said in low tones:
“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have time. When I am ready I shall send for you.”
He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead with her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.
“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.
“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving you. When I have determined something which is not now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either case I only can judge – and suffer.”
“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we part. Did you know of Lady Dyke’s death before to-day?”
She came to him and looked him straight in the face, and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”
Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of this painful interview did not prevent him from noting the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some one hurried into the interior of a room.
In their excitement they forgot that their voices might attract attention, and ladies’ maids are proverbially inquisitive.
CHAPTER XVI
FOXEY
The keen, cold air of the streets soon restored the man to his habitual calm. He felt that a quiet stroll would do him good.
As he walked he pondered, and the more critically he examined Mrs. Hillmer’s change of attitude the less he understood it.
“For some ridiculous reason,” he communed, “the woman believes her brother guilty. Now I shall have endless trouble at getting at the truth. She will not be candid. She will only tell me that which she thinks will help him, and conceal that which she considers damaging. That is a woman’s way, all the world over. And a desperately annoying way it is. Perhaps I was to blame in springing this business too hastily upon her. But there! I like Mrs. Hillmer, and I hate using her as one juggles with a self-conceited witness. In future I shall trouble her no more.”
A casual glance into the interior of Sloane Square Station gave him a glimpse of the barrier, and he recognized the collector who had taken Lady Dyke’s ticket on that fatal night when she quitted the Richmond train.
Rather as a relief than for other cause he entered into conversation with the official.
“Do you remember me?” he said.
“Can’t say as I do, sir.” The man examined his questioner with quick suspicion. The forgotten “season” dodge would not work with him.
“Maybe you remember these?” said Bruce, producing his cigar-case.
“Now, wot’s the gyme?” said the collector to himself. But he smiled, and answered: “Do you mean by the look of ’em, sir?”
“Good!” laughed Claude. “Take three or four home with you. Meanwhile I am sure you remember me coming to see you last November concerning a lady who alighted here from Victoria one foggy evening and handed you a ticket to Richmond?”
“Of course I do, sir. And the cigars are all right. There was a lot of fuss about that lydy. Did she ever turn up?”
“Not exactly. That is to say, she died shortly after you saw her.”
“No! Well, of all the rummy goes! She was a fine-looking woman, too, as well as I rec’llect. Looked fit for another fifty year. Wot ’appened to ’er.”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“An’ ’ave you been on the ’unt ever since, guv’nor?”
“Yes, ever since.”
“She’s dead, you s’y?”
“Yes.”
“But ’ow’d you know she’s dead, if you ’ain’t seen ’er since?”
“I have seen her. I saw her dead body at Putney.”
“At Putney! Well, I’m blowed!”
A roar from beneath, the slamming of many doors, and the quick rush of a crowd up the steps, announced the arrival of a train. “Pardon, sir,” said the man, “this is the 5.41 Mansion House. But don’t go aw’y. There’s somethin’ – Tickets, if you please.”
In a minute the collector had ended his task. While sorting his bundles of pasteboards he said:
“Nobody ever tell’d me that before. An’ you ain’t the only one on ’er track. Are you in the police?”
“No.”
“I thought not. But some other chaps who kem ’ere was. None of ’em ever said the lydy was dead.”
“Why; what matter?”
“Oh, nothin’, but two ’eads is better’n one, if they’re only sheep’s ’eads.”
“Undoubtedly. The rule is all the more reliable when one of them belongs to a shrewd chap like you.”
The collector grinned. He understood that he was being flattered for a purpose, yet he liked it.
“That’s one w’y of lookin’ at it,” he said, “but if this affair’s pertickler, why, all I can s’y is it’s worth somethin’ to somebody.”
“Certainly. Here’s a sovereign for a start. If you can tell me anything really worth knowing I will add four more to it.”
“Now, that’s talkin’. I’m off duty at eight o’clock, an’ I can’t ’ave a chat now because I expect the inspector any minute.”
“Suppose you call and see me in Victoria Street at nine?”
“Right you are, sir.”
Bruce gave the man his address and recrossed the square. Few people were abroad, so he walked straight to the first door of Raleigh Mansions and made his way to the fourth floor.
Had he been a moment later he must have seen Mrs. Hillmer, closely wrapped up, leave her residence unattended. Her carriage was not in waiting. She walked to the cabstand in the square and called a hansom, driving back up Sloane Street.
Her actions indicated a desire to be unobserved even by her servants, as in the usual course of events the housemaid would have brought a cab to the door.
But the barrister, steadily climbing up the stairs, could not guess what was happening in the street. He soon opened Mensmore’s door, and noted, as an idle fact, that the expected gust of cold air was absent.
There was no light on this landing, so he was in pitch darkness once he had passed the doorway. There was no need to strike a match, however, as he remembered the exact position of the electric switchboard – on the left beyond the dining-room door.
He stepped cautiously forward, and stretched forth his hand to grope for the lever. With a quick rush, some two or three assailants flung themselves upon him, and after a fierce, gasping struggle – for Bruce was a strong man – he was borne to the floor face downwards, with one arm beneath him and the other pinioned behind his back.
“Look sharp, Jim,” shouted a breathless voice. “Turn on the light and close the door. We’ve got him safe enough.”
They had. Two large hands were clutched round his neck, a knee was firmly embedded in the small of his back, another hand gripped his left wrist like a vice, while some one sat on his legs.
He could not have been collared more effectually by a Rugby International team.
The third man found the electric light and turned it on.
“Now, get up,” said some one, “and don’t give us any more trouble. It’s no use.”
The barrister, who had had his wind knocked out of him, rose to his knees. Then, as the light fell upon the horrified face of Mr. White, he vainly essayed to keep up the pretence of indignation. Once fairly on his feet, he nearly collapsed with laughter. He leaned against the wall, and, as his breath came again, he laughed until his sides ached.
Meanwhile the detective was crimson with rage and annoyance. His two assistants did not know what to make of the affair.
“What’s wrong, Jim?” said one at last. “Isn’t this Corbett?”
“No, of course it’s not,” was his angry growl.
“Then who the – is it?”
“Oh, ask me another! How on earth could I guess, Mr. Bruce, that you’d come letting yourself in here with a latchkey?”
Claude was still holding his sore ribs and could not answer; but the policeman who had questioned White caught the name. He recognized it, and grinned at his companion.
“What did you want here, anyhow?” snarled the infuriated detective, as he realized that his great coup would be retailed with embellishments through every police station in the metropolis.
“I w-wanted you to ar-r-rest me, W-White,” roared Claude. “I s-said you would, and you have.”
“Confound it, how could you know I was here?”
“You were sure to wait here for a man who probably will not return for months.”
“Was I, indeed? Well, you have yourself to blame if you are hurt. I hope my mates did not treat you too badly?”
“What?” cried the one who had not yet spoken. “He gave me such a punch on the bread-basket that I’ve only just recovered my speech.”
“I think we’re about quits,” said the other, surveying a torn waistcoat and broken watch-chain.
“I shall be black and blue all over to-morrow,” said Bruce; “but if you are satisfied I am. Come, Mr. White, bring your friends and we will open a bottle of wine. We all want it. Corbett won’t be here to-night. Just now he is in Wyoming.”
“How do you know?”
“By intuition. I am seldom mistaken.”
“But why didn’t you call out just now when you came in?”
“I hadn’t a chance. You were on me like a thousand of bricks. I must confess that if Corbett were in my shoes he would be a doomed man.”
White didn’t know whether to believe Bruce or not. He was genuinely angry at the incident, but the barrister did not want to convert him into an enemy, and he vaguely felt that a catastrophe was imminent, and a false move by the police might do irretrievable mischief.
“Well, inspector,” he said, “I must confess that this time you have got the better of me. I did not know you were here. I looked in for the purpose of quietly studying the ground, as it were, and I was never more taken by surprise in my life. Moreover, your plan was a very clever one, in view of the fact that Corbett might return at any moment.”
The detective became more amiable at this praise from the famous amateur, for Bruce’s achievements were well known to his two colleagues.
“I suppose you wondered what had happened,” he said with a smile.
“I thought my last hour had come. I am only sorry that Corbett himself did not have the experience.”
“Do you really believe he is in the States, sir?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then he must have returned there since he wrote that letter.”
“That is the only solution of the difficulty.”
“Hum. It’s a pity.”
“Why?”
“I would sooner prefer to arrest him on this side. To get him by extradition is a slow affair, and probably means a trip across the Atlantic.”
Good-humor being now restored, the party quitted the flat and adjourned to a neighboring hotel, where the barrister started White on the full, true, and particular account of his pursuit and capture of the Winchmore Hill burglars, an exploit which was the pride of the detective’s life.
At the end of a bottle of champagne and a cigar they all parted excellent friends, but Bruce did not attempt to revisit Raleigh Mansions that night.
Instead, he partook of a quiet meal at a restaurant, and hurried to his chambers to await the advent of the ticket-collector.
Punctual to the hour, this new witness arrived, and was admitted by Smith in obedience with previous instructions. The man was somewhat awed by the surroundings and the appearance of a servant in livery, but Bruce quickly put him at his ease.
“Come, sit near the fire. Do you drink whisky and soda? That box contains your favorite cigars. Now, tell me all you know about this business.”
“I can’t s’y as I know anythink about it, sir, but by puttin’ two and two together it makes four sometimes – not always.”
“Quite right. You’re a philosopher. Let me hear the two two’s. We will see about the addition afterwards.”
“Well, sir, this yer lydy was a-missin’ early in November. She tykes a ticket at Victoria Station on the District for Richmond; she gives it up to me at Sloane Square, arsks a newsboy the w’y to Raleigh Mansions, for ’e tell’d me so after you’d bin to see me, an’ from what you s’y, ’as bin swallered up ever since.”
“The Lord Chief couldn’t state the case more simply.”
“That’s the first two. Now, for the second two, an’ you won’t forgit as I knew nothink about the lydy bein’ dead, or I should ’ave opened my mouth long afore this.”
“Go on. No one can blame you.”
“There’s an old chap – Foxey they calls ’im, but I don’t know ’is right nyme – who drives a four-wheeler around Chelsea, an’ ’e ’ad tyken a fare from the Square to the City. It might be four o’clock or it might be five, but ’e was on ’is w’y back from Cornhill when a gent, a tall, good-looking gent, a youngish, military chap, ’ails ’im and says: ‘Cabby, drive me to Sloane Square. There’s no ’urry, but tyke care, because it’s foggy.’ Old Foxey nearly jumped out of ’is skin at this bit of good luck. ’E was pretty full then, for ’e’s a regular beer-barrel, ’e is, but ’e made up ’is mind to ’ave a fair old skinful that night. Well, Foxey drives ’im all right to the Square. The gent gives ’im five bob and says: ‘Wite ’ere for me, cabby. You can drive me ’ome in about an hour’s time.’ This was at 5.30. Foxey drew up near the stytion, tells me all about it, an’ stan’s me two beers, ’e was that pleased with ’isself. ’E goes to give ’is ’oss the nose-bag, in comes the Richmond train, and out pops the lydy with the Richmond ticket. D’ye follow me?”