A Mysterious Disappearance Part 25

In strange altruistic mood he asked himself why he did not spring from his chair, and, tearing the bracket from its supports, exhibit it to his fellow-worker, while he gave, in a few pa.s.sionate sentences, the information that would set the French police to scour the Mediterranean littoral until they found the _White Heather_. Of what matter to him was the suffering of a sister or sweetheart? Did the man who killed Lady d.y.k.e reck of these things? Yes, he would do it--

But a cry of triumph from the detective arrested the fateful words even as they trembled on his lips. "Here's a find!" was the shout. "Thinking is all very well, Mr. Bruce, but hard work is better. What do you make of that?"

"That" was a letter, which, in the manner known to many a puzzled householder, had slipped down behind a drawer in the cabinet, to be crushed against the wardrobe at the back, and lie there forgotten and unnoticed.

Even in his perturbed state the barrister could not help glancing at the crumpled doc.u.ment, first noting the date, October 15th of the year just closed, with the superscription, "Mountain b.u.t.ts, Wyoming." There was no envelope.

It was addressed to "Dear Bertie," and ran as follows:

"Your welcome note and its draft for fifty dollars came to hand last week. My sisters and I can never forget your generosity.

We know you are hard up, and that you can ill spare these frequent gifts, or loans, as you are pleased to call them. You and I have been in many a tight place, old chap, and I never knew you to fail either with hand or heart. And when we drifted into this ranch, on my advice, and nearly starved to death, it was you who were bold enough to cut yourself adrift so that you might make something to keep the pot boiling.

"But the tide is turning. You know my failing; this time I will try not to be too sanguine. There have been big gold discoveries in this country. It is now firmly believed that all our land is auriferous, and the scoundrel who sold us this beggarly ranch has tried to upset our t.i.tle. Thanks to your foresight, he was knocked out at the first round. So I may soon have big news for you. By Jove, won't it be a change if we both become rich! And won't we all have a time in Paris! However, I must not promise too much. I have been taught caution by repeated failures. Write by return, and say if this reaches you all right.

"Your faithful friend, "SYDNEY H. CORBETT."

"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, when Bruce had slowly mastered the contents of the letter.

"Think! I am too dazed to think."

"We can now learn all about him from America."

"About whom?"

"About Corbett, of course."

"Then did Corbett travel by the same mail as this letter in order to murder Lady d.y.k.e? It is dated October 15th, and she was killed November 6th. It takes twelve days, at the quickest, for a letter to come here from Wyoming. And Corbett, the writer of it, not the receiver, must have travelled in the same steamer, or its immediate successor."

Mr. White's face fell, but he stuck to his point:

"Anyhow, Corbett was here about that time. I have seen the secretary to the company that owns these flats. Corbett took the rooms for six months from September first. When asked for references he gave his sister's name, and as she banks with the National--and she has always paid her rent for five years--it was good enough. Still, I must confess that Corbett could hardly be in Wyoming in October if he lived here in September and in November."

The barrister answered between his set teeth: "Yes, it is rather puzzling."

"Perhaps the letter was left there as a plant."

"An elaborate one. It must have been conceived a month before the murder."

"But suppose it never came from Wyoming. We have no proof that it was written in America."

"We have proof of nothing at present."

"Well, Mr. Bruce, have you a theory? This is the place where you ought to shine, you know."

"I have no theory. I must think for hours, for days, before I see my way clear."

"Clear to what, sir."

"To telling you how, when, and where to arrest the murderer of Lady d.y.k.e."

"So this find of mine is of great importance?"

"Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently, but you will let me see it again if necessary?"

"With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You never returned that small bit of iron to me. You recollect I lent it to you some time since."

"Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax and give it to you."

"All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue my search. I may drop on something else of value."

Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detective had completely rummaged the cabinet. The reading of that queer epistle from Corbett to "Bertie"--from the real Simon Pure to the sham one--from one man to his double--had stopped him at the very threshold of disclosure.

The doc.u.ment impressed him as being genuine. If so, who on earth was Corbett, and why had Mensmore taken his name, if that was the solution of the tangle?

Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a conclusion. The web had closed too securely round Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Bruce could bide his time. Another week might solve many elements in the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.

The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing else in the cabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered into every vase on the over-mantel, picked with his penknife at the back of the frame to feel for other letters, and in doing so several times kicked the fender.

The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note the missing portion of the iron "dog."

"Surely," he thought, "he will see it now," as Mr. White bent to examine the ashes, and actually took the poker from the very support itself in order to rake among the cinders.

The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him in the face, escaped notice. He was quite wrapped up in his theory that Lady d.y.k.e had been killed at Putney, and not in Sloane Square.

At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the small apartments at the end of the main corridor.

Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and intently examined the iron rest with a strong lens. It bore no unusual signs in the locality of the break. Taking some wax from his pocket, he took a slight impression of the fracture.

When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting in his chair, still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes.

Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving all things as they found them. They said little on their way to Victoria Street, for Bruce was trying to explain Mensmore's att.i.tude at Monte Carlo, and the detective was considering the best use to which he could put that all-important letter.

Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion's silence to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands on the only direct piece of evidence yet discovered as to Corbett's ident.i.ty, and this in defiance of Bruce's spoken philosophy? He could afford to be generous and not to worry his amateur colleague with questions.

Thus they reached the barrister's chambers. Bruce asked the other to sit down for a moment while he obtained a model of the small lump of iron.

He took it into his bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtained at Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided perfectly.

He handed the bit of iron to White without comment.

The latter said: "It had better remain in my keeping now, sir, but if you want to see it again, of course I will be glad--"

"I shall never want it again," said Bruce, and his voice was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experienced such a strain as the last hours had given him. "It is an accursed thing. It has caused one death already, and may cause others."

"I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged," cried the detective, "for this affair is the warmest I have ever tackled.

However, I'll get him, as sure as his name's Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many addresses."

Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a moment at the door, said quietly, "Is your name Corbett?"

"No, it ain't, any more than yours is Black. See?"