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

of the table.

“I need not wait, Phil, dear,” he said simply. “I ask your pardon now. This business is in the hands of Providence. I was foolish to think that anything I could do would stave off the inevitable.”

“And if you have—to go—to China—you w-will take me with you?”

Bruce looked out of the window, whistled, and said loudly, addressing a beautiful lady in short skirts who figured in a poster across the way:

“Let me ring for some tea. All this talk makes one dry.”

CHAPTER XXVI LADY HELEN MONTGOMERY’S SON

When the young people had gone—Mensmore ill at ease, though tremuously happy that Phyllis had so demonstrated her trust in him, Phyllis herself radiantly confident in the barrister’s powers to set everything right—Bruce devoted himself to the task of determining a new line for his energies.

The first step was self-evident. He must ascertain if the Dykes knew a Colonel Montgomery.

He drove to the Club frequented by Sir Charles, but the baronet was not there, so he went to Wensley House.

Sir Charles was at home, in his accustomed nook by the library fire. He looked ill and low-spirited. The temporary animation he had displayed during the past few weeks was gone. If anything, he was more listless than at any time since his wife’s death.

“Well, Claude,” he said wearily, “anything to report?”

“Yes, a good deal.”

“What is it?”

“I want to ask you something. Did you ever know a Colonel Montgomery, or was your wife acquainted with any one of that name to your knowledge?”

“I do not think she was. Had she ever met such a man I should probably have heard of him. Who was he?”

The baronet’s low state rendered his words careless and indefinite, but his friend did not wish to bother him unduly.

“The police have discovered,” he said, “that Mrs. Hillmer formed a close intimacy with some one whom she designated by that name and rank, though I have failed to trace any British officer who answers to his description. He disappeared, or died, as some people put it, about the same time as your wife.”

“Is it not known what became of him, then?”

“No.”

“Won’t Mrs. Hillmer tell you?”

“She absolutely refuses to give any help, whatever.”

“On what ground?”

“That is best known to herself. My theory is that a man she loves is implicated in the affair, and she is prepared to go to any lengths to shield him.”

“Ah!”

Sir Charles bent over and poked the fire viciously. Then he murmured: “Women are queer creatures, Bruce. We men never understand them until too late. My wife and I did not to all appearance care a jot for one another while she lived. Yet I now realize that she loved me, and I would give the little remaining span of existence, dear as life is, to see her once more.”

This was a morbid subject; the younger man tried to switch him off it.

“It is almost clear to me,” he said, “that Colonel Montgomery’s name was assumed. Few people realize the use of the alias made in modern life. I have a notion that the custom among otherwise honorable people has arisen from the publicity given to the fact that Royal and other distinguished personages frequently choose to conceal their identity under less known territorial titles.”

“The idea is ingenious. We are all slaves to fashion.”

“However that may be, it should not be a difficult task to lay hands on the gentleman should he be still living.”

“Suppose you succeed. How can you connect him with my wife’s death?”

“At this moment I am unable to say. But the cabman might be of some use.”

“The cabman. What cabman?”

“Did I omit that? I ought to have told you that I have found the driver of the four-wheeler in which your poor wife was taken, dead or insensible, from Sloane Square to Putney.”

“What an extraordinary thing!”

“What is?”

“That you should have forgotten to inform me of such a striking fact.”

“Not so. Now that I recollect, I have not had the opportunity. It was impossible to discuss anything else but that forged letter on the last two occasions we met, and it was only a few hours prior to your visit on Monday that I got the cabman’s story fully. By the way, do you now see any reason why Jane Harding should have tried to deceive you in such a manner?”

The barrister perceived that Sir Charles was nervous and irritable, so he deemed it a needless strain to enlarge on the history of his discovery of Foxey.

“I am tired of letters, and plots, and mysteries. My life is resolving into one huge note of interrogation. Soon the great question of eternity will dominate all others.”

Dyke’s mood unfitted him for sustained conversation. Bruce could but pity him, and hope that time would calm his fevered brain, and soothe the unrest that shed this gloom over him.

“Really,” said Claude, after a long interval, during which both men sought inspiration from the dancing flames in the fireplace, “really this is too bad of you, Dyke. You showed a marked improvement for a little space, and now you are letting yourself slip back into a state of lonely and unoccupied moping again.”

“My thoughts find me both occupation and company,” was the despondent reply.

“There is nothing for it,” continued Bruce cheerfully, “but a tour round the world. You must start immediately. A complete change of scene and surroundings will soon pull you back to a normal state of mind and health.”

“I have been thinking of a long journey for some time past.”

The barrister glanced sharply at his friend. The double entente was not lost on him. Dyke was in a depressed and nervous condition. The uncertainty regarding his wife’s fate was harassing him unduly and it was with a twinge of conscience that Bruce reflected upon his own eagerness to pursue a quest which, by very reason of its indefiniteness, attracted him as an intellectual pursuit.

“Look here,” he cried, on the spur of the moment, “I have long desired to see the Canadian Pacific route. Will you arrange to start West with me a fortnight hence? We can return when the spirit moves us.”

“We will see. We will see. To-day I feel unable to decide anything.”

“Yes, I know, but the mere fact that you take the resolution will serve to reanimate you.”

“It is very good of you, Claude, to trouble so about me. Had you asked me earlier I might have gone straight away. But let it rest for a little while. When I have recovered my spirits somewhat I will come to you to ask you to sail next day, or something of the sort.”

Beyond this, the other could not move him.

There was one link in the chain of evidence that would be irrefragable if discovered. Was this “Colonel Montgomery” in any way connected with the house at Putney where the murderer had disposed of the body? If this could be established, the unknown visitor to Raleigh Mansions would experience a good deal of difficulty in clearing himself of suspicion. Bruce was certain that, once the “Colonel” was traced, much would come to light explanatory of Mrs. Hillmer’s, and her brother’s, dread lest his identity should be discovered.

An inquiry addressed to the house agents to whom possible tenants were referred elicited the information that the present owner, a lady, was prepared to let the house annually or on a lease. They enclosed an order to view, which Bruce retained in case he should happen to need it.

A second letter gave him the address of the lady’s solicitors, Messrs. Small & Sharp, Lincoln’s Inn.

He called on them as a possible tenant, with a desire to purchase the property outright if his proposal could be entertained.

Mr. Sharp, the partner who dealt with the estate, became very suave when the suggestion reached his ears.

“You will understand, Mr. Bruce, that your request requires some consideration. The rent my client asks is comparatively low, because the house is old-fashioned, but the splendid riparian position of the property, a free-hold acre on the banks of the Thames at Putney, gives it a highly increased future value. Any figure you may have based on a rental calculation would therefore—”

“Not meet the case at all,” said the barrister, repressing a smile at the familiar opening move in the game of bargaining.

“Precisely.”

“May I ask who the present owner is?”

“Certainly, the lady’s name is Small. In fact, she is my partner’s wife. Her father, the late Rev. Septimus Childe, purchased the estate some years ago, largely because the house suited his requirements as the head of a successful private school.”

“Has the estate changed hands frequently then?”

“Oh, dear, no. Indeed, it is well understood that the Rev. Mr. Childe acquired it more as a friendly transaction than otherwise. The estate is a portion of the separate estate of the late Lady Helen Montgomery, who married Sir William Dyke, father of the present baronet, who perhaps—good gracious, my dear sir, what is the matter?”

Had Bruce been a woman he must have fainted.

As it was, the shock of the intelligence nearly paralyzed him. Sir Charles Dyke!—Montgomery!—The house at Putney the property of his mother! What new terror did not this frightful combination suggest?

Why did his friend conceal from him these most important facts? Why did he pretend ignorance not only of the locality but of his mother’s maiden name? Like lightning the remembrance flashed through Bruce’s troubled brain that he had only heard of the earlier Lady Dyke as a daughter of the Earl of Tilbury. A suspicion—profoundly horrible, yet convincing—was slowly mastering him, and every second brought further proof not only of its reasonableness, but of its ghastly and inflexible certainty.

Again the lawyer’s voice reached his ears, dully and thin, as though it penetrated through a wall.

“Surely, you feel ill? Let me get you some brandy.”

“No—no,” murmured the barrister. “It is but a momentary faintness. I—I think I will go out into the fresh air. Are you—quite sure—that Mr. Childe bought the property from Lady Helen Montgomery’s trustees?”

“Quite sure. If you wait even a few moments I will show you the title-deeds.”

“No, thank you. I will call again. Pray excuse me.”

Somehow Bruce crossed the quiet square of the Inn, and plunged into the turmoil of the street. Amid the bustle of Holborn he had a curious sensation of safety. The fiend so suddenly installed in his consciousness was less busy here suggesting strange and maddening thoughts.

Why—why—why—fifty questions beat incessantly against the barrier of agonized negation he strove to set up, but the noise of traffic made the attack confused. Each incautious bump against a passer-by silenced a demand, each heavy crunch of a ’bus on the gravel-strewed roadway temporarily silenced a doubt.

He was so unmanned that he felt almost on the verge of tears. He absolutely dared not attempt to reason out the fearful alternative which had so fiercely thrust itself upon him.

At last he became vaguely aware that people were staring at him. Fearful lest some acquaintance should recognize and accost him he hailed a hansom and drove to Victoria Street.

All the way the heavy beat of the horse’s feet served to distract his thoughts. He forced himself to count the quick paces, and tried hard to accommodate the numerals of two or more syllables to the rapidity of the animal’s trot. He failed in this, but in the failure found relief.

Nevertheless, though the horse was willing and the driver eager to oblige a fare who gave a “good” address, the time seemed interminable until the cab stopped in front of his door.

Once arrived there, he slowly ascended the stairs to his own flat, told Smith to pay the cabman half-a-crown and to admit no one, and threw himself into a chair.

At last he was face to face with the troublous demon who possessed him in Lincoln’s Inn, struggled with him through the