Second Series (continued 2)

"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:

SHOOL

Tott

Mrs.

1/7

13642

Paid

"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:

Mrs. Coombes,

17, Hansworth Road,

Notting Hill Gate.

Sold for cash.

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.