Second Series

by George R. Sims

Table of Contents

I. THE MISSING PRINCE

II. THE MORGANATIC WIFE

III. THE HOUSE IN REGENT'S PARK

IV. THE CO-RESPONDENT

V. THE HANDKERCHIEF SACHET

VI. A BANK HOLIDAY MYSTERY

VII. A PIECE OF BROWN PAPER

VIII. PRESENTED TO THE QUEEN

IX. THE ONE WHO KNEW

I. THE MISSING PRINCE

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

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

"But there's nobody in it."

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Dene here," I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But there has been nothing in the newspapers?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"None."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For his life?"

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

"Can you promise that?"

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

"And that result——?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?" said Dorcas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And where are you to find the hostage?"

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

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

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

I gripped the detective's arm in my excitement.

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

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

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

"We have done it—it is enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if our comrades are reprieved?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dorcas looked up at the great detective quietly.

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

"But how—how can we find him?"

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

Suddenly Dorcas grasped the inspector's arm.

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

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

II. THE MORGANATIC WIFE

The place was deserted.

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

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

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

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

"And what can he do then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We turned the door handles noiselessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's true."

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

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

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

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

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

"What can he do?"

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

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

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

"Certainly."

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

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

"No—leave it in his possession."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And there is such a woman?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Any money?"

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

"Where you left them, I hope?"

"Yes—as you wished it."

"Very well then. Can you drive?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vossche?"

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

"Escaped!—Vossche!"

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

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

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

"And take him to it?"

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

"And then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inspector looked at Dorcas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Jean Vossche, the Anarchist!

III. THE HOUSE IN REGENT'S PARK

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

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

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

"And if he succeeds in warning them?"

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

"How?"

"By killing him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then where are we going?"

"To Scotland Yard."

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At any rate there is someone who does."

"Who is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It might have been outside."

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

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

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

"But the Countess——"

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

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

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

The official touched a bell and a constable entered.

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

The constable saluted and retired.

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

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

Dorcas laid her hand gently on his arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If he has I shall know it!"

"You will know it—how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's that?" exclaimed the Superintendent.

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

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

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

Dorcas gave a little cry which she instantly suppressed.

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

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

There was a sound of a door opening.

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

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

"I have my revolver," replied the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is the Countess Elstein!" she said.

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

IV. THE CO-RESPONDENT

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

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

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

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

Gresham Bacon laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Not one word."

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

"Never."

"Have you ever spoken to him?"

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

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

"Absolutely, and on my oath."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours always,

"Dorcas Dene.

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

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

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

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

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

"No; this time it is a divorce."

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

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

"The husband?"

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

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

"Of course—that is why I am here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By all means," said Dorcas.

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

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

"And is that denied?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite true."

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

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

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

"I have no doubt it was so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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