Mrs. Robinson burst in, with face aflame.
“Is this palaverin’ to go on all night?” she demanded angrily. “Here’s the dinner sphilin’, after all me worry and bother, with the head of me vexed to know who is the masther and who ishn’t.”
“All right, mother,” laughed Corbett. “Bring in the whole caboodle.”
“Mr. Corbett,” said Bruce, “I hope you will come and have lunch with me to-morrow, at this address,” handing him a card. “I want to have a long talk with you. Mr. White, if you come with me I will explain a good deal to you of which you are now in ignorance.”
“Surely, Mr. Corbett will answer a few questions first,” said the detective.
“Don’t you think you have troubled him sufficiently for this evening? Besides, he can tell us nothing. All the explanation is really due to him, and I propose to give it to him to-morrow. Come, White, this time I promise you that a considerable portion of your inquiry shall be cleared up, and I do not speak without foundation, as you have often learned hitherto.”
So the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett was left in undisturbed possession of his flat and his dinner, while the trio passed out into the quietude of the streets.
CHAPTER XXI
HOW LADY DYKE LEFT RALEIGH MANSIONS
Mr. White was actually inclined to preserve silence while they walked to Victoria Street. The events of the preceding hour had not exactly conduced to the maintenance, in the eyes of his brother officer, of that pre-eminent sagacity which he invariably claimed.
His companion rubbed in this phase of the matter by saying: “I should think, Jim, you will give Raleigh Mansions wide berth for some time to come, after making two bad breaks there.”
But it was no part of Bruce’s scheme that the detective should be rendered desperate by repeated failures. “It is not Mr. White’s fault,” he said, “that these errors have occurred. They are rather the result of his pertinacity in leaving no clue unsolved which promises to lead to success. When this case ends, if ever it does end, I feel sure he will admit that he has never before encountered so much difficulty in unravelling the most complex problems within his experience.”
“That is so,” chimed in the senior detective. “The thing that beats me in this affair is the want of a beginning, so to speak. One would imagine it the work of a lunatic if Lady Dyke herself had not contributed so curiously to the mystery of her disappearance.”
“There you are, White; that is the true scent. Find the motive and we find the murderer, if Lady Dyke was wilfully put to death.”
“If she was, Mr. Bruce? Have you any doubt about it?”
“There cannot be certainty when we are groping in the dark. But the gloom is passing; we are on the eve of a discovery.”
At Bruce’s residence White’s colleague left him. Soon the barrister and the policeman were sitting snugly before a good fire.
There Claude took him step by step through each branch of his inquiry as it is known to the reader.
He omitted nothing. The discovery of Jane Harding and of Mensmore, the latter’s transactions with Dodge & Co., his dramatic coup at Monte Carlo and its attendant love episode – all these were exhaustively described. He enlarged upon Mrs. Hillmer’s anxiety when the tragedy became known to her, and did not forget Sir Charles Dyke’s amazement at the suggestion that his old playmate might prove to be responsible for the death of his wife.
He produced the waxen moulds of the piece of iron found on the body at Putney, and the ornamental scroll from which it had been taken.
At this bit of evidence Mr. White’s complacency forsook him. Thus far he had experienced a feeling of resentment against Bruce for having concealed from him so much that was material to their investigation.
But when he realized that a powerful link in the chain of events had all along been placidly resting before his eyes his distress was evident, and the barrister came to his rescue.
“You are not to blame, White,” he said, “for having failed to note many things which I have now told you. You are the slave of a system. Your method works admirably for the detection of commonplace crime, but as soon as the higher region of romance is reached it is as much out of place as a steam-roller in a lady’s boudoir. Look at the remarkable series of crimes the English police have failed to solve of late, merely because some bizarre element had intruded itself at the outset. Have you ever read any of the works of Edgar Allan Poe?”
The detective answered in the affirmative. “The Murders of the Rue Morgue” and “The Mystery of Marie Roget” were familiar to him.
“Well,” went on Bruce, “there you have the accurate samples of my meaning. Poe would not have been puzzled for an hour by the vagaries of Jack the Ripper. He would have said at once – most certainly after the third or fourth in the series of murders – ‘This is the work of an athletic lunatic, with a morbid love of anatomy and a morbid hatred of a certain class of women. Seek for him among young men who have pestered doctors with outrageous theories, and who possess weak-minded or imbecile relatives.’ Then, again, take the murder on the South-Western Railway. Do you think Poe would have gone questioning bar-tenders or inquiring into abortive love affairs? Not he! Jealous swains do not carry pestles about with them to slay their sweethearts, nor do they choose a four-minutes’ interval between suburban stations for frenzied avowals of their passion. Here you have the clear trail of a clever lunatic, dropping from the skies, as it were, and disappearing in the same erratic manner. That is why I tell you most emphatically that neither you nor I have yet the remotest conception as to who really killed Lady Dyke.”
“Surely things look black now against this Mensmore?”
“Do they? How would it have fared with an acquaintance of one of the unfortunate women killed by Jack the Ripper had the police found him in the locality with fresh blood-stains on his clothes? What would have resulted from the discovery of a chemist’s mortar among the possessions of one of Elizabeth Camp’s male friends? Come now, be honest, and tell me.”
But Mr. White could only smoke in silence.
“Therefore,” continued Bruce, “let us ask ourselves why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit the crime. Personally, notwithstanding all that we apparently know against him circumstantially, I should hardly believe Mensmore if he confessed himself to be the murderer!”
“Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce?”
“Because Mensmore is normal and this crime abnormal. Because the man who would blow out his brains on account of losses at pigeon-shooting never had brains enough to dispose of the body in such fashion. Because Mensmore, having temporarily changed his name for some trivial reason, would never resume it with equal triviality with this shadow upon his life.”
“Then why have you told me all these things that tell so heavily against him?”
“In order that, this time at least, you may feel that the production of a pair of handcuffs does not satisfactorily settle the entire business.”
“I promise there shall be no more arrests until this affair is much more decided than it is at present.”
“Good. I shall make a detective of you after my own heart in time.”
“Yet I cannot help being surprised at the very strange fact that his own sister should seem to suspect him!”
“Ah! Now you have struck the true line. Why did she have that fear? There I am with you entirely. Let us ascertain that and I promise you an important development. Mrs. Hillmer and Mensmore are both concerned in the disappearance of Lady Dyke, yet neither knew that she had disappeared, and both are deeply upset by it, for Mrs. Hillmer flies off to warn her brother, and the brother posts back to London the moment it comes to his ears through her. There, you see, we have a key which may unlock many doors. For Heaven’s sake let it not be battered out of shape the instant it reaches our hands.”
But Mr. White was quite humble. “As I have told you,” he said, “I have done with the battering process.”
“I am sure of it. And now listen to the most remarkable fact that has yet come to light. Lady Dyke’s body was taken from Raleigh Mansions to Putney in a four-wheeler. The cabman was forthwith locked up by the police and clapped into prison for three months. He was released yesterday, and will be here within the next quarter of an hour.”
The detective’s hair nearly rose on end at this statement.
“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?”
“That is the last shot in my locker.”
“I’m jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you would say was that you did the job yourself.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you thought that; eh, my friend?”
White positively blushed.
“Oh! that’s chaff,” he said. “But why the dickens did the police lock up this cabman – the only witness we could lay our hands upon? Why, I myself questioned every cabman in the vicinity several times.”
“Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the journey, and subsequently thought he was Phaeton driving the chariot of the sun. But, there, he will tell you himself. I met him yesterday morning outside Holloway Jail, and persuaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not gone on the spree again with disastrous results.”
The entrance of Smith – obviously relieved to see his master and the “tec” on such good terms – to announce the arrival of “Mr. William Marsh,” settled any doubts as to the cabman’s intentions, and his appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three months “hard” had made the cab-driver a new man.
Recognition was mutual between him and Mr. White.
“Hello, Foxey,” cried the latter. “It’s you, is it?”
“Me it is, guv’nor; but I didn’t know there was to be a ‘cop’ here” – this with a suspicious glance at Bruce and a backward movement towards the door.
“Do not be alarmed,” said the barrister; “this gentleman’s presence implies no trouble for you. We want you to help us, and if you do so willingly I will make up that lost fiver you received for driving two people to Putney the night you were arrested.”
The poor old cabman became very confused on hearing this staggering remark. Up to that moment he regarded Bruce as the agent for a charitable association, and there was no harm, he told his “missus,” in trying to “knock him for a bit.”
He stood nervously fumbling with his hat, but did not answer. White knew how to deal with him.
“Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You need one to cheer you up. Answer this gentleman’s questions. He means you no harm.”
“Honor bright?”
“Honor bright.”
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. No soda, thank you, sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that’s better stuff ’n they keep in Holloway.”
Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling them what he knew. Substantially, his story was identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.
“Can you describe the gentleman?” said the barrister.
“No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and well-dressed, and talked in the ’aw-’aw style. It might ha’ been yerself for all I could tell.”
“Do you think it was I?”
Foxey scratched his head.
“No, p’r’aps it wasn’t, now I come to rec’llect. He ’ad a moustache, and you ’aven’t. Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you ’ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor, an’ this chap wasn’t neither – just an every-day sort of toff.”
“Could you swear to him if you saw him?”
“That I couldn’t, sir. I am a rare ’and at langwidge, but I couldn’t manage that.”
“Why?”
“Because that night, sir, I were as full as a tick when I started. Lord love you, it must ’ave poured out of me afterwards when I started fightin’ coppers. Mr. White, ’e knows, I ain’t no fightin’ man as a rule.”
“And the lady? Did you see her?”
“No, sir. Leastways, I seed a bundle which I took to be a lydy, but her face was covered up with a shawl, and she was lyin’ ’eavy in ’is arms as though she was mortal bad. He tell’d me she was sick.”
“Did he? Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure it was a shawl?”
A vacuous smile spread over Foxey’s countenance as he answered, “I ain’t sure of anythink that ’appened that night.”
“But were you not surprised when a man hired your cab under such peculiar circumstances, and paid you such a high fare?”
“We four-wheelers are surprised at nothink, sir. You don’t know all wot goes on in kebs. Why, once crossin’ Waterloo Bridge – ”
“Never mind Waterloo Bridge, Foxey,” put in the detective. “Keep your wits fixed on as much as you can remember of November 6.”
“Where did he tell you to drive to?” went on Bruce.
“Just Putney. I was to drive my’ardest. I recollect wantin’ to pull up at the Three Bells, but ’e put ’is ’ead out an’ said, ‘Go on, driver. I am awfully late already.’ So on I went.”
“Where did you stop?”
“I don’t know no more than the child unborn. By that time the drink was yeastin’ up in me. The fare kept me on the road ’e wanted by shoutin’. When we pulled up, ’e carries ’er into a lane. There was a big ’ouse there. I know that all right. After a bit ’e comes back and tips me a fiver. With that I whips up the old ’oss and gets back to the Three Bells. You know the rest, as the girl said when she axed the Bench to – ”
“Yes, we know the rest,” interrupted Bruce, “but I fear you are not able to help us much.”
“This isn’t a five-pun’ job, eh, guv’nor?” said Foxey anxiously.
“Hardly at present. We shall see. Can you say exactly where you drew up your cab when the lady was carried into it?”
“Sure as death,” replied the cabman, in the hope that his information might yet be valuable. “It was outside Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square.”
“We know that – ”
“It seems to me, sir, as ye know as much about the business as I do,” broke in Marsh.
“Were you in the Square or in Sloane Street?”
“In Sloane Street, of course. Right away from the Square.”
“Not so very far away, surely.”
Foxey was doubtful. His memory was hazy, and he feared lest he should be mistaken. “No, no,” he said quickly, “not far, but still well in the street.”
“Were there many people about?”
“You could ’ardly tell, sir; it was that foggy and nasty. If the lydy ’ad bin dead nobody would ’ave noticed ’er that night.”
“Did any one besides yourself see the gentleman carrying the lady into the cab?”
“I think not. I don’t remember anybody passin’ at the time.”
“Did the gentleman keep your cab waiting long at the kerb before he brought the lady out?”
“It might ’a’ bin a minute or two?”
“No longer?”
“Well, sir, it’s ’ard for me to say, especially after bein’ away for a change of ’ealth, so to speak.”
“Did not the lady speak or move in any manner?”
“Not so far as I know, sir.”
“And do you mean to tell me that, although you had been drinking, you were not astonished at the whole business?”
“I never axes my fares any questions ’cept when they says ‘By the hour.’ Then I wants to know a bit.”
“Yes; but this carrying of a lady out of a house in such fashion – did not this strike you as strange?”
“Strange, bless your ’eart, sir. You ought to see me cartin’ ’em off from the Daffodil Club after a big night – three and four in one keb, all blind, paralytic.”
“No doubt; but this was not the Daffodil Club at daybreak. It was a respectable neighborhood at seven o’clock, or thereabouts, on a winter’s evening.”
“It ain’t my fault,” said Foxey doggedly. “Wot was wrong with the lydy? Was it a habduction?”
“The lady was dead – murdered, we believe.”
The cabman’s face grew livid with anxiety.
“Oh, crikey, Mr. White,” he cried, addressing the detective, “I knew nothink about it.”
“No one says you did, Foxey,” was the reply. “Don’t be frightened. We just want you to help us as far as you can, and not to get skeered and lose your wits.”
Thus reassured, Marsh mopped his head and said solemnly:
“I will do wot lies in my power, gentlemen both, but I wish I ’adn’t bin so blamed drunk that night.”
“You say you would not recognize your fare if you saw him,” continued Bruce. “Could you tell us, if you were shown a certain person, that he was not the man? You might not be sure of the right man, but you might be sure regarding the wrong one.”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t Mr. White, and it wasn’t a lot of other people I know. I think if I saw the man who really got into my keb, I would be able to swear that ’e was like him, at any rate.”
“All right. That will do for the present. Leave us your address, so that we may find you again if necessary. Here is a sovereign for you.”
When Marsh had gone, Bruce turned to the detective.
“Well,” he said, “if Mensmore were here now, I suppose you would want to lock him up.”
“No,” admitted White sadly; “the more I learn about this affair the more mixed it becomes. Still, I don’t deny but I shall be glad to have Mensmore’s explanation of his movements at that time. And so will you, Mr. Bruce.”
CHAPTER XXII
A WILFUL MURDER
Bruce sent a telegram to Mrs. Hillmer at Paris. “Matters satisfactorily arranged pending your arrival,” he wired, and early on Monday morning he received a reply:
“Due Charing Cross 7.30 P.M. Will drive straight to your chambers with my brother.
“Gwendoline Hillmer.”
He forwarded the message with a note to the detective, asking him to be present.
About one o’clock Corbett turned up.
“Guess I slept well last night after the excitement,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You seemed to skeer those chaps more with a few words, Mr. Bruce, than I did with a revolver.”
“The English police are not so much afraid of revolvers as they are of making mistakes,” was the answer.
“Now, is that so? On our side they wouldn’t have stopped to argy. Both of ’em would have drawn on me at once.”
“Then I am glad, for everybody’s sake, Mr. Corbett, that the affair happened in London.”
“Why, sure. But tell me. Has my friend Mensmore been getting himself into trouble?”
“Not so much as it looks. Others appear to have involved him without his knowledge, and he has lent color to the accusations by involuntary actions of a suspicious nature.”
“Well, if it is permissible, I should like to hear the straight story.”
Under the circumstances, Bruce thought that this stranger from America had a right to know why he was in danger of being arrested during his first twenty-four hours’ residence in the country, so he gave him a succinct narrative of the prima facie case against Mensmore.
Corbett listened in silence to the recital. When it ended he said:
“Mr. Bruce, my friend was incapable of murdering any woman. He was equally incapable of conducting any discreditable liaison with any woman. I have known him for years, and a straighter, truer, more honorable man I never met. I don’t know what his reason was for assuming my name, which he undoubtedly did, as the agent called this morning, and I find the flat is taken in my name.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, just that Mensmore had acted for me. The man seemed a bit puzzled, but he didn’t kick when I offered to pay up the rent owing since Christmas, and another quarter in advance.”
“I don’t suppose he did. The rent was due, then?”
“Yes. It seems that Mensmore, writing in my name, sent a letter from Monte Carlo a month ago, saying he would return about this time and settle up.”
“Thus proving his intention all along to come back to London. It is a queer muddle, Mr. Corbett, is it not?”
“Very; but you will pardon me, as an outsider, saying one thing – you all appear to have overlooked a clear trail.”
“And what is that?”
“What about Mrs. Hillmer? Who is she? Who are her friends? Who maintains her in such style? Bertie was with me four years and never mentioned her name. She could not have been rich by inheritance, as it was on account of their father going broke that Mensmore had to leave the Army and come to the States. It strikes me, Mr. Bruce, that the woman knows more about this affair than the man.”
“You may be right. But do not forget the absolute proofs we possess that the crime occurred in Mensmore’s chambers, and the extraordinary coincidence that he left England immediately afterwards.”
“I am not forgetting anything. Those facts tell both ways. Just because he quitted the country at the time somebody may have tried to throw the blame on him.”
The theory was plausible, though Bruce could not accept it. Nevertheless, after Corbett had taken his departure he could not help thinking about his references to Mrs. Hillmer. That there was force in them he could not deny, and with the admission came the unpleasant thought that perhaps he, Bruce, was in some sense responsible for the neglect to clear up her antecedents.
However, a few hours might explain much.
With unwonted impatience the barrister awaited the coming of night. He tried every expedient to kill time, and found each operation tedious.
He dined early, and as half-past seven came and passed he wondered why the detective did not appear.
But his doubts on this point did not last long.
“White is looking at Charing Cross to make sure of their arrival,” he said to himself.
At ten minutes to eight the detective came in hurriedly.
“They will be here directly,” he announced. “A servant has taken their luggage to Mrs. Hillmer’s place, and they are evidently driving straight here after taking some refreshment at the station.”
“Have you no faith in human nature, Mr. White? Could you not trust their words?”
“Well, sir, my experience of human nature is that you can very seldom trust anybody’s word.”
At last Smith announced Mrs. Hillmer and Mr. Mensmore.
When they entered Bruce was for the moment at a loss to know exactly how to receive them.
But Mrs. Hillmer settled the matter by greeting him with a quiet “Good-evening,” and seating herself. Mensmore stood near the door, very pale and stern-looking.
“It appears, Mr. Bruce,” he said, “that we met in Monte Carlo under false pretences. You were, it seems, a detective on the track of a murderer, and you were good enough to believe that I was the person you sought. It would have saved some misconception on my part had you explained our rôles earlier. However, I am here, to meet the charge.”
Claude was not unprepared for this attitude on Mensmore’s part. But he was determined that it should not continue if he could help it.
“When we parted at Monte Carlo, Mensmore,” he said, “we parted as friends.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what has happened since to cause this obvious change in your opinion of me?”
“Is it not true that you suspect me of murdering Lady Dyke?”
“No.”
“But why has my sister been told that I ran serious risk of being apprehended on that account?”
“Because we certainly did suspect a mysterious personage who called himself Sydney H. Corbett, and whose behavior was so unaccountable that the authorities required a reasonable explanation of it.”
“Do I understand, Bruce, that we meet with no more suspicion between us than when we last saw each other?”
“Most certainly.”
“Then I ask your pardon for my manner and words. I have suffered keenly during the last three days from this cruel thought. Let us shake hands on it.”
As their hands met they both heard Mrs. Hillmer stifle a sob. Mensmore turned to her.
“Now, Gwen,” he said, “don’t be foolish. We will soon clear up this miserable business. So far as we are concerned, all we need to do is to tell the truth and fear nobody.”
“That’s it,” said White. “If you adopt that course the matter will soon be ended.”
Mensmore turned to the speaker. He guessed his identity, but Bruce introduced the detective by name.
“Well,” said Mensmore, “I have come here to answer questions. What is it you want to know?”
Mr. White glanced at the barrister, and the other explained.
“I have, as you may already realize, taken more than a passive interest in this inquiry, so the questioning largely devolves on me. First, tell me why you adopted the name of Corbett?”
“Simply enough, though stupid, I now admit. When I returned from the States I was very hard up, but managed to pick up a subsistence by writing for the sporting press, and occasionally backing horses. But I knew this could not last, so I tried to secure some financial interests in the City. In doing so I made the acquaintance of a man named Dodge, and committed myself to the underwriting of a new venture named the Springbok Mine. This fell through at the time, and with this collapse came other demands. I hate being worried by creditors, so when my sister offered to take and furnish a flat for me, near her own, I thought I would live quietly for a time and conceal my name so as to have peace there at any rate. Therefore, I assumed the name of a friend in America, little thinking that I should land both him and myself into such trouble by doing it. That is the explanation. By the way, what has happened to Corbett?”
“He is all right. He expects to see you to-night. You know Sir Charles Dyke, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Intimately?”
“Well, no, not exactly. He and I were at school together at Brighton, at Childe’s place.”
“At Brighton?”
“Yes. I was a little chap when Dyke was a senior. After he left, the headmaster changed the school to a place called Seton Lodge, at Putney, on account of cramming operations for Army exams.”
“Then you were at Putney?”
“Yes, for two years.”
“And Dyke was not?”
“No; that I am sure of.”
“Have you and Sir Charles been friendly since?”
Mensmore’s face hardened somewhat as he answered, “I have seen very little of him, and hardly ever spoken to him.”
“Why? Did you quarrel?”
“N-no, but we just did not happen to meet. Bear in mind, I was in business some years ago, and I am not yet thirty.”
“Did you know his wife?”
“I have never, to my knowledge, seen her.”
“How, then, can you account for the fact that she visited your flat at Raleigh Mansions on November 6.”
“I say that such a statement is mere nonsense.”
“But if it can be proved?”
“It cannot.”
“I assure you, on my honor, that it can.”
“But look here, Bruce. Why should she come to see me? I question greatly if she knew of my existence.”
“Nevertheless, it is the fact.”
“I can only tell you it is not. I left London on November 8, and on the two previous evenings I dined alone. Mrs. Robinson, my housekeeper, can tell you that not another soul entered my flat for a week prior to my departure, except my sister and – and – I had forgotten – some workmen.”
“Some workmen?”
“Yes; some fellows from a furniture warehouse.”
“What were they doing?”
“Well, don’t you see, I told you I was not well off, and my sister furnished my flat for me, in August last that was, but the drawing-room was left bare for a time. Just before I left for France she decided to refurnish her drawing-room, and she gave me the whole fit-out. The things were brought in by the men who brought her purchases.”
At this astounding revelation Bruce and the detective were utterly taken aback. It was with difficulty that the barrister enunciated his next words clearly.
“Can you tell me with absolute certainty the date of this change of the furniture?”
“Oh yes. It was the day before I started for the Riviera; that must have been November 7.”
“Are you positive of this?”
“Undoubtedly. Is it a matter of importance? Gwen, you know all about it. Besides, the bills for your new furniture will show the exact date of delivery, and it was the same day.”
Mrs. Hillmer’s face was hidden by her veil, but she nodded silently.
Three people in the room knew the significance of Mensmore’s straightforward words; he alone was unaware of the direction towards which the investigation now tended.
“Let us analyze the matter carefully,” said Bruce, who had recovered his self-possession, though he was almost terrified at the possibilities of the situation. “Did the whole of the contents of your drawing-room come from your sister’s flat?”
“Every stick. There was nothing there before but the bare boards.”
“Do you remember a handsome ornamental fender being among these articles?”
“Perfectly. My housekeeper said the men broke it during the transit. They denied this, and looked for the piece chipped off, but could not find it. She told me about it that night.”
“Did you mention it to Mrs. Hillmer?”
“No. To tell the honest truth, Gwen and I had quarrelled a couple of days before. That is to say, we disagreed seriously about a certain matter, and it was this which led to my making off to Monte Carlo. Therefore it was hardly likely I should mention such a trivial matter to her.”
“May I ask what you quarrelled about?”
“I have told her since that it ought to be made known, but she has implored me not to reveal it, so I cannot. But she will tell you herself that we agreed I should be at liberty to make this guarded explanation.”
Bruce and the detective exchanged glances of wondering comprehension.
“I do not think we need question Mr. Mensmore further,” said the barrister to White.
“No,” was the reply. “The matter is clear enough. Mrs. Hillmer must tell us how that furniture came to be transferred from her premises on the morning of the 7th.”
“If she chooses.”
The barrister’s tone was sad, and its ominous significance was not lost on his hearers.
Mrs. Hillmer raised her veil. Her face was deathly pale and tense in its fixed agony. But in her eyes was a light which gave a curious aspect of resolve to her otherwise painful aspect of utter grief.
“I do not choose,” she said quietly, looking, not at Bruce or the detective, but at her brother.
For a little while no one spoke. Mensmore at last broke out eagerly:
“Don’t act absurdly, Gwen. I cannot even guess where all this talk about the furniture is leading us, but I do know that you are as innocent of any complicity in Lady Dyke’s death as I am, so it is better for you to help forward the inquiry than to retard it.”
“I am not innocent,” said Mrs. Hillmer, her words falling with painful distinctness upon the ears of the three men. “Heaven help me! I am responsible for it!”
Her brother started to his feet, and caught her by the shoulder.
“What folly is this,” he cried. “Do you know what you are saying?”
“Fully. My words are like sledge-hammers. I will forever feel their weight. I tell you I am responsible for the death of Lady Dyke.”