Dorcas Dene, Detective
Her Adventures

Second Series

by George R. Sims

Table of Contents

I.	THE MISSING PRINCE
II.	THE MORGANATIC WIFE
III.	THE HOUSE IN REGENT'S PARK
IV.	THE CO-RESPONDENT
V.	THE HANDKERCHIEF SACHET
VI.	A BANK HOLIDAY MYSTERY
VII.	A PIECE OF BROWN PAPER
VIII.	PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN
IX.	THE ONE WHO KNEW

I. THE MISSING PRINCE

I was talking to Mr. Alfred Moul, the amiable manager of the Alhambra, and complimenting him upon the new decorations of the theatre, but he was not listening to what I said. I saw at once that he had something on his mind, so using the privilege of an old friend I asked him what was worrying him.

"That," he said, pointing to the big box usually reserved for royalty.

"But there's nobody in it."

"Exactly—that's why I'm worried. I received an intimation yesterday that the box was to be reserved for his Royal Highness Prince —— of ——, who is in London for a few days, and it is now a quarter to ten and his Royal Highness has not turned up. The ballet was due to commence at 9.30, and I can't put it off any longer. You'll excuse me, won't you—I must go and tell Jacobi to start the overture—I can't keep a packed house waiting for a foreign prince if he is the heir to a throne!"

Mr. Moul left me, and a few minutes later Mr. Jacobi, all smiles, took the place he has occupied for so many years, and, tapping on his desk, commenced the long-overdue overture to the gorgeous ballet which was attracting all London to the Alhambra.

I had come to see Mr. Moul privately on a matter of business. I had seen the ballet on the night of its production, and so I turned to go away. As I jostled my way through the crowded promenade I felt a tug at my coat sleeve, and looking round I recognised a detective inspector who had assisted Dorcas Dene on one or two occasions, and to whom I had been introduced at Oak Tree Road.

"Mrs. Dene saw you talking to Mr. Moul just now, Mr. Saxon," he said, "and she told me to bring you to her."

"Mrs. Dene here," I exclaimed.

"No—she was, but she left. She's waiting for us at the Cavour. We are going to have some supper, and she hopes you will join us."

A minute later I was seated at a quiet corner table with Dorcas and Inspector Carr, and the smiling and ever courteous Philippe was personally attending to our wants, and impressing upon the waiter who was taking our orders that everything was to be soigné.

"Now," I said to Dorcas, as soon as the menu had been settled and the waiter had brought us the wine, "what on earth were you doing at the Alhambra?"

"I went to see if the Prince was going to occupy his box."

"And he didn't. I really don't see what personal interest you can have in the matter, which after all is not a very remarkable one. Probably his Royal Highness has another engagement and couldn't get away."

Dorcas looked at the inspector, and the inspector replied for her.

"The fact is, Mr. Saxon," he said, "Mrs. Dene and myself are trying to fathom one of the greatest mysteries of modern times, and we've just come to the point where we want the assistance of a linguist. Mrs. Dene, directly she saw you at the Alhambra, said you were the very man to help us."

"I am very much obliged," I replied, nodding gratefully to Dorcas, "but it is evidently a police matter by your being concerned in it, and you have plenty of linguists on the staff at the Yard?"

"Yes, and as a matter of fact they are, most of them, at the present moment busily engaged in trying to solve the mystery for themselves. But I am particularly anxious to score in this matter, and being sure that the others are quite on the wrong scent, I went to Mrs. Dene, for whose talents you know I have always had an intense admiration, and told her the case and my view. She started another theory altogether, and I was so struck by it that I abandoned mine and took hers up. That is why we were together at the Alhambra when we so fortunately discovered you."

"I am a bit of a linguist," I replied when the inspector had finished, "but Greek is not one of my accomplishments, and up to the present, all you have said is Greek to me. Tell me what the case is in plain English."

Dorcas laughed. "In plain English," she said, "his Royal Highness Prince —— of —— left his hotel yesterday evening unaccompanied by any member of the small suite he has with him, and he has not been seen or heard of since."

"A Royal Prince lost in London!" I exclaimed, dropping the piece of grilled fowl which I had just raised on my fork. "Impossible! That sort of thing can only happen in a new Arabian Night."

"There is so little impossibility about it," said the inspector gravely, "that the suite are distracted. The news has been telegraphed to the Prince's relatives, and communications are passing hourly between the secret police of —— and our chiefs. There are twenty detectives at the present moment searching London, in the hope of discovering his Royal Highness's whereabouts. This morning, immediately on receipt of the news, the chief of the police in the Prince's capital, accompanied by half a dozen officers, started for England."

"But there has been nothing in the newspapers?"

"No—so far the secret has been admirably kept. There are strong political reasons why the matter should not be divulged. The Prince is the heir to the throne, and the rumour that he had disappeared might lead to the gravest consequences in his capital."

"But after all," I said, "it may not be serious. The Prince is young—if report speaks truly, he is also flighty, and fond of adventure. He may be amusing himself."

"No," said Dorcas, emphatically, "that story won't hold water for a moment. Had he intended to absent himself for private amusement, he would certainly have communicated with the distinguished officer who is in attendance upon him. He would know that his absence would cause alarm, and lead to police inquiries, and he would not risk that. His Royal Highness is unable to communicate the reason of his mysterious absence, and therefore he must be either lying somewhere too ill to make his identity known, or he must be in the power of those who prevent him from sending a message."

"How did he go out—in what dress?" I asked.

"In ordinary evening dress. He speaks English fluently, and knows London fairly well. Princes do not carry large sums of money about with them, because they are not in the habit of paying cash. His valet declares that he had not more than five pounds in money about him at the most."

"Did he say where he was going when he went out?"

"No. It was ten o'clock. He had dined quietly in his apartments at the hotel—our own Royal Family, you know, are all away from London—and after dinner he said he was going for a stroll through the streets. He did not desire to be accompanied by anyone."

"And no one has seen him since he left the hotel last night?"

"No one, so far as can be ascertained. He is not sufficiently well known to attract special attention as a prince, and in evening dress he would pass easily as an ordinary English gentleman. But from ten last night until the present moment all trace of him has been lost. He has dropped completely and suddenly out of existence."

We had finished our supper, and M. Philippe had ordered us some coffee, and had brought us a bottle of liqueur brandy from the Emperor Napoleon's cellar, and Dorcas had given us permission to light our cigarettes.

"Well," I said, after I had puffed my smoke into several rings, and gazed thoughtfully into the centre of each, "the Prince has disappeared, the entire detective force of London has started in hot pursuit of him, but Mrs. Dorcas Dene and Mr. Inspector Carr are going to find him. When?"

"To-night, we hope," replied Dorcas, shaking her head as the inspector offered to fill her liqueur glass.

"That's all right; and you have done me the distinguished honour of inviting me to join in the search because I speak one or two foreign languages. What language do you want me to speak?"

"None."

I stared in astonishment. "If I am to speak none, what use will my knowledge be to you?"

"You can listen," replied Dorcas, "and tell us afterwards what you have heard. It may be in French, it may be in German, it may be in Italian."

"I understand. But how are you going to arrange that people shall talk in these languages before me, and on the subject in which you are interested?"

"That is Mr. Carr's task," said Dorcas. "He will introduce you into certain society this evening and arrange for your safety."

"And you really think we shall unravel the mystery of the Prince's disappearance to-night?"

"I hope so. But whether we shall be able to manage entirely by ourselves depends upon how far my theory is correct. Inspector Carr wants to bring off a big thing, you see. He wants to be able to inform his Chief that Prince —— of —— is back at the hotel, and have all the credit of having restored the heir to the throne of —— to his friends without the slightest reference to his disappearance finding its way into the Press."

"The truth is, Mr. Saxon, that my Chief has given this job to the foreign lot at the Yard, and I can't see that they are any cleverer than we Englishmen. I want an English detective to do this job, because it's a very big one, and there's a lot hanging to it. I want to show them that an English detective is quite as clever as a foreigner, and I think, with Mrs. Dene's help, and you to do the 'lingo,' I may pull it off. At any rate, we'll have a good try. I'm working with Dorcas Dene, and I reckon she's worth all the foreigners in our place put together."

"That's a very big compliment you are paying me, Mr. Carr," said Dorcas, smiling. "However, I think my information with regard to the Prince has been of some use to you, and if my idea is correct, we may not have such a difficult task after all. But we'd better be going."

The inspector wanted to pay the bill, but I insisted on making the supper mine, and having bidden Philippe good-night, we took our departure.

In Leicester Square we found a four-wheeled cab waiting for us. Directly we were in the cab the detective handed me a revolver.

"You'd better slip that into your pocket in case of accidents," he said, "but don't use it if you can help."

The cab went on for a little while, and then stopped suddenly, and looking out of the window I saw we were in Soho Square.

The inspector asked us to get out, and we walked round the square, we two smoking, and Dorcas between us. The square was in darkness and quite deserted, as Soho Square generally is late at night.

Presently we saw a female coming slowly round the square. Dorcas took my arm and led me across the road. The detective went on into the shadow, and the female figure stopped close by him.

"What is it?" I said. "Does this woman know where the Prince is?"

"No, she hasn't an idea what we are after. She is the English wife of a foreign Anarchist who lives in London. Mr. Carr knows her. She is devotedly attached to her husband, and at the present moment she is bargaining for his life."

"For his life?"

"Yes, he is wanted by the foreign police. Carr found out two or three days ago where to lay his hand on him. If he is taken and sent back to Madrid, where he was concerned in an outrage, his death is a certainty. I advised Mr. Carr to get at the wife and make terms. I wanted certain information to act upon to-night. If she gives that information it may be the means of our finding the Prince. For that information Mr. Carr is promising the poor creature that her husband shall be allowed to escape."

"Can you promise that?"

"Yes—our Government won't mind letting off an Anarchist if the result is what I confidently anticipate it will be."

"And that result——?"

"Will be the execution of five of the most dangerous men in Europe."

"Are they all in London, then—these five men?"

"No, they are all in prison on the Continent. They are to be executed the day after to-morrow at seven o'clock in the morning."

"You mean the five Anarchists concerned in the —— outrage. What on earth can all this have to do with the mysterious disappearance of Prince —— of —— in London?"

"If I am wrong in my theory—nothing. If I am right—everything. But here comes the inspector, and I hope with good news."

There was no doubt about the nature of the detective's news. His first words settled that. "Got 'em," he said, "but we must make haste, the meeting's at one o'clock."

"Where?" said Dorcas.

"Round the watchman's fire where the road's up in Kennington Lane. Old Charley's information as to their last meeting was correct, you see."

"Excellent! Then now the arrangements you made this afternoon in anticipation will have to be carried out?"

"Yes—I told you if your idea was right I could guess the gang that were in it. I saw old Charley the watchman, and told him I'd give him a fiver to let me hide, but of course it wouldn't have been any good, because I don't understand their language, but Mr. Saxon can manage that splendidly."

I began to realise what was expected of me, and I didn't relish the situation.

"It's all right," said the inspector; "the only light is old Charley's bucket of coke and the dull red lamps on the barriers. You'll be railed off with poles lying in a hole in the roadway and a tarpaulin over that, and the tilted-up truck that he makes his shelter with will be in front of you—and I shall be there with you, so there's not the slightest occasion for alarm. If it comes to that I'll have a couple of plain clothes men round the corner out of sight ready to run up when I whistle, but of course I want to avoid that if possible. All I want to do to-night is to know what these men say—not to take any of them."

"But are you sure you can rely on the watchman—he might betray us!"

"Not a bit of it. He lodged in a house with one of them—that's how they got to know him. They come and sit on a plank across two barrels in front of the fire and talk. All he gets out of them is a sup at the brandy bottle and some baccy. I've promised him a fiver. Come along."

We got into the cab again, and I began to clutch my revolver. I was half sorry I had gone to the Alhambra. I couldn't back out of the thing now without appearing a coward.

Dorcas, I think, guessed I was nervous, and reassured me. She had every confidence in the inspector, who was an old hand with desperate men, and she was sure I was quite safe with him. She strongly advised no extra aid being had, as it would cause delay. After all, there were three of us, for the watchman would be on the side of the police.

When we got to within a couple of streets of the place, we got out. Dorcas was to keep the cab, and drive to a square in the neighbourhood and wait for us. The cab was driven by her regular man, so that she would be all right.

It was half-past twelve when the inspector, after a short and hurried conversation with a night-watchman sitting in front of his coke fire where the road was up in Kennington Lane, pointed out to us our place of concealment. We had to get down into the cavity commenced for the re-drainage. Fortunately it was deep enough for us to stand upright in. The tarpaulin was not necessary. By placing a couple of planks across with a space between we were completely hidden. The men might have walked over our heads and never suspected our presence.

Old Charley, by the detective's directions, shifted his truck and his fire back so as to bring the plank on which the men would sit quite close to our hiding-place. They would sit with their backs towards us. Buttoning our over-coats closely to we descended into our quarters, and were duly planked in.

It seemed an hour before there were signs of an arrival, but the conspirators were punctual, for as the clock was striking one they commenced to arrive. I guessed there were four of them by the different voices I heard. One, I gathered from the conversation, which was entirely in French, had arrived from Manchester only a couple of hours previously, in obedience to a telegram which had been sent him.

The conversation was not particularly intelligible to me at first. The men made mysterious allusions which would have been puzzling to me in English, but which in a foreign language were absolutely beyond my comprehension.

At first they muttered a good deal, the habit of caution being strong upon them, but gradually they became animated, and secure in the impossibility of Old Charley understanding a word they said, and the utter loneliness of the place at that hour in the morning, they began to talk with greater freedom and in a louder tone.

Their conversation was principally directed to the fate of their comrades, the five Anarchists who were lying under sentence of death, and whose execution was a matter now of some thirty hours.

"We will save them," said the man who seemed to be the ruling spirit; "our brave comrades shall not die—we may even compel the Government to set them secretly at liberty."

The man from Manchester, who was evidently considerably in the dark as yet, said he was glad to hear it, but what did they propose to do—threaten to blow up London or Paris, or what?

"No," replied the leader, "threats are of no avail. We have tried all that, and the only result is that the friends of Anarchy are everywhere driven out by the police authorities, and many of those who have to fly are innocent men and only with us in sympathy."

"Then what will you do?" asked the Manchester Anarchist. "We are a thousand miles away. What can we in London do to paralyse the arm of a foreign government?"

"Hold a hostage," growled the leader, and the others growled in approval.

"And where are you to find the hostage?"

"We have found him. That is why we have summoned you, who are one of the Council of Determination for England."

"Found a hostage—it must be a big one to save our comrades."

"It is a big one. We have done a thing which will ring through the world, and make the Governments of Europe grow pale, and tyrants tremble on their thrones. We have at our mercy the heir to the throne of ——."

I gripped the detective's arm in my excitement.

"Prince —— at your mercy! Yes, I remember he is in London. You will threaten to assassinate him—but that is no good. He will be watched and guarded—the police will surround him day and night."

"It is too late. He is already our prisoner."

"Your prisoner! Bravo—bravissimo! But, thunder of Heaven, how have you done that?"

"We have done it—it is enough."

"And where is he? If he has disappeared the police must be moving heaven and earth to find him—if they suspect us every Anarchist in England will be arrested."

"They do not suspect us. The fools! they do not see our object. They think he has gone out of his mind or slipped off with a woman. We have heard their foreign spies talking. Ha! ha! what fools they are!"

"Then you have him safe where he is not likely to be found or to escape?"

"He will not be found. He cannot escape."

"Good. Then what do we do next?—for the hour draws near. There is but to-morrow between our comrades and the vengeance of the tyrants."

"To-morrow morning I telegraph in our agreed secret language to a comrade in France. He telegraphs from a small post-office in the country where they do not understand English his message in English to the Prince's father: 'If our five comrades do not receive a remission of the death sentence by midnight, and that remission is announced by official publication, of which our comrade in your capital will acquaint us, you have signed the death warrant of your son. He is in our power, and he will be assassinated at the hour fixed for the execution of our comrades. If you attempt to betray us or make use of this message, we may be taken, but your son will have ceased to live. Decide!"

"Excellent!" said the Anarchist from Manchester, "but the Prince's father has no power over the —— Government. They may execute our comrades all the same."

"No—the Prince is married to the sister of the Queen of ——. She cannot sign the death warrant of her sister's husband."

"And if our comrades are reprieved?"

"The Prince, if he gives us his oath to remain silent and give the police no clue which might lead to our identification, shall have his liberty. Are we not generous?"

"Too generous to the tyrants! Ah, it would be good to keep this royal scamp and hang him—I would be the hangman for nothing!"

"Our programme is settled then," said the leader. "Now each to his home a separate way. The police may tumble by accident on the truth, and it is well to be cautious and keep apart. I will see to the sending of the message at once. I will go to one of the chief offices that are open all night. I had to wait for the Council of Four—now we are agreed, I can act."

We heard the men move, and bid old Charley, who little suspected that he had been witness to a plot for the murder of the heir to a European throne—not one of the first importance, but a throne for all that—good night, and presently the last sound of footsteps had died away.

Then we crept out of our hiding-place, knowing that the darkness of the night covered us, and I told the inspector what I had heard.

"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed, "then Dorcas Dene was right after all. The Prince has been kidnapped by desperate Anarchists, and his life is at their mercy. Let us go to her at once. I am not sure, seeing how desperate the case is, that I dare keep this to myself—I ought to report it to my chief at once."

We found Dorcas and told her, and the inspector explained that he thought he ought to return to the Yard at once and report everything.

Dorcas looked up at the great detective quietly.

"I shouldn't do that if I were you," she said. "We should be losing time. It will be much better for you to find the Prince yourself and set him at liberty."

"But how—how can we find him?"

"It is simplicity itself," replied Dorcas, "now we know that four men have the secret. If you do as I suggest I think we shall have his Royal Highness sleeping a great deal more comfortably to-morrow night than he is at present."

Suddenly Dorcas grasped the inspector's arm.

"Look—that man—at the corner yonder. He is watching us."

The detective gave a quick glance. "It is the girl's husband!" he cried. "He was one of them."

II. THE MORGANATIC WIFE

The place was deserted.

The figure of the watching Anarchist, which for a moment had stood out clear and distinct as he came momentarily into the light of the opposite lamp-post, was now scarcely visible. He had drawn back and stood in the shadow of a doorway.

"He doesn't know we've seen him," said Dorcas under her breath. "If he knew he would have moved further away than that."

"Yes—but he's evidently watching us for some reason," exclaimed the Inspector. "The men separated and went in different directions—old Charley told us so when we came out of our hiding-place. Why has Vossche taken up his station there?"

"The explanation probably is that his road lay this way—he noticed a four-wheel cab stopping here and wondered what it was doing. Anarchism is a desperate game, and the men who play it see a possible danger in everything. He wanted to satisfy himself why the cab was waiting, and saw you and Mr. Saxon come across. He may know you or he may not, but he evidently means to keep here till we drive off."

"And what can he do then?"

"That depends. If he has recognised you as a Scotland Yard man he will at once take means to communicate with the others and inform them of the suspicious circumstances. But he may follow us."

"How can he? We're riding and he's on foot."

"The best thing for us to do is to drive off slowly. We shall find out then if he means following us and how he is going to do it."

Dorcas put her head out of the off-side window and said to the driver in a low voice, "Go on slowly."

The man gathered his reins together and let the horse go his own pace.

In a minute or two there was a slight jar on the springs behind.

"I thought he'd do that," said Dorcas, quietly pulling the window up so that the sound of our voices could not be carried outside. "Now you two, get ready. Turn the handles of the doors quietly and get ready to spring out. You can do it safely at the pace we're going, which is only a crawl. By the time you are out the man will be level with you or a foot or two ahead. Before he can jump off you can seize both his arms and secure him."

"We shan't get anything out of him," said the detective. "He's a desperate fellow, and would die rather than betray the cause."

"At any rate we can prevent him giving the others the tip. A hint to them that a Scotland Yard man had been seen in the neighbourhood of their meeting place to-night might be fatal to our chances of finding the Prince. Are you ready?"

We turned the door handles noiselessly.

"Now," said Dorcas, and the next minute we had made a jump for the roadway. I nearly fell, but recovered myself as the astonished cabman pulled up short. In a second the Inspector had Jean Vossche by one arm, and before he could cry out I had him by the other. As we dragged him from his uncomfortable perch he struggled like a madman, and we had to use both our hands to hold him.

Dorcas stepped quietly out of the cab, and came to our assistance. Slipping her hand into my pocket she pulled out the revolver and pressed the cold muzzle to the Anarchist's forehead.

"Don't make a noise," she said, "and please don't move. I'm not used to firearms, and it might go off."

The man, recovering himself with an effort, gasped out in broken English, "What I do?—I only ride behind your dam cab! Let me go!"

"Sorry we can't oblige you, Mr. Jean Vossche. We've room for one inside—you'll be much more comfortable there. But as it's dark, and you're a reckless sort of beggar, I'll just slip the darbies on you. I didn't know I should want them, but 'It's always handy to have 'em in the house,' as the song says."

With a dexterity born of long practice, Inspector Carr slipped the handcuffs on his prisoner, and taking the revolver from Dorcas, politely pointed to the interior of the cab.

"He'll kick a bit, perhaps," said the Inspector to Dorcas. "You'd better get up by the driver. I'm going to deposit him at the nearest police-station—there's one just round the corner."

"Then I'll walk," said Dorcas, "and join you there. Do you know the officer on duty?"

"If I don't he'll know me. We can have a chat with our friend if you want it, but he's safer within four walls."

We assisted Mr. Jean Vossche into the cab and got in with him. The Inspector gave the cabman the address of the nearest police-station, and Dorcas walked on.

Ten minutes later Inspector Carr had explained the situation to the officer on duty at the police-station, and Mr. Jean Vossche, still manacled, was accommodated with a chair in the Inspector's office, into which presently Dorcas Dene was introduced.

Her first request was that the man might be taken outside for the present. Two constables were called in and the prisoner removed.

"Now, Mr. Carr," said Dorcas, "you've got to decide what we are going to do at once. So far my theory, that the disappearance of the Prince was connected with the approaching execution of five Anarchists in ——, has been borne out to the letter."

"Absolutely," replied the detective. "But having found that out my duty is to inform my chief. The whole of these men may be captured."

"Quite so—but that won't give the Prince his freedom. As these men were all at the meeting it is certain that they are none of them responsible for the safe keeping of the prisoner."

"That's true."

"Therefore by arresting them you only make the Prince's situation graver. You must bear in mind that he is held as an hostage. He is to be liberated on condition the Anarchists of —— are spared. The wretches who have him in their power are not likely to be more merciful to him because instead of five Anarchists being spared four more have been arrested. You could have got Vossche at any time. The only reason for seizing him to-night is to prevent him alarming the others."

"And I've given my oath to Vossche's wife that for her information her husband shall be allowed to get off."

"That I presume the authorities can easily arrange. There are plenty of Anarchists and Fenians who are supposed to be at present in her Majesty's gaols, who have been pardoned and are enjoying their liberty—the price of their valuable information—in the colonies."

"Yes—of course that can be arranged in Vossche's case if we save the Prince through his wife's information. But what I want to know now is—now that we have ascertained that you were right, and the Prince has been captured by the foreign Anarchists in London, where are we going to find the captive? Vossche won't tell us."

"No. I told you if the Anarchists had the Prince we would find him by to-morrow, and I didn't count then on getting the information from Vossche or any of them. But Vossche may be useful in saving us time, and every hour is of vital importance now."

"What can he do?"

"Guide us to the place where the Prince is concealed."

"He won't, I tell you, I know his character."

"He won't do it willingly, perhaps, but will you let me try an experiment?"

"Certainly."

"Then go out now and search the prisoner and see if he has any money about him."

"And if he has, I'm to take it?"

"No—leave it in his possession."

The Inspector, with a puzzled look on his face, went out to obey Dorcas's directions. I turned to her eagerly.

"Do you really think you know where the Prince is concealed?" I said.

"I have a very strong idea. Now Vossche has been arrested he may confirm it. That will assist us to concentrate all our efforts in one direction."

"You know a good deal about the Prince, I suppose?—or you have been making inquiries to-day?"

"I don't know very much, but what I do know suggests very strongly a clue to the means by which the Prince was secured. In the first place," said Dorcas, "when Inspector Carr brought me all the information he possessed I saw at once that it would have been almost impossible for rough, suspicious-looking foreigners like those Anarchists to have seized the Prince in the public thoroughfares—even at night. He would not have ventured alone into by-ways and alleys where such a thing was possible. It was evident that he was going out with a definite object, and that object was not merely to stroll through the streets. Had it been that, he would have been accompanied by one of his suite, or if he had gone alone he would have kept to thoroughfares where his capture would certainly have attracted attention. A number of ruffians seizing a gentleman in evening dress and dragging him away would have been noticed. If he had been hustled into a cab the police would have found the cabman by this. Therefore the conclusion is that he went out with the intention of going somewhere, and he did not want his suite to know where that somewhere was."

"You mean that, wherever he is, he was 'lured' there?"

"Certainly—and for a Prince to be lured into a trap the lurer must be someone with whom he had a previous acquaintance. A Prince would not accept an invitation from a stranger to meet her or to call upon her late at night."

"Her—you think there is a petticoat in the case?"

"I am certain there is. Now look at the facts we have to go upon. It is only reasonable to assume that the Prince went willingly and unsuspectingly at the invitation of a lady to call upon her late in the evening. It is certain that he is in the power of a number of foreign Anarchists in London. The task then is to establish a link between a lady who could induce the Prince to come out alone at night and the men who through her action were able to keep him a prisoner, and make his captivity a means to secure the reprieve of the condemned Anarchists of ——."

"And there is such a woman?"

"Let us see. A month ago a mysterious paragraph went the round of the London Press. A lady had been to a theatre, and had lost in the stalls—or thought she lost there—a magnificent diamond ornament.

"The loss was advertised, and a description of the jewel given. A few days later a mysterious paragraph appeared in the papers to the effect that a well-known pawnbroker had read the advertisement, and announced that the jewel was in his possession. He had at once communicated with the lady, and had returned the jewel to her.

"Next day the manager of the theatre, considering that the paragraph was a reflection on his staff, called upon the lady, with the result that a further mysterious paragraph went the round of the Press. It was to the effect that the lady had been mistaken in supposing that she lost her jewel in the theatre. It had evidently been stolen from her while she was getting into her carriage, and the thieves had succeeded in getting it pawned by a woman who stated that she was lady's-maid to the owner, gave the owner's correct address, and pawned it in the ordinary way, but in the lady's name.

"The story interested me, and knowing the pawnbroker, I called upon him and found that the jewel was the property of a Countess Elstein, and he had the more readily accepted it from the lady's-maid, as it bore an inscription which showed that it had formerly been in the possession of a lady of the Royal house of ——, and the pawnbroker—who, of course, had frequent dealings with the aristocracy—knew that the Countess Elstein had been the morganatic wife of Prince —— of ——. There was considerable scandal when the Prince married the sister of the Queen of ——, and his connection with the Countess was hinted at in several of the Society papers.

"I made inquiries, and found that the Countess had been in London for some weeks, and was living in a house in the Inner Circle, Regent's Park, a house standing in its own grounds, which she had taken furnished for a period from the owner, who had gone abroad for some time, having a wife in delicate health."

"And you really believe that it was the Countess Elstein—the Prince's morganatic wife—who induced him to visit her last evening, and that the invitation was a trap? What would a lady like that be doing in an Anarchist conspiracy?"

"Let me finish," said Dorcas. "The moment the ornament was recovered from the pawnbroker, no further notice was taken. I ascertained from the police that the pawnbroker had not given them any information as to the person who pawned it. He had been compensated by the Countess, and she had personally requested that nothing further should be done in the matter, as to bring the case into court would necessitate the story of the bracelet being told. She did not wish the gift of his Royal Highness Prince —— of —— to his morganatic and now discarded wife to figure in the police reports. You know that I like to investigate these little Society mysteries—they keep my hand in, and one never knows when the facts may be useful. I found that the Countess undoubtedly took the jewel with her to the theatre. It was fastened on to her arm by her maid, a Frenchwoman, and I at once jumped to the conclusion that the Frenchwoman was in the robbery—that she had given information of her mistress's ornament, and certain particulars which had helped the thieves to get possession of it. For all we know, the thief might have occupied the next stall, and followed the Countess out in the crowd. But the Countess did not suspect her maid, or she would have discharged her, I suppose. The maid's name is Zelie Vossche."

"Vossche!—why, that is the name of the Anarchist here now!"

"Yes, Zelie Vossche, who is maid to the Prince of ——'s morganatic wife, is sister to Jean Vossche, one of the Anarchists who hold the Prince as hostage for the safety of the condemned Anarchists of ——."

"That certainly establishes a link," I exclaimed, "but there is one thing I don't see yet. I can understand you connecting the Prince's mysterious absence from his hotel with the Countess Elstein, but why did that suggest to you that there might be an Anarchist plot at the bottom of the whole thing?"

"That came about from the conversation I had with Inspector Carr this morning. He had a theory that the Prince was engaged in some affair of gallantry, and I at once told him that if there was a lady in the case it was probably the Countess. Then I told him the story of the diamond bracelet, and that I suspected the robbery had been 'put up' by the maid, Zelie Vossche.

"He was startled at the name, and at once told me that a Jean Vossche was one of a group of Anarchists at present in London about whom the police were uneasy, as they appeared to be meditating some big coup. That there was a Vossche resident in the house of the Prince's morganatic wife, and a Vossche a dangerous Anarchist, at once caused me to connect the Prince's disappearance with an Anarchist plot, and I remember that the papers had reported that the Anarchists of Europe had forwarded several threatening letters to the authorities in —— in connection with the approaching executions there. Then the Inspector told me that he could, he thought, get at Vossche's wife, and find out at least what Vossche was doing if he approached her with an offer which would be to her husband's benefit. I determined that we would at once follow the clue in that direction as far as we could, and I think you will acknowledge that events have so far quite justified my plan of action."

"Indeed they have," I replied, "and in a most remarkable manner. But here comes the Inspector."

"Well," said Dorcas, turning to the detective, "what have you found on Vossche?"

"Nothing that will be useful to us. He has no papers at all, and he refuses to say anything."

"Any money?"

"Yes, he has three sovereigns in his waistcoat and about twelve shillings in loose silver in his pocket."

"Where you left them, I hope?"

"Yes—as you wished it."

"Very well then. Can you drive?"

"Drive? Yes, I can—but whatever do you want to know that for?"

"Send out and get a hansom cab to the door. The police will satisfy the man it is all right. You must put on his coat and badge, get an old hat—there's sure to be one here that will come down well over your forehead—turn up your coat collar, get up on the box, and drive a little way away. There are no cabs in this neighbourhood at this time of night, so you'll have to send to the stand, which is a quarter of a mile away, for one. Let them bring a hansom or four-wheeler—it doesn't matter which. Send at once."

The Inspector went out and instructed the officer in charge, and presently returned and said a cab had been sent for.

"Very well—the police must requisition it for you when it comes. They will undertake to let the driver have his cab again to-morrow morning, and you'll pay him liberally for taking his place on the box."

"But what am I to drive a cab for? We've got our own man outside."

"Yes, but Mr. Saxon and I are going to take him."

"Then what am I to drive an empty cab for?"

"It won't be empty, I hope. If it is you must come all the same, but I am hoping that you will have Vossche inside."

"Vossche?"

"Yes—after he has escaped from here——"

"Escaped!—Vossche!"

"Yes—if he sees an empty hansom he is pretty certain to hail it and jump in, in case he should be pursued."

"Vossche is to escape and I'm to drive him away in a cab?"

"Yes. If he gets in—and I'm pretty sure he will—it will be his best means of eluding pursuit—he'll tell you to drive somewhere. He will be in a desperate hurry to get to the people who have the Prince in their care. He'll want to let them know that the police are at work in the right direction and put them on thei guard. When he gets in if he only says 'Drive on,' you must say 'How far?' Get his destination out of him on some excuse or other."

"And take him to it?"

"No—go a little way and then say your horse is lame. Turn him out as far from a cab-stand as you possibly can, then drive on to us—we'll wait at the corner of the Westminster Bridge-road."

"And then?"

"And then we'll go on to the Inner Circle, Regent's Park, and get into the Countess of Elstein's house."

"We shall want help, if we're to do that."

"You can put as many police in the front as you can get together, but we're going to climb over the park railings and get in the back way. Now let's arrange for Vossche to escape. Call me the chief here."

The officer in charge of the station came in and Inspector Carr made a clean breast of as much as he wanted to tell. The officer hesitated at the idea of the escape.

"Well," said the Inspector, "after all he isn't charged, is he? You are only minding him for me, and I'll promise he won't get away. He's going in my cab."

The officer opened his eyes with astonishment. "This is a very daring idea," he said.

"Yes," said the Inspector, "but it's Dorcas Dene's, and I think it will be the means of our making sure of the whereabouts of the Prince."

"Very well," said the officer. "Of course you take all responsibility—the case is yours, not mine. How is the escape to be arranged?"

The Inspector looked at Dorcas.

"After we have gone," she said, "and Mr. Carr has got possession of the cab and put on the driver's coat and badge, have the prisoner brought in as though you were going to examine him. Remove his handcuffs previously in the cell. A constable will guard him and one will stand in the doorway.

"Suddenly you can pretend to fall ill, stagger and fall into the constable's arms who is by the prisoner. Probably the man at the door will rush to your assistance. Vossche is certain to see his chance and make a desperate effort to bolt. He will be strong enough to overpower the constable even if he has not left the door to run to your assistance. You must clutch at the officers in your fit and hinder them for a minute. By that time the man will be out and into the cab which will be at hand."

The officer hesitated. "It will be playing a comedy. I never heard of such a proposition, and I don't think I ought to be a party to it."

"You really must help us in this," exclaimed Dorcas, earnestly. "I am sure if you do, and we discover the Prince, that Inspector Carr will gladly testify to the admirable manner in which his efforts were seconded by you. And if Prince —— of —— has any sense of gratitude, he will, when he hears the story, present you with a diamond pin. Remember this case is not going into the newspapers, and 'our Special Crime Investigator' will never have even the tip of his little finger in the pie. The instructions from the Chief Commissioner are that the most perfect silence is to be maintained on the subject by all officers engaged in the search. Even the people at the Prince's hotel have been informed by his suite that his Royal Highness is gone into the country."

"Very well," said the officer, after a few minutes' reflection, "I'll do it."

A constable came in to say that a hansom had been secured.

Dorcas wished the officer good-night, and shook hands with him, and we went out to our four-wheeler, leaving Inspector Carr and the local officer together.

When we got to Westminster Bridge-road we pulled up and waited.

Ten minutes later we heard a hansom tearing along at a furious rate.

"There's no one in the cab," said Dorcas, looking into the vehicle as it hove in sight. "Carr's got rid of him."

At that moment the vehicle came full into the light of the street lamp.

Dorcas looked up at the box seat and uttered a cry of terror.

One glance was sufficient to tell me the cause of her dismay.

The man who was driving the hansom so furiously that the few stragglers who were about in the street shouted out that it was a runaway was not Inspector Carr.

It was Jean Vossche, the Anarchist!

III. THE HOUSE IN REGENT'S PARK

When the hansom which should have been driven by Inspector Carr, and should have had Jean Vossche inside, dashed past us empty and with Jean Vossche, the Anarchist, driving furiously, Dorcas Dene stood for a moment dumbfounded.

"Something must have happened to Carr," I exclaimed. "Vossche could only have got possession of the cab after a struggle."

"No," said Dorcas, "I don't imagine there has been a struggle. You forget Carr carried a loaded revolver and Vossche was searched at the station. It is possible that an accident happened. Vossche got possession of the cab and drove off because he is in a desperate hurry to warn his accomplices that they were watched to their meeting-place to-night."

"And if he succeeds in warning them?"

"The first thing they will do will be to prevent all possible means of rescuing the Prince. And they can do that in a moment."

"How?"

"By killing him."

"Why should they do that? Dead, he ceases to be a hostage, and in sacrificing him they sacrifice the last hope of saving the lives of the condemned men."

"They can kill him and conceal the body so that his fate may remain uncertain. The —— Government are certain to reprieve the prisoners in the hope of saving the Prince's life."

"Then they may have killed him already—he may have been murdered the night of his disappearance."

"No—they would hesitate to do that, because it might have been found out, and then their last card would have been played. But now they are desperate. They will guess that they are suspected of being concerned in his Royal Highness's disappearance. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and to save their own skins they will sacrifice even their comrades. I have made up my mind what to do. Come—we must be going."

"What about Carr?—are we going to leave him to his fate?"

"We cannot help him. If he is injured he will have been found by passers-by or the police and attended to by now."

"Then where are we going?"

"To Scotland Yard."

As the cab drove rapidly towards the famous detective establishment on the Embankment, Dorcas explained her motive for no longer acting on her own responsibility. So long as she was with Carr she was assisting a properly-authorised police officer to investigate a sensational affair. But Carr being absent—probably disabled, possibly insensible—she was no longer justified in taking any further steps in the matter. It was her duty to communicate her knowledge to the properly-constituted authorities.

When Dorcas arrived at the Yard and sent her name to the chief officer on duty, she was instantly admitted. Beckoning me to follow her, she proceeded along a passage, and we were ushered into the presence of a handsome, smooth-shaven gentleman with a small grey moustache.

This gentleman rose as we entered and greeted Dorcas with a polite bow. Directly she said that she had called to give information with respect to the missing Prince, his official manner vanished and he leant forward to listen.

"My chief is with the Home Secretary at this very minute," he said. "Up to the present we have not the slightest clue. What is your information?"

Dorcas related rapidly the events of the evening, and, as she proceeded, the pleasant face of the official became grave and anxious.

"We knew of these men, of course," he said, "but we never for a moment connected his Royal Highness's disappearance with them. Their arrest ought to be a mere matter of hours, for we know where to lay hands on every Anarchist in England. But their arrest would only retard rather than hasten the rescue of their prisoner. We don't know where they have concealed him."

"At any rate there is someone who does."

"Who is that?"

"The Countess Elstein. I am convinced that it was to the Countess's that the Prince went that night."

"We had an idea ourselves that the Countess must know something," replied the officer, "but on inquiring at her residence we were informed that she had left London for the Continent the previous day. The maid, a French-woman, was to follow her, so she told our man, and join her mistress in Vienna in a week's time."

"Didn't you think it curious then," said Dorcas, "that the Countess should have gone abroad and left her maid behind?"

"There was really nothing to think about in the matter. All that we expected of the Countess was that she might know something of the Prince's movements, but she certainly would be no party to any evil befalling him or any scandal arising in connection with him and herself. She receives a handsome allowance from the Prince, and she is hardly likely to have done anything which would imperil that."

"Well," said Dorcas, "you may be right, but the name of the Countess's maid is Zelie Vossche. She may have communicated to her brother that the Prince was coming. If I am right in my theory, the capture was effected in the Countess's house."

"It might have been outside."

"Hardly; had it been outside your men must by this time have found a clue. His captors wouldn't have dragged him from Regent's Park without being observed by someone."

"But if it was in the house the capture took place the servants must have known it."

"I don't think so. The Prince's visit would be arranged for under any circumstances—the servants would be purposely kept out of the way. Zelie, the maid, who is evidently in her mistress's confidence, probably for a good reason, seeing that that affair of the bracelet was not proceeded with—would let him in."

"But the Countess——"

"There I am in doubt," said Dorcas. "She may have been a party to the outrage—she may have known nothing about it. But I am convinced that the Prince entered that house and never left it."

"But, good heavens! if that has been your idea, why did you not communicate with us at once?"

"You forget," said Dorcas, quietly, "it was not until after the Anarchist meeting in Kennington Road to-night that I had any certainty that my theory was correct."

The official touched a bell and a constable entered.

"Ask Superintendent Johnson to come to me at once."

The constable saluted and retired.

"What do you propose to do?" said Dorcas.

"Send Superintendent Johnson with a number of men at once to the Countess's residence."

Dorcas laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Of course it is presumption on my part, but may I give you a word of advice?"

"I shall listen to anything you say with the greatest respect, because it seems to me that so far you have done more than all our people put together in getting on the right trail—though of course I feel strongly that you ought to have communicated with us before this. What is your advice?"

"That you don't send Superintendent Johnson and his men to alarm the Countess. Remember that one false movement may result in the assassination of the Prince."

"That is true—but we must satisfy ourselves that the Prince is or is not there."

"Of course. My own intention, had Inspector Carr remained with me, was to go to the Countess's house at once. But we should have gone cautiously to work to avoid a mishap."

"One can be too cautious in a desperate affair like this. Even as it is, this man Vossche has had time to communicate with the Prince's captors. If his Royal Highness is a prisoner in the Regent's Park house, he may already have been conveyed away."

"If he has I shall know it!"

"You will know it—how?"

"Directly I heard from Inspector Carr of the Prince's disappearance, and came to the conclusion that the Countess Elstein might have been the instrument employed to get him into a trap, I put two of my assistants whom I can trust—they are both retired police officers—on the case. One has been watching the entrance in the Inner Circle, and the other is concealed in the Park watching the grounds."

"That was well done at any rate. But now we must get inside the house."

"I quite agree with you. But there are two ways of doing it. Will you let the Superintendent and his men go to work my way?"

The officer hesitated. "It isn't usual," he said, "for our men to act under the orders of a private detective, even one so famous and so talented as Dorcas Dene, but under all the circumstances I consent. Up to a certain point Johnson will obey your instructions. But if he finds that they do not look like resulting in immediate success, then he will obey mine."

"I accept the terms," replied Dorcas, rising. Then she added, "I presume there is no objection to my friend here accompanying us. He is my husband's personal friend and my own, and has frequently rendered me valuable assistance."

The official eyed me over as if mentally appraising my value, and then with a patronising little nod exclaimed, "Oh, certainly if you wish it—but I presume he is not a newspaper man? Whatever happens we don't want this affair to be chattered about by the Press."

I assured the official that he might rely on my absolute discretion, and that I quite understood the necessity of silence, and a minute later Superintendent Johnson entered the room.

Jean Vossche had entered the house of Countess Elstein in the Inner Circle of Regent's Park.

Dorcas's man had seen a man answering Vossche's description come up and enter the grounds about half an hour previously. He was walking.

The cab left alone would have attracted attention. Vossche had driven on to the cab-stand at Clarence Gate, which at that hour of the morning was only occupied by a couple of four-wheelers, the drivers of which were inside fast asleep. A hansom standing by itself on the rank would not excite the slightest suspicion.

Dorcas, when she heard how the desperado had disposed of his vehicle, murmured, "My compliments!—that man knows what he is about!"

Superintendent Johnson proved himself to be a tactician of the first water. He readily fell in with Dorcas's suggestions, but managed to add one or two of his own which Dorcas, not to be outdone in amiability, readily acquiesced in. She did so the more willingly as the Superintendent's suggestions were generally those which Dorcas had made a minute or two earlier. Dorcas explained her idea rapidly.

"The Inner Circle is deserted, and my men can get over the gate," said the Superintendent, "and in among the laurels ready for a signal."

"I am afraid of that," said Dorcas. "There is gravel in the front garden, and a gravel scrunch might be heard. Remember, Vossche is inside, and the front may be watched. My proposition is that we get in at the back."

The Superintendent said nothing for a moment. Then suddenly as if struck by an idea he exclaimed, "I propose that we get in at the back. Don't you think it will be safer? They won't expect anybody that way because the back runs down to the ornamental waters and the Park is closed."

"An excellent idea," replied Dorcas, nudging my arm. "Leave a few of your men under the trees on the opposite side of the roadway—ready to dash in at your signal."

"Yes, when I blow my whistle they can rush in at the front garden."

"I shouldn't whistle," said Dorcas. "We might want to surprise the inmates before they can escape. It's a dark night and they might some of them get away. I should imitate the noise of a cat. That would mean nothing except to those who were waiting for the sound."

The Superintendent probably thought that for a man in his position it would be undignified to moe-row, for he made no reply. But a minute later he said to Dorcas, "I've given my men their instructions. My signal to them will be the bark of a dog—I think it will be safer than whistling, don't you?"

"An admirable idea!" replied Dorcas. "Now let us go round to the Outer Circle. We can get into the Park by climbing over the rails."

"But to get into the grounds we must cross the water."

"No—we can get over the bridge and climb over the iron rails on the other side."

Dorcas, myself, the Superintendent, and two men made our way rapidly over the bridge opposite the Botanical Gardens and then climbed over into the private enclosure by York Gate and so went into the vast deserted Park.

Crossing the bridge that spans the ornamental water we made our way along the water's edge until we reached the private grounds of the villa occupied by the Countess. The grounds sloped to the edge of the water and were not in any way protected, as they could only be approached from the lake. No one could enter them by day without attracting the attention of the park-keepers, and at night the Park was carefully cleared, so there was practically no danger of intrusion.

As we crept cautiously through the high laurels, choosing a path that was out of sight of the house in case there should be anyone watching, Dorcas suddenly halted and "quacked." There were scores of ducks asleep upon the island on the lake. But she quacked in a peculiar manner—two quacks, then one quack—then two, then one.

Across the grounds from a laurel bush near a summer house came a low "quack, quack."

"What's that?" exclaimed the Superintendent.

"My signal. My man is over yonder—he'll make his way to us—let us stop here."

Our strained ears caught the rustle of the bushes, and presently a man emerged from the laurels in front of us and came to Dorcas.

"No one's been about all night," he said, "till about a quarter of an hour ago, when a man came out, went to the shed yonder by the water, and got a boat hook. He went to the water's edge, and tried the depth, and then went back into the house again."

Dorcas gave a little cry which she instantly suppressed.

"What do you think that means?" said the Superintendent.

"The worst, I'm afraid," said Dorcas. "It looks as though they were going to drop something into the water that they wanted to conceal. We must hesitate no longer. Your men must break in from the front, and we must try from the back. Hush!"

There was a sound of a door opening.

We peered through the laurel bushes, and saw two figures coming slowly across the grounds. They were carrying a heavy burden between them.

"Make a dash for the door," said the Superintendent to Dorcas's man. "Rush through and open the front door if you can, and let my men in. Are you armed?"

"I have my revolver," replied the man.

As the figures came nearer our man dashed out. There was a cry, and the burden dropped. But our man had dashed in at the open door. At the same time Superintendent Johnson's whistle shrieked out on the quiet night.

Then we all dashed forward—the Superintendent and one of his men seized one of the figures, and I and another man seized the other.

Dorcas snatched a bull's-eye from one of the officers, and flashed it in the faces of the prisoners.

We had captured Jean Vossche and his sister, the lady's maid.

In a moment there were dark figures hurrying across the lawn. The police in front had come through. Handing the prisoners over to them, the Superintendent knelt down, and then examined the lifeless body lying on the ground.

It was a female. Round her body was a stout cord, and attached to the cord two heavy weights.

The Superintendent examined the woman's face by the light of the lantern. On the temple was a fearful bruise, as though the poor creature had been struck by a bludgeon.

Dorcas, with trembling lips, knelt down beside the body, and as the light fell on the features, examined them carefully.

"It is the Countess Elstein!" she said.

At that moment the officers who had Jean Vossche uttered a cry.

The man, with a desperate effort, had wrenched himself free. Before he could be seized again he had dashed across the grounds, leapt the iron railings, and disappeared into the darkness of the Park.

Leaving the police in charge of Zelie and the body, we went into the house, which was in possession of some of the Superintendent's men. A sergeant met us at the door.

"There's a gentleman in one of the rooms," he said. "I can't make him out at all."

We followed the officer upstairs to a back room. There we found a dark gentleman lying on a sofa. His legs and hands were fastened together with cords, and he seemed to be in a heavy sleep. We tried to rouse him, but he only opened his eyes and looked at us, and then his head dropped down again.

"It's the Prince—thank God!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "He's under the influence of some drug, I should think."

"Probably," said Dorcas, "that's how they've kept him quiet. Send one of your men for a doctor."

We tried our best to restore the Prince to consciousness, but failed. When the doctor, who had been fetched from Baker-street, came, he at once found it to be a case of drugging, and said the Prince had probably been kept under the influence of a strong narcotic for some time. He had brought certain remedies with him, acting on the information the police officer who fetched him had given him, and gradually the Prince came to himself. A couple of hours later a brougham arrived with the Chief of Police and the Prince's aide-de-camp, and his Royal Highness was quietly taken to the doctor's house, and Zelie Vossche, who remained obstinately silent, was removed in custody.

His Royal Highness Prince —— of —— was able next day to communicate his adventures to the authorities.

He had arranged to visit the Countess, his morganatic wife, the evening he left the hotel. There were certain matters he wished to discuss with her, but he was anxious that their meeting should be a private one. Zelie Vossche had probably obtained knowledge of the intended interview, and had communicated it to her brother, who saw in it an opportunity of assisting the condemned Anarchists of ——. He communicated with his associates.

When the Prince arrived at the house in Regent's Park late at night the servants had been sent away to a house the Countess had in the country. The Countess was leaving for this house next day, and Zelie advised her to send them on first: then they would not see and gossip about the visit of the Prince, as they might find out who he was.

Zelie and the Countess were alone when the Prince arrived. But after Zelie had let him in she admitted Vossche and two of his accomplices. They waited till the Prince was leaving, then seized and gagged him and carried him to the upstairs room. The Countess rushed out, hearing the noise, but was struck down by Vossche. When it was found she was dead they carried the body to a bedroom, laid it on the bed, and locked the door.

The next morning Zelie telegraphed to the servants that their mistress was going to pay a visit and would not arrive till the end of the week.

The Prince in the meantime was drugged to keep him from attempting to make a noise. He was fed and tended by Vossche and Zelie, as it was not the Anarchists' intention that he should be assassinated if they saved the lives of their comrades.

But when Vossche discovered that a Scotland Yard man was on his track and that probably he would be traced to the house in Regent's Park, his first task on escaping was to get rid of the Countess's body. What the Prince's fate would have been could only be conjectured.

Vossche and Zelie after disposing of the Countess's body would probably have made their escape, hoping that a desire to conceal the adventure of the Prince might lead the police to make no active search for them.

The story of the murder was gathered from Zelie herself, who was naturally anxious to prove that she had no active share in the crime, but only acted to shield her brother and his accomplices afterwards.

Accepting her story as true the authorities at the inquest put her name forward as that of an accomplice, and supported her statement that Vossche was the actual murderer.

They did this not only because they were inclined to believe it, but as an encouragement to Zelie not to make any statement with regard to the share which the Prince had played in the tragedy. The motive of the crime was supposed to be robbery.

A reward for the arrest of Jean Vossche was offered but never claimed. The Continental Police acting on instructions were as remiss as our own in endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of the notorious Anarchist.

As soon as he was restored to health the Prince returned to his father's court, much to the relief of everybody concerned, especially the heads of the Royal Family of ——, who were saved the unpleasant task of rescuing from the scaffold five of the most infamous scoundrels of modern times.

Inspector Carr is a disappointed man. After all his exertions he was unable to crown himself with the glory of having found and rescued the missing Prince. Had he been a better coachman all might have been well, but in his joy at having Jean Vossche for a fare he forgot about his horse and drove into a market wagon, the driver of which was fast asleep. He was pitched off the box into the roadway and lay there stunned. Jean Vossche, anxious to get on, leaped out and bent over the insensible man. Possibly he discovered then the trick which had been played on him. At any rate, jumping on to the box, he drove off at full speed. When the Inspector came to himself he found that he had been very kindly taken to St. Thomas's Hospital by a policeman who thought he was a cabman whose horse had bolted.

Dorcas Dene has a beautiful diamond brooch which she never wears. It is the gift of his Royal Highness Prince —— of —— who somehow came to hear of the important part she had played in his rescue.

The one great drawback to her joy in possessing it is that poor Paul cannot see how beautiful it is. But sometimes when she holds it in the light he stares at it with his poor sightless eyes and declares that really the stones must be very brilliant, for it doesn't seem quite so dark when she holds them up before him.

IV. THE CO-RESPONDENT

I had gone down for a week's rest to Brighton, and had put up at the "Old Ship." The "Old Ship," Brighton, has been to me "a home from home" for more years than I care to count. Among my most pleasant recollections of my youth is the smiling face of that fine old English host, "Mr. Arthur," brother of the proprietor, Mr. Robert Bacon. All Brighton lovers who "have come to forty year" remember Mr. Arthur, and still on quiet evenings when old Brightonians gather together in the famous hostelry it is rare indeed that the name of Mr. Arthur does not come up in the conversation. What Mr. Gresham Bacon is to the young Old Shipites to-day, Mr. Arthur was to the middle-aged Old Shipites of twenty years ago.

Mr. Arthur's name came up on the occasion of the visit to which I have referred at the commencement of this narrative. There had been an unusual number of ladies in the coffee-room, and after dinner, noticing Mr. Gresham Bacon in the hall, I could not help remarking on the fact.

In the former days the "Old Ship" rather discouraged lady visitors, and so they were not admitted to the coffee-room, and there was no ladies' drawing-room. The house was essentially a bachelors' resort, and if a man brought his wife he had to take a private sitting-room for her and to keep her there.

"Ladies in the coffee-room, a French table d'hôte and the electric light at the 'Old Ship'!" I exclaimed. "It's enough to make 'Mr. Arthur' turn in his grave."

Gresham Bacon laughed.

"Yes," he said, "if anyone had suggested ladies in the coffee-room in his day the dear old boy would have had a fit. But other times, other manners, and the 'Old Ship' has had to be fitted out as a modern vessel, and she must sail with the times."

I put on my hat, Commodore Gibson, arrayed as befitted in the "Old Ship" in blue serge, gilt buttons, and a yachting cap, gave me a brush down, and as soon as Mr. "Fatty" Coleman, whose portly form completely filled the doorway, had been temporarily dislodged, I passed out into the street, and Gresham Bacon, who had followed me, invited me to come and have my after-dinner coffee at his "arch."

Everyone knows that the "arches" under the King's-road at Brighton have been rented by private persons, and turned into luxurious "smoking-rooms by the sea." Mr. Gresham Bacon's arch is renowned for its hospitality, and one meets there in the season most of the notabilities of Upper Bohemia, who still look upon Brighton as the ideal spot for a jaded Londoner. Dr. Brighton is no quack, but he has the courage to adopt as his motto, "Health restored while you wait," and thousands of hard-working Englishmen and Englishwomen who suffer from an occasional run-down of the nervous system have still a child-like and beautiful faith in him. There is only one disadvantage in the Brighton cure, if you are in search of quiet as well as health. At Brighton you meet people you know all day long, and everybody wants you to dine with him, or to drink with him, or to "go somewhere." A man can have hundreds of friends and be as little disturbed by them in London as if he were on a desert island. But in Brighton you meet someone you know every minute of the day.

I had not been half an hour in Gresham Bacon's arch before half a dozen London men had dropped in whom I knew intimately, but whom I rarely met at home because we were all Londoners.

One of them, a dramatist of repute, had with him the only stranger of the party. The stranger was introduced to us as Count von Phalsdorf, and as soon as the name had been pronounced the dramatist, with the instinct of his art strong upon him, looked round to see what sort of an effect he had made.

It was certainly a big one. As the dramatist slowly and distinctly pronounced the name every man in the arch gave a little gasp, and the eyes of the dramatist gleamed with a feverish delight.

"I met the Count at my hotel," he said with a smile, "we became friendly; he has heard a good deal of the Brighton arches, and I took the liberty of bringing him with me to-night to show him yours, Gresham."

"Delighted, I'm sure," said Mr. Bacon, feeling that as the host he must say something, but there was a hesitancy in his speech which we all understood.

The Count was a handsome man—in his uniform he must have looked a perfectly military Adonis. In ordinary evening dress he was far and away the most distinguished-looking person in our little assembly. He spoke English fluently, and his manners were perfect. But—well, it was a very big "but" indeed.

The Law Courts had just given us one of those sensational scandals in high life which are the delight of the evening newspapers and a godsend to the gentlemen who make out the newspaper contents bills, and to the headline merchants generally.

An English gentleman bearing a name which has been an honourable one in English history since the days of the Conquest had brought an action for divorce against his wife, a lady of lineage equal to his own, and had obtained a decree nisi. The lady had up to the time of the proceedings been considered beyond reproach. When her husband separated from her under circumstances which reflected upon himself, there was universal sympathy for her. She had been everywhere received in society as an injured lady, and it was a great shock to all who knew her when, after some few years of separation, her husband filed a petition for divorce, alleging unwifely conduct on her part, and giving the name of the co-respondent.

The case against the lady was certainly strong. The evidence of the petitioner's witnesses could hardly leave any doubt in the minds of the jury that the neglected wife had sought consolation and companionship elsewhere. The husband had separated from his wife on a question which involved no legal proceedings. It had been a mutual agreement of incompatibility of temper, and it was generally understood that the "temper" was all on the side of the husband. He had left his wife and had gone to reside in the country.

But now the roof had been lifted by the Asmodeus of the Law Courts, and the husband was revealed as an injured man, whose honour had been sacrificed to the wife's admiration for a handsome foreigner.

The co-respondent was called, and—this was the most sensational part of the story—he had naturally, after the manner of co-respondents from the earliest days of Divorce Courts, solemnly protested his entire innocence. And then suddenly the petitioner's counsel had handed him a letter and exclaimed in the fierce tones of a cross-examining Old Bailey barrister, "Now, sir, on your oath! Did you write that letter?" And the co-respondent staring wildly in front of him, and gazing at the respondent, who was seated with her mother at the solicitor's table, had, with a look of mingled horror and pity in his eyes, faltered out "Yes."

"Then," exclaimed the counsel, "I will read it to the jury." And he read it, and its contents left no manner of doubt in the mind of anyone that such a letter could not have been written by an innocent man to an innocent woman.

While the letter was being read the grey-haired mother almost shrank from her daughter's side, and the daughter, her face white and her lips trembling, uttered an hysterical cry and rose hurriedly, and leant across and spoke to her counsel. The husband's counsel had nothing more to ask the co-respondent. He was quite satisfied with his admission that he wrote that letter. It carried the jury's verdict with it.

Then the wife's counsel rose and begged permission to put his client in the box at once, and permission was granted him.

Every eye was fixed on the lady as, trembling and almost hysterical, she fell rather than walked into the witness-box.

"You have heard that letter read?" said her counsel.

"Yes."

"On your oath, have you ever received such a letter?"

"Never—as God is my judge. I have learnt the contents of it for the first time now."

"And is there any truth in the charges that have been made against you?"

"Not one word."

"Have you ever received Count von Phalsdorf under your roof?"

"Never."

"Have you ever spoken to him?"

"Frequently—but as one speaks to any gentleman to whom one has been introduced."

"You have heard the evidence of the hotel servants at Nice, of your own maid, of the servants at your London residence. Do you deny their statements?"

"Absolutely, and on my oath."

But the oath of the respondent availed nothing against the evidence of the other side, which was about as conclusive as it could possibly be, and the result of the trial was a decree nisi, and the husband to have the custody of the children, one a girl of fourteen and the other a boy of twelve.

And the co-respondent in this remarkable case was the Count von Phalsdorf, and all who had read the letter had made up their mind, without being able to say exactly why, that the Count was an infernal scoundrel in the first place to have so cruelly compromised such an amiable and gentle lady, and an infernal fool in the second place to have written such a dangerous and damning love-letter to a married woman.

And that is the reason that, with the details of the case fresh in our memories, we all of us felt that the dramatist had been guilty of an exceedingly unpleasant practical joke in introducing the Count into the little friendly circle gathered together in Mr. Gresham Bacon's arch.

We felt it so much that we were so decidedly uncomfortable, the laws of hospitality preventing us telling the Count what we thought of him, that one by one we rose and remembered an appointment and went, and when there was nobody left but the host, the dramatist rose too, and with a grin that was meant to be a smile, bade Gresham Bacon good-night, and took the Count away with him.

It was about nine o'clock when we broke up, and having nothing to do, I went into the Brighton Alhambra and spent the evening there. It was half-past eleven when I returned to the "Old Ship."

The night-porter opened the door to me, and seeing that I was going towards the smoke-room came after me.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but the waiter on your floor asked me to be sure and tell you when you came in that there is a letter in your sitting room waiting for you. The gentleman in No. 6 gave it to him to give to you."

"Oh," I said to myself. "The usual, I suppose. It's somebody who wants to keep me up half the night playing poker. I shall have to make an excuse."

I went to my room and found a letter on my table. Directly I had seen the handwriting on the envelope I uttered an exclamation of surprise and opened it eagerly.

"Dear Mr. Saxon,—Paul and I are staying here. Our sitting-room is No. 6. If you come in before twelve and have nothing better to do, come in and see us.

"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure!" I exclaimed, as I shook hands with Paul and Dorcas. "Whatever are you doing at Brighton? Having a few days' rest, I suppose."

"I'm having the rest," said Paul, with a smile, "but Dorcas is here on business."

"On a case? Is it an interesting one?"

"Very interesting," said Dorcas, "but a very unpleasant one in many ways, and I'm not very confident about the result."

"What is it? a murder—a robbery—or a mysterious disappearance?"

"No; this time it is a divorce."

"A divorce! But I thought you never touched that branch of the profession."

"I don't as a rule, but in this case the circumstances are peculiar, and I am deeply interested in one of the parties to the suit."

"The husband?"

"No, the wife. You have read the case, I expect, because it has been in all the papers. It is the one in which Count von Phalsdorf was the co-respondent."

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed; "how singular! I've met the man this evening. He's here in Brighton."

"Of course—that is why I am here."

"But I don't quite understand where you can come in as a detective now. You're rather late, are you not, seeing that the case is practically decided, for the judge has granted a decree nisi?"

"Exactly—and nisi means 'unless'—which is, unless before the expiration of six months certain facts should be brought to the knowledge of the Court—or the Queen's Proctor I suppose it would be—which would prevent the judge making the decree absolute."

"I don't know what the process is," I answered with a smile, "because I have never been divorced, but after having read the evidence in this case I can't for the life of me see what possible chance you have of putting a different complexion on the affair."

"Nor did I," said Dorcas, "when I was first consulted. The unhappy lady came to me with her mother the day after the trial. Both were in a state of the greatest excitement and distress. 'Mrs. Dene,' said the old lady, 'my daughter is the victim of the wickedest lies that were ever uttered in a court of justice. She is an absolutely innocent woman. But everything is against her, and on the evidence taken I confess myself the jury could have come to no other verdict. But they have perjured themselves—the whole of my wicked son-in-law's witnesses. We come to you as our last hope. We have heard how clever you are. We have been told that if anyone can save my dear daughter from the shame and infamy which she has no right to bear, it is you.'

"I shook my head and explained that I never took up divorce cases—I didn't think that they were a woman's work, and I objected altogether to the methods employed by the detectives and private enquiry agents who were usually associated with the business.

"The wife added her entreaties to her mother's. With tears in her eyes she declared that unless her innocence could be proved she would put an end to her existence. She could not live on under the suspicion of guilt. She would never see her children again or look into their innocent faces until this foul stain had been removed from her name. 'Ah, madam!' she cried, her voice choked with hysterical sobs, 'for my children's sake I ask you to help me. Think—think of the heritage of shame which will be handed down to them if I cannot prove that these horrible allegations against me are only a fabric of lies built up by the perjured witnesses in my husband's pay.'

"I watched the lady narrowly as she spoke. There was not the slightest doubt as to the genuineness of her emotion, and the idea of her innocent children suffering all their lives from the branding of their mother as an adulteress strongly appealed to my woman's heart.

"I asked them to wait while I re-read the case. I fetched my newspaper file and ran through the evidence, and when I had finished I was still utterly unable to see things in a hopeful light. However, they appealed to me so pitifully that at last I consented to take up the wife's case professionally, and after going over every point with her carefully, and impressing her with the necessity of telling me absolutely everything that occurred, even if it weakened rather than strengthened her position, I sent them away with the assurance that I would do my best, and that they should hear from me in a fortnight. Earlier than that I could not guarantee to have made any progress either one way or the other. I ascertained yesterday that the co-respondent had come to Brighton, so brought Paul with me and came here. I am convinced that my one chance of finding a weak spot in the enemy's armour—always supposing that there is one—will come through Count von Phalsdorf."

"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I also have read the case carefully over, and it seems to me that even you will be unable to put a different construction upon it. You don't imagine that there is the slightest foundation for the wife's contention, that the whole of the husband's witnesses committed deliberate perjury?"

"No; I believe that they gave their evidence truthfully."

"Then that makes your task an impossible one. The evidence taken altogether is damning. There isn't a weak link in it. Just let me run over it with you."

"By all means," said Dorcas.

"Very well. There is the evidence of the meeting at Nice."

"Undisputed by the wife!" exclaimed Dorcas. "She admits that when at the Hôtel de France, with her mother, she was introduced to the Count von Phalsdorf by an English lady of her acquaintance. The Count was understood to be a young man of position, and well known in Berlin society."

"And is that denied?"

"It is not denied that he was all that was claimed for him three years ago. He is undoubtedly a man of high birth, and he was at one time in a very enviable position, but he had ceased to be that when my client met him at Nice. As a matter of fact, I have ascertained that he left Berlin over two years ago in disgrace. He had lost large sums by gambling, and had engaged in a transaction to replenish his purse when the discovery led to his banishment from Court and from Berlin society. He left Berlin practically a ruined man. Though his father is wealthy, he took his son's disgrace so much to heart that he has refused to recognise him and does not allow him a farthing."

"Very well. We will take it that the Count is an exile, that he has no money from his father, and that he is in bad odour generally. That is rather an argument in favour of his behaving discreditably than otherwise."

"Quite so; I am not arguing; I am only telling you the Count's exact position. That is the first thing I had to make sure of. Now go on with the evidence."

"Two witnesses—servants from the hotel—swear that they frequently saw the Count in the lady's company. One declares that late one night, after the other lady, the respondent's mother, had retired to rest, she heard voices in the private sitting-room. Wishing to go in to fetch a tray for one of the waiters, she knocked, and there was sudden silence. She tried the door, found it locked, and went away. Ten minutes afterwards she saw the Count, who occupied a room in the same corridor, come out and go into his own room. Do you suggest that the girl committed perjury?"

"No; I believe she stated the thing exactly as she saw it."

"The next witness is the lady's maid. She declares that on the morning following the night referred to by the hotel servant she found one of the Count's pocket-handkerchiefs, marked with his name, in her mistress's sitting-room. She said nothing to her mistress or to the Count, not wishing to embarrass them. She kept the handkerchief and produced it in court."

"Quite true."

"Examined as to what occurred in London after her mistress's return, the lady's maid states that the Count called frequently, but that there was great secrecy about his visits. On several occasions she admitted him as late as twelve o'clock at night, when the other servants had been sent to bed. Do you believe that when she says this she is committing perjury?"

"On the contrary; I believe that she admitted the Count in this manner frequently."

"She also states that on more than one occasion she went to bed and did not sit up to let him out."

"I have no doubt it was so."

"Then comes the evidence of the footman. One night, having been out to the theatre on leave, he returned about one in the morning, and was letting himself in at the area gate, having the key, when he heard the front door opened quietly, and saw the Count come out. Do you think he was committing perjury, or was mistaken?"

"Neither; I believe that the man gave his evidence in a straightforward manner and with evident reluctance."

"And now the letter—the letter which was sprung upon the Count suddenly, and I should say unexpectedly—the letter which he was fain to admit was in his handwriting. That letter is distinctly the letter of a successful lover to the lady of his heart. It leaves no room for doubt. Consider the words, 'And, darling, if the worst happens, and your husband learns our secret, remember that I have bound myself by the most solemn vows to take you when the law has set you free and make you my honoured wife. Have no fear, then, darling, as to the future.' Do you believe that the Count wrote that letter?"

"Yes; if he had denied it on oath I should have believed he wrote it. It was proved to be unmistakably in his handwriting."

"There is evidence of the finding of that letter. It came into the hands of the petitioner through the private inquiry agent who had been shadowing the wife to procure evidence for the divorce. He called in the lady's absence from town with the card of a first-class firm of upholsterers at the West End, and a light cart, and said the firm had been instructed to call for the escritoire in the bedroom to repair it—a leg had been accidentally broken. The piece of furniture was delivered to him, and he opened the desk and took out the papers, acting under the instructions of the lady's husband. Do you think that story is untrue?"

"Most likely that is where the letter was found."

"Dorcas admits the truthfulness of nearly all the evidence," said Paul, who had been listening quietly. "We have talked it over together—but she has a view."

"Your view first, dear," said Dorcas, taking her husband's hand. "There was no light at all until you saw a gleam."

"Ah, I wasn't always blind," said Paul with a deep sigh. "I was a man of the world as well as an artist, and I knew something of human nature in those days. And now that I am blind and I sit and think in the eternal darkness I see many things clearly that were dim and vague then."

"You have both arrived at the same conclusion?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes," said Dorcas—"that is, very nearly—we still have one slight difference of opinion."

"And you both, in spite of this damning evidence, believe that this lady whom a jury has found guilty, and whom a judge has, by his decision, publicly condemned, is innocent?"

"Yes," replied Dorcas in a firm voice. "In spite of all the evidence, the bulk of which has undoubtedly been truthfully given, in spite of the letter written by the co-respondent and found in the wife's escritoire, we both believe that she is a pure and innocent woman."

"And you think you will be able to prove that?"

Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. "That I can't say, but I am going to try."

At that moment the waiter knocked at the sitting-room door and entered with a letter.

"It was sent by the last train from town, madam—the messenger said it was to be given to you at once."

Dorcas broke it open and read it, then handed it to me. I took the letter from her outstretched hand:

"I saw my little girl this evening by arrangement in the presence of her governess. Some time before the trial she was sent away to school. I sent her half-a-dozen handkerchiefs as a present and put them in an old handkerchief sachet I had had for many years. This evening my little one said suddenly, 'Oh, mamma, when you sent me those handkerchiefs I didn't feel in the pocket of the sachet; but this morning I found this in it—you must have left it there.' And she handed me in the governess's presence a portrait of Count von Phalsdorf. On the back was written, 'To my own darling—Heinrich.' What does it mean? Let me see you at once or I shall go mad and believe that I really am guilty."

"Dorcas," I said, as I put the letter down, "you are wasting your time. This woman is trying to impose upon you. She is simply hoping against hope that you will find a possible explanation which she can use in self-defence, and so pose as an injured woman unjustly condemned."

"On the contrary," said Dorcas, "this may give me the very clue I want to make the mystery clear and save my client. I shall go to town the first thing to-morrow and see what else I can find in that Handkerchief Sachet."

V. THE HANDKERCHIEF SACHET

While I was at breakfast the following morning at the "Old Ship," I inquired of my waiter if the lady and gentleman in No. 6 had left, and was informed that they had gone to town by the nine o'clock train.

I asked if they were returning that evening, and the waiter said he didn't think so, as they had taken their luggage and given up their apartments.

I was very anxious to know more of this mysterious divorce case, and to ascertain how Dorcas fared in her investigations, and I was therefore considerably disappointed to find that she was not expected back again at Brighton. I had hoped that if anything was to be ascertained in connection with the handsome co-respondent, Count von Phalsdorf, I should have been permitted the privilege of assisting Dorcas in her investigations.

And now the venue had been presumably shifted to London, and although possibly the Count might remain at Brighton, I was wofully in the dark as to Dorcas's views, and had not even the chance of doing a little amateur Sherlock Holmes business on my own account.

After breakfast I strolled along the front as far as the Métropole, and there, reclining peacefully in a basket-chair outside the hotel, with a pipe in his mouth and a straw hat tilted over his eyes, I found the dramatist who had introduced us to the Count at Gresham Bacon's arch the previous evening.

Being old acquaintances, we naturally dropped into conversation, and presently I led him on to the subject that was nearest my heart.

"I can't say much about the Count," said the dramatist. "I really don't know much of him. I had been introduced to him at the Lyric Club, and when I found him here and people nudging each other and saying in a whisper who he was, I thought it would be rather a lark to play him up a bit. That is why I brought him round to the arch last night—deuced good-looking fellow, isn't he?"

"Yes; there is no denying his good looks. But what is your private opinion of him? Apart from the present scandal hasn't he the reputation of being a bad lot?"

"My dear fellow, I should say, from what I have heard, that Phalsdorf is about as warm as they make 'em. I know that he ran up scores wherever he lived when he first came to London, and that people fought shy of him at cards, and I'm told that at one time he was trying to borrow a bit wherever he could. But I suppose he must have come into money, or made it up with his friends in Germany, who are rich, for he certainly isn't hard up now. Before he went to Nice last year and got into this pickle, he had paid up several men to whom he owed small sums, and he seemed generally to be in good feather. I know he's all right so far as coin goes now, for he has the best of everything and he pays as he goes."

"This case will cost him something, at any rate."

"Yes, but he doesn't seem to trouble. The petitioner, you know, didn't claim damages."

"Is he staying here long?"

"He tells me he thinks of being here a fortnight. Says his nerves have given way a bit over this affair, and he wants to pull himself together."

The hint that the Count intended to prolong his stay at Brighton rather raised my hopes. I thought that there was every probability that Dorcas would return to Brighton, especially as she had led me to believe that she attached a good deal of importance to keeping the Count under observation.

Two days passed and there was no sign of Dorcas. I made up my mind that I would return to town. It was hot at Brighton, and the sea and the sun together had begun to have their usual effect upon my liver, and to make me irritable. The work I had brought with me to do lay on the little writing-table in my sitting-room untouched. Every day I saw the now notorious co-respondent on the front, either walking or driving. If I went to the theatre, he was in the stalls; if I went to the Brighton Alhambra, he was in a private box. The handsome Prussian haunted me, and whenever I saw him I found myself wondering how Dorcas Dene was getting on with her case, and what possible use a handkerchief sachet could be against the overwhelming evidence of the guilty love of Dorcas's unfortunate client and Count Heinrich von Phalsdorf.

I had packed up my things with the assistance of the boots and an obliging chambermaid. I had given notice at the office that I intended to leave by the one o'clock train. I had an hour to spare, and I went out, intending to take a stroll on the pier and get as much fresh air as possible during the limited time now left me.

Just as I got to the pier-head I noticed Count von Phalsdorf coming along, followed by a woman selling flowers. The woman's face was bronzed, and she wore a white sun-bonnet. The Count was walking with another gentleman—a man I had never seen before.

The flower-woman was persistent. The Count turned and told her he did not want any flowers, but she still followed him up and begged him to buy a button-hole. She had been out all the morning, and she hadn't sold a flower.

She was a youngish woman, and a pretty woman. The Count, I suppose, was too gallant a man to hold out long as she pleaded so earnestly, and so at last he put his hand in his pocket and gave her a coin.

"Oh, no, sir," said the young woman, "I'm not a beggar. Please take your flower." She picked out a mounted carnation, and, putting down her basket, drew a pin from a cushion hanging to her apron-string, gently took hold of the lappel of the Count's coat, and fastened the flower into his button-hole. But she was not a deft florist, for she bungled and made quite a long job of it before the flower was properly fixed.

I had been watching the operation, for, as I have explained, the Count had generally impressed himself upon me, and whenever I saw him I always found myself staring hard at him. While the flower-woman was fixing the button-hole a young man crossed from the opposite side of the road and, holding out sixpence, asked for a flower.

He had to wait till the flower-woman had finished with the Count, and so the four people—the Count and his friend, the flower-woman and the young man—formed a little group round the flower basket for a minute or two.

As soon as the Count's floral decoration was completed he moved away with his friend. The young man who had come up as a voluntary customer was politely attended to.

But to my surprise I noticed that the woman and the young man were conversing together in a low tone during the operation.

The woman saw that I was watching her, and, turning her head, she gave a glance which nearly caused me to tumble backwards over the rail against which I was leaning.

That glance was an instantaneous revelation. The flower-woman in the sun-bonnet was Dorcas Dene!

Before I had recovered from my astonishment the young man moved away and Dorcas came over to me.

"Buy a button-hole, sir?" she said. Then, without waiting for my reply, she whispered, "I'll come to the 'Old Ship' this evening at eight," and was gone.

Needless to say I returned to the hotel at once and unpacked—that is a process I can always accomplish without the aid either of the chambermaid or the boots—and sent word to the office that I had changed my mind and should not be leaving at present.

Soon after eight o'clock the waiter came up to my sitting-room and said that a lady wished to see me, and a minute later Dorcas Dene—not, I am glad to say, attired as a hawker of flowers—was sitting in the easy-chair and enjoying my confession of the turn which the sudden revelation of the flower-woman's identity had given me that morning.

"It was a good plan as it turned out," she said, "but it bothered me a long time before I could think how to hold the Count in the public streets long enough for one of my witnesses to identify him."

"The young man then was one of your witnesses?"

"Yes," said Dorcas, "and an important one."

"But surely it would have been easy enough for anyone to identify the Count without all that elaborate business. He makes no mystery of himself, and goes about continually."

"Quite so," replied Dorcas, "but my witness had only seen him once or twice before, and then he wore a beard and he didn't call himself Count von Phalsdorf. I had to hold the Count to be identified, because what my witness had to look for was a peculiar scar just under the chin, a mark the Count, I expect, received in a duel in his old student days."

"I have never noticed that mark," I said.

"No," said Dorcas, "it is only visible when the Count raises his chin. That's why I wanted to put that nice spiky carnation into his button-hole. When a man has a flower like that fixed you will notice that he instinctively raises his chin and stretches his neck. I've seen them frequently in the flower-shops. It was noticing that that made me hit on the flower-woman idea last night in town. I came down this morning with my witness by an early train, and travelled third-class in my 'make-up,' basket and all."

"And how did you get rid of it?"

"Oh, that was easy enough. I went to a friend's house, and it didn't take me five minutes."

"Well, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I've no doubt you've done something very clever, but I'm a little in the dark. You left Brighton some days ago to upset the evidence of half a dozen witnesses in a divorce case, with a handkerchief sachet, and here you are in Brighton going through an elaborate performance in order to make the co-respondent hold up his chin. I suppose the sachet told you nothing, and you've started on entirely new lines."

"That is just where you are wrong, my clever gentleman," replied Dorcas, with a malicious little smile. "If it had not been for the handkerchief sachet I should never have thought of playing the little trick I did this morning."

"Then, as they say in the story books, 'Let us begin at the beginning.' You went to town to examine a handkerchief sachet, the property of the divorced woman, which after the trial was over was found to contain a photograph of the co-respondent, with a compromising inscription."

"Exactly. I called on my client immediately after my arrival in town. I had wired her to have the sachet in her possession, and I proceeded at once to inquire into its story.

"She had purchased for her daughter, who was at school, six pretty handkerchiefs. Going to her drawer one day she found the old sachet. She thought it would be a pretty present for the girl, who had often admired it. Taking her own handkerchiefs out she put in the six others for the child.

"While the drawer was open, the maid came in and asked her to look at some dresses which she had laid out in the opposite room and say which of them she—the maid—might have. The lady went into the adjoining room. The maid stayed behind a moment to pick up some hair-pins which had fallen on the floor, and then joined her mistress.

"When her mistress returned to the room she locked the drawer she had been examining and did not open it until the next day, when she took out the handkerchief sachet, put it in a cardboard box, and sent it to her daughter.

"That was about a month before the trial came on.

"The photograph of the Count, which only came into the lady's possession the day she wrote me to Brighton, was found in an inner pocket of the sachet. This is why the child did not find it in taking out the handkerchiefs. It was quite by chance that she discovered the pocket, and feeling in it, drew out the photograph of Phalsdorf, which, on her first meeting with her mother, she handed to her.

"Having ascertained the facts, and accepting the lady's denial of any previous knowledge of the photograph, I examined the sachet carefully. The reason I attached so much importance to this discovery I will tell you. The thing for which a lady is most likely to send her maid to her room is a pocket-handkerchief. 'Fetch me another handkerchief,' is what I frequently say to my own servant. Now, no woman of my client's position carrying on an intrigue would be likely to place a portrait of her lover in a drawer to which she would in the ordinary course of events frequently send her maid. To place a portrait with an incriminating inscription in a handkerchief sachet would be absolutely to court detection.

"I felt that I was in possession of at least one piece of what I suspected to be manufactured evidence. What I wanted to arrive at, if possible, was, 'Who put that portrait in the handkerchief-sachet?'"

"But, Dorcas," I exclaimed, interrupting, "neither the sachet nor the portrait were ever referred to at the trial. They were not part of the evidence you have to disprove."

"No; but they were intended to be. Remember what happened. The lady sent the sachet to her child. That was not an anticipated event. By an accident the manufactured evidence had been sent out of the house. If it had not been, I have not the slightest doubt it would have found its way into the possession of the husband's detectives, just as the letter in the escritoire did."

"And that letter—that damning letter——"

"Was, I expect, placed in the escritoire by the same person who placed the photograph in the handkerchief sachet."

"And—and you found out who that was?"

"I think I have."

"But—you mustn't be cross with me for not quite following your line of argument—the photograph was written on by Count von Phalsdorf—the letter was in his handwriting."

"Undoubtedly."

"They were both intended for the lady. How is it they failed to reach her hands and fell into someone else's?"

"That you will see more clearly when I have told you what I have learnt from the sachet."

"Go on then—I shall be very glad to know."

"I examined the sachet carefully," continued Dorcas, "and found that, with half a dozen handkerchiefs in it, if I slipped the photograph in in a hurry, it slipped into the pocket. I then turned the pocket inside out and examined the lining, which was of a light blue satin. Just at the edge of the lining was a slight black ink smear."

"From the photograph—the ink was wet!" I exclaimed.

"No, the photograph was inscribed with a violet lead pencil—the ink smear was from the finger of the person who thrust the photograph into the sachet in a hurry. The lining must have rubbed the side of the finger. Directly I noticed that I asked the lady if she remembered what her maid was doing at the time she—the maid—asked her to step into the next room and examine the dresses.

"'She was making out a list of things I wanted put into my trunks—I was going away for a few days with my mother.'

"'What was she writing with?'

"'A pen and ink.'

"'Was she a good writer?'

"'No,' replied the lady, 'a clumsy one—she generally inked the side of her fingers. I remember when she came into the inner room telling her not to touch the dresses—her fingers were inky.'"

"Good gracious, Dorcas!" I exclaimed, "then if the maid was conspiring to ruin her mistress, half the evidence that appears so damning can be accounted for."

"Of course it can. I am sure that the maid put that photograph into the sachet, intending it to be found as evidence. The presumption is that she also found an opportunity of slipping the Count's compromising letter into the escritoire. It is certain that she gave the escritoire up to the man who pretended to come for it from a furniture firm. Now, see how easily the other evidence can be accounted for, if we accept a plot in which the maid was concerned. She lets the Count in late at night. She gives the orders, her mistress having retired to her own apartments, to the servants to go to bed. She arranges to let the Count in and let him out just as she hears the footman clanging the area gate."

"But Nice—the servant's evidence there?"

"The servants never saw the lady with the Count in the locked sitting-room. If the lady had gone to bed, what was easier than for the maid to admit the Count, lock the door, chat with him in an undertone, and then let him go out and cross the corridor to be seen by the servants who were about? As to the handkerchief, well, he would only have to put it on the sofa for her to find it."

"But presuming, Dorcas, that such an infamous conspiracy as this has been worked against the honour of an innocent woman, there must have been another party to it—the Count himself."

"That is what I said to myself directly the handkerchief sachet had incriminated the maid. If the maid worked this, she must have been employed to do so—instructed what to do by someone cleverer than herself, and the Count must have been one of her fellow-conspirators. He must have set himself deliberately to make everything appear conclusive of the lady's guilt."

"One can hardly believe that of a man in the Count's position."

"It is difficult—and I felt that my next step must be to find out if the Count could under any circumstances have lent himself to such an infamy. I had already, as you know, obtained certain information concerning him before I commenced my inquiries. Inquiring in a neighbourhood which he was known to have frequented before he suddenly appeared in Nice, elegantly dressed, and with money at his command, I discovered that from the house he lodged in—it is in Soho—he had suddenly moved. He came in one evening quite jolly, and a few minutes afterwards he sent for the landlady and said, 'I'm going. Send my things to Victoria Station—here's what I owe you.' He paid and went away that instant. I inquired and found that on the evening of his sudden desire to leave, the rooms above him had been let to a young German, an artist. All the landlady could think was that perhaps the Count didn't like to have fellow lodgers who were Germans.

"The artist was still living there. I interviewed him. He had heard of Count von Phalsdorf having lived there, but he did not know him by sight. There could be no possible reason why the Count should move because of him.

"Then I asked him if he knew of anyone, a German, who might wish to avoid him.

"'Yes,' he said, 'there is one fellow. A year or two ago I was very hard up, and I was living in a very poor place. Below me was a young German fellow who said he was a gentleman and certainly talked like one. One night we were talking over our troubles, and he said that he was desperate. He didn't know what he should do. I said I was the same. Then he asked me if I was particular. I said I didn't know what he meant. Then he told me that at a cheap restaurant he had been to he had met an Italian who had offered to introduce him to a firm of private inquiry agents—people who got up evidence in divorce cases. They wanted young good-looking men of gentlemanly manners and appearance.'

"'What for,' I said. 'To be detectives?'

"'No,' he said, 'to compromise women. The Italian told me that a good-looking clever fellow might make a big haul at that game.'

"'I felt dreadfully indignant at the bare idea, and I said to him, "Well, I'd sooner starve than lend myself to such infamy as that, wouldn't you?"

"'He said, "Oh, I don't know—I think if the firm made it worth my while I'd sooner do that than starve."

"'I was so shocked by such a brutal speech that I called him an insulting name, and he struck me—as a matter of fact he gave me a sound hiding, and said if we were in Germany he'd kill me. I was a bit afraid after that, for he was a strong fellow, and the next day I left.

"'That's the only German I know who perhaps might feel ashamed of himself, and not want to meet me again.'

"'What was this German's name?'

"'Well, he called himself Carl Hansen.'

"'Should you know him again if you saw him?'

"If I met him I could always identify him by one thing.'

"'What is that?'

"'He had a curious scar under his chin. I noticed it when he knocked me down and stood over me that night threatening to kill me.'

"That young artist was the man I brought down to Brighton to-day," said Dorcas. "He, too, has changed his appearance by growing a beard, and I don't think the Count recognised him, but he recognised the Count by the scar under his chin."

When Dorcas had finished her narrative I could scarcely speak. That such an infamous business could be carried on in the nineteenth century here in England seemed to me inconceivable.

"Do you really think," I said, presently, "that Count von Phalsdorf has been deliberately employed to enable the husband of the lady to get a divorce?"

"I am sure of it," said Dorcas. "The firm of inquiry agents he employed are entirely unscrupulous. I believe that they found the Count and bribed the lady's maid, and worked the whole thing. Probably this handsome Adonis who left his own country in disgrace, and was at his wits' end for money, has had a couple of thousand pounds for his services."

"But why should the husband be so eager for a divorce?"

"My dear fellow—directly the decree is made absolute he intends to marry the lady who is really the cause of his first separation from his wife."

The decree was never made absolute. The information that Dorcas had been able to gather was communicated to the Queen's Proctor, and the lady's maid was arrested on a charge of perjury. The Count, who had scented danger, disappeared, and was fortunately for himself nowhere to be found when the police began to make anxious inquiries for him. The private inquiry agent, who had been the prime mover in the infamous conspiracy, was criminally prosecuted, and was with the lady's maid sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.

The husband protested that he had accepted the evidence tendered as genuine, and that all he had done was to promise a large sum to the firm in the event of their services obtaining him a divorce. Being a man of high position, the more merciful view of his conduct was taken. It was agreed that he had been deceived by the people to whom he had entrusted the inquiry, which he was led to make by the information which they assured him they already had of his wife's unfaithfulness.

While everything had appeared to point to the guilt of the unhappy lady, Dorcas Dene had triumphantly vindicated her honour, and restored to her her good name, and the right to claim the love and respect of her children.

"And I think," said Paul, when we were talking the case over afterwards over our pipes in the little garden at Oak Tree Road, "that if I had ever had any compunction about my good little wife turning private detective, the last vestige of it would have vanished with the result of this case. No soldier on the field of battle, no missionary in a heathen land, no gentlewoman at the bedside of the sick ever did a nobler deed than my little wife when she saved the honour of this poor lady from the wretches who had so vilely plotted against her."

VI. A BANK HOLIDAY MYSTERY

I had been away for a holiday trip to Switzerland, and had been staying for some time at Lucerne. I like Lucerne, because there you can have a great deal of Swiss scenery without going through any great exertion to enjoy it. I am quite content to take everything that I am told about the joys of Alpine climbing in good faith, without trying the experience for myself. I am very fond of the top of a mountain, and if there is a railway all the way up and a decent restaurant within easy distance of the summit, nothing delights me more than to be a mountaineer for one day only. But I object strongly to melodramatic adventures with guides and ropes, and crevasses and ice axes. From Lucerne you can ascend Pilatus—by rail. From the neighbourhood of Lucerne you can make a pleasant trip up the Righi—by rail. And when you don't want mountains you can have quiet trips on the Lake, and come back in the evening to a big hotel, decent cooking, the electric light, a railway station, the English newspapers, and civilisation.

I had spent a lazy fortnight in Lucerne, and it had done me an immense amount of good. When I returned to town I felt inclined for a little excitement.

Sitting alone in my study one beautiful September afternoon a day or two after my return, I had a sudden inspiration. "I will go and call on the Denes," I said to myself. Dorcas told me before I went away that they were going to Scotland for their holiday, but they expected to be back by the end of August.

Eight o'clock that evening found me in front of the familiar wooden door. I rang the bell, and the servant who answered it informed me that Mrs. Dene was out, but that Mr. Dene was in the drawing-room with Mrs. Lester.

Paul, who had heard my voice in the hall, stood at the open door, "Come in, my dear fellow," he said. "Dorcas is out, but I don't think she'll be very long. We were to expect her at nine."

Mrs. Lester was not in a particularly good humour. Soon after I came in she picked up her work and retired to her own apartment.

"What's the matter with the old lady, Paul?" I said. "She doesn't seem very amiable to-night."

"No," replied Paul, picking up Toddlekins, the bulldog, who had put his paws upon his master's knee as a gentle hint that he wanted to be nursed; "Mrs. Lester is cross with Dorcas."

"What about?"

"Oh, it's really nothing—only Dorcas isn't very well. Our holiday in Scotland was interrupted, and Dorcas had to return to town to take up a case that worried her a great dal, and left her quite knocked over; and just as she was through with it and we had made up our minds to try a little sea trip, another case came along, and Dorcas is now engaged on it."

"But why should Mrs. Lester be disagreeable about that? She, I presume, wouldn't want to go on the sea trip with you, and business is business."

"Yes. But this case isn't business. Dorcas has taken it up to oblige a poor woman who cannot even afford to pay expenses out of pocket."

"Ah, I see—that is why Mrs. Lester objects."

"Yes; she says it is idiotic of Dorcas to ruin her health and lose her much-needed holiday worrying about other people's affairs, when there isn't anything to be made by it."

"She has reason on her side. After all, her daughter's health is her first consideration."

"Yes; and unfortunately the old lady considers that in this instance Dorcas is doubly foolish to work for nothing. I'll tell you the facts, and then you'll understand my mother-in-law's attitude better."

Paul was smoking a cigarette, so I asked his permission to light my pipe, which he granted with a pleasant smile. I can always follow the plot of a story better when I have a pipe in my mouth.

"Ten days ago," said Paul, "just as we were packing to go away, there was a ring at the bell, and the servant came in and said that an old lady wished to see Mrs. Dene. The 'consulting room,' as we call it, was being 'turned out,' so the old lady was shown into the drawing-room.

"I knew by the voice and the manner in which she introduced herself that she was not a very promising client. She began by apologising for the liberty she had taken, and seemed so confused and nervous that Dorcas invited her to sit down and 'collect herself.'

"'You're very kind, ma'am,' said the old lady, 'but I'm taking a liberty, I'm sure.'

"'Never mind about the liberty,' said Dorcas. 'Sit down and tell me why you've come to see me.'

"The old lady, after a good deal of gasping and a few tears, eventually became composed enough to tell her story.

"She had read in the papers about the famous lady detective, Dorcas Dene, and what wonderful things she had done, and, being in great distress of mind about an only daughter who had disappeared, and being unable to get any information through the police, she had determined to come and bring her case before Mrs. Dene.

"'You want me to take it up professionally,' said my wife.

"'Well, ma'am, that's where I feel that I'm taking a liberty. I'm only a poor woman. My daughter, who was in a West End house of business, was my right hand. It was she who kept the home, and a good girl she was, and the best of daughters. I am a widow, and let part of my house in lodgings, but my daughter earned good money, and now she's left me in such a sudden and mysterious way I don't know what to do. I know, of course, that you are paid a great deal of money for what you do, and you deserve it—but—you see—I—I am not in a position——'

"'I understand,' said my wife. 'You can't afford to pay for my services.'

"'No, ma'am—I'm sorry to say I can't, not at once—but for my dear girl's sake I'll sell everything I have in the world, and if perhaps you could make the terms easy for me, and take a little at a time—oh, dear—oh, dear—of course it's a liberty to ask such a thing—but I'm nearly distracted with grief and—and you must forgive me.'

"The old lady broke down, and there was no doubt in my mind that her grief was genuine. I did not see it, but I heard it. Every tone of her voice rang true.

"'Well,' said my wife, soothingly, 'tell me all about your daughter first, and we can discuss my terms afterwards.'

"Briefly this is what the old lady had to tell:

"Her name was Edwards. Her daughter Miriam, who was eight-and-twenty, was a 'tryer-on' at one of the West End drapery houses. She was a tall, graceful, lady-like young woman, and, as the old lady observed parenthetically, 'everything looked well on her.' She put the mantles on for ladies to see how they looked. She came home every evening. Some six months ago Miriam Edwards had informed her mother that she had made the acquaintance of a gentleman—a Mr. John Carlton—who was in a good position, so she understood, in the City. She had met him accidentally one evening in the street when she was being annoyed by a man who was following her. He had interfered, and, seeing she was upset, had asked and obtained the privilege of seeing her as far as her door. The next evening she encountered him again. He explained that he left his office at the same time every evening, and walked home, which accounted for their meeting. He walked a little way with her. In that way the acquaintance commenced and gradually ripened into affection on her part, and presumably on Mr. Carlton's, for he made her an offer of marriage, and begged that he might be introduced to her mother. Miriam told her mother everything, and Mr. Carlton became a constant visitor. He was most gentlemanly, seemed to have plenty of money, made the girl one or two handsome presents, and the marriage was arranged to take place in September. Mr. Carlton explained that he would not allow his wife to remain in business—he could afford to keep her. He took Miriam and her mother about to look for a little house, and early in August he said he had taken one and would furnish it and give up his present lodgings, move into it, and get everything ready for his wife. At the end of July he asked Miriam to leave her situation, and handed her twenty pounds in gold. 'This,' he said, 'will enable you to buy certain things, and will compensate your mother for the loss of your salary. He did the whole thing in a very nice and gentlemanly way, and explained that Mrs. Edwards, if she found that the lodging-house did not pay sufficiently well, could sell off and come to live with them.

"On the August Bank Holiday Miriam left home to meet her lover. They were going to see the house he had taken. From that hour Mrs. Edwards had never seen her daughter again, or heard a single word from her or from Mr. Carlton. She had gone to a magistrate and to the police, but nothing had been discovered, and now, as her last hope, she came to my wife.

"When she had finished her narrative, which was, of course, far more disjointed than I have given it to you," said Paul, "my wife commenced to cross-examine her.

"'Your daughter was engaged with your consent to this Mr. Carlton. Did they write to each other?'

"'No,' said the lady, 'I don't think so—you see they met almost every evening.'

"'But sometimes he might not be able to keep the appointment. Try and think—did he never send a message by anyone?'

"'Yes, I remember now,' said the old lady. 'Twice when she had missed him there was a telegram for her the next morning.'

"'The next morning,' said my wife. 'Ah, he telegraphed and spent sixpence when he could have written for a penny. He didn't want her to have any of his handwriting in her possession!'

"'You think, then,' said the old lady, nervously, 'that Mr. Carlton's at the bottom of my poor girl's disappearance—that he never intended to marry her, but has 'ticed her away, the villain!'

"'I don't say that,' said my wife. 'I really haven't any right to form an opinion at all as yet, but the fact that he never wrote during the whole of his courtship is a point I must bear in mind. Now, another question. Did your daughter ever write to him?'

"'Yes, I think so—I'm sure so—I have seen her write and go out and post the letter.'

"'Did you see the address?'

"'No.'

"'Where did he tell you he lived?'

"'He was in lodgings, I understood; it was a house in the Hampstead Road, I remember.'

"'Did you ever go there?'

"'No ma'am, I never went out with them; I had the house to look after, and a young man doesn't want his sweetheart's mother with him.'

"'Quite so. Did your daughter ever go to his lodgings?'

"'Oh no, she wouldn't do that. I have young men lodgers; I shouldn't like them to bring young women to their rooms.'

"'Then you only think he lived in Hampstead Road because——.'

"'Well, ma'am, I remember his saying so; and I suppose that's where my daughter wrote to him.'

"'You say he was something in the City. Do you remember a business address ever being mentioned?'

"'No ma'am; my poor girl told me he was in a very good position. He said he was on the Stock Exchange, whatever that is. He said he was a confidential clerk to a big firm, and his salary was £500 a year. You see, ma'am, I thought it was a good match for my girl. He was a man of five-and-thirty—very quiet, quite the gentleman, and he certainly had money to spend, and treated her most handsomely.'

"'I understand. But you've been to the police and told your story. What have they done?'

"'They've inquired on the Stock Exchange. There's no one known there by the name of Mr. John Carlton.'

"'He never wrote, and he gave a false description of himself,' said my wife. 'I don't think there is much doubt that Mr. John Carlton is at the bottom of your daughter's mysterious disappearance. At any rate he must know she has disappeared; otherwise he would have called at your house and made inquiries concerning her.'

"'I'm sure it must be that,' said the old lady; 'but why hasn't my poor girl written to me? She was a kind and loving daughter—she must know the state of anxiety I am in. If—if he has deceived her—persuaded her to live with him without being married—surely she might have found some means to send me a line to let me know she is alive.'

"'Yes,' said my wife, 'that is the mystery I have to unravel.'

"'You will take the case up, then?'

"'Yes.'

"'Ah, find my poor girl for me, ma'am; let her know that I will forgive her everything if she will only come to me and let me see her once again. I'll pay you when I can—I'll——'

"'Never mind about that,' said my wife, 'you shall pay me when you like—or not at all. I'll take the case up.'

"'God bless you for that; God bless you for that!'

"My wife sat silent for a moment; then she said to the old lady, 'I'll do the best I can for you, and I hope I shall be able to solve the mystery, and at least to let you know the truth. Now go home. Leave me your address, and to-morrow I will come to your house. I shall want to go over everything your daughter has left behind. I suppose she didn't take much with her?'

"'Nothing but the clothes she stood upright in. I'm sure that when she left the house in the morning she intended to come back again that evening.'

"'Then to-morrow I'll call and see if I can find anything that may help us in her search among her things. Good-night.'

"The old lady with a profusion of thanks bade my wife good-night. The next day my wife went to her house, and——"

The door had opened noiselessly—neither I nor Paul had heard a sound. We were both startled when a familiar voice exclaimed—

"Good evening. Paul, dear, what are you telling Mr. Saxon about your wife in her absence?"

Dorcas Dene came towards me and held out her hand. Then she took off her hat, plunged the long hat pin into it violently, and flung it on the table, and sat down wearily in an armchair.

"You are tired," I said. "Paul tells me you have not been very well."

"No, I'm played out—I'm no good."

"You are no nearer, dear?" said Paul gently. "You have found out nothing?"

"Yes, I've found out something," answered Dorcas, with a sigh, "but it's the sort of thing that is worse than nothing."

"Why?"

"Because it is something I don't understand. I have found Miriam Edwards but——"

"You have found her? Then your task is accomplished."

"No."

Dorcas turned to me. "Paul has told you the story so far as he knows it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then you will understand what I have to add to it. After poor old Mrs. Edwards had left on the night of her visit, I made up my mind that this was no ordinary case of abduction. The girl had not been a consenting party, because she would in that case have found some means of soothing her mother's fears and preventing the publicity of a police inquiry. It looked to me like a long-planned plot, because Mr. Carlton had been so careful not to write, and had evidently purposely deceived the mother as to his address.

"The next day I went to the old lady's house. It was a thoroughly respectable place, and I was more favourably impressed with the old lady than ever. My mother, you know, differs with me over this case. She thinks I am giving my time to the task of finding a worthless girl who has eloped with a man her superior in station, but from the first I was inclined to believe that the girl was the victim of some deep-laid scheme.

"At the house I went over all Miriam Edwards's possessions. I searched every drawer, I felt in all her pockets, I read every scrap of paper with writing on it that she had left behind, and I found absolutely nothing. I didn't expect to find that Mr. John Carlton had given away a photograph of himself, so I was not disappointed, but I did hope to discover something that had been his, and that would give me a clue, however slight, to go upon.

"I was absolutely in despair, and was bidding the old lady good-bye in the little parlour which she kept as her own sitting-room, when I noticed an old-fashioned blotting-book.

"'Is that yours?' I said.

"'Yes.'

"'Is that the blotting-book your daughter used when she wrote a letter?'

"'Yes, always.'

"'Thank you. I'll take it with me if you'll allow me.'

"I brought the old blotting-book home. It contained only two sheets of cheap pink blotting paper, and these had evidently been used for years, for they were faded and blackened with ink marks.

"However, I got a hand glass and studied the reflected pages as well as I possibly could. In a glass, as of course you know, the writing which is reversed on the blotting pad is reflected in its original form. After some half-hour's close study I was rewarded by finding—indistinct, but still legible—the name of John Carlton. Miriam Edwards had evidently addressed an envelope to him. It took me some time, though, to discover the address, for that had been crossed and recrossed with other blottings, but at last I had succeeded in making out the number 317A. The rest was absolutely illegible, but I remembered that the old lady had said she had heard Hampstead Road mentioned by her daughter, and so I set out to look for 317A, Hampstead Road.

"It was not a private house, but a stationer's shop. I went in and asked if anyone named Carlton had ever lived there. The man behind the counter said no, but he had some recollection of such a name—probably it was that of someone who had letters addressed there.

"'Oh, you have letters addressed here?'

"'Yes; anyone can have their letters sent here. We charge a penny for taking care of them.'

"It was evident to me at once that this was the address at which Carlton had pretended to live. As a matter of fact, it was only the address at which he received letters.

"I described Carlton as well as I could from Mrs. Edwards's description, and the proprietor said he remembered such a person distinctly. He was in the habit of coming for letters, but not frequently. The letters, so far as he remembered, were always in a female handwriting. He didn't think he could identify the writing now if it were shown to him. He didn't take any particular notice of the handwriting of customers' letters. Mr. Carlton had not come for any letters for weeks.

"That information and a portrait of Miriam Edwards, taken just before she disappeared, were all that I had to go upon, and you will confess they were not much.

"The portrait was the most valuable. I had a couple of dozen copies made by the photographer who had the negative, and I got my assistant, the retired police-sergeant, to take me round to the railway police at the various stations of London, and I sent one to Brighton, Hastings, Portsmouth, and various seaside towns, to my correspondents there. We have always in our business a good many agents whom we use for local information, you know. I sent one to Boulogne, and one to Calais, and I hoped that perhaps eventually I might receive some information, however meagre, which might put me on the direct track.

"Fortune favoured me. Yesterday I received a telegram. A woman corresponding exactly with the photograph had arrived at Dover, and had inquired of one of the porters if he could tell her of quiet respectable lodgings in the town. The porter had been struck by the likeness to the photo which the railway police-officer had shown him, and he at once recommended her to the constable's own house—the constable's wife kept a lodging-house—and then informed the constable what he had done. A telegram was at once sent to me. I went down the first thing this morning with Mrs. Edwards. When we arrived the 'lady' was out, but the constable's wife, who had been apprised by her husband of our business, showed us into a sitting-room.

"I went upstairs to the first floor, which the new lodger had taken for a week. I examined the things in the bedroom, and had a good professional pry into everything. In a drawer I found a watch and a locket. I showed them to Mrs. Edwards. She recognised them at once as having been given to Miriam by Mr. Carlton. She remembered that she wore them the day she went away. I asked the landlady what jewellery her lodger wore, and she said the only thing she had noticed was a ring with two small diamonds and a sapphire in the centre.

"'It is my poor girl!' exclaimed the old lady, almost beside herself with excitement. 'That was just the ring he gave her as an engagement ring.'

"I begged her to be calm and not to give way yet, as it was most important we should gather as much information as possible before we revealed ourselves.

"While we were talking the landlady looked out of the window, and exclaimed, 'She's coming up the street—she'll be here directly.'

"We went out of the room and up to the second floor.

"The landlady opened the door and let her lodger in.

"In a few minutes she came upstairs and told us that the lady had taken off her hat and was sitting in her room.

"Quietly we came downstairs. I tried the handle and flung the door open, exclaiming, 'Miss Edwards, your mother has come to see you.'

"The woman started to her feet with a cry of surprise. Mrs. Edwards rushed in and cried out, 'Miriam—my darling!'

"Then she started and drew back, her face white with terror.

"'It is her living image,' she cried; 'but it is not my daughter!'"

VII. A PIECE OF BROWN PAPER

When Dorcas told us that Mrs. Edwards refused to accept as her daughter Miriam the woman who was her living image, and had in her possession the watch, the locket, and the ring which Miriam Edwards had worn on the day she disappeared, I could not keep back an exclamation of astonishment.

"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "it must have been Miriam Edwards. The mother must have made a mistake."

"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I still believe that it was Miriam Edwards, but let me tell you what happened.

"The lady, as soon as she had recovered from her first surprise at our intrusion, exclaimed, 'What do you want here? What do you mean by calling me Miriam, and what does this old lady mean by calling me her daughter? Are you lunatics?'

"'No,' I replied. 'If we are mistaken you must excuse us—but you are the absolute double of a young lady of whom we are in search, and you have in your possession jewellery which undoubtedly belonged to her. If you are not Miriam Edwards, you must please explain how you come to be in possession of Miriam Edwards's property.'

"'What property do you mean?'

"'You have a watch and a locket in your bedroom, and a ring on your finger—that one with the diamonds and sapphire—which were Miss Edwards's.'

"'Indeed!' said the lady indignantly; 'so you have dared to search my things in my absence; how otherwise could you have known that I have the watch and locket I left in the drawer?' Then, turning to the landlady who had followed us in, she exclaimed, 'I shall be glad of an explanation. What do you mean by letting strangers have access to my property in my absence?'

"'I'm sure I beg pardon, ma'am,' said the landlady, 'but I really believed what this lady (pointing to me) told me, that you were Mrs. Edwards's daughter, and I—I didn't see any harm.'

"'There is harm—a great deal of harm—and I shall leave your house at once and take lodgings elsewhere. As to the property you claim as Miss Edwards's,' she said, turning to me, 'it has been in my possession for years—if necessary, I can prove it.'

"I looked at Mrs. Edwards, who appeared very upset, and was trembling violently.

"'It isn't my daughter, ma'am,' she said; 'it isn't her voice—and perhaps, after all, I may be mistaken about the jewellery.'

"'You are,' said the lady, 'and now perhaps you will have the goodness to leave my rooms.'

"I could not refuse. The old lady had taken away any chance I had of making a distinct charge by hesitating about the jewellery. So I bowed with as much dignity as I could muster, and we went out and sat downstairs and talked the strange affair over.

"'Her living image, ma'am,' said Mrs. Edwards to me, 'and I don't wonder the photograph deceived your friends here, but it's not my daughter. A mother must know her own child.'

"'But it is the jewellery—you know it is. Why did you say you weren't sure in her presence?'

"'Well, ma'am, I felt frightened at what we'd done. We'd made a mistake about her, and of course I might be mistaken about the jewellery. There's plenty made of the same pattern, I suppose.'

"I understood the old lady's nervousness. With people of her class there is always a terror of doing anything illegal. But I was convinced in my own mind that I had found Miriam Edwards—the likeness and the three articles of jewellery could hardly be mere coincidences.

"We remained for some time talking downstairs, and presently the landlady came down.

"'She's gone, Mrs. Dene,' she said. 'She packed, and I went for a cab, and glad I was to let her go.'

"'You let her go without telling me! Where has she gone?'

"'I don't know—I didn't wait to hear.'

"'But, my good woman, I must know! I want to follow this person up. You ought to have told me she was going so soon. I should then have been able to ascertain where she had gone.'

"The landlady shook her head. 'I didn't want any more trouble,' she said. 'After all, she might have brought an action against me, you know, for letting you overhaul her property. That kind of thing gets about and might injure my letting if it got into the papers. I don't want any paragraphs about my place, especially my husband being a constable.'

"'But you were quite right in what you did. We identified the property as that of the missing woman of whom we are in search.'

"'Well, Mrs. Dene, you see it's not a police search—it's only private—and the old lady here said it wasn't her daughter, and she might be mistaken about the jewellery. That didn't leave me nor you a leg to stand on, and it gave the woman a clear case against me if she wanted to be nasty—so I was glad to let her go quietly.'

"What could I do? I went out and succeeded in finding the flyman who had been called. He had driven the lady to the station and she had caught the train to London.

"There was nothing more to be done. I came up to town with Mrs. Edwards, and here I am, as far off as ever."

"But," said Paul, "you said when you began your story that you had found Miriam Edwards. Do you really believe that the mother wouldn't know her own daughter?"

"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I have an idea that the old lady refused to recognise her daughter. She may have seen something—have learnt something—from the woman's glance or manner which caused her to deny the identity in the presence of strangers. I can't make it out. I can't believe that the extraordinary likeness and the three articles of jewellery were accidental."

Dorcas rose from the sofa and paced the room.

"It must have been Miriam Edwards!" she cried. "It must have been! I have been fooled! But why—why should that old lady say it was not her daughter when it was? I'm not going to let the mystery rest there. Good night, Mr. Saxon—I don't want to talk—I want to think. Come and see me again in a couple of days."

"Will you be able to tell me then what the explanation of the mystery is?"

"Perhaps—I hope so."

There was nothing more to be said after that peremptory dismissal, so I shook hands and left.

I called again in a couple of days. Dorcas was out. I saw Paul, but he could tell me nothing. For the first time in her professional career, his wife was not confiding in him.

"When I ask her," he said, "how she is getting on, she only says, 'Wait—I don't know anything myself. I have an idea, but I can't explain it. Don't ask me to talk about it. Let me think.'"

It was quite a week later that I received a little note from Dorcas. It was short and to the point.

"You can come this evening."

I found Dorcas alone in the drawing-room. Paul had gone out with Mrs. Lester to a friend's house.

Dorcas was pale and looked very grave.

"You have unravelled the mystery of Miriam Edwards?"

"Yes, I know everything now. It is a strange story."

"And the woman in the lodgings was the old lady's daughter?"

"No—the jewellery was Miriam Edwards's jewellery, but the woman who was her living image and was wearing it was the wife of the man who passed himself off as Mr. John Carlton."

"Good heavens! Do you mean to say that the man was married to a woman who was the exact counterpart of the woman he was courting?"

"Yes; but let me tell you the details of this peculiar case exactly as I arrived at them.

"After the extraordinary result of my visit to Dover, I decided to act entirely by myself, and to leave Mrs. Edwards under the impression that I had abandoned the case.

"I was suspicious of her—wrongly as I now know—but I could not get rid of the idea that the daughter had, when she found herself in her mother's presence, managed in some way to convey a warning to the old lady—to impress her with the idea that there would be danger in recognition. I thought the matter out till my head ached, but I could see no other solution of the difficulty.

"I made up my mind that the first thing I had to do was to find that Dover lady who had Miriam Edwards's face and Miriam Edwards's jewellery again. The clue to the mystery lay there, and it was no good searching for it anywhere else.

"I went back to Dover and interviewed the constable's wife. Now that her lodger had gone, and she felt safe from legal proceedings, she was eager to render me all the assistance in her power. She let me search the rooms, which were unlet. There was nothing—not even a scrap of paper or a thread. I turned up the carpets, I opened cupboards and doors, I searched the grates, I looked in the chimney ornaments—everywhere where some scrap that would mean nothing to the ordinary observer, but which yet might serve as a clue to a trained detective, might be lying. I found nothing but an ordinary hairpin.

"Then I asked the landlady if anything had been taken from the room since her lodger left.

"'Nothing,' she said.

"'Now try and think. When she came in she unpacked her boxes. Did you notice anything? Do you remember anything that could give me the slightest indication as to the profession or habits of the woman?'

"'Nothing. She didn't unpack much—only a few things, and those you saw in the drawers.'

"There was nothing on her handkerchiefs or the linen I saw, because I looked carefully for traces of Miriam Edwards. It was all new and unmarked. The trunks in the room were locked.

"Suddenly the landlady gave a little start.

"'I do remember something now; but I'm sure that won't be of any use to you.'

"'I don't know. What was it?'

"'The day she came in she undid her trunk and took out one or two things, and among them a pair of boots. The boots were wrapped up in brown paper. She threw the piece of paper in the grate, and going into her room to tidy up I took it away.'

"'Was there anything written on the paper?'

"'It was brown paper—I don't think so. It was scrobbled up.'

"'Where is the paper? Have you got it?'

"'Yes, it's in the kitchen with the paper put by to light fires. It won't be used because we never use the brown paper—it smells so. I think I can find it.'

"She went out and presently brought me two pieces of 'scrobbled up' brown paper.

"'I've only brought these pieces, because that's all that there is there.'

"I took the pieces and unfolded them carefully. On the end of one piece was a torn gummed label—a portion of the label which drapers stick on parcels which are sent out for delivery. The paper had been torn through the label. All that was on it was this:

"There was absolutely nothing on the other piece of brown paper.

"I folded the piece with the torn label carefully and put it in my pocket.

"'You can't get anything from that, surely?' said the landlady.

"'I don't know,' I said. 'At any rate the lady wrapped her boots up in it, and it may be of more service to me than you imagine.'

"I returned to town, and the next morning I went to Messrs. Shoolbred and Co. of Tottenham Court Road, and asked to see one of the managers.

"I explained my business, and showed him the torn label on the piece of brown paper.

"'That is our label,' he said. 'It would be gummed on a parcel sent out for delivery. The 1/7 means the first of July. The 13642 is the number of the order, and we shall find it in the Cash Sales Day Book for the 1st of July, because the "Paid" means that the articles, whatever they were, were bought and paid for at the time. If you will take a seat I will have the books referred to.'

"In about a quarter of an hour the manager returned with a slip of paper. 'Here,' he said, 'is the label traced.' I took the slip of paper and read:

Then followed a small list of feminine underwear, and on the bottom of the paper '4 p.m. delivery.'

"I left the magnificent establishment in the Tottenham Court Road with a beating heart. I had found out where the brown paper had come from in which the lady who took lodgings at Dover and had Miriam Edwards's jewellery in her possession had wrapped up her boots.

"But the date caused me to put my considering cap on. On July 1 Miriam Edwards was at home with her mother, and certainly would not have been having articles sent to Notting Hill Gate in the name of Mrs. Coombes.

"I went straight to the address in Hansworth Road. No. 17 was a small, double-fronted house. In the front garden was a notice-board: 'This House to Let—Keys at the Agents'—Messrs. Dever & Co.'

"I noted the address given and went to it. I inquired what the rental of No. 17 was, and was informed it was £100 a year.

"'Might I inquire why the last tenant left it, and a few particulars?'

"The clerk informed me that the house was in good sanitary repair, had a large garden, and it was a most eligible residence. The late tenant had left it on account of his wife's death.

"'Let me see,' I said, 'he was a Mr. Coombes, was he not?'

"'Yes—Mr. John Coombes.'

"Then I entered into conversation with the clerk, who seemed quite willing to chat, and I inquired about Mr. John Coombes. He had lived in the house for some time, and was a gentleman of independent means. He did nothing. His wife was a very charming woman, but her fate had been a sad one. She had been subject to epileptic fits, and had been drowned in her bath during a seizure.

"'Ah,' I said, 'that is very terrible. How long ago was this?'

"'It was on the night of last Bank Holiday.'

"'Was there an inquest?'

"'Oh, yes, the inquest was held on the following Thursday.'

"'Ah,' I said, 'I'm afraid my friends who are looking for a house wouldn't care to take one which has been the scene of such a tragedy—I will communicate with them and let you know.'

"I left the house-agents', my brain in a whirl. What could it mean? On the very day that Miriam Edwards disappeared Mrs. Coombes had been drowned in her bath. The woman, who was the living image of Miriam Edwards, and had her jewellery in her possession, had wrapped up her boots in a piece of brown paper which had been directed to Mrs. Coombes.

"I went to the British Museum and searched the newspaper files. I found the inquest.

"The tragedy happened on Bank Holiday. Mr. John Coombes explained in his evidence before the coroner that the two servants had had leave, it being Bank Holiday, to be out all day. In the evening his wife said she would have a bath. She had complained of the heat. She went into the bath-room. She was a long time gone, and going upstairs and not hearing any sound he opened the bath-room door, and found her lying with her face under water. He got her out, and called to a neighbour from a window to go for a doctor.

"Dr. William Ferguson deposed that he was the regular medical attendant. He had attended Mrs. Coombes occasionally for epileptic fits, to which she was subject. When he arrived he found her dead. The cause of death was drowning. He had no doubt that she had a fit in the bath.

"After further evidence the coroner expressed himself satisfied, and the jury found a verdict of 'Accidentally drowned owing to an epileptic seizure while in a bath,' and expressed their sympathy with the bereaved husband.

"That evening I called upon Dr. William Ferguson, obtaining an introduction to him from an eminent physician who is a personal friend of mine.

"He readily gave me the particulars. He had known Mrs. Coombes for some years, but had not had to visit her often. The fits from which she suffered were not frequent—perhaps two a year. The Coombes were a most devoted couple. He had no doubt the cause of death was what he had suggested. Had he made a post-mortem? Yes. The body was quite healthy, and there was nothing else to cause death. The epileptic seizure in the bath fully accounted for the accident. He had known several cases in the course of his professional experience.

"How long after the accident did he see the body? About an hour. He was out at the time he was sent for. Life must have been extinct when the body was taken out of the bath. Probably the unfortunate lady had been under the water for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour when her husband discovered her.

"The next day I made particular inquiries in the neighbourhood. Mr. Coombes had moved immediately after the funeral. The furniture had been sold by auction. I found the auctioneers. They had forwarded the proceeds to Mr. Coombes' solicitors.

"I found the solicitors. They wanted to know what Mr. Coombes' affairs had to do with me. I explained that having read the inquest in the papers I had formed the idea that Mrs. Coombes was a relative of mine whom I had not seen for some years. They gave me Mr. Coombes' address. He was living in chambers in Great Russell Street.

"Then I went to Mrs. Edwards and asked her to come with me. I had an idea that I might be able to give her some information as to her daughter's fate. We went to Great Russell Street, and I asked to see Mr. Coombes.

"The porter told us that he was out, but was expected back at about four o'clock. At a quarter to four we returned. Mr. Coombes had not come in.

"At about ten minutes past four a gentleman came hurrying along.

"As he came near, Mrs. Edwards gave a cry, and, had I not caught her, would have fallen to the ground.

"'What is it?' I said.

"'That—that man!' gasped the old lady. 'It is John Carlton.'

"The man was quite near us; he was turning into Russell Chambers.

"I went up to him, and said, 'Mr. John Coombes, alias John Carlton, where is Miriam Edwards?'

"At that moment I heard a shriek; I looked round—the old lady had fainted. I ran to her assistance.

"When I had, with the help of the hall porter, lifted her up, Mr. John Coombes had disappeared.

"I sent the old lady home and waited. Mr. Coombes did not return. Then I went to Scotland Yard and saw one of the heads, and gave him all the particulars in my possession.

"Official information was soon obtained. Mr. John Coombes, whose wife had died in her bath from an epileptic fit, was not quite unconsoled for the loss of his partner. The lady was insured for £5,000 in a life assurance office. The policy was an old one, and dated from the time of her marriage.

"The claim had not been paid, owing to certain formalities, but it was not disputed. No idea of fraud had entered anyone's head. But it is disputed now, and when Mr. Coombes is found he will be charged with wilful murder."

"He murdered his wife!" I exclaimed.

"No," said Dorcas, "he murdered Miriam Edwards."

"But——"

"He didn't murder his wife, because the woman we found at Dover, who was so like Miriam, was his wife. There is no doubt they were very fond of each other. All the evidence we could obtain pointed to that fact. But he was in desperate need of money, so we found out, and his accidental meeting one night with a girl who was the exact counterpart of his wife in form and feature put a diabolical idea into his head.

"He laid his plans well. He courted Miriam Edwards. On the Bank Holiday he sent his wife away quietly, probably telling her to keep out of the way for a time, for reasons on which his safety depended. He got Miriam Edwards to the house on the pretence that it was the one he had taken as a future home for them to live in when they were married. The servants were away. The poor girl was done to death in that house in some way which defied detection. The presumption is that she was chloroformed. That would leave her powerless, and all trace of the crime would have vanished before the post-mortem examination. She was rendered insensible and laid in the bath, under the water, and the rest was easy. There would be no resistance, no outcry, only certain death, which would look like accident.

"The resemblance of Miriam Edwards to Mrs. Coombes deceived everyone but the mother. The doctor never dreamed that the body he was called in to see was not that of Mrs. Coombes, the patient he was attending for epileptic fits."

"But surely," I said, "all this cannot be proved? The person who might do so is not likely to speak, for she is his wife, and the man was presumably alone, and would not convict himself."

"No; we can only assume that the thing happened as I have said. But we are certain that Miriam Edwards is in the coffin at Highgate which lies under the stone on which is the inscription, 'Sacred to the Memory of Jane, the beloved Wife of John Coombes.' The grave is to be opened by the Home Secretary's order.

"That is the mystery of the disappearance of Miriam Edwards."

"But the jewellery?"

"Must have been taken from the body of Miriam Edwards by Coombes and given to his wife when he met her shortly afterwards. In all probability it was his wife's jewellery first, and he borrowed it to give to Miriam, for the purposes of his villainous plot."

Later on I learned further particulars from Dorcas.

When the body was exhumed by the Home Secretary's order, poor old Mrs. Edwards recognised her daughter by certain birth-marks. There was no doubt that Dorcas's theory was correct, and that the scoundrel had murdered his wife's double in order to obtain his wife's insurance money.

John Coombes made good his escape. It is probable that, getting abroad, he was there joined by his wife, who may still be in ignorance of her husband's motive in disappearing for a time and travelling about under a false name. Or she may have been a party to the crime.

Dorcas was congratulated by the chiefs of Scotland Yard on the marvellous skill with which she had elucidated a mystery which at one time looked like baffling even her exceptional abilities.

It would probably have been a mystery still but for the fortunate discovery of that Piece of Brown Paper with the torn label of Messrs. Shoolbred and Co. upon it, in which Mrs. Coombes had wrapped up her boots.

VIII. PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN

I was busy writing in my study one evening about ten o'clock when there came a loud ring at the bell.

I am suspicious of loud rings after the last postal delivery. They generally mean a long colloquy at the front door between my servant and the bell-ringer, and as long as that colloquy lasts I am nervous and excited. I live in a constant terror of being interrupted in my evening's work. I set the night apart for the exercise of the vocation by which I earn my daily bread, and any interruption is fatal.

In times gone by I occasionally yielded to urgent messages and plausible tales, and gave the caller the five minutes demanded, but I invariably found that I had been victimised by a bore with an axe to grind, or a professional beggar who hoped that I should part with a sovereign or some loose silver in order to get rid of the interruption.

Only those who have had actual experience of the dodges by which unwelcome visitors obtain access to a busy man whose name may happen to be before the public will understand the terror with which an author who is working against time hears a ring at his front door bell at ten o'clock at night. I have known men who have suffered such systematic persecution in this direction that they have, in sheer nervous terror, left London and buried themselves in out-of-the-way places, and even then they have not secured the privacy which was their heart's desire.

"But that," as Rudyard Kipling has it, "is another story." On the present occasion I had just made up my mind to walk out into the hall and tell the intruder in strong language to go away, and never to touch my bell again at that hour of the night, if he valued his life, when my servant entered.

"I'm very sorry, sir," she said, "but it is an old gentleman, and he says he must see you; and he seems very upset, sir, and I thought I'd better bring his card."

I snatched the extended card with an angry exclamation and looked at it. Then, with a sigh of resignation, I pushed my work away from me and said, "Show the gentleman in."

The name on the card was "Sir Joshua Broome," and Sir Joshua Broome was a City magnate, a gentleman who had on more than one occasion done me friendly service, and I could hardly drive him from my door on the plea that I was engaged now that my servant had admitted that I was at home.

Directly Sir Joshua entered my study I saw that he was prey to the most violent agitation. He apologised in a trembling voice for his intrusion at that hour—he knew that my evenings were sacred to my work—but the matter on which he had come to see me was of the most vital importance to himself.

He had heard me speak of my friend Dorcas Dene, the lady detective. Would I give him her address?

I wondered what on earth Sir Joshua Broome could want with a private detective, but I wrote down the number in Oak Tree Road and handed it to him.

He thanked me, and rose to go. I saw at once that he was ill, and having a great liking for the fine old fellow, I offered to accompany him to Oak Tree Road and introduce him to Dorcas personally.

He was evidently relieved by my offer. "It would be a great kindness to me if you would," he said, "but I mustn't take you from your writing!"

"I shan't do any more to-night," I said, and I spoke the truth. The thread was broken, and I might as well go and see Dorcas as sit staring at the ceiling till midnight in the vain hope of recapturing my lost ideas.

Seeing that he was really eager for me to accompany him, I put on my hat, lit a cigar, and went out into the street with him.

Sir Joshua's brougham was at the door.

I gave the coachman the address, and in ten minutes we were ringing the bell of the garden gate in Oak Tree Road. My companion was still agitated. When we got out of the carriage he leant on my arm for support.

He had only spoken once during the journey.

When I said to him, "I trust it is not serious, Sir Joshua?" he replied, "I don't know what to think, but if you care to hear my story stay while I tell it to Mrs. Dene—I owe you every confidence after your goodness in bringing me to her."

"Now, Sir Joshua," said Dorcas, as soon as I had made the introduction and explained that my friend was not only willing but anxious that I should assist at the conference, "let me understand in what way you think I can be of service to you."

"I will explain as briefly as I can," replied Sir Joshua. "You are possibly acquainted with my history, because it has lately been in the papers, and I am, I suppose, a well-known public man. Commencing in a very small way of business, I became in time a leading City merchant, and I have lately received the honour of knighthood in connection with the services I have been able to render my political party.

"At the last Drawing Room my wife, Lady Broome, was presented to her Majesty. That is a week ago. This evening, on returning from the City to my home at Wimbledon, I found a number of letters awaiting me. Among them was this."

He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Dorcas.

"Read that," he said, "and you will understand why I have ventured to intrude upon you at such an hour as this."

Dorcas opened the letter and read it out aloud. It was written in a disguised female hand:

"Sir Joshua Broome,—I see your wife's name on the list of ladies presented to the Queen.

"It will be a nice disgrace to you and her and all your family when you see in the Court Circular that the presentation of Lady Broome has been cancelled by the Queen's command.

"Well, that is what will happen if my information gets to the Lord Chamberlain's ears. I know something about Lady B. before you married her.

"The Queen does not have people of her sort presented at Court. Lady B., before you married her, had been in prison, and I can prove it.

"But I'll hold my tongue for a thousand pounds. If you'll pay that for the sake of your reputation in the City and your wife's in society, put a line in the agony column of the Daily Telegraph—'To One Who Knows.—Agree terms.'—and I'll arrange where the bank-notes are to be sent.

"But don't try Scotland Yard or anything of that sort, because if I am arrested I'll speak what I know, and it will be in every newspaper in England.

"This is genuine, and had better be attended to quickly.—Yours, ONE WHO KNOWS."

"It is an infamous attempt to blackmail!" exclaimed Sir Joshua, as Dorcas finished the letter. "There is not a word of truth in it. But it is a terrible thing to have said even in an anonymous letter. I want you to take the matter up, Mrs. Dene, and try and find out who the scoundrel is."

"Yes," said Dorcas, looking keenly at the knight, "I can quite understand that you are anxious to know; but, as there is not a word of truth in it, why not put it in the hands of the police?"

"But my wife's name—the allegation is so serious—the scandal would be so terrible!"

"What scandal?" said Dorcas, quietly. "You say that the story is an infamous fabrication—that there is absolutely no truth in it. Neither you nor Lady Broome can be injured by attempting to bring the author of such a letter as this to justice."

"I don't see it that way. It's horrible—I wouldn't have such a thing as this get about for worlds. The police would go to the Lord Chamberlain with it."

"Well?"

"And he would have to take some notice of it."

"If there is no word of truth in it, you and your wife would have only his sincere sympathy."

"I can't do it!" exclaimed Sir Joshua, rising and pacing the room. "I come to you to conduct the investigation for me privately. I want to know who wrote the letter—that, it seems to me, is the first thing to be done. Will you undertake the task of finding the writer?"

"Certainly—if you wish it—that is my business. But I must be placed in possession of the facts. Nothing must be kept back from me. If the allegation were true it would be comparatively easy to trace the author of it. We should then be able to work among those who were likely to know. As you say it is false, the field is very largely extended. Anyone can trump up a charge that is false—only those who know the facts can put forward a charge that is true."

"You must take it from me that this thing is a lie," exclaimed the knight somewhat testily. "I will answer for my wife's good name with my life."

"Very well," said Dorcas. "Then what I have to find is either someone who believes that you are weak enough to part with £1,000 in order to prevent a lying communication, which you can easily disprove, being sent to the Lord Chamberlain, or someone who has a grudge against your wife, and thinks that this letter will cause you to be suspicious of her.

"Now you must excuse me asking you certain questions, but it is important I should have facts to go upon.

"Who was Lady Broome when you married her?—who were her people, and how long had you known her before you made her your wife?"

Sir Joshua did not tell his story well—he was too excited to be concise. But briefly the facts as he gave them to Dorcas Dene were these.

Some ten years previously, being a widower with two sons and a young daughter, he engaged a governess for his little girl, who was then fourteen.

The governess came to him with excellent references. She had no relatives, and apparently no friends, for she had no correspondence. She was a Miss Grey. Her Christian name was Margaret. She was a very handsome girl, and Mr. Broome—he was not Sir Joshua then—fell in love with her. After she had been in his service six months he proposed to her.

She asked time to consider his proposal and went away. A few days later he received a letter from her declining his offer, and saying that under the circumstances of course she could not return to his house. She had obtained a situation elsewhere. She presumed that he would give her a reference to a lady.

The lady eventually wrote to him, and he replied that she was everything that she could wish—he could do no less, and he was only speaking the truth. Miss Grey had won the regard of everyone in the house.

For two years after that he neither saw nor heard of Margaret Grey. Then one day he accidentally met her in Kensington Gardens. She was out of a situation and living in lodgings. He proposed to her again and this time was accepted.

Two months later the marriage took place, and he had never had the slightest reason to regret it.

His children were devoted to her and she to them, and she was greatly admired wherever she went. There was not a more graceful or more beautiful woman at the Drawing Room, and he had every reason to be proud of her.

"I have no doubt of it," said Dorcas, "but you must excuse me for saying that all this is no proof that your wife has not at some point in her career been in one of her Majesty's prisons. Have you shown her this letter?"

"Yes."

"What does she say?"

"She is naturally terribly upset at such a monstrous charge—she is quite prostrated by it."

"And of course she indignantly denies it?"

"Of course. Good heavens, madam! you don't suppose that I have really married an ex-convict and presented her to the Queen! I tell you this is a vile conspiracy to frighten me out of £1,000."

"Yes, of course that is so under any circumstances," said Dorcas. "Now, if you please, you must furnish me with the date of Miss Grey's first coming to you, the names and addresses of the people to whom she referred you, and the date of your marriage to her."

"I can do that from memory. Miss Grey came to me in the spring of '87, and left me in the autumn. We met again early in '90, and were married in the spring of that year."

"And the references?"

"She came to me in answer to an advertisement I inserted in the Times. She referred me to the family with whom she had been living, an American gentleman, a Mr. Garrod and his wife, who were returning to America with the two children to whom Miss Grey had been governess. That was why she was leaving."

"Where did you see Mrs. Garrod?"

"It was Mr. Garrod I saw. He was staying at the Langham Hotel."

"Where had Miss Grey been governess to the Garrods?"

"They had been travelling about England. For some months previous to Margaret leaving them she and the children had been with Mr. Garrod on the Continent; Mrs. Garrod, who was Mr. Garrod's second wife, and not the mother of the children, had returned to America on account of a relative's illness."

"And when Miss Grey met you again two years after she had left your employment, did she tell you where she had been living?"

"With the lady who had referred to me. She lived with her as governess to her daughters until the lady, owing to a reverse of fortune, was compelled to dispense with her services. But if these particulars are absolutely necessary to enable you to trace the writer of this letter I will obtain every information of my wife—she can, of course, give them more accurately than I can."

"Naturally," said Dorcas, rising. "And now, Sir Joshua, if you will allow me, I will come to Wimbledon to-morrow morning, and see Lady Broome myself. It is quite possible she may be able to tell me something which will give me a clue. Good night."

"Good night," said Sir Joshua, rising. "I presume you will take this matter up and go into it thoroughly. I wish no expense spared."

"You may rely upon me," said Dorcas. "If Lady Broome will assist me I have no doubt we shall run the writer to earth in a very short time.

"But the first thing I shall do on your behalf will be to advertise in the Daily Telegraph: 'One who Knows.—Will agree terms if date and particulars sent.' We shall then at least be in communication with the writer."

Sir Joshua bowed, and Dorcas and I accompanied him to the door, and stood watching while the lights of his carriage disappeared as the brougham turned into the St. John's Wood Road.

"What do you think of it?" I said when we had returned to the drawing-room where Paul, who had heard the visitor depart, had already preceded us. "Do you think poor old Sir Joshua has really made a terrible mistake in presenting his wife?"

"I'll tell you after I've seen Lady Broome," said Dorcas. "To-day is Tuesday—come in on Thursday evening. Make it late—say eleven o'clock. I shall probably know a good deal more about the case by that time."

At eleven o'clock on Thursday evening when I arrived at Oak Tree Road Dorcas was out, but Paul informed me she had sent a wire to say she should be at home at midnight.

It was a quarter-past twelve when she came, and she was evidently tired with a long day's work.

"Well," I said, as we gathered round the supper table—late supper was a feature of the Dene ménage, and one necessitated by the exigencies of Dorcas's profession—"what news of the Broome case? Did you see Lady Broome?"

"Yes, I saw her the following morning, and found her all that her husband had described her—handsome, graceful, and charming. But of course I saw her at a great disadvantage. This anonymous threat was preying on her mind."

"Did she give you the particulars you wanted?"

"To a certain extent, but the writer of the letter has given them more fully.

"My advertisement appeared in the Daily Telegraph this morning. At twelve o'clock Sir Joshua received this telegram, handed in at the Central Office."

I took the telegram from Dorcas and read it.

"Old Bailey, November Sessions, 1886. Six months' imprisonment. See case. Send notes—Thomson, c/o Winter, 17, Wellborough Street, Borough, or must communicate Chamberlain."

"Good gracious!" I said, as I returned the telegram to Dorcas, "that's definite enough, and the sender evidently doesn't fear arrest, as he gives address."

"Yes, the charge is definite enough, and I've referred to the Old Bailey records.

"Margaret Grey, governess, aged twenty-five, was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for stealing some rings from a jeweller's tray while examining goods.

"The jeweller's suspicions being aroused by the hasty manner in which she turned to leave the shop after saying that the articles were too dear, he stopped her, and two valuable rings were found in the palm of her glove. At the police-station she at first refused to give her name, but ultimately admitted that it was Margaret Grey, and that she was a governess.

"She desired that her employer might be telegraphed for.

"Her employer, a Mr. John Garrod, attended at the police-court and said Miss Grey had been in his employ for some time and bore a most estimable character. He felt convinced she had no dishonest intention; at the most it was a case of kleptomania. He expressed his willingness if she were discharged to take her back immediately into his employ, but the magistrate committed her for trial.

"At the Central Criminal Court the judge, taking everything into consideration, sentenced Margaret Grey to six months' imprisonment."

"Garrod!" I exclaimed. "Why, that was the name of the gentleman Sir Joshua saw at the Langham Hotel—it was he who gave Miss Grey her reference."

"Exactly," replied Dorcas, "and the date—the spring of 1887—would tally with the date at which Margaret Grey would be liberated."

"But what does Lady Broome say to this?"

"She can say nothing. The excitement and worry of the last two days have had such an effect upon her that she has been taken seriously ill. The doctor fears brain fever unless she is kept absolutely quiet. She is at present in bed, and nothing must be said to her on the subject."

"And what does Sir Joshua propose to do?"

"He is beside himself with terror and grief, and has placed himself absolutely in my hands, to do whatever I think best."

"And what have you done?"

"I have been first of all to No. 17, Wellborough Street. It is a small tobacconist's shop, kept by a man named Winter and his wife.

"From what I can gather the tobacco business is a blind, and Winter is a betting man. I suspect he is really something a good deal less respectable than that.

"The plans of the blackmailer are well laid, and I can see exactly how it will work if the money is sent there in an envelope addressed to Thomson.

"If the police should be watching they will see plenty of people pass in and out, and they won't be able to discover which of them is the customer for the letter.

"If they tell Winter they are police—which would be unlikely and foolish—he will say he knows nothing of the matter; he often has letters and parcels left there for customers, and he doesn't know who Thomson is.

"If there is any delay in asking, then he will say that the letter came and Thomson called and took it away, and he will describe Thomson as someone exactly opposite to the real Thomson in appearance.

"But my own idea is that neither Thomson nor Winter are afraid of the police, and are convinced that Sir Joshua will be frightened into paying blackmail.

"This charge against his wife, under the peculiar circumstances, is not one which a wealthy and well-known man would care to give to the scandal-loving public, who are always ready to say, 'Ah, you may depend there's something in it!' His wife's beauty and her diamonds made a sensation at the Drawing Room, and Sir Joshua would hardly care to make her the heroine of a blackmailing case, and to inform everybody that his second wife, the beautiful Lady Broome, was his children's governess."

"Your arguments, my dear Dorcas, would be excellent supposing the charge were untrue, but you have the strongest possible evidence that the blackmailers have facts on their side. Margaret Grey was imprisoned for theft, and the employer of Margaret Grey, who spoke for her in court, was Mr. John Garrod, who six months later gave her a reference to Sir Joshua Broome, and stated that he was her last employer. What can possibly be urged against such evidence as that?"

"One thing, and one thing only," said Dorcas, as she handed Toddlekins, the bulldog, the Spratt's biscuit which he always looked for at supper-time.

"And that is?"

"This—that the governess recommended to Sir Joshua Broome by Mr. John Garrod called herself Margaret Grey.

"If she was the Margaret Grey who was tried and sentenced at the Old Bailey, it was an exceedingly foolish thing for her to start on a new career in the old name.

"If Mr. John Garrod was willing to conceal the imprisonment from Sir Joshua, he would certainly have been willing to consent to the young lady assuming an alias.

"Why didn't she ask him to?"

IX. THE ONE WHO KNEW

A week had gone by since Dorcas had informed me of Lady Broome's serious illness, and the only communication I had received with regard to the terrible charge contained in the anonymous letter was a little note from Dorcas herself, telling me that I had better not come until I heard from her again, as the case would probably keep her from home for some days.

On the morning of the eighth day, while I was smoking my after-breakfast pipe and skimming the Daily Telegraph, there was a sharp ring at the bell and presently my servant entered with a telegram.

The telegram was as follows:

"Meet me, Charing Cross. First-class waiting room. Noon. You can help me. Dorcas."

I was at Charing Cross Station at quarter to twelve. Punctually on the stroke of noon, Dorcas entered the waiting-room.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said. "You can help me in the Broome case."

"I shall be delighted. I have been expecting to hear something about it from you every day."

"There has been nothing really satisfactory to report," exclaimed Dorcas, "but I think we shall get on the right track to-day. I have been rather hindered by the illness of Lady Broome."

"How is she?—not worse, I hope."

"No, she is better. Her husband has been able to convince her that he has the most absolute faith in her innocence, and he has told a little white story which under the circumstances is pardonable. He has assured her that the blackmailers, finding no money has been sent, are reducing their terms, which is practically a confession that they dare not put their threat into execution."

"But what has really happened? Have they shifted their ground?"

"Not an inch. This morning, Sir Joshua received a letter informing him that 'One Who Knows' would give him only one more day's grace. Unless the money was sent to the address given by ten o'clock this evening the particulars of Lady Broome's trial and conviction would be sent to the Lord Chamberlain's office without fail."

"And have you discovered who the person is who 'knows,' and who is willing to have a thousand pounds in bank-notes entrusted to this man Winter?"

"Yes, I have been keeping observation on No. 17, Wellborough Street, and my assistant, the sergeant, has been helping me. I don't think there is the slightest doubt that the writer of the letter is Winter's wife—or at least the woman who passes as Mrs. Winter. She is a good-looking woman of about two or three and thirty, well educated, and in every way I should say the man's superior. But she is a heavy drinker. The people in the neighbourhood through whom inquiries have been made for me say that Mrs. Winter, when sober, is a well-mannered, lady-like person. She speaks like a woman of education, but with a slight American accent."

"That doesn't tell you much about her."

"Is there nothing that strikes you as peculiar in the description I have given?" said Dorcas quietly.

"No," I replied, "except that it is peculiar that a lady-like woman of education should be living with a man who, if your suspicions are correct, must be a very disreputable person."

"That has no bearing on the case," replied Dorcas. "What I think is peculiar is that she has a slight American accent."

"Why should that be peculiar in connection with this case?"

"The reason that I think so is this. Mr. John Garrod, who gave evidence in favour of Margaret Grey, and at the expiration of Margaret Grey's sentence, recommended a Margaret Grey to Sir Joshua Broome, was an American."

"Yes, of course—that is so. But there are thousands of American women in London."

"Yes—but there is still a coincidence which may be the first finger-post on the high road to the Truth. If my suspicion that this woman is the writer of the letter is correct—and I can't conceive anybody else allowing a thousand pounds to be entrusted to Winter—then we have these two facts to consider side by side. The only person who appeared to know anything about Margaret Grey in court was an American. The person who is now using the knowledge of the trial of Margaret Grey for the purpose of blackmailing Margaret Grey's husband speaks with an American accent."

"But one was a man and the other is a woman."

"Exactly," said Dorcas, "and so my next step must be to see if the man knows the woman."

"You have found Mr. Garrod?"

"Yes—late last night—that is why I telegraphed to you this morning. I cabled to New York a week ago for information. Yesterday my correspondent cabled that a John Garrod, a well-known citizen of New York, had left for London a month previously. Last night I succeeded, through the kindness of the New York Herald's London agency, in tracing Mr. John Garrod to the Hotel Métropole. We are going to call on him now."

"But how do you know that it is the same John Garrod?"

"I gave my correspondent a full description of the gentleman I wanted from the information Sir Joshua furnished me with. You forget, Sir Joshua saw him at the Langham Hotel."

We had been talking as we walked and I had been too interested in the conversation to notice which way we were going. It was therefore with something like a start that I heard Dorcas exclaim, "Here we are at the Métropole. Now for Mr. John Garrod."

"But will he see us?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," said Dorcas, "I think so. I made an appointment last night with an introduction from the London correspondent of the Herald, who is a friend of mine."

"Does he know you are a private detective?"

"No, he only knows that my name is Mrs. Dene, and that I am calling upon him with an introduction from the Herald. That is a pass-word with all good Americans."

"And why have you brought me?"

"Because I want a witness to our conversation. When you are cross-examining anyone the presence of a third party is invaluable. It is the presence of an audience that worries a witness in a cross-examination in a court of law. If the witness and the counsel were fighting their duel alone in a room, half the counsel's advantage would be gone."

Dorcas went to the Inquiry Office and sent up her name to Mr. Garrod, and in a few minutes the page returned with a request that we would follow him.

We were shown into a sitting-room on the second floor, and found Mr. John Garrod, a tall, grey-haired, military-looking American of the best type.

He received us courteously, but I thought somewhat suspiciously, and at once asked Dorcas to what he was indebted for the pleasure of the interview.

"I will tell you in a few words, Mr. Garrod," said Dorcas, shifting her chair a little, so that her back was to the window, the light from which fell full on the American's face.

"This gentleman, Mr. Saxon, and myself are interested in a will, of which Mr. Saxon is one of the executors. Among those to whom money is left is a Miss Margaret Grey, formerly a governess in your employ."

Mr. Garrod's face flushed at the mention of the name of Margaret Grey, and then became deathly pale.

"I—I certainly at one time had a person of that name in my house," he said, after a pause. "But it is a good many years since we parted. Why do you come to me about her?"

"Because she is described in the will as residing with you."

"And how did you know that I was in London?"

"The New York Herald people, to whom I went to inquire if you were known in America, kindly informed me that you were here. I came to you with their introduction."

"Yes, I remember—of course. Well, I am sorry that I am unable to give you any information as to my former governess's present whereabouts."

He rose to emphasise the fact that the interview was at an end, but Dorcas was by no means anxious to terminate it.

"I am sorry," she said, "because our inquiries in other quarters led us to believe that you would know something. After her release from prison she returned to you."

The American stared at Dorcas open-mouthed for a moment, and then in a trembling voice he exclaimed, "You know that! You know that she was convicted!"

"Yes, we found that out. We got the details of the case from the Central Criminal Court's Sessions Reports, which are published regularly in book form. I suppose there was no doubt of the poor girl's guilt?"

Mr. Garrod hesitated. "I—I don't wish to say anything. I did my best to procure her acquittal."

"Oh, yes, you behaved most generously. And after her release——"

"She went away. I can tell you nothing. I have never seen her since. It was a most painful affair to me then—it is most painful to me to talk about now. I can give you no information as to Miss Grey's present whereabouts, and must beg you to excuse me—I have a business appointment in the City."

Dorcas rose from her chair, but did not move towards the door.

"Well, then, I must be frank with you, Mr. Garrod, although you won't be frank with me. I am determined to trace Margaret Grey's subsequent movements. I am a private detective, acting in the interests of Sir Joshua Broome, to whom you recommended Miss Grey. Why did you not tell us that she left you to go to Sir Joshua?"

Mr. Garrod bit his lip, and his brow clouded.

"Why should I?" he said, defiantly.

"Because Sir Joshua Broome has a right to know how you justify your conduct in recommending to him as a governess to his children a woman whom you knew to be a convicted thief."

"I don't know how you have found all this out, or why after all these years you have come here to charge me with it," exclaimed the American, "but I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that when I recommended Miss Grey to Mr. Broome—I didn't know he was Sir Joshua—I recommended a young lady whom I believed to be an honest woman."

"But she had just served a sentence of six months' imprisonment for stealing rings from a jeweller's shop. Innocent or guilty, you had no right to conceal that fact from a gentleman who came to you for Miss Grey's character."

"I had not—but I did. I was in a terrible predicament, and I did the best I could. I am quite sure that Miss Grey has done nothing to disgrace the strong recommendation I gave her to Mr. Broome."

"Nothing—on the contrary, her employer found her such an amiable and estimable woman that he married her. Your former governess is now Lady Broome."

"Then, in Heaven's name, madam, why do you come to me with this made-up story of a will? Why have you been cross-examining me as to Miss Grey's past when you are well acquainted with it, and she is now in an excellent position and beyond the reach of calumny?"

"That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Garrod. At the present moment Lady Broome is being blackmailed by a person who has a knowledge of the Old Bailey conviction."

"Blackmailed!"

"Yes. About a fortnight ago Lady Broome was presented at a Drawing Room. A day or two afterwards her husband received this." Dorcas handed him the anonymous letter.

Directly he glanced at it, he exclaimed: "My God!—it is too horrible!"

"What is horrible?" exclaimed Dorcas, starting forward and gazing steadily in his face. "You have not read the letter. Is it the handwriting you recognise?"

There was no answer.

"I know who wrote this letter," exclaimed Dorcas, "so probably do you."

"You know?—who is it then?" asked the American in a hoarse voice.

"A woman who calls herself Mrs. Winter—a woman who lives at 17, Wellborough Street, Borough, and speaks with an American accent."

For a moment John Garrod stood silent. He was evidently a prey to strong emotion.

"Madam," he said, "if you will leave this letter with me for six hours I will undertake that no more shall be heard of this infamous threat."

Dorcas shook her head.

"That may be," she said, "but that will not clear the matter up. There can be no going back now. I must either prove that Lady Broome is innocent of this foul charge, or I must repeat to Sir Joshua your acknowledgement that you were present in court when she was convicted and sentenced."

"If you will trust me with this letter I will give you my word of honour that I will call upon Sir Joshua Broome this evening and tell him all I know. Will you trust me?"

"No," said Dorcas. "I must keep the letter, but you may have this telegram which contains the name and address of the sender. Here is the telegram and here is Sir Joshua's address."

She scribbled the Wimbledon address on a card and handed it to him.

"I shall be there at nine this evening," he said.

"And I shall be waiting for you," replied Dorcas.

Directly we were outside in Northumberland Avenue Dorcas turned to me and said, "I have brought the American man and the woman with the American accent together, you see."

"Do you think Mr. Garrod is going to see Mrs. Winter?"

"Of course he is. He recognised the handwriting. I was certain of it the minute his eyes fell upon the letter."

"Am I to come to Wimbledon to-night?"

"Certainly. Sir Joshua told the beginning of the story in your presence—there is no reason you should not hear the end of it in his."

"And you think that Lady Broome is innocent—that she was wrongfully convicted?"

"On the contrary, I don't believe she was ever convicted at all. But to-night will clear up the mystery one way or the other. Good-bye till then."

"Are you going to Wellborough Street?"

"No," said Dorcas, "what's the good? If anybody has to pay that thousand pounds now it won't be Sir Joshua Broome, but Mr. John Garrod."

"But if it is a conspiracy, the conspirators may be warned by Garrod's visit and escape."

"If they run away," said Dorcas, "I shall know where to find them if I want them. The sergeant is running up Sir Joshua's bill to an enormous extent. He is going into Winter's place and putting a sovereign on almost every horse in every race, and Winter thinks he has found what I believe is known in the language of the fraternity as 'a first-class mug.'"

At nine o'clock that evening Sir Joshua sat in the big library of his house at Wimbledon, anxiously waiting to renew his acquaintance with Mr. John Garrod. Dorcas, who had told the fine old fellow the result of her day's work, was in the boudoir with Lady Broome, who was now sufficiently recovered to be up, but much too unwell to risk an interview with her old employer.

Sir Joshua had given me a cigar, and I had made myself comfortable in a big easy chair. We were neither of us talking. We were both too anxious and excited to do more than think.

At a few minutes past nine Mr. Garrod was announced and shown into the library. Sir Joshua received him courteously and begged him to be seated, and sent the servant for Mrs. Dene.

"Now, sir," said Sir Joshua, when our little party was complete "Mrs. Dene informs me that she showed you the letter containing the infamous charge against my wife, and that you promised to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and to put me in possession of the facts to-night. Is that the position?"

"It is, Sir Joshua," said Mr. Garrod, speaking slowly and with evident emotion, "and I am here to fulfil my promise. I am going to place the whole facts before you, and then leave you to decide how you will deal with me. I shall place myself absolutely in your hands.

"In the first place, let me at once ease your mind on one point. When I sent Miss Grey to you I gave her the character she thoroughly deserved."

"Then," said Dorcas, interrupting, "Miss Margaret Grey, who is at present Lady Broome, could never have been a convicted thief."

"She never was. This is how it happened. I came to Europe with my two children and my second wife for a stay of two or three years. I had lost my first wife some years previously and had married again. My second wife was a young lady of good birth, but, at the time I met her, was, owing to family reverses, earning her living as a female clerk in a big New York hotel.

"It was a marriage that made a good deal of talk among my friends and acquaintances, and so I came to Europe with her, bringing my children with me. In London I went to a scholastic agency and engaged a governess. Miss Margaret Grey was sent to me and proved in every way an acquisition.

"Soon after I came to Europe I made a terrible discovery. One day to my horror, while out shopping with my wife, I noticed her pick up something from the counter and conceal it in her muff. I instantly exclaimed out loud, 'Wait a moment—let me ask the price,' and when the shopman came back I pointed to the article and paid for it.

"My wife was a kleptomaniac!

"I spoke to her seriously when we got home. I flung myself on my knees and begged her to think of what this would mean to me if it were discovered. I pointed out to her that if she were arrested and imprisoned the story would go to America, and that she would put a lasting shame upon me and mine.

"She promised me with tears in her eyes that she would not do anything of the sort again, and I believed her. I gave her all the money she could want. I gratified her every wish that there might be no temptation for her to steal again.

"After travelling about the Continent we came to London, and eventually I took a furnished house at Richmond, where I lived with my wife and children, with Miss Grey as their governess.

"One day my wife went to town alone in the morning. In the evening I received a telegram from Bow Street. I hurried there and found that my wife had been arrested for stealing a couple of rings from a jeweller's tray. In her terror when asked for her name and address she had at first refused it, but presently a diabolical idea entered her head. She gave her name as Margaret Grey, said she was a governess, and begged that I, her employer, might be telegraphed for."

"Then it was your wife who was convicted as Margaret Grey!" exclaimed Sir Joshua, springing up in his excitement.

"Yes. Ah, you must not blame me too much for what happened afterwards—think of the terrible position I was in. I was called to give evidence on behalf of Margaret Grey, my governess. If I had said, 'This woman has given a false name—she is my wife,' my one hope of getting her off would have been lost, and the case, which was now an ordinary one of theft, and one briefly reported in the papers, would have been written up and headlined all over the country, and would have been cabled to America. I clutched at a straw, and let the deception go on. After all, I might succeed in getting her acquitted if I contended it was kleptomania. I know I ought to have told the truth, but think what it would have meant to me. I still hoped that even if the worst happened to my wife I might, when she was released, reclaim her, and take her back to America without her shame ever being known.

"My first care when I found what had happened was to send my children abroad with Miss Grey. I knew that Miss Grey never read the papers, and would not see the case, but at Richmond one or two people would know her name, and she might be questioned as to the similarity. Abroad, even if the case were fully reported—and I intended to do my best to keep it out—Miss Grey would not be likely to hear of it.

"My wife was convicted, and sentenced at the Sessions to six months' imprisonment. Then I joined Miss Grey and my children abroad. When the sentence was nearly served, and the time was coming for my unhappy wife to be liberated, I returned. I saw Mr. Broome's advertisement in the Times, and answered it on behalf of Miss Grey, who had declined to go with us to America. I told her that my wife had gone home to see a relative who was ill. It was in that way I accounted for her long absence.

"I hoped—and my hope was justified—that very few people would have seen the case. The report was only a few lines, and recorded the fact that Margaret Grey, aged twenty-five, had been convicted of theft. In only one paper did the reporter give my name as having been called as a witness to character. Mr. Broome had evidently not seen it, for when I mentioned that the lady's name was Margaret Grey he made no remark.

"I was obliged to give her real name. How could I have asked her to take another? It would have aroused her suspicions at once, and possibly all would have been discovered.

"Mr. Broome was satisfied with my recommendation, and when I left for America with my wife and children I had the satisfaction of knowing that Miss Grey had found a comfortable home, and that she had not suffered in any way from my unhappy wife's appropriation of her name at the police-court.

"Unfortunately, after my wife's release, she gave way to habits of intemperance. Our life was a most unhappy one. After two years of misery she left me with a man who was coming to England, and from that day I heard no more of her—until—until——"

"Until this morning," said Dorcas.

"Yes," replied Mr. Garrod, with a deep sigh. "Your conjecture is correct. I recognised the handwriting, though it was disguised. I went to the address you gave me, and there I found the wretched woman whom I had married, and from whom after her flight I had obtained a divorce.

"I insisted upon seeing her. I told the man Winter who I was, that I knew the infamous conspiracy they had hatched between them, and that unless my wife saw me I would go to the police and bring the facts before them.

"Winter yielded to my threats, and I had an interview with my wife. I insisted on a confession, telling her that if she refused it I would go to Scotland Yard and tell the whole story, no matter what the consequences might be to myself.

"I insisted on her telling me how she had discovered Lady Broome—I wanted to know for your sake, Sir Joshua, and for your wife's, if the wretched woman had any accomplice beyond the man who passes for her husband.

"Her story was a simple one, and is probably true. On the occasion of the last Drawing Room she was in the crowd watching the carriages drive into the gates of the Palace. Your wife was pointed out by someone in the crowd. 'That's Lady Broome, Sir Joshua Broome's wife,' said a bystander. My wife looked, and instantly recognised our former governess, Margaret Grey.

"She told the man Winter, and between them they hit upon the idea of blackmailing you. They calculated that the facts they would refer you to would be so strong that no denial on Lady Broome's part would allay your terror, and that rather than have the matter gone into by the Lord Chamberlain, and the scandal discussed far and near in the Press and in Society, you would send the money.

"Now that you know the truth, Sir Joshua, there is no more to be feared from her. But I am responsible to you for my share in the transaction, and I will make any public acknowledgement you wish."

"There is no necessity," said Sir Joshua, rising. "We shall never hear any more of the matter from these people, and if we ever hear of it from any other quarter, we can prove at once how the mistake has arisen."

Mr. Garrod rose, and Sir Joshua put out his hand.

"You have my hearty sympathy in your misfortune, sir," he said, "and I quite understand the terrible position you were in when you found your wife had given her name to the police as Margaret Grey."

We spent the rest of the evening with Lady Broome, now happily relieved from all anxiety, and when we took our departure Sir Joshua handed Dorcas a little envelope. She put it in her pocket, and invited me to return to Oak Tree Road and have supper with Paul.

It was in Paul's presence that she opened the letter, and read it aloud:

"My dear Mrs. Dene,—I and my wife owe you more than we canever repay. But for you I should probably have paid £1,000 to two infamous wretches and have been a miserable man for the rest of my days. The £1,000 belongs to you. Enclosed is a cheque for the amount, which by no means represents our indebtedness to you for the splendid service you have rendered us.—Believe me, dear Mrs. Dene, Yours most sincerely,

"Joshua Broome."

"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Dorcas. "Isn't that a princely fee?"

Then she put her arm round her blind husband's neck, and drew his face lovingly to hers.

"Ah, Paul, dear," she said, with a happy sigh, "now we can go away together and have a long, long holiday."

THE END