what, Mr. Bruce?”
This emancipated servant girl was not such a simpleton as she looked. It was necessary to frighten her and at the same time to force her to admit the facts with reference to her sensational flight from Wensley House.
“You must know,” he said, “that Sir Charles Dyke can proceed against you in the County Court to recover wages in lieu of notice, and this would be far from pleasant for you in your new surroundings.”
“Yes, I know that. But why should Sir Charles Dyke, or you, or any other gentleman, want to destroy a poor girl’s prospects in that fashion?”
“Surely, you must feel that some explanation is due to us for your extraordinary behavior?”
“No, I don’t feel a bit like it.”
“But why did you go away?”
“To suit myself.”
“Could you not have given notice? Why was it necessary to create a further scandal in addition to the disappearance of your unfortunate mistress?”
“I am sorry for that. It was thoughtless, I admit. If I had to act over again I should have done differently. But what does it matter now?”
“It matters this much – that the police must be informed of your existence, as they are searching for you, believing that you are in some way mixed up with Lady Dyke’s death.”
The girl started violently, and she flushed, rather with anger than alarm, Bruce thought, as he watched her narrowly.
“The police, indeed,” she snorted; “what have the police to do with me? A nice thing you’re saying, Mr. Bruce.”
“I am merely telling you the naked truth.”
“All right. Tell them. I don’t care a pin for them or you. Have you anything else to say, because I wish to join my friends?”
The girl’s language and attitude mystified him more than any preceding feature of this remarkable investigation. She was, of course, far better educated than he had imagined, and the difference between the hysterical witness at the coroner’s inquiry and this pert, self-possessed young woman was phenomenal.
Rather than risk an open rupture, the barrister temporized. “If you are anxious to quarrel with me, by all means do so,” he said; “but that was not my motive in speaking to you here to-night.”
Miss le Marchant shot a suspicious glance at him. “Then what was your motive,” she said.
“Chiefly to reassure my friend, your former master, concerning you; and, perhaps, to learn the cause of your very strange conduct.”
“Why should Sir Charles bother his head about me?”
“As I have told you. Because of the coincidence between your departure and Lady – ”
“Oh yes, I know that.” Then she added testily: “I was a fool not to manage differently.”
“So you refuse me an explanation?”
“No, I don’t. I have no reason to do so. I came in for some money, and as I have longed all my life to be an actress I could not wait an hour, a moment, before I – before I – ”
“Before you tried to gratify your impulse.”
“Yes, that is what I wanted to say.”
“But why not at least have written to Sir Charles, telling him of your intentions?”
The fair Marie was silent for a moment. The question confused her. “I hardly know,” she replied.
“Will you write to him now?”
“I don’t see why I should.”
“Indeed. Not even when it was you who gave some of your mistress’s underclothing to Mr. White, by which means he was able to identify the body found at Putney as that of Lady Dyke?”
“Mr. White told you that, did he?”
“He did.”
“Then you had better get him to give you all further information, Mr. Bruce, as not another word will you get out of me.”
She bounced up, fiery red, pluming herself for the fray.
“Will you not communicate with Sir Charles?” he said, utterly baffled by Miss le Marchant’s uncompromising attitude.
“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t. Mr. White, indeed!” And she ran off to join her friends.
The barrister drove quietly homewards. This was his summary of the evening’s events: “I have found two women. When I know all about them I shall be able to lay my hand on the person who killed Lady Dyke.”
CHAPTER VII
IN THE CITY
Messrs. Dodge & Co., of Leadenhall Street, possessed business premises of greater pretensions than Bruce had pictured to himself from Mrs. Hillmer’s description of their transactions with her brother.
Not only were their offices commodious and well situated, but a liberal display of gold lettering, intermingled with official brass plates marking the registering offices of many companies, gave evidence of some degree of importance – whether fictitious or otherwise Bruce could not determine, as he scrutinized the exterior of the building on the following morning.
Moreover, workmen were even then busy in substituting the title “Dodge, Son & Co., Ltd.,” for “Messrs. Dodge & Company,” the suggestive nature of the latter designation having perhaps proved a stumbling-block in the way of the guileless investor.
When the barrister entered the office, a busy place, a hive of many clerks, and adorned with gigantic maps of the Rand, West Australia, Cripple Creek, and Klondike, he asked for “Mr. Dodge.”
His card procured him ready admission. He was shown into an elaborately upholstered apartment of considerable size. At the farther end, seated in front of a gorgeous American desk, was a young man who ostentatiously finished a letter and then motioned the barrister to a seat.
Bruce was curious on the question of the age of the head of the firm.
“Are you Mr. Dodge, or the son?” he said, with the utmost gravity.
The other was taken back by this unexpected method of opening the conversation. It annoyed him.
“I am the representative of the firm, sir, and fully able to deal with your business, whatever it may be,” he replied.
“No doubt. But it will simplify matters if I know exactly to whom I am addressing myself.”
After an uneasy shuffling in his seat – he could not guess what this keen-faced, earnest-eyed lawyer might want – the representative of Messrs. Dodge, Son & Co. (Limited) explained that he was Dodge, and the name of the firm had been adopted for general purposes.
“Then there is no ‘son,’ I take it.”
“Yes,
