Front matter (continued 2)

"What—you searched!"

"Yes, after I'd brought the poor fellow to the surface with the oars."

"But how do you think he got in?"

"Suicide—insanity. The father was taken to a lunatic asylum—you learned that at Norwood yesterday. Son doubtless inherited tendency. Looks like a case of homicidal mania—he attacked Miss Hargreaves, whom he had probably tracked after years of separation, and after he had as he thought killed her, he drowned himself. At any rate, Miss Hargreaves is a free woman. She was evidently terrified of her husband when he was alive, and so—"

I guessed what Dorcas was thinking as we went together to the house. At the door she held out her hand. "You had better go to the inn and return to town to-night," she said. "You can do no more good, and had better keep out of it. I shall be home to-morrow. Come to Oak Tree Road in the evening."

* * * * * * *

The next evening Dorcas told me all that had happened after I left. Paul had already heard it, and when I arrived was profuse in his thanks for the assistance I had rendered his wife. Mrs. Lester, however, felt compelled to remark that she never thought a daughter of hers would go gadding about the country fishing up corpses for a living.

Dorcas had gone to the Colonel and told him everything. The Colonel was in a terrible state, but Dorcas told him that the only way in which to ascertain the truth was for them to go to the unhappy girl together, and attempt, with the facts in their possession, to persuade her to divulge the rest.

When the Colonel told his daughter that the man she had married had flung her into the lake that night, she was dumbfounded, and became hysterical, but when she learned that Dubois had been found in the lake she became alarmed and instantly told all she knew.

She had been in the habit of meeting Victor Dubois constantly when she was at Norwood, at first with his father—her French master—and afterwards alone. He was handsome, young, romantic, and they fell madly in love. He was going away for some time to an appointment abroad, and he urged her to marry him secretly. She foolishly consented, and they parted at the church, she returning to her home and he going abroad the same evening.

She received letters from him clandestinely from time to time. Then he wrote that his father had become insane and had to be removed to a lunatic asylum, and he was returning. He had only time to see to his father's removal and return to his appointment. She did not hear from him for a long time, and then through a friend at Norwood who knew the Dubois and their relatives she made enquiries. Victor had returned to England, and met with an accident which had injured his head severely. He became insane and was taken to a lunatic asylum.

The poor girl resolved to keep her marriage a secret for ever then, especially as her father had returned from India, and she knew how bitterly it would distress him to learn that his daughter was the wife of a madman.

On the night of the affair Maud was in the grounds by herself. She was strolling by the lake after dinner, when she heard a sound, and the dogs began to bark. Looking up, she saw Victor Dubois scaling the wall. Fearful that the dogs would bring Peters or someone on the scene, she ran to them and silenced them, and her husband leapt down and stood by her.

"Come away!" she said, fearing the dogs might attack him and begin to bark again, and she led him round by the lake which was out of sight of the house and the lodge.

She forgot for the moment in her excitement that he had been mad. At first he was gentle and kind. He told her he had been ill and in an asylum, but had recently been discharged cured. Directly he regained his liberty he set out in search of his wife, and ascertained from an old Norwood acquaintance that Miss Hargreaves was now living with her father at Orley Park, near Godalming.

Maud begged him to go away quietly, and she would write to him. He tried to take her in his arms and kiss her, but instinctively she shrank from him. Instantly he became furious. Seized with a sudden mania, he grasped her by the throat. She struggled and freed herself.

They were at the edge of the lake. Suddenly the maniac got her by the throat again, and hurled her down into the water. She fell in up to her waist, but managed to drag herself towards the edge, but before she emerged she fell senseless—fortunately with her head on the shore just out of the water.

The murderer, probably thinking that she was dead, must have waded out into the deep water and drowned himself.

Before she left Orley Park Dorcas advised the Colonel to let the inquest be held without any light being thrown on the affair by him. Only he was to take care that the police received information that a man answering the description of the suicide had recently been discharged from a lunatic asylum.

We heard later that at the inquest an official from the asylum attended, and the local jury found that Victor Dubois, a lunatic, got into the grounds in some way, and drowned himself in the lake while temporarily insane. It was suggested by the coroner that probably Miss Hargreaves, who was too unwell to attend, had not seen the man, but might have been alarmed by the sound of his footsteps, and that this would account for her fainting away near the water's edge. At any rate, the inquest ended in a satisfactory verdict, and the Colonel shortly afterwards took his daughter abroad with him on a Continental tour for the benefit of her health.

But of this of course we knew nothing on the evening after the eventful discovery, when I met Dorcas once more beneath her own roof-tree.

Paul was delighted to have his wife back again, and she devoted herself to him, and that evening had eyes and ears for no one else—not even for her faithful "assistant."

V. THE DIAMOND LIZARD

I had received a little note from Dorcas Dene, telling me that Paul and her mother had gone to the seaside for a fortnight, and that she was busy on a case which was keeping her from home, so that it would not be of any use my calling at Oak Tree Road at present, as I should find no one there but the servants and whitewashers.

It had been a very hot July, but I was unable to leave town myself, having work on hand which compelled me to be on the spot. But I got away from the close, dusty streets during the daytime as frequently as I could, and one hot, broiling afternoon I found myself in a brown holland suit on the terrace of the "Star and Garter" at Richmond, vainly endeavouring to ward off the fierce rays of the afternoon sun with one of those white umbrellas which are common enough on the Continent, but rare enough to attract attention in a land where fashion is one thing and comfort another.

My favourite "Star and Garter" waiter, Karl, an amiable and voluble little German, who, during a twenty years' residence in England, had acquired the English waiter's love of betting on horse-races, had personally attended to my wants, and brought me a cup of freshly-made black coffee and a petit verre of specially fine Courvoisier, strongly recommended by Mr. James, the genial and obliging manager. Comforted by the coffee and overpowered by the heat, I was just dropping off into a siesta, when I was attracted by a familiar voice addressing me by name.

I raised my umbrella, and at first imagined that I must have made a mistake. The voice was undoubtedly that of Dorcas Dene, but the lady who stood smiling in front of me was to all outward appearance an American tourist. There was the little courier bag attached to the waist-belt, with which we always associate the pretty American accent during the great American touring season. The lady in front of me was beautifully dressed, and appeared through the veil she was wearing to be young and well-favoured, but her hair was silvery grey and her complexion that of a brunette. Now Dorcas Dene was a blonde with soft brown wavy hair, and so I hesitated for a moment, imagining that I must have fallen into a half doze and have dreamed that I heard Dorcas calling me.

The lady, who evidently noticed my doubt and hesitation, smiled and came close to the garden seat on which I had made myself as comfortable as the temperature would allow me.

"Good afternoon," she said. "I saw you lunching in the restaurant, but I couldn't speak to you then. I'm here on business."

It was Dorcas Dene.

"I have half an hour to spare," she said. "My people are at the little table yonder. They've just ordered their coffee, so they won't be going yet."

She sat down at the other end of the garden seat, and, following a little inclination of her parasol, I saw that the "people" she alluded to were a young fellow of about three-and-twenty, a handsome woman of about five-and-thirty, rather loudly dressed, and a remarkably pretty girl in a charming tailor-made costume of some soft white material, and a straw hat with a narrow red ribbon round it. The young lady wore a red sailor's-knot tie over a white shirt. The red of the hat-band and the tie showed out against the whiteness of the costume, and were conspicuous objects in the bright sunlight.

"How beautiful the river is from here," said Dorcas, after I had inquired how Paul was, and had learnt that he was at Eastbourne in apartments with Mrs. Lester, and that the change had benefited his health considerably.

As she spoke Dorcas drew a small pair of glasses from her pocket, and appeared very much interested in a little boat with a big white sail, making its way lazily down the river, which glistened like a sheet of silver in the sunlight.

"Yes," I said, "it's a scene that always delights our American visitors, but I suppose you're not here to admire the beauties of the Thames?"

"No," said Dorcas, laughing. "If I had leisure for that I should be at Eastbourne with my poor old Paul. I've a case in hand."

"And the case is yonder—the young man, the lady, and the pretty girl with the red tie?"

Dorcas nodded assent. "Yes—she is pretty, isn't she? Take my glasses and include her in the scenery, and then, if you are not too fascinated to spare a glance for anybody else, look at the young gentleman."

I took the hint and the glasses. The young lady was more than pretty; she was as perfect a specimen of handsome English girlhood as I had ever seen. I looked from her to the elder lady, and was struck by the contrast. She was much too bold-looking and showy to be the companion of so modest-looking and bewitching a damsel.

I shifted my glasses from the ladies to the young gentleman.

"A fine, handsome young fellow, is he not?" said Dorcas.

"Yes. Who is he?"

"His name is Claude Charrington. He is the son of Mr. Charrington, the well-known barrister, and I am at the present moment a parlour-maid in his stepmother's service."

I looked at the silver-haired, smart American lady with astonishment.

"A parlour-maid! Like that!" I exclaimed.

"No; I've been home and made up for Richmond. I have a day out. I should like you to see me as a parlour-maid at the Charringtons—the other servants think I can't have been in very good places; but they are very kind to me, especially Johnson, the footman, and Mrs. Charrington is quite satisfied."

"Does she know you are not really a parlour-maid?"

"Yes. It was she who engaged me to investigate a little mystery which is troubling her very much. I had to be in the house to make my inquiries, and she consented that I should come as a parlour-maid. It is a very curious case, and I am very interested in it."

"Then so am I," I said, "and you must tell me all about it."

"About ten days ago," said Dorcas, "just as I had arranged to have a fortnight at the seaside with Paul, a lady called on me in a state of great agitation.

"She told me that her name was Mrs. Charrington, that she was the second wife of Mr. Charrington, the barrister, and that she was in great distress of mind owing to the loss of a diamond and ruby bracelet, a diamond and ruby pendant, and a small diamond lizard, which had mysteriously disappeared from her jewel case.

"I asked her at once why she had not informed the police instead of coming to me; and she explained that her suspicions pointed to a member of her own family as the thief, and she was terrified to go to the police for fear their investigations would be a terrible one.

"I asked her if she had informed her husband of her loss, and if the servants knew of it, and she told me that she had only just discovered it, and had not said a word to anyone but her own family solicitor, who had advised her to come to me at once, as the matter was a delicate one. Her husband was away in the country, and she dreaded telling him until she was quite sure the person she suspected was innocent, and she had not yet said anything to the servants, as, of course, if she did they would have a right to insist on the matter being investigated in order that their characters might be cleared. It was a most unpleasant situation, apart from the loss of the valuable jewels, which had been given to her a few days previously as a birthday present. She was in the position of being compelled to conceal her loss for fear of bringing the guilt home to a member of her family."

"And whom does she suspect?" I asked.

"The young gentleman who is paying such marked attention yonder to the pretty girl in the red tie—her stepson, Mr. Claude Charrington," answered Dorcas, picking up her glasses and surveying the "scenery."

"Why does she suspect him?" I asked, following her gaze.

"Mrs. Charrington tells me that her stepson has lately caused his father considerable anxiety owing to his extravagance and recklessness. He has just left Oxford, and is going to the Bar, but he has been very erratic, and lately has evidently been pressed for money. Mrs. Charrington is very fond of him, and he has always appeared to return her affection, and has frequently come to her with his troubles. Mr. Charrington is an irritable man, and inclined to be severe with his son, and the stepmother has frequently acted as peacemaker between them. She has always endeavoured to make Claude look upon her as his own mother.

"A few days before the robbery was discovered Claude laughingly told her that he was 'in a devil of a mess' again, and that in order to get a little ready money to carry on with he had had to pawn his watch and chain for ten pounds. His father had recently given him a sum of money to satisfy some pressing creditors, but had insisted on deducting a certain amount monthly from his allowance until it was paid. Claude showed Mrs. Charrington the ticket for the watch and chain, and jokingly said that if things didn't get better with him he would have to give up all idea of the Bar and go to South Africa and look for a diamond mine. He had told her that he hadn't dared tell the Governor how much he owed, and that the assistance had only staved off the more pressing of his creditors.

"Mrs. Charrington urged him to make a clean breast of everything on his father's return. He shook his head, and presently laughed the matter off, saying perhaps something would turn up. He wasn't going to the Governor again if he could possibly help it.

"That was the situation of affairs two days before the robbery was discovered. But two days after he had let his stepmother see the ticket for his watch and chain, Claude Charrington was in funds again. Mrs. Charrington discovered it quite accidentally. Claude took out a pocket-book at the breakfast table to look for a letter, and in taking out an envelope he pulled out a packet of banknotes. He said, 'Oh, I've had a stroke of luck,' but he coloured up and looked confused. That evening Mrs. Charrington—who, by the bye, I should tell you was in mourning for her brother, who had just died in India—went to her jewel case, and to her horror discovered that a diamond and ruby bracelet, a diamond and ruby pendant, and a diamond lizard had disappeared. The cases were there, but empty.

"Instantly the idea occurred to her that Claude, knowing she was in mourning, and not likely to wear the jewels for some time, had abstracted them and pawned them—perhaps intending to put them back again as soon as he could get the money.

"She was strengthened in her suspicion by his acquisition of banknotes at a time when, according to his own account, he had pawned his watch to tide over until his allowance became due; his confusion when she noticed the banknotes; and finally by her suddenly remembering that two evenings previously after she had dressed for dinner and was in the drawing-room, she had gone upstairs again to fetch her keys, which she remembered having left on the dressing-table. Outside her room she met Claude with his dog, a fox-terrier, at his heels.

"'I've been hunting all over the place for Jack, Mater,' he said, 'and I heard him in your room. The little beggar was scratching away at the wainscoting like mad. There must be rats there. I had to go in to get him away—I was afraid he'd do some damage.'

"Mrs. Charrington found her keys on the dressing-table, and thought no more of Claude and his explanation until she missed the jewellery. Then it occurred to her that Claude had been in her room and had had an opportunity of using her keys, which not only opened the drawer in which she kept her jewel case, but the case itself."

Dorcas finished her story, and I sat for a moment gazing at the young fellow, who seemed supremely happy. Could it be possible that if he were guilty his crime could trouble him so little?

"The circumstances are very suspicious," I said, presently, "but don't you think Mrs. Charrington ought at once to have taxed her stepson, and given him an opportunity of clearing himself?"

"He would naturally have denied the charge under any circumstances. But presuming him to be innocent, the bare idea that his stepmother could have thought him guilty would have been most painful to him. That is the sort of mistake one can never atone for. No, Mrs. Charrington did the wisest thing she could have done. She decided, if possible, to be sure of his guilt or innocence before letting anyone—even her husband—know of her loss."

"And how far do your investigations go in other directions?"

"So far, I am still in the dark. I have had every opportunity of mixing with the servants and studying them, and I don't believe for a moment that they are concerned in the matter. The footman bets, but is worried because he has not paid back a sovereign he borrowed last week to put on a 'dead cert.,' which didn't come off. The lady's maid is an honourable, high-minded girl, engaged to be married to a most respectable man who has been in a position of trust for some years. I cannot find the slightest suspicious circumstances connected with any of the other servants."

"Then you are inclined to take Mrs. Charrington's view?"

"No, I am not. And yet—— Well, I shall be able to answer more definitely when I have found out a little more about that young lady with the red tie. I have had no opportunity of making inquiries about her. I found out that Claude Charrington was coming to the 'Star and Garter' this morning when Johnson came downstairs with a telegram to the manager, 'Reserve window table for two o'clock'; and when I got here the little party were already at luncheon."

"But the young lady may have nothing to do with the matter. When a young man pawns someone else's jewellery to provide himself with ready money, surely the last person he would tell would be the young lady he is entertaining at the 'Star and Garter.'"

"Quite so," said Dorcas, "but I have seen the young lady rather more closely than you have. I sat at the next table to them in the restaurant. Let us take a little stroll and pass them now."

Dorcas rose, and with her parasol shading her face strolled down on the terrace, and I walked by her side.

As we passed quite close to Claude Charrington and his friends I looked at the young lady. The end of her red necktie was fastened to the shirt with a diamond lizard.

"Good heavens!" I said to Dorcas when we were out of hearing, "is that part of the missing jewellery?"

"If it is not, it is at least a curious coincidence. Claude Charrington has access to his stepmother's room and the keys of her jewel case. Jewellery is missing. One of the articles is a diamond lizard. He is here to-day with a young lady, and that young lady has on jewellery which exactly answers the description of one of the missing articles. Now you know why I am going to find out a little more concerning that young lady and her female companion."

"Do you want an 'assistant'?" I said eagerly.

Dorcas smiled. "Not this time, thank you," she said; "but if I do later I will send you a wire. Now I think I must say good-day, for my 'people' look like making a move, and I mustn't lose them."

"Can't I see you this evening?"

"No, this evening I expect I shall be back at Mrs. Charrington's—you forget I am only a parlour-maid with a day out."

Dorcas nodded pleasantly, and I took the hint and left her.

A few minutes later I saw the Charrington party going back into the hotel, and Dorcas Dene following them at a respectful distance.

I sat down once again on my old seat and fell into a reverie, which was interrupted by Karl the waiter, who came ostensibly to know if there was anything he could get me, but really to have a few minutes' chat on his favourite subject—the Turf. Did I know anything good for to-morrow at Sandown?

I told Karl that I did not, and then he told me that he had had a good tip himself—I ought to get on at once. I shifted the conversation from the Turf to general gossip, and then quite innocently I asked him if he knew who the people were who had lunched at the window table and had just left the terrace.

Oh, yes, he knew the young gentleman. That was Mr. Claude Charrington. He was a frequent customer and had often given Karl a good tip. Only a few days ago he had given him a horse at long odds and it had come off.

"And the young lady with the red tie?"

Karl wasn't quite sure—he had seen her only once or twice before. He thought the young lady was an actress at one of the Comic Opera theatres. The elder lady used to be often there years ago, but she hadn't been for some time until to-day. He remembered her when she was one of the handsomest women of the day.

I lit a cigarette and said carelessly that I supposed they came with Mr. Charrington.

"No," said Karl; "they were here when he came, and he seemed rather surprised to see the elder lady. I suppose," said Karl, with a grin, "the young gentleman had only invited the younger lady to lunch, and he thought that two was company and three was none, as your English proverb says."

A white napkin waved from the balcony of the restaurant summoned Karl back to his duties, and looking at my watch I found that it was four o'clock, and time for me to make a start for town, where I had an appointment at six.

I thought of nothing but the mystery of the Charrington jewellery in the train, but when I got out at Waterloo I was still unable to find any theory which would satisfactorily reconcile the two opposing difficulties. If Claude Charrington had stolen his stepmother's jewellery to raise money on it he wouldn't have given it away; and if he had given it away it could have nothing to do with his sudden possession of a bundle of banknotes, which his stepmother considered one of the principal proofs of his guilt.

* * * * * * *

Two days later I received a telegram just before noon:

"Marble Arch, four o'clock.—DORCAS."

I was there punctually to the time, and a few minutes later Dorcas joined me, and we turned into the park.

"Well," I said, "you've found out who the young lady is. You've traced the jewellery—and I suppose there can be no doubt that Claude Charrington is the culprit?"

"I've found out that the young lady is a Miss Dolamore. She is a thoroughly good girl. Her mother, the widow of a naval officer, is in poor circumstances and lives in the country. Miss Dolamore, having a good voice, has gone on the stage. She is in lodgings in Fitzroy Street, Fitzroy Square. The house is kept and let out in apartments by an Italian, one Carlo Rinaldi, married to an English woman—the English woman is the woman who was with Miss Dolamore at the 'Star and Garter' that day."

"Then the elder woman was her landlady?"

"Yes."

"And Claude Charrington is in love with Miss Dolamore!"

"Exactly. They have been about together a great deal. He calls frequently to see her and take her out. It is understood in the house that they are engaged."

"How have you ascertained all this?"

"I visit the house. The second

"Then of course it's quite clear that Claude Charrington gave Miss Dolamore that diamond lizard. Have you found out if she has the bracelet and the pendant too? If she hasn't, the lizard may be merely a coincidence. There are plenty of diamond lizards about."

"The bracelet and the pendant are at Attenborough's. They were pawned some days ago by a person giving the name of Claude Charrington and the Charringtons' correct address."

"By Claude Charrington, of course?"

"No; whoever the guilty party is it is not Claude Charrington."

"Not Claude Charrington!" I exclaimed, my brain beginning to whirl. "What do you mean? The jewels were in Mrs. Charrington's case—she misses them—one article is in the possession of Claude's sweetheart, a young lady who is on the stage, and the others are pawned in the name of Claude Charrington, and yet you say Claude Charrington had nothing to do with it. Whatever makes you come to such a strange conclusion as that?"

"One fact—and one fact alone. On the very day that we were at Richmond Mr. Charrington, the barrister, returned to town. He arrived in the afternoon, and seemed worried and out of sorts. His wife had made up her mind to tell him everything, but he was so irritable that she hesitated.

"Yesterday she had an extraordinary story to tell me. When her husband had gone to his chambers in the morning she began to worry about not having told him. She felt that she really ought to do so now he had come back. She went to her jewel case to go over everything once more in order to be quite sure nothing else was missing before she told him her trouble, and there, to her utter amazement, was all the missing property, the bracelet, the pendant, and the diamond lizard."

"Then," I said with a gasp, "Claude Charrington must have redeemed them and put them back!"

"Not at all. The diamond lizard is still in Miss Dolamore's possession, and the diamond bracelet and pendant are still at Attenborough's."

I stared at Dorcas Dene for a moment in dumb amazement. When at last I could find words to speak my thoughts I exclaimed: "What does this mean? What can it mean? We shall never know now because Mrs. Charrington has her jewels again and your task is ended."

"No—my task is a double one now. Mrs. Charrington engaged me to find out who stole her jewels. When I can tell her that I shall be able to tell her also who endeavoured to conceal the robbery by putting a similar set back in their place. This is no common case of jewel stealing. There is a mystery and a romance behind it—a tangled skein which a Lecoq or a Sherlock Holmes would have been proud to unravel—and I think I have a clue."

VI. THE PRICK OF A PIN

When Dorcas told me that she had a clue to the mystery of the Charrington jewels, I pressed her to tell me what it was.

"All in good time," she said; "meanwhile you can help me if you will. There is a club in —— Street, Soho, of which most of the members are foreigners. It is called 'The Camorra.' Carlo Rinaldi, the landlord of the house in which Miss Dolamore is staying, spends his evenings there. It is a gambling club. Visitors are admitted, and the members are by no means averse to female society. I want you to take me there to-morrow night."

"But, my dear Dorcas—I—I'm not a member."

"No, but you can be a visitor."

"But I don't know a member."

"Oh, nonsense," said Dorcas, "you know a dozen. Ask your favourite waiter at any foreign restaurant, and he will be pretty sure to be able to tell you of one of his fellow-employés who can take you."

"Yes," I said, after I had thought for a moment. "If that is so, I think I can arrange it."

"That's a bargain, then," she said. "I will meet you and your friend the member outside Ketner's, in Church Street, to-morrow night at ten o'clock. Till then, good-bye."

"One question more," I said, retaining the hand that was placed in mine. "I assume that your object in going to this club is to watch Miss Dolamore's landlord; but if you have taken his second floor, won't he recognise you and be suspicious?"

Dorcas Dene smiled. "I'll take care there is no danger of his recognising the lady of the second floor at the Camorra to-morrow night. And now, good afternoon. The Charringtons dine at eight, and I have to wait at table to-night."

Then, with a little nod of adieu, she walked quickly away and left me to think out my plans for capturing a member of the Camorra.

* * * * * * *

I had very little difficulty in finding a waiter who was a member. He turned up in a very old acquaintance, Guiseppe, of a well-known Strand café and restaurant. Guiseppe easily obtained an evening off, but he demurred when I told him that I wanted him to introduce a lady friend of mine as well as myself to the club. He was nervous. Was she a lady journalist? I pacified Guiseppe, and the preliminaries were satisfactorily arranged, and at ten o'clock, leaving Guiseppe round the corner, I strolled on to Ketner's, and looked for Dorcas Dene.

There was no trace of her, and I was beginning to think she had been detained, when a stout, rather elderly-looking woman came towards me. She was dressed in a black silk dress, the worse for wear, a shabby black velvet mantle, and a black bonnet, plentifully bedecked with short black ostrich plumes, upon which wind and weather had told their tale. At her throat was a huge cameo brooch. As she came into the light she looked like one of the German landladies of the shilling table d'hôte establishments in the neighbourhood. The woman looked at me searchingly, and then asked me in guttural broken English if I was the gentleman who had an appointment there with a lady.

For a moment I hesitated. It might be a trap.

"Who told you to ask me?"

"Dorcas Dene."

"Indeed," I said, still suspicious, "and who is Dorcas Dene?"

"I am," replied the German frau. "Come, do you think Rinaldi will recognise his second floor?"

"My dear Dorcas," I gasped, as soon as I had recovered from my astonishment, "why did you leave the stage?"

"Never mind about the stage," said Dorcas. "Where's the member of the Camorra?"

"He's waiting at the corner."

I had all my work to keep from bursting into a roar of laughter at Guiseppe's face when I introduced him to my lady friend, "Mrs. Goldschmidt." He evidently didn't think much of my choice of a female companion, but he bowed and smiled at the stout, old-fashioned German frau, and led the way to the club. After a few rough-and-ready formalities at the door, Guiseppe signed for two guests in a book which lay on the hall table, and we passed into a large room at the back of the premises, in which were a number of chairs and small tables, a raised platform with a piano, and a bar. A few men and women, mostly foreigners, were sitting about talking or reading the papers, and a sleepy-looking waiter was taking orders and serving drinks.

"Where do they play cards?" I said.

"Upstairs."

"Can I play?"

"Oh, yes, if I introduce you as my friend."

"May ladies play?"

Guiseppe shrugged his shoulders. "If they have money to lose—why not?"

I went to Dorcas. "Is he here?" I whispered.

"No; he's where the playing is, I expect."

"That's where we are going," I said.

Dorcas rose, and she and I and Guiseppe made our way to the upstairs room together.

On the landing we were challenged by a big square-shouldered Italian. "Only members pass here," he said, gruffly.

Guiseppe answered in Italian, and the man growled out, "All right," and we entered a room which was as crowded as the other was empty.

One glance at the table was sufficient to show me that the game was an illegal one.

Dorcas stood by me among a little knot of onlookers. Presently she nudged my elbow, and I followed her glance. A tall, swarthy Italian, the wreck of what must once have been a remarkably handsome man, sat scowling fiercely as he lost stake after stake. I asked her with my eyebrows if she meant this was Rinaldi, and she nodded her head in assent.

A waiter was in the room taking orders, and bringing the drinks up from the bar below.

"Order two brandies and sodas," whispered Dorcas.

Then Dorcas sat down at the end of the room away from the crowd, and I joined her. The waiter brought the brandies and sodas and put them down. I paid unchallenged.

A dispute had arisen over at the big table, and the players were shouting one against the other. Dorcas took advantage of the din, and said, close to my ear, "Now you must do as I tell you—I'm going back to the table. Presently Rinaldi will leap up; when he does, seize him by the arms, and hold him—a few seconds will do."

"But——"

"It's all right. Do as I tell you."

She rose, taking her glass, still full of brandy and soda, with her. I wondered how on earth she could tell Rinaldi was going to jump up.

The stout old German frau pushed in among the crowd till she was almost leaning over Rinaldi's shoulder. Suddenly she lurched and tilted the entire contents of her glass into the breast pocket of his coat. He sprang up with a fierce oath, the rest of the company yelling with laughter. Instantly I seized him by the arms, as though to prevent him in his rage striking Dorcas. The German woman had her handkerchief out. She begged a thousand pardons, and began to mop up the liquid which was dripping down her victim. Then she thrust her hand into his inner pocket.

"Oh, the pocket-book! Ah, it must be dried!"

Quick as lightning she opened the book, and began to pull out the contents and wipe them with her handkerchief.

Carlo Rinaldi, who had been bellowing like a bull, struggled from me with an effort, and made a grab at the book. Dorcas, pretending to fear he was going to strike her, flung the book to him, and, giving me a quick glance, ran out of the room and down the stairs, and I followed, the fierce oaths of Rinaldi and the laughter of the members of the Camorra still ringing in my ears.

I hailed a cab and dragged Dorcas into it.

"Phew!" I said, "that was a desperate game to play, Dorcas. What did you want to see in his pocket-book?"

"What I found," said Dorcas quietly. "A pawnticket for a diamond and ruby bracelet and a diamond and ruby pendant, pawned in the name of Claude Charrington. I imagined from the description given me at the pawnbroker's that the man was Rinaldi. Now I know that he pawned them on his own account, because he still has the ticket."

"How did he get them? Did Claude Charrington give them to him or sell them to him, or——"

"No. The person who gave them to Rinaldi is the person who put the new set back in their place."

"Do you know who that is?"

"Yes, now. The fact of Rinaldi having the ticket in his possession supplied the missing link. You remember my telling you how Mrs. Charrington discovered just as she was going to tell her husband of her loss that the jewels were no longer missing."

"Yes; she found them the day after her husband's return."

"Exactly. Directly she told me I asked her to let me examine the drawer in which the jewel-case was kept. It lay at the bottom of the left-hand top drawer of a chest of drawers near the bed. It was locked, and the keys were carried about by Mrs. Charrington and put on the dressing-table at night after the bedroom door had been bolted.

"As soon as possible I went with Mrs. Charrington to the bedroom. Then I took the keys and opened the drawer. The box she told me was where it was always kept, at the bottom of the drawer underneath layers of pocket-handkerchiefs and several cardboard boxes of odds and ends which she kept in the drawer.

"I turned the things over carefully one by one, and on a handkerchief which lay immediately on the top of the jewel-case I saw something which instantly attracted my attention. It was a tiny red spot, which looked like blood. Opening the jewel-case, I carefully examined the jewellery inside, and I found that the pin of the diamond lizard extended slightly beyond the brooch and was very sharp at the point.

"I then examined the keys, and upon the handle of the key of the jewel-box I found a tiny red smear. What had happened was as clear as noonday. Whoever had put the jewels back had pricked his or her finger with the pin of the lizard. The pricked finger had touched the handkerchief and left the little blood-mark. Still bleeding slightly, the finger had touched the key in turning it in the lock of the jewel-case.

"Saying nothing to Mrs. Charrington, who was in the room with me, I cast my eyes searchingly in every direction. Suddenly I caught sight of a tiny mark on the sheet which was turned over outside the counterpane. It was a very minute little speck, and I knew it to be a blood-stain.

"'Who sleeps on this side near the chest of drawers?' I asked Mrs. Charrington, and she replied that her husband did.

"'Did he hear no noise in the night?'

"'In the night!' she exclaimed with evident astonishment. 'Good gracious! no one could have come into the room last night without our hearing them. Whoever put my jewels back did it in the daytime.'

"I didn't attempt to undeceive her, but I was certain that Mr. Charrington himself had replaced the jewels. He had probably done it in the night when his wife was fast asleep. A night-light burnt all night—she was a heavy sleeper—he had risen cautiously—the matter was a simple one. Only he had pricked his finger with the brooch-pin."

"But what was his motive?" I cried.

"His motive! That was what I wanted to make sure to-night, and I did so when I found the pawnticket in the name of Claude Charrington in the pocket-book of Carlo Rinaldi—Claude Charrington is the father's name as well as the sons."

"Then you think Rinaldi pawned the original jewels for Mr. Charrington? Absurd!"

"It would be absurd to think that," said Dorcas, "but my theory is not an absurd one. I have ascertained the history of Carlo Rinaldi from sources at my command. Rinaldi was a valet at the West End. He married a rich man's cast-off mistress. The rich man gave his mistress a sum of money as a marriage portion. He gave her up not only because he had ceased to care for her, but because he had fallen in love and was about to marry again. He was a widower. He lost his first wife when their only child, a son, was a few months old, and he was himself quite a young man. The mistress was Madame Rinaldi, the rich man was Mr. Claude Charrington."

"Well, where does that lead you?"

"To this. During the time that Mrs. Charrington is sure that the jewels were not in her case I trace them. I find the diamond lizard in the possession of a young lady who lodges in the house of Madame Rinaldi. I find the pendant and bracelet at Attenborough's, and to-night I have seen the pawnticket for them in the possession of Madame Rinaldi's husband. Therefore, there is no doubt in my mind that whoever took the jewels out of Mrs. Charrington's case gave them to the Rinaldis. I have proved by the prick of the finger and the blood-stain that Mr. Charrington put a similar set of jewels to those abstracted back into the empty cases in his wife's jewel-box, therefore he must have been aware that they were missing. Mrs. Charrington has not breathed a word of her loss to anyone but myself, therefore he must have been privy to their abstraction, and it is only reasonable to conclude that he abstracted them himself."

"But the lizard in Miss Dolamore's possession must have been given her by Claude, her sweetheart, and he was suddenly flush of money just after the theft—remember that!"

"Yes; I have ascertained how he got that money. Johnson, the footman, told me that the young fellow had given him a tip for the Leger. 'And he gets good information sometimes from a friend of his,' said Johnson. 'Why, only last week he backed a thirty-three to one chance, and won a couple of hundred. But don't say anything to the missis,' said Johnson. 'She might tell the governor, and Mr. Claude isn't in his good books just at present.'"

I agreed with Dorcas that that would account for the young fellow's confusion when his step-mother saw the notes, but I urged there was still the lizard to get over.

"I think that is pretty clear. The Irish housemaid tells me that Madame is very friendly with Miss Dolamore. I shouldn't be surprised if she went down to Richmond with her that day to show Claude the lizard and get him to buy it for more than it was worth. I know the Rinaldis were pressed at the time for ready money."

I confessed to Dorcas that her theory cleared Claude Charrington of suspicion, but it in no way explained why Mr. Charrington, senior, should send his former mistress his present wife's jewels.

At that moment the cab stopped. We were at Oak Tree Road. Dorcas got out and put out her hand. "I can't tell you why Mr. Charrington stole his wife's jewellery," she said, "because he hasn't told me."

"And isn't likely to," I replied with a laugh.

"You are mistaken," said Dorcas. "I am going to his chambers to-morrow to ask him, and then my task will be done. If you want to know how it ends, come to Eastbourne on Sunday. I am going to spend the day there with Paul."

* * * * * * *

The sunshine was streaming into the pretty seaside apartments occupied by the Denes, the midday Sunday meal was over, and Paul and Dorcas were sitting by the open window.

I had only arrived at one o'clock, and Dorcas had postponed her story until dinner was over.

"Now," said Dorcas, as she filled Paul's pipe and lighted it for him, "if you want to know the finish of the 'Romance of the Charrington Jewels,' smoke and listen."

"Did you go to Mr. Charrington as you said you would?" I asked as I lit my cigar.

"Smoke and listen!" said Dorcas with mock severity in her tone of command. "Of course I went. I sent up my card to Mr. Charrington.

"Ushered into his room he gave me a searching glance and his face changed.

"'This card says 'Dorcas Dene, Detective'?' he exclaimed. 'But surely—you—you are very like someone I have seen lately!'

"'I had the pleasure of being your wife's parlour-maid, Mr. Charrington,' I replied quietly.

"'You have dared to come spying in my house!' exclaimed the barrister angrily.

"'I came to your house, Mr. Charrington, at your wife's request. She had missed some jewellery which you presented to her a day or two before you went into the country. Circumstances pointed to your son Claude as the thief, and your wife, anxious to avoid a scandal, called me in instead of the police.'

"The barrister dropped into his chair and rubbed his hands together nervously.

"'Indeed—and she said nothing to me. You are probably aware that you have been investigating a mare's nest—my wife's jewellery is not missing.'

"'No, it is not missing now, because when you returned from the country you put a similar set in its place.'

"'Good heavens, madame!' exclaimed Mr. Charrington, leaping to his feet, 'what do you mean?'

"'Pray be calm, sir. I assure you that I have come here not to make a scandal but to avoid one. After you gave your wife the jewellery, you for some reason secretly abstracted it. The jewellery you abstracted passed into the possession of Mrs. Rinaldi, whose husband pawned two of the articles at Attenborough's. As your wife is quite aware that for many days her jewellery was missing, I am bound to make an explanation of some kind to her. I have come to you to know what I shall say. You cannot wish her to believe that your son took the jewellery?'

"'Of course Claude must be cleared—but what makes you believe that I put the jewellery back?'

"'On the night you did it you pricked your finger with the pin of the lizard. You left a small bloodstain on the linen that was in the drawer, and when you turned down the sheet to get back into bed again your finger was still bleeding, and left its mark as evidence against you. Come Mr. Charrington, explain the circumstances under which you committed this rob— well, let us say, made this exchange, and I will do my best to find a means of explaining matters to your wife.'

"Mr. Charrington hesitated a moment, and then, having probably made up his mind that it was better to have me on his side than against him, told me his story.

"At the time that he kept up an irregular establishment he made the lady who is now Mrs. Rinaldi many valuable presents of jewellery. Among them were the articles which had resulted in my becoming temporarily a parlour-maid under his roof. When the lady married Rinaldi, he provided for her. But the man turned out a rascal, squandered and gambled away his wife's money, and forced her to pawn her jewellery for him. He then by threats compelled her to forward the tickets to her former protector, and implore him to redeem them for her as she was without ready money to do so herself. The dodge succeeded two or three times, but Mr. Charrington grew tired, and on the last occasion redeemed the jewellery and put it in a drawer in his desk, and replied that he could not return it, as it would only be pawned again. He would keep it until the Rinaldis sent the money to redeem it, and then they could have it.

"Then came his wife's birthday, and he wished to make her a present of some jewellery. He selected a bracelet and a pendant in diamonds and sapphires and a true-lovers'-knot brooch in diamonds, and ordered them to be sent to his chambers.

"He was busy when they came, and put them away for safety in a drawer immediately below the one in which he had some weeks previously placed the jewellery belonging to Mrs. Rinaldi. Mrs. Rinaldi's jewellery, each article in its case, he had wrapped up in brown paper and marked outside 'jewellery,' to distinguish it from other packets which he kept there, and which contained various articles belonging to his late wife.

"On the eve of his wife's birthday he found he would have to leave town for the day without going to his office. He had to appear in a case at Kingston-on-Thames, which had come on much sooner than he had expected. Knowing he would not be back till late at night, he sent a note and his keys to his clerk, telling him to open his desk, take out the jewellery which had recently been forwarded from Streeter's, and send it up to him at his house. He wished his wife many happy returns of the day, apologised for not having his present ready, but said it would be sent up, and she should have it that evening.

"The clerk went to the desk and opened the wrong drawer first. Seeing a neatly tied-up parcel labelled 'jewellery,' he jumped to the conclusion that it was the jewellery wanted. Not caring to trust it to a messenger, he went straight up to the house with it, and handed it to Mrs. Charrington herself, who concluded it was her husband's present. When she opened the parcel she noticed that the cases were not new, and supposed that her husband had bought the things privately. She was delighted with the jewellery—a bracelet and pendant in diamonds and rubies and a diamond lizard.

"When her husband returned to dinner he was horrified to find his wife wearing his former mistress's jewellery. But before he could say a word she kissed him and told him that these things were just what she wanted.

"He hesitated after that to say a mistake had been made, and thought that silence was best. The next day Mrs. Charrington received news of her brother's death, and had to go into deep mourning. The new jewellery was put away, as she would not be able to wear it for many months.

"That afternoon at Mr. Charrington's chambers Rinaldi called upon him. Desperately hard up, he had determined to try and bully Mr. Charrington out of the jewellery. He shouted and swore, and talked of an action at law and exposure, and was delighted to find that his victim was nervous. Mr. Charrington declared that he could not give him the jewellery back. Whereupon Mr. Rinaldi informed him that if by twelve o'clock the next day it was not in his possession he should summon him for detaining it.

"Mr. Charrington rushed off to his jewellers. How long would it take them to find the exact counterpart of certain jewellery if he brought them the things they had to match? And how long would they want the originals? The jewellers said if they had them for an hour and made a coloured drawing of them they could make up or find a set within ten days.

"That night Charrington abstracted the birthday present he had given his wife from her jewel-box. The next morning at ten o'clock it was in the hands of the jewellers, and at mid-day when Rinaldi called to make his final demand the jewellery was handed over to him.

"Then Mr. Charrington went out of town. On his return the new jewellery was ready and was delivered to him. In the dead of the night while his wife was asleep he put it back in the empty cases. And that," said Dorcas, "is—as Dr. Lynn, at the Egyptian Hall, used to say—'how it was done.'"

"And the wife?" asked Paul, turning his blind eyes towards Dorcas; "you did not make her unhappy by telling her the truth?"

"No, dear," said Dorcas. "I arranged the story with Mr. Charrington. He went home and asked his wife for her birthday present. She brought the jewels out nervously, wondering if he had heard or suspected anything. He took the bracelet and the pendant from the cases.

"'Very pretty, indeed, my dear,' he said. 'And so you've never noticed the difference?'

"'Difference?' she exclaimed. 'Why—why—what do you mean?'

"'Why, that I made a dreadful mistake when I bought them and only found it out afterwards. The first that I gave you, my dear, were imitation. I wouldn't confess to you that I had been done, so I took them without your knowing and had real ones made. The real ones I put back the other night while you were fast asleep.'

"Oh, Claude, Claude,' she cried, 'I am so glad. I did miss them, dear, and I was afraid there was a thief in the house, and I dared not tell you I'd lost them. And now—oh, how happy you've made me!'"

* * * * * * *

Two months later Dorcas told me that young Claude Charrington was engaged to Miss Dolamore with his father's consent, but he had insisted that she should leave Fitzroy Street at once, and acting on private information which Dorcas had given him, he assured Claude that diamond lizards were unlucky, and as he had seen Miss Dolamore with one on he begged to offer her as his first present to his son's intended a very beautiful diamond true-lovers'-knot in its place. At the same time he induced his wife to let him have her diamond lizard for a much more valuable diamond poodle with ruby eyes.

So those two lizards never met under Mrs. Charrington's roof, and perhaps, all things considered, it was just as well.

VII. THE MYSTERIOUS MILLIONAIRE

I had received an invitation to spend the evening at Oak Tree Road, but I had been detained by business, and it was past nine o'clock when my cabman, making a mistake in the number, pulled up at a house short of the Denes'. While I was feeling in all my pockets for the odd sixpence to make up the cabman's fare—as usual with the fraternity he had no change—the door opened, and an elegantly-dressed lady came hurriedly out.

She started back nervously as she saw me, and I at once jumped to the conclusion that it was a lady who was paying her first visit to a private detective, and was fearful that someone might see her and recognise her.

She seemed to hesitate for a moment, till she saw me hand the fare to the cabman, then she hailed him and got in, lifted the trap door, and said, "Drive to St. John's Wood Chapel."

"She'll tell him where to drive her when she gets to the chapel," I said to myself, as I stood and watched the cab out of sight.

The lady, in her agitation, had forgotten to pull the door to, so I entered without ringing, walked up the little garden path, and found Dorcas waiting for me in the hall with the house door wide open.

"You've been having a good look at my lady visitor, Mr. Saxon," she said with a smile. "Well, she will probably think you are another client."

"And pray how do you know that I have been having 'a good look,' as you call it, at your visitor?" I said laughingly.

"I heard your cab drive up just as I was letting her out; she left the door ajar, and you would have come in at once if you had not been otherwise engaged. You didn't even come in, you know, when the cab drove away, so I conclude that you looked after it for some time, probably making a mental note of the number."

"You have guessed exactly what passed in my mind. I saw you had an aristocratic visitor, and a nervous one, and I wondered if there was anything for me to do this time."

"I don't know yet," said Dorcas, "but come into the drawing-room. Mother is spending the evening with some friends of hers, and Paul has been alone for nearly an hour. My new client's first visit has been rather a long one."

Dorcas led the way to the drawing-room, where Paul was sitting on the sofa with Toddlekins, the bulldog, stretched out across his knees.

Paul put the dog gently down, and rising as I entered, held out his hand. "We expected you two hours ago," he said, "but better late than not at all. I thought Dorcas's visitor was going to stay for hours, and that you weren't coming, and that I should really begin to recognise the value of Mrs. Lester as a conversationalist in my solitary condition."

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," said Dorcas, taking her husband's arm, and drawing him gently down on the sofa beside her, "but it's always the way. Directly I've made up my mind to have a quiet evening with you, somebody is sure to call."

"Is it a case?" asked Paul.

"Yes, and I'm afraid it will be rather a difficult one; but it won't take me away from home altogether, thank goodness. At least, I hope not. But I'll tell you all about it, and see what you think. I haven't made up my mind yet how to start on my task."

"Oh, it isn't a pressing case, then?" I said. "I was hoping that I'd arrived just in the nick of time for an 'engagement.'"

"It isn't particularly pressing now," replied Dorcas, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, "but it will be at midnight, for at that hour I have to be under a lamp-post in Berkeley Square."

"Under a lamp-post in Berkeley Square at midnight! Then I'm sure Paul will agree with me that it is a case for my assistance. I'm to be under that lamp-post with Dorcas, am I not, Paul?"

Paul smiled. "That's for Dorcas to say, old fellow. She knows her business better than we do. But we'll leave the lamp-post for further consideration. Let us have the case, Dorcas."

"It is simple so far," said the famous lady detective, "but none the less mysterious for that. The lady who has just left me is the wife of Mr. Judkins Barraclough."

"What—the mysterious millionaire, who three years ago fell apparently from the clouds and descended on London in a shower of gold?—the Crœsus who seems to have discovered the royal road to the perpetual paragraph?"

"The same."

"Then the lady I met at the gate was Lady Anna Barraclough. He married her about a year ago. She was a young widow. Her first husband ran through all his money on the turf and left her very badly off when he died at the age of seven-and-twenty of—let me see, what did they call it?—typhoid, I think."

"Quite right," said Dorcas, "your account agrees with the short sketch of her career Lady Anna Barraclough has already given me."

"What could she have married a man like Judkins Barraclough for?—his money, I suppose. He must be five-and-forty, and he has all the worst qualities of the ostentatious parvenu. Is it about him that she has come to you?"

"Yes, poor girl—for she is only five-and-twenty now—she made me feel quite sorry for her when she told me her story. She has had a terrible experience of marriage. Her first husband she loved, and he spent every shilling of her money as well as his own. When Mr. Judkins Barraclough met her she was dependent on a married brother, the Earl of Dashton, whose wife detested her. When the millionaire proposed to her, the poor girl, worried and embittered by the constant humiliation of her dependent position, accepted his offer in the recklessness of despair. She didn't expect to be happy with a man whom she felt it was impossible she could ever love, but at least she hoped for peace. And now—guess why she has come to me to-night."

"To get a divorce, I should think. It would be about the best thing you could get for her, if all I hear of Mr. Judkins Barraclough's manners and habits is correct. I suppose he married her because he thought a wife who was a lady of title would be a good advertisement for him. Is it to get a divorce she has come to you?"

"No, Lady Anna has a haunting suspicion that the man she married is not her legal husband—that he had a wife living when he married her."

"Then if she thinks that why doesn't she go to the police?"

Dorcas shook her head. "You forget the man is a millionaire living in Berkeley Square—the police would hardly take up a charge against him made by his wife merely because she suspects. 'If I am really this man's wife,' said Lady Anna, 'I have no right to go to the police, for he is my husband. I have come to you to find out everything for me first. Oh, if you can only tell me that I am a free woman, that I owe no further allegiance to this wretch whom I despise—whom I loathe—you will have done me the greatest service one woman can do for another!' Poor girl! It was a cry from the heart. I felt sorry for her, and I promised that I would do anything I could to ease her mind, or, at any rate, to put an end to the dreadful state of suspicion and uncertainty in which she is at present living. Oh!" said Dorcas, with a shudder, "how horrible it must be, to have to go about before the world with a smiling face bearing the name of a man you detest—to have to submit alike to the curses and the caresses of a man whom in your heart you believe to be the husband of another woman!"

"And what is your idea?" I said, looking scrutinisingly at Dorcas's face.

"To-night I shall start on my voyage of discovery. I shall see Mr. Judkins Barraclough, the famous millionaire, and then I shall begin to trace him back and back until I find out——"

"What?"

"Who he was before he arrived in London from South America and set up as a millionaire."

"But you say Lady Anna Barraclough suspects her husband of being a bigamist—what has put such an unpleasant idea into her head?"

"Something that has occurred lately. Mr. Judkins Barraclough, who has been coarse and cruel for some time past, has suddenly altered his demeanour. He has lost all his old over-bearing brutality. He is nervous, and has evidently something on his mind. One night her ladyship retired late to her own apartment, which is separated from her husband's by his dressing-room. At two in the morning she heard the front door close, and a few minutes later she heard her husband enter the dressing-room. It seemed to her that he must be in pain, for she distinctly heard him every now and then utter a low groan.

"She rose and went quietly into the dressing-room and found Mr. Judkins Barraclough washing a wound in his right arm with Condy. Lady Anna Barraclough saw at once that the wound looked like a bite—the marks of teeth were distinctly visible.

"Mr. Judkins Barraclough stammered out an explanation. A savage dog had attacked him as he was coming through a back street on his way home. He had raised his umbrella to beat it off, and it had flown at him and fastened its teeth in his arm. Then, somewhat angrily, he told his wife to go back to her own room; he was all right.

"Instantly Lady Anna Barraclough's suspicions were aroused. If a dog had bitten him her husband would have gone to a doctor's at once and had the wound dressed. Why should he come home and attend to it himself? There was only one solution—that the bite had been received under circumstances which he would be unable to explain satisfactorily."

"Ah," said Paul, "it is a woman who bites as a rule, not a man."

"Yes," replied Dorcas, "that was her ladyship's idea. Her husband had been bitten by a woman, and a woman only bites when she is mad with rage and her hands are being held.

"Since that night Mr. Judkins Barraclough had been out nearly all day and has not returned till late. But he has not ordered his carriage to take or fetch him on one single occasion. These circumstances aroused her ladyship's suspicions that something was wrong, and that there was trouble in which a woman was concerned. Her husband had evidently quarrelled with one who had attacked him.

"The attack—and what else could the bitten arm suggest?—would hardly be that of a mistress. A millionaire is not so shabbily treated in his gallantries, because a millionaire of the Judkins Barraclough type is only attractive on account of his wealth, and to bite a millionaire's arm is not exactly the way to retain his good graces. The man's altered demeanour, his evident fear of something, the bitten arm, the long absences from home, and the non-employment of the carriages and horses all point, in Lady Anna's idea, to one thing—the power of some woman to interfere with him, perhaps to ruin him. Supposing in the old days, before he became wealthy, this man had a wife whom he had left in poverty, and she had discovered him, a wealthy bigamist, that would account for everything. But," said Dorcas, quietly, "supper's ready, and after supper I must be off."

Paul lifted his sightless eyes to his wife's face.

"There's a little invitation I should like you to give our guest to-night," he said, "I'm sure he'd like it, and I'm sure he deserves it."

"And what is that, dear?"

"Mrs. Dorcas Dene requests the pleasure of Mr. Saxon's company at 11.45 for midnight, underneath the lamp-post immediately opposite the residence of Mr. Judkins Barraclough, in Berkeley Square."

Dorcas laughed quite a ringing little laugh.

"Of course, if you wish it, dear," she said.

Then turning to me with a quick resumption of her former seriousness of expression, she added:

"Honestly I shall be glad of your company, From what her ladyship has told me I don't think this South American millionaire is exactly the sort of wild animal for a woman to hunt alone."

* * * * * * *

It was half-past twelve when a hansom drove up to the door of No. —, Berkeley Square, and a gentleman with a long, loose summer overcoat got out and paid the cabman and ran up the steps.

Dorcas had told me that Mr. Barraclough would probably arrive in a cab, as for several nights recently he had not ordered the carriage to meet him anywhere, so Lady Anna had informed her.

Mr. Barraclough had let himself in with the latchkey before the cabman had pocketed his fare and picked up his reins to drive away.

"Now," said Dorcas, "we must find out where that man took Mr. Barraclough up. It is somewhere he doesn't want known. That is the reason he doesn't order his carriage to fetch him. It may be only a street corner. But wherever it is, it is the first step backwards towards the goal that lies far away in the past."

"But we can't tell the cabman to take us to where he picked his fare up, can we?" I said, hesitatingly.

"Leave that to me," replied Dorcas. "You call the cabman."

I obeyed, and the cabman turned his horse round and drew up to the kerb. Dorcas got half way in and then got out again and looked at the horse.

"You've been driving too fast, cabman," she said; "why, your poor horse is breathing quite hard."

"Lor' bless you, ma'am!" said the cabman, "that's nothing—that's his natural breathing! Why, he only come out of the yard half an hour ago, and I've only had one fare."

"One fare? It must have been a good journey by the look of the horse."

Then turning to me, she said:

"Don't let us take this cab—we'll get another—the horse is done up."

"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the cabman. "That's a good one. Why, how far do you think the horse has come?"

"Oh," said Dorcas, "perhaps from Hampstead or Brixton."

"Hampstead or Brixton!" exclaimed the driver, wrathfully. "This here horse came out of the yard in St. Pancras just afore twelve o'clock, and a gent hailed me as was coming out of a house in Burton Crescent, and I drove him here, and that's all the work my horse has done to-night."

"Oh, very well," said Dorcas. Then turning to me, she said:

"Give the man a shilling and let him go. I'm not going to ride behind that horse."

The man took the shilling and drove off, muttering to himself, and Dorcas and I strolled a little way along.

"He came out of a house in Burton Crescent," she muttered; "that's something."

"Why didn't you ask him which house?"

"Too risky. The man might think something was up and find Barraclough to-morrow and tell him, in hope of a reward. But I took the man's number in case I want him later."

"Very well. What are you going to do now?" I asked. "Are you going home?"

"No—let us go to Burton Crescent."

"What on earth's the good of that? You can't find out the house Mr. Barraclough came out of to-night. There's not the slightest clue."

"There may be. Did you notice that when he put his umbrella up to stop the cabman he held it in his left hand?"

"Well?"

"When he got out he shifted his umbrella to his right hand, and felt with his left hand in his left pocket for the silver. Mr. Judkins Barraclough is still feeling the effects of that bitten right arm."

"Possibly—probably. But how on earth can his being temporarily left-handed guide us to the particular house he came out of in Burton Crescent?"

"I don't say it will—but it may. Let us go."

We took a cab, and got out at the end of Burton Crescent. We walked entirely round it, Dorcas Dene going up the steps of each house in turn, and examining them carefully.

Suddenly she uttered a little cry of delight.

"This is the house," she exclaimed. "Look!"

She pointed to three or four rose leaves lying on the steps of No. —.

I looked at them bewildered, remembering that when Mr. Barraclough got out of the cab he had a large rose in the button-hole of his overcoat.

"I see the leaves," I said. "But what on earth made you imagine they would be there, and—and where does the left hand come in?"

"It's very simple," replied Dorcas. "I looked at Mr. Judkins Barraclough very carefully when he got out of the cab, and I noticed that the rose in his buttonhole was rather dilapidated. It had evidently been in contact with something, and several of the leaves were gone. Of course they might have dropped accidentally, but I instantly evolved a theory to account for the missing leaves. I glanced inside the cab while I was looking the horse up and down, there weren't any leaves there, so he hadn't crushed his rose in getting into it. If he had, some of the leaves would have fallen on the matting. I noticed that he used his left hand. The probability was that he hailed the cab with the umbrella in his left hand. The cabman said he was coming out of the house when he hailed him, so he would be on the steps at the time. Now, if you lifted your left hand hurriedly, as if hailing a cab that was passing, you would probably bring your arm up against the left side of your overcoat. Your arm would probably brush against a flower if you had one as large as a rose, and particularly if it projected as far forward as Mr. Barraclough's did. I said to myself, 'He might have knocked the leaves off that rose when he hailed the cab on a door-step in Burton Crescent.' My surmise fortunately turns out to be correct. Here are the rose leaves, and therefore this is the house."

"It's wonderful!" I said, "but after all, it's just one chance in a thousand."

"It is that one chance," replied Dorcas, quietly, "that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred brings the criminal into the hands of justice. Chance is the most successful detective the world has ever known."

Dorcas stepped back and looked up at the house.

"There are no lights anywhere," she said, "but we'll see what the inhabitants are like."

She seized the bell and rang it violently, and then gave a loud double knock. There was no sound inside the house. We waited a few minutes, then Dorcas knocked again, this time loud enough to wake up everybody in the Crescent. Still no one came, and the house remained in darkness.

"I'll try again," she said. "I'm sure to wake the people up on one side or other, and they'll think, perhaps, it's their knocker, and look out of the window."

Dorcas knocked this time for fully a couple of minutes, and at last she produced the desired effect.

A third floor window in the next house opened, and a woman put her head out.

"What's the good of your knocking there, a-frightening people out of their seven senses;" she called out angrily. "What do you want?"

"Mr. Robinson," replied Dorcas. "A relative of his is dying, and I've come to fetch him."

"You've come to the wrong house, then," said the woman, snappishly. "There ain't no Mr. Robinson there, 'cos the house is empty. Leastways, there ain't nobody sleepin' there."

"But Mr. Robinson was here this evening," replied Dorcas, unabashed.

"Oh, you mean the gent as has taken the place and ain't moved in yet, perhaps—I don't know his name. He ain't there now, I tell you. He only comes there now and then, and nobody's living there, and the tradespeople don't call. If you can't believe me, ask a policeman, only for goodness' sake leave off knocking. You're making yourself a noosance to the neighbourhood."

Dorcas thanked her informant, and we moved away. "Good-night," said Dorcas, as we got to the corner. "I'll take a cab and go home now. Mr. Barraclough is renting an empty house. I must find out why he does so."

"When shall we do that?"

"The day after to-morrow. I must have a couple of days to myself now. If you've nothing to do, come to Oak Tree Road in the evening the day after to-morrow, at ten o'clock."

I assured Dorcas that I should be delighted. I saw her into a cab, and wished her good-night, and went home, wondering to myself what on earth a millionaire with a magnificent establishment in Berkeley Square could want with an empty house in Burton Crescent.

* * * * * * *

During the afternoon of the appointed day I received a telegram—"Come evening dress. Dorcas."

When I arrived at Oak Tree Road at ten o'clock in the evening, I found Dorcas busily engaged in trying the wick of a dark lantern, and on the floor beside her lay an open brown paper parcel filled with goloshes.

"Good gracious," I exclaimed, "are you going burgling?"

"Something very like it," she replied, lighting the lantern to satisfy herself that it was all right. "Just try on those goloshes and see if any of them will fit over your boots."

"But what do I want with goloshes? It's a perfectly dry night."

"You are going burgling with me—that is, of course, if you are not afraid."

"Burgling in evening dress!" I exclaimed. "I'm not afraid to do anything that you tell me is right, but I haven't been brought up to the profession, you know."

I selected a pair of goloshes which I thought likely to suit, and found they fitted over my boots perfectly.

"That's all right—put them in that bag," said Dorcas, pointing to a black bag on the sofa. Then she blew the lamp out, and fastening it to a leather belt, fitted it round her waist.

"You look like a female policeman," I exclaimed, "but you're not going through the streets with that on!"

"Nobody will see it under my long cloak. Here is a box of silent matches, put that in the bag too."

I obeyed mechanically.

"Now," said Dorcas. "come to supper. Paul is in the dining-room waiting for us. We don't start till twelve."

"But where are we going?"

"To look over that empty house in Burton Crescent," replied Dorcas, quite calmly. "I have seen Lady Anna Barraclough to-day. Her husband wears his keys on a chain. The chances are that the key he uses to let himself into Burton Crescent will be on the bunch. He wouldn't carry it loose for fear of leaving it in his pocket when he changed his clothes, and perhaps forgetting it just when he wanted it. I shall have his keys directly he is asleep to-night, so Heaven grant him sweet repose directly he lays his head on the pillow. I reckon on having his keys before two o'clock in the morning."

"But how will you manage it?"

"I have arranged it with her ladyship. They occupy, you remember, two rooms separated by Mr. Barraclough's dressing-room. There he leaves all his clothes for his valet to brush and attend to in the morning. After he is asleep, Lady Barraclough will go quietly into the dressing-room from her room, and detach the keys from the chain, which is attached to his braces. I shall be on the opposite side of the square in a four-wheel cab, which will be driven by a cabman whom I frequently engage and whom I can trust. Sitting in the cab I shall avoid the attention of the policeman, who might otherwise wonder why you and I were loitering about so long in one place. But from the cab I shall be watching the windows of No. —, Berkeley Square. When I see a corner of the blind pulled up in Lady Barraclough's room, and a lighted candle shown for a moment, I shall know she has the keys."

"Yes," I said, "that's all very well. But how is she going to give you the keys?"

"She isn't—she is going to give them to you."

"To me!" I exclaimed; "where?—when?—how?"

"You will be strolling about smoking a cigar. Being in evening dress you will not attract the notice of any inquisitive policeman, should one happen to be about. You will watch for that signal, too, and when you see it, you will go up the steps of No. — as if you were going to ring to be let in.

"Lady Anna will come quietly downstairs, open the door, and give you the keys. Then you will walk away quietly into Piccadilly. My cab will follow and stop opposite Walsingham House. Then you will get in and we shall drive to the top of Burton Crescent. Our cabman will wait for us round the corner."

"In case of our having to make a run for it?"

"No—because at five o'clock in the morning Lady Anna Barraclough will creep downstairs again and feel in the letter box."

"What for—a note from you?"

"No—the keys. You will put them there when we have done with them. Then she will go back into her husband's dressing-room, fasten them on to the chain on his braces again, and he will get up in the morning and see them and never dream that they have been having a 'night out.'"

"And suppose the key of the house isn't on the bunch?"

"Then we shall have had our journey for nothing. But the reasonable supposition is that it will be. Now come to supper, and make a good one, for we have a rough night's work before us."

* * * * * * *

Two hours later a light flashed in a second floor window of No. —, Berkeley Square, and with a beating heart I went up the steps. The door opened quietly, and a woman's hand came cautiously through the opening and touched mine. I clutched the keys, slipped them into my pocket, and strode away in the direction of Piccadilly.

When the four-wheel cab stopped I got in and gave the keys to Dorcas. "So far, so good," she said. "Now with average luck we shall get into that empty house without attracting attention, and discover the millionaire's secret."

Dorcas was holding the keys up to the light that came through the cab window and examining them carefully.

"There are two latchkeys at any rate," she said. "Let us hope that one of them will unlock the cupboard in which Mr. Judkins Barraclough keeps his skeleton."

VIII. THE EMPTY HOUSE

As the cab made its way towards Burton Crescent I am not ashamed to confess that I had misgivings as to the success of our enterprise. Not having been brought up to burglary, I contemplated with something akin to nervousness my début as a "cracksman," and I pictured to myself the awkward predicament in which we should find ourselves if we were discovered by a watchful policeman, creeping about a house with goloshes over our boots and a dark lantern and silent matches in our possession.

I put the point to Dorcas. As we had probably the key of the house in Burton Crescent with us, why should we compromise our position by taking the implements of burglary with us?

"Because," said Dorcas, "it is better to be over-cautious than over-bold in my profession. If there should be anyone in the house I want to see them before they hear me, and that is why I have taken precautions with our boots and with our light."

"Do you think Mr. Barraclough has visited the house since we were there?"

"Yes; I watched the house for a short time last evening. A dark-complexioned, white-haired old gentleman, with a closely cropped white moustache and gold spectacles, let himself in about nine o'clock. No such person came out again. But towards midnight the door was opened, and a gentleman in a long grey overcoat came out. That person I did not see enter; but of course that is not conclusive, as I only commenced to watch about eight in the evening."

"And the person who came out was——?"

"Judkins Barraclough."

"Do you think the dark old man will be in the house to-night?"

"No," said Dorcas, in an emphatic tone, "I don't! But I have some more interesting information gathered during the last two days round the neighbourhood. The local tradespeople, who are always on the watch when the 'To Let' is taken out of the windows of a house, saw a van at the door delivering goods one day last week. The person who was superintending the disposal of the goods was an old gentleman with very white hair and gold spectacles, and a closely-cropped, white moustache. His face and hands were very dark, and he looked like a native of India in European clothes. The baker's man, seeing the door open and cases being delivered, presented his master's card. The Indian gentleman replied in excellent English that the family would not be coming in for a month or six weeks."

"Then this Indian gentleman must be the dark man you saw go in. Have you any clue to his identity?"

"I have ascertained certain particulars concerning him. To find out who delivered the goods at Burton Crescent was my next object. It is the general custom for policemen to take the name on a van that is delivering or removing goods from a house. Many robberies have been traced in this way. The constable on duty in the neighbourhood at that time was able to tell me to whom the van belonged. I went at once to a retired police sergeant whom I frequently employ to make ordinary private inquiries, and gave him instructions to find out where the van took the goods from, and if possible what they were.

"In a few hours he sent me his report. The van had brought two cases of brandy from a firm of wine merchants; hammers, saws, nails, etc., from an ironmonger's; half a dozen large indiarubber mats, and several rolls of wire netting. All these things, it was found, had been purchased and paid for by a white-haired gentleman in gold spectacles, having the appearance of a native of India. He gave his name and address as Mr. Aleem Mohammed, No. —, Burton Crescent."

"Well, you can soon find out who Mr. Aleem Mohammed is by the numbers of the notes he paid to the house agents. Banknotes are always useful clues."

"Mr. Aleem Mohammed has evidently thought of that," replied Dorcas. "I have traced the notes. They were obtained at a money-changer's at Charing Cross, by a gentleman answering to our Indian friend's description. He gave sovereigns for them. I have also been to the house agents. The house was let to Mr. Aleem Mohammed, who had paid a year's rent in advance in bank-notes, having no one in this country to whom he could refer."

"Don't you think," I said, after a pause, "the whole business may be capable of a very simple explanation? After all, Barraclough hailed a cab from the doorstep, and the cab drove him direct to his own residence. Would he, if he were mixed up in any crime in connection with this house, establish a direct trail?"

"I have been thinking that out myself," replied Dorcas; "but I am inclined to believe it was one of those slips that very cunning people do make occasionally. Coming out late at night, there was nobody about, and he hailed a cab barely thinking what he was doing, and said, 'Berkeley Square.' He stopped it as his own door with his umbrella mechanically, as one is in the habit of doing."

"And the Indian gentleman?"

"I believe is Barraclough. He is a dark man, browned with the sun of South America. He could easily carry a white wig and a false moustache and a pair of gold spectacles in a Gladstone bag coming out of the house at night. When he goes into it in the daylight as the Indian he can have that light overcoat and his flower in the same bag."

"But the night we saw him he had no bag."

"No; but he might easily have had the wig and moustache in his overcoat pocket. At any rate, I am pretty sure that Aleem Mohammed and Judkins Barraclough are the same person."

"That is your theory, but you may be wrong."

"Of course—I am not infallible."

The cab stopped suddenly. We had reached Mabledon Place, where the man had orders to pull up. We got out and Dorcas gave him instructions to wait for us where he was, saying we might be a couple of hours or more.

Taking the black bag with us, we made our way towards the Crescent, which was quite deserted. Dorcas took her goloshes out of the bag and put them on, and handed me mine, just as we got close to the house. Glancing round to see no one was about, she went noiselessly up the steps and tried the latchkeys. The first did not fit. It was probably the key of Berkeley Square. The second, to our intense relief, fitted perfectly. In a moment we were inside the hall and had closed the door noiselessly behind us.

Dorcas, taking the dark lantern from her belt, struck a silent match and lighted the wick.

The hall was bare, the stairs were uncarpeted, the whole atmosphere of the house suggested that it was uninhabited.

The keys were on the outside of the doors of the two rooms on the ground floor.

We opened the door of the front parlour. It was quite bare. Dorcas looked about it in every direction.

Then she turned the tap of the gas on. There was no sound.

"Gas cut off and meter taken away when last tenant left," said Dorcas. "The occupant must have used candles or a lamp."

"There's nothing in that," I said. "A good many people prefer them."

"Quite so. I hope he used candles. But let us have a peep at the next room."

Dorcas went first and opened the door of the back parlour.

The room was empty.

Dorcas looked carefully round it, then turned the light of the bull's-eye to the floor. Suddenly she stooped down.

"He's used this room," she said; "see, here is the tallow trail."

She pointed to some small blobs of tallow grease near the doors of a cupboard, which was in one corner of the room.

"He has used candles here," she said. "The candle has stood some time on the floor and guttered. That was while the person who had been carrying it was busy with both hands inside this cupboard."

The cupboard was locked, but the lock was a paltry one, and drawing a little instrument from the bag Dorcas soon had it open.

"How odd to take the trouble to lock up such rubbish as this!" exclaimed Dorcas, drawing out a bundle of ragged female clothing.

I stared at the articles as Dorcas held them up.

"Good gracious!" I said. "These are the clothes of some wretched creature who must have been in the last stage of poverty. The dress is ragged and mud-stained, the old red flannel petticoat almost in ribbons, the bonnet battered and black with grease. Faugh! put the things down."

Dorcas was not inclined to abandon her find so readily, but presently she put the rags slowly back in the cupboard. "I wonder what he's done with the body?" she said quietly.

I must confess that when Dorcas said that, I had an uncomfortable, creepy sensation. Could it be possible that such a wretched creature as these locked-up rags had once belonged to had been done to death in an empty house by the millionaire of Berkeley Square?

Dorcas must have divined my thoughts. "Are you wondering if the body of the woman who wore these things is concealed on the premises?" she said.

"Something of the sort was in my mind."

"And I don't know what to think," said Dorcas. "If the body is buried, why on earth were not these accusing rags buried with it?"

We went downstairs, and as we walked through the silent, deserted passages of the basement, I felt suspiciously uncomfortable. A rat ran squeaking behind the wainscot, and I am ashamed to say that in my overwrought nervous condition I couldn't help giving a little cry of alarm.

I tried to excuse my cowardice to Dorcas, but she stopped me.

"Don't apologise," she said. "I am a great deal more afraid of rats than I am of human beings."

We had passed into the back kitchen or scullery.

"He has been here," she said.

"How do you know?"

"By the tallow trail. The guttering candle has left its traces here."

She pointed out three blobs of tallow on the edge of the sink, and turned the light of the bull's-eye full on the trap. Then she passed her hand carefully over the surface and drew it away. A few exceedingly small damp atoms of pulpy water adhered to her palm. Dorcas examined the atoms carefully. "Probably red on one side and white on the other," she said. "I wonder where the bottles are?"

"What bottles?"

There were two short wooden shelves on each side of the sink. From the one on the left-hand side Dorcas took a chisel. It was evidently new, by the handle, but the edge was slightly rusty.

"The bottles that the labels have been scraped from with this chisel," she said. "The labels have been damped at the sink. It is the wet on the label that has rusted the chisel."

Suddenly she stooped down, and let the lantern flash round the room. Something among some rubbish in one corner attracted her attention. It was a small empty bottle, about the size of the bottles in which chemists sell toothache tincture. She picked the bottle up and examined it carefully.

"It has been washed out," she said, "and there is nothing to tell us what it contained."

"Does it matter?" I exclaimed. "It is hardly likely that Mr. Judkins Barraclough came here to wash bottles. That may have been done by the former tenants."

"No, bottles have been scraped here recently. Fragments of the pulped paper are still in the sink, and that chisel is probably one of the tools that the Indian gentleman ordered from the ironmonger's."

"Well, whatever the bottle contained we can't find it out here," I said.

"No, let's go into the front kitchen."

In the front kitchen there were two cupboards and a kitchen dresser. The cupboards were not quite empty—on one shelf was a packet of coffee and a bag of sugar. On the kitchen dresser was a brown paper package open at one end. It contained eleven boxes of ordinary matches—the twelfth half empty, was lying on one of the dresser shelves.

"The coffee bothers me," said Dorcas, "but the matches show that this is where the bottle washer lighted his candles of an evening. The candles themselves can't be far off."