A Mysterious Disappearance - Louis Tracy (good books for high schoolers TXT) 📗

61, same mansions, ground floor, and sixth door. They have been heard to quarrel seriously, and the dispute appears always to have concerned money. Corbett went to Monte Carlo early in December. His address there is ‘Hotel du Cercle,’ and the local post-office has a supply of stamped and addressed envelopes in which to forward his correspondence.

“At No. 61, as already described, resides Mrs. Gwendoline Hillmer. She lives in good style, rents a brougham and a victoria, and is either a wealthy widow or maintained by some one of means. She dresses well, and goes out a good deal to theatres, but otherwise leads a rather lonely life. Her most frequent visitor is, or was, a gentleman who looked like an officer in the Guards, and, much less often, the aforesaid Sydney H. Corbett. Her servants, except the maid, live out. The maid, who is a sort of companion, is talkative, but does not know much, or, if she does, will not speak.”

Bruce weighed these statements very carefully. They did not contain any positive facts that promised well for the elucidation of Lady Dyke’s visit to the mansions on that fateful November evening, but the absolute colorlessness of the reports concerning the other occupants rendered them quite impossible of individual distinction.

After an hour of puzzled thought the barrister finally decided upon a course of action. He would see Mrs. Gwendoline Hillmer, and trust to luck in the way of discoveries.

A quiet smile lit up his handsome, regular features as he proceeded to array himself in the most fashionable clothes he possessed, paying the utmost attention to every detail in a manner that amazed his valet.

When at last that worthy was despatched to the nearest florist’s for a boutonniere, he communicated his bewilderment to the hall-porter.

“My guv’nor’s going out on the mash,” he said confidentially. “I thought he would never look at a woman; but, bless you, Jim, we’re all alike. When the day comes we all rush after a petticoat.”

It was nearly six o’clock when Bruce walked down Victoria Street. For some reason, he did not call a hansom, and it was almost with a start that he found himself purchasing a ticket to Sloane Square at the Underground Railway office. At this precise hour and place he had last seen Lady Alice on earth. The memory nerved him to his purpose.

A few minutes later he pressed the electric bell of No. 61 Raleigh Mansions. As he listened to the slight jar of the indicator within, he smiled at the apparent fatuity of his mission.

He had one card, perhaps a weak one, to play, it was true, but he hoped that circumstances might prevent this from being tabled too early in the game.

The door opened, and a youthful housemaid stood before him, the simple wonder in her eyes showing that such visitors were rare.

“Is Mrs. Hillmer at home?” he said.

“I’ll see sir, if you give me your name.”

“Surely you know whether or not she is at home?”

The girl stammered and blushed at this unexpected query. “Well, sir,” she said, “my mistress is in, but I do not know if she can receive any one. She is dressed to go out.”

“Ah! that’s better. Now, take her my card, and say that while I will not detain her, my business is very important.” This with a sweet smile that put the flurried maid entirely at her ease.

The girl withdrew, after hesitating for a moment to decide the important question as to whether or not she should close the door in his face.

Another smile, and she did not.

He was thus free to note the luxurious and tasteful air of the general appointments, for the entrance hall usually reveals much of the characteristics of the inmates. Here was every evidence of refinement and wealth. All the display had not been lavished on the drawing-room.

As he waited, conscious of the fact that his colloquy with the servant had been overheard, a lady crossed from one room to the other at the end of the passage. Her smart but simple dress, and the quick scrutiny she gave him, as though discovering his presence accidentally, caused him to believe—rightly, as it transpired—that this was the maid-companion described by his assistant.

Not only had she obviously made her appearance in order to look at him, but the housemaid had carried his message to a different section of the flat.

The girl returned. “My mistress will see you in a few minutes,” she said. “Will you kindly step into the dining-room?”

He followed her, sat down in a position where the strong glare of the electric lamps would fall on any one who stood opposite, and waited developments.

The furniture was solid and appropriate, the carpet rich, and the pictures, engravings for the most part, excellent. This pleasant room, warmed by a cheerful fire, impressed Bruce as a place much used by the household. Books and work-baskets were scattered about, and a piano, littered with music, filled a corner. There were a few photographs of persons and places, but he had not time to examine these before the lady of the house entered.

Her appearance, for some reason inexplicable to the barrister himself, took him by surprise. She was tall, graceful, extremely good-looking, and dressed in a style of quiet elegance. Just the sort of woman one would expect to find in such a well-appointed abode, yet more refined in manner than Bruce, from his knowledge of the world, thought he would meet, judging by the hasty inferences drawn from his subordinate’s report. She was self-possessed, too. With calm tone, and slightly elevated eyebrows, she said:

“You wish to see me, I understand?”

“Yes. Allow me first to apologize for the hour at which I have called.”

“No apology is necessary. But I am going out. Perhaps you will be good enough not to detain me longer than is absolutely necessary.”

She stood between the table and the door. Bruce, who had risen at her entrance, was at the other side of the room. Her words, no less than her attitude, showed that she desired the interview to be brief. But the barrister resolved that he would not be repelled so coolly.

Advancing, with a bow and that fascinating smile of his, he said, pulling forward a chair:

“Won’t you be seated?”

The lady looked at him. She saw a man of fine physique and undoubted good breeding. She hesitated. There was no reason to be rude to him, so she sat down.

Claude drew a chair to the other side of the hearthrug, and commenced:

“I have ventured to seek this interview for the purpose of making some inquiries.”

“I thought so. Are you a policeman?” The words were blurted out impetuously, a trifle complainingly, but Bruce gave no sign of the interest they had for him.

“Good gracious, no,” he cried. “Why should you think that?”

“Because two detectives have been bothering me, and every other person in these mansions, about some mysterious lady who called here two months ago. They don’t know where she called, nor will they state her name; as if any one could possibly know anything about it. So I naturally thought you were on the same errand.”

“Confound that rascal White,” growled he to himself.

But Mrs. Hillmer went on: “If that is not your business, would you mind telling me what it is?”

Now Bruce’s alert brain had been actively engaged during the last few seconds. This woman was not the clever, specious adventuress he had half expected to meet. It seemed more than ever unlikely that she could have any knowledge of Lady Dyke or the causes that led to her disappearance. He was tempted to frame some excuse and take his departure. But the certainty that his missing friend had visited Raleigh Mansions, and the necessity there was for exploiting every line of inquiry, impelled him to adopt this last resource.

“It is not concerning a missing lady, but concerning a missing gentleman that I have come to see you.”

The shot went home.

Why, for the life of him, he could not tell, but his companion was manifestly disturbed at his words.

“Oh,” she said.

Then, after a little pause: “May I ask his name?”

“Certainly. He is known as Mr. Sydney H. Corbett.”

She gave a slight gasp.

“Why do you put it in that way? Is not that his right name?”

“I have reason to believe it is not.”

Mrs. Hillmer was so obviously distressed that Bruce inwardly reviled himself for causing her so much unnecessary suffering. In all probability, the source of her emotion had not the remotest bearing upon his quest.

Then came the pertinent query, after a glance at his card, which she still held in her hand:

“Who are you, Mr.—Mr. Claude Bruce?”

“I am a member of the Bar, of the Inner Temple. My chambers are No. 7 Paper Buildings, and my private residence is given there.”

“And why are you interested in Mr. Sydney Corbett?”

“Ah, in that respect I am at this moment unable to enlighten you.”

“Unable, or unwilling?”

He indulged in a quiet piece of fencing:

“Really, Mrs. Hillmer,” he said, “I am not here as in any sense hostile to you. I merely want some detailed information with regard to this gentleman, information which you may be able to give me. That is all.”

All this time he knew that the woman was scrutinizing him narrowly—trying to weigh him up as it were, not because she feared him, but rather to discover the true motive of his presence.

Personally, he had never faced a more difficult task than this make-believe investigation. He could have laughed at the apparent want of connection between Lady Dyke’s ill-fated visit to Raleigh Mansions and this worrying of a beautiful, pleasant-mannered woman, who was surely neither a principal nor an accomplice in a ghastly crime.

“Well, I suppose I may consider myself in the hands of counsel. Tell me what it is you want to know!” Mrs. Hillmer pouted, with the air of a child about to undergo a scolding.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Corbett’s present address?” he said.

“No. I have neither seen him nor heard from him since early in November.”

“Can you be more precise about the period?”

“Yes, perhaps.” She arose, took from a drawer in the sideboard a packet of bills—receipted, he observed—searched through them and found the document she sought. “I purchased a few articles about that time,” she explained, “and the account for them is dated November 15. I had not seen my—” She blushed, became confused, laughed a little, and went on. “I had not seen Mr. Corbett for at least a week before that date—say November 8th or 9th.”

Lady Dyke disappeared on the evening of the 6th!

Bruce swallowed his astonishment at the odd coincidence of dates, for he said, with an encouraging laugh, “Out with it, Mrs. Hillmer. You were about to describe Mr. Corbett correctly when you recollected yourself.”

Mrs. Hillmer, still coloring and becoming saucily cheerful, cried, “Why should I trouble myself when you, of course, know all that I can tell you, and probably more? He is my brother, and a pretty tiresome sort of relation, too.”

“I am obliged for your confidence. In return, I am free to state that your brother is now in the South of France.”

“As you are here, Mr. Bruce,” she said, “I may as well get some advice gratis. Can people writ him in the South of France? Can they ask me to pay his debts?”

“Under ordinary circumstances they can do neither. Certainly not the latter.”

“I hope not. But they sometimes come very near to it, as I know to my cost.”

“Indeed! How?”

Mrs. Hillmer hesitated. Her smile was a trifle scornful, and her color rose again as she answered: “People are not averse to taking advantage of circumstances. I have had some experience of this trait in debt-collectors already. But they must be careful. You, as a legal man, must know that demands urged on account of personal reasons may come