A Mysterious Disappearance by Louis Tracy (read a book .txt) 📖

of the streets. His color returned, he talked with some degree of cheerfulness, and even laughed as he said:

“I never understood you were a doctor, Claude, in addition to your other varied acquirements. For the first time since—since November last, I feel hungry.”

“Why don’t you take my advice, and go away for some shooting? It is not too late, even now, to go after a hare.”

“I will think of it. I wonder who we shall meet at the club.”

“Lots of fellows, no doubt. And, by the way, you must be prepared for one little difficulty. Suppose they ask about your wife?”

The baronet’s momentary gaiety vanished. He stopped short, and clutched Bruce’s arm. “Don’t you see,” he almost moaned, “that this is the reason I have remained indoors for so long? What shall I say?”

“You must make the best of it. Say, off-handedly, you don’t know where she is—either with relations or in Italy. Anything will do, and it will create a false impression.”

“I am sick of false impressions. I cannot do it.”

“You must.”

The stronger will prevailed, and they entered the doors of the Imperial, where, of course, Dyke was hailed at once by a dozen men.

“Hallo, Charlie! Been seedy?”

“Good gracious, Dyke! have you had influenza? I’ve missed you for months, now I come to think of it.”

“I haven’t seen your wife for quite a time. How is she?”

In the multitude of questions there was safety.

Sir Charles answered vaguely, and a chance arrival created a diversion by announcing that the favorite had broken down in his preparation for the Grand National.

Later in the afternoon, the two found themselves ensconced in a quiet corner of the smoking-room. Bruce seized the opportunity.

“You told me,” he said, “that Mensmore and you were at school together?”

“Did I?” said the baronet.

“Yes; don’t you remember?”

“I get mixed up in thinking about things. But it is all right. We were.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Oh, a private establishment kept by an old chap called Septimus Childe,—Lucky Number was our nickname for him.”

Bruce betrayed no surprise at this startlingly simple statement. He said casually:

“I mean where was the school situated?”

“At Brighton in my time. But afterwards he shifted to some place near London—something to do with examinations, I fancy.”

“But don’t you know where?”

“How should I? I was at Sandhurst then. I believe the old boy is dead. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it has something to do with the inquiry. I won’t trouble you now with the details.”

“Go on, I can stand it.”

“But where is the good in paining you needlessly?”

“That stage has passed, old chap. My wife’s memory has almost become a dream to me.”

“Well, it is an extraordinary thing, but that place where—that house at Putney, you know, must have been the new school of the Rev. Septimus Childe.”

“How did you learn that?”

“I have known it for months, ever since the inquest.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“True, but at the time it seemed of no consequence. Now that Mensmore turns out to be a pupil of his, and probably passed the remainder of his early school days at that very establishment, the incident assumes a degree of importance.”

Sir Charles looked earnestly at his friend as he put his next question: “Tell me, Claude, do you seriously believe that Mensmore had anything to do with my wife’s death?”

“I cannot honestly give you a satisfactory answer.”

“But what do you think?”

“If you press me I will try to put my opinion into words. Mensmore was in some mysterious way associated with the crime; but the degree of association, and whether conscious or unconscious, I do not know.”

“What do you mean by ‘conscious or unconscious’?”

“I am sure that Lady Dyke met her death in his residence; but it is impossible to say now if he was aware of her presence. He was in London at the time, that is quite certain.”

“Do the police know all this?”

“No.”

“I am glad of it. Mensmore did not kill my wife. The suggestion is absurd—wildly absurd.”

“Things look black against him, nevertheless.”

“I tell you it is nonsense. You are on the wrong track, Bruce. What possible reason could he have had to decoy my wife to his flat and there murder her?”

“None, perhaps.”

“Then why do you hesitate to agree with me?”

“Because there is a woman in the case.”

“Another woman?”

“Yes; Mensmore’s sister, or half-sister, to be exact. She also lives in Raleigh Mansions.”

“Indeed. So all kinds of things have been going on without my knowledge. Yet you promised faithfully to keep me informed of every incident that transpired.”

“I am sorry, Dyke; but you were so upset—”

“Upset, man. Don’t you realize that this affair is all I have to think about in the world?”

The baronet was so disturbed that Claude at once made up his mind to tell him as little as possible in the future. These constant possibilities of rupture between them must be avoided at all hazard.

To change the conversation he said: “Never mind; this time you must pardon my inadvertence. How do your wife’s people bear the continued mystery of her disappearance?”

“At first they were awfully cut up. But lately they have been reconciled to her death, which they say must have resulted from accident, and that her identity must have been mixed up with that of some other person. Such things do happen, you know. Anyway, her sister has gone into mourning for her. You didn’t hear, I suppose, that I have made my little nephew my heir?”

“Was that step necessary at your time of life?”

“I shall never marry again, Bruce.”

“Well, let us drop the subject. You have done right as regards the boy under present circumstances; but, as a man of the world, I only point out that it is an unwise thing to bring up a youngster in expectation of something which chance might determine differently.”

“Chance! There is no chance! My wife cannot return from the grave!”

“True. You have done right, no doubt. But the suddenness of the thing caused me to speak unwittingly.”

They were silent for a little while, when Sir Charles returned to the subject nearest his heart.

“Has your search developed in other directions?”

Bruce fenced with the query. “To be candid,” he said, “I am now most busily engaged in the not very difficult task of throwing dust in the eyes of the police. My motives are hardly definite to myself, but I do not want this unfortunate man, Mensmore, to be arrested until I have personally become convinced of his guilt.”

“You are right. Your instinct seldom fails you. I question if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife.”

“Ah! You see you have hit upon the difficulty. Show me her reason for making that secret journey, and I will tell you how she met her death.”

His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old friend of Dyke’s had entered the room and came toward them.

A few minutes later Bruce quitted the Imperial and drove to his chambers, where he found a note from the ticket collector stating that Foxey’s name was William Marsh.

The day was still young, and the barrister paid a visit to the West London Police Court, where the records soon revealed the conviction of the cab-driver and the period of his sentence.

“Let me see,” said the resident inspector, “his time at Holloway is up on February 6. That is a Monday, and as Sunday doesn’t count, he will be liberated on the 4th, about 8 A.M. That is the habit, sir, in the matter of short sentences. If you want to see him when he leaves the jail you can either wait at the gates or at the nearest public-house, where the prisoners go for their first drink. They seldom or never miss.”

Bruce thanked the official and returned home.

He was on the point of going out to drive, when he received a letter from Sir Charles Dyke. It ran: