certain that some day the mystery would be elucidated.
“She is. I feel that. I shall never see her on earth again.”
“Oh, nonsense, Dyke. Far more remarkable occurrences have been satisfactorily cleared up.”
“It is very good of you, old chap, to take this cheering view. Only, you see, I know my wife’s character so well. She would die a hundred times if it were possible rather than cause the misery to her people and myself which, if living, she knows must ensue from this terrible uncertainty as to her fate.”
“Scotland Yard is still sanguine.” This good-natured friend was evidently making a conversation.
“Oh, naturally. But something tells me that my wife is dead, whether by accident or design it is impossible to say. The police will cling to the belief that she is in hiding in order to conceal their own inability to find her.”
“A highly probable theory. Are your servants to be trusted?”
“Y—es. They have all been with us some years. Why do you ask?”
“Because I am anxious that nothing of this should get into the papers. I have caused paragraphs to be inserted in the fashionable intelligence columns that Lady Dyke has gone to visit some friends in the Midlands. For her own sake, if she be living, it is best to choke scandal at its source.”
“Well, Bruce, I leave everything to you. Make such arrangements as you think fit.”
The barrister’s mobile face softened with pity as he looked at his afflicted friend.
In four days Sir Charles Dyke had aged many years in appearance. No one who was acquainted with him in the past would have imagined that the loss of his wife could so affect him.
“I have done all that was possible, yet it is very little,” said Bruce, after a pause. “You are aware that I am supposed to be an adept at solving curious or criminal investigations of an unusual class. But in this case, partly, I suspect, because I myself am the last person who, to our common knowledge, saw Lady Dyke alive on Tuesday night, I am faced by a dead wall of impenetrable fact, through which my intellect cannot pierce. Yet I am sure that some day this wretched business will be intelligible. I will find her if living; I will find her murderer if she be dead.”
Not often did Claude Bruce allow his words to so betray his thoughts.
Both men were absorbed by the thrilling sensations of the moment, and they were positively startled when a servant suddenly announced:
“Inspector White, of Scotland Yard.”
A short, thick-set man entered. He was absolutely round in every part. His sturdy, rotund frame was supported on stout, well-moulded legs. His bullet head, with close-cropped hair, gave a suggestion of strength to his rounded face, and a pair of small bright eyes looked suspiciously on the world from beneath well-arched eyebrows.
Two personalities more dissimilar than those of Claude Bruce and Inspector White could hardly be brought together in the same room. People who are fond of tracing resemblances to animals in human beings would liken the one to a grey-hound, the other to a bull-dog.
Yet they were both masters in the art of detecting crime—the barrister subtle, analytic, introspective; the policeman direct, pertinacious, self-confident. Bruce lost all interest in a case when the hidden trail was laid bare. Mr. White regarded investigation as so many hours on duty until his man was transported or hanged.
The detective was well acquainted with his unprofessional colleague, and had already met Sir Charles in the early stages of his present quest.
“I have an important clue,” he said, smiling with assurance.
“What is it?” The baronet was for the moment aroused from his despondent lethargy.
“Her ladyship did not go to Richmond on Tuesday night.”
Inspector White did not wait for Bruce to speak, but the barrister nodded with the air of one who knew already that Lady Dyke had not gone to Richmond.
Mr. White continued. “Thanks to Mr. Bruce’s remembrance of the number of the ticket, we traced it at once in the clearing office. It was given up at Sloan Square immediately after the Richmond train passed through.”
Bruce nodded again. He was obstinately silent, so the detective questioned him directly.
“By this means the inquiry is narrowed to a locality. Eh, Mr. Bruce?”
“Yes,” said the barrister, turning to poke the fire.
Mr. White was sure that his acuteness was displeasing to his clever rival. He smiled complacently, and went on:
“The ticket-collector remembers her quite well, as the giving up of a Richmond ticket was unusual at this station. She passed straight out into the square, and from that point we lost sight of her.”
“You do, Mr. White?” said Bruce.
“Well, sir, it is a great thing to have localized her movements at that hour, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. To save time I may tell you that Lady Dyke returned to the station, entered the refreshment room, ordered a glass of wine, which she hardly touched, sat down, and waited some fifteen minutes. Then she quitted the room, crossed the square, asked a news-vendor where Raleigh Mansions were, and gave him sixpence for the information.”
His hearers were astounded.
“Heavens, Claude, how did you learn all this?” cried the baronet.
“Thus far, it was simplicity itself. On Wednesday evening when no news could be obtained from your relatives, I started from Victoria, intending to call at every station until I found the place where she left the train. The railway clearing officer was too slow, Mr. White. Naturally, the hours being identical in the same week, the first ticket-collector I spoke to gave me the desired clue. The rest was a mere matter of steady inquiry.”
“Then you are the man whom the police are now searching for?” blurted out the detective.
“From the railway official’s description? Possibly. Pray, Mr. White, let me see the details of my appearance as circulated through the force. It would be interesting.”
The inspector was saved from further indiscretions by Sir Charles Dyke’s plaintive question:
“Why did you not tell me these things sooner, Claude?”
“What good was there in torturing you? All that I have ascertained is the A B C of our search. We are at a loss for the motive of your wife’s disappearance. Victoria, Sloane Square, or Richmond—does it matter which? My belief is that she intended to go to Richmond that night. Why, otherwise, should she make to the footman and myself the same unvarying statement? Perhaps she did go there?”
“But these houses, Raleigh Mansions. What of them?”
“Ah, there we may be forwarded a stage. But there are six main entrances and no hall porters. There are twelve flats at each number, seventy-two in all, and all occupied. That means seventy-two separate inquiries into
