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."
"Dorcas," I said, as I put the letter down, "you are wasting your
time. This woman is trying to impose upon you. She is simply hoping
against hope that you will find a possible explanation which she can
use in self-defence, and so pose as an injured woman unjustly
condemned."
"On the contrary," said Dorcas, "this may give me the very clue I
want to make the mystery clear and save my client. I shall go to
town the first thing to-morrow and see what else I can find in that
Handkerchief Sachet."
_V. THE HANDKERCHIEF SACHET_
While I was at breakfast the following morning at the "Old Ship,"
I inquired of my waiter if the lady and gentleman in No. 6 had left,
and was informed that they had gone to town by the nine o'clock
train.
I asked if they were returning that evening, and the waiter said
he didn't think so, as they had taken their luggage and given up
their apartments.
I was very anxious to know more of this mysterious divorce case,
and to ascertain how Dorcas fared in her investigations, and I was
therefore considerably disappointed to find that she was not expected
back again at Brighton. I had hoped that if anything was to be
ascertained in connection with the handsome co-respondent, Count von
Phalsdorf, I should have been permitted the privilege of assisting
Dorcas in her investigations.
And now the venue had been presumably shifted to London, and
although possibly the Count might remain at Brighton, I was wofully
in the dark as to Dorcas's views, and had not even the chance of
doing a little amateur Sherlock Holmes business on my own account.
After breakfast I strolled along the front as far as the Métropole,
and there, reclining peacefully in a basket-chair outside the hotel,
with a pipe in his mouth and a straw hat tilted over his eyes, I found
the dramatist who had introduced us to the Count at Gresham Bacon's
arch the previous evening.
Being old acquaintances, we naturally dropped into conversation, and
presently I led him on to the subject that was nearest my heart.
"I can't say much about the Count," said the dramatist. "I really
don't know much of him. I had been introduced to him at the Lyric
Club, and when I found him here and people nudging each other and
saying in a whisper who he was, I thought it would be rather a lark
to play him up a bit. That is why I brought him round to the arch
last night--deuced good-looking fellow, isn't he?"
"Yes; there is no denying his good looks. But what is your private
opinion of him? Apart from the present scandal hasn't he the
reputation of being a bad lot?"
"My dear fellow, I should say, from what I have heard, that
Phalsdorf is about as warm as they make 'em. I know that he ran up
scores wherever he lived when he first came to London, and that
people fought shy of him at cards, and I'm told that at one time he
was trying to borrow a bit wherever he could. But I suppose he must
have come into money, or made it up with his friends in Germany, who
are rich, for he certainly isn't hard up now. Before he went to Nice
last year and got into this pickle, he had paid up several men to
whom he owed small sums, and he seemed generally to be in good
feather. I know he's all right so far as coin goes now, for he has
the best of everything and he pays as he goes."
"This case will cost him something, at any rate."
"Yes, but he doesn't seem to trouble. The petitioner, you know,
didn't claim damages."
"Is he staying here long?"
"He tells me he thinks of being here a fortnight. Says his nerves
have given way a bit over this affair, and he wants to pull himself
together."
The hint that the Count intended to prolong his stay at Brighton
rather raised my hopes. I thought that there was every probability
that Dorcas would return to Brighton, especially as she had led me
to believe that she attached a good deal of importance to keeping
the Count under observation.
Two days passed and there was no sign of Dorcas. I made up my mind
that I would return to town. It was hot at Brighton, and the sea and
the sun together had begun to have their usual effect upon my liver,
and to make me irritable. The work I had brought with me to do lay on
the little writing-table in my sitting-room untouched. Every day I
saw the now notorious co-respondent on the front, either walking or
driving. If I went to the theatre, he was in the stalls; if I went to
the Brighton Alhambra, he was in a private box. The handsome Prussian
haunted me, and whenever I saw him I found myself wondering how
Dorcas Dene was getting on with her case, and what possible use a
handkerchief sachet could be against the overwhelming evidence of
the guilty love of Dorcas's unfortunate client and Count Heinrich
von Phalsdorf.
I had packed up my things with the assistance of the boots and an
obliging chambermaid. I had given notice at the office that I
intended to leave by the one o'clock train. I had an hour to spare,
and I went out, intending to take a stroll on the pier and get as
much fresh air as possible during the limited time now left me.
Just as I got to the pier-head I noticed Count von Phalsdorf coming
along, followed by a woman selling flowers. The woman's face was
bronzed, and she wore a white sun-bonnet. The Count was walking with
another gentleman--a man I had never seen before.
The flower-woman was persistent. The Count turned and told her he
did not want any flowers, but she still followed him up and begged
him to buy a button-hole. She had been out all the morning, and she
hadn't sold a flower.
She was a youngish woman, and a pretty woman. The Count, I suppose,
was too gallant a man to hold out long as she pleaded so earnestly,
and so at last he put his hand in his pocket and gave her a coin.
"Oh, no, sir," said the young woman, "I'm not a beggar. Please take
your flower." She picked out a mounted carnation, and, putting down
her basket, drew a pin from a cushion hanging to her apron-string,
gently took hold of the lappel of the Count's coat, and fastened the
flower into his button-hole. But she was not a deft florist, for she
bungled and made quite a long job of it before the flower was
properly fixed.
I had been watching the operation, for, as I have explained, the
Count had generally impressed himself upon me, and whenever I saw him
I always found myself staring hard at him. While the flower-woman
was fixing the button-hole a young man crossed from the opposite side
of the road and, holding out sixpence, asked for a flower.
He had to wait till the flower-woman had finished with the Count,
and so the four people--the Count and his friend, the flower-woman
and the young man--formed a little group round the flower basket for
a minute or two.
As soon as the Count's floral decoration was completed he moved away
with his friend. The young man who had come up as a voluntary
customer was politely attended to.
But to my surprise I noticed that the woman and the young man were
conversing together in a low tone during the operation.
The woman saw that I was watching her, and, turning her head, she
gave a glance which nearly caused me to tumble backwards over the
rail against which I was leaning.
That glance was an instantaneous revelation. The flower-woman in the
sun-bonnet was Dorcas Dene!
Before I had recovered from my astonishment the young man moved away
and Dorcas came over to me.
"Buy a button-hole, sir?" she said. Then, without waiting for my
reply, she whispered, "I'll come to the 'Old Ship' this evening at
eight," and was gone.
Needless to say I returned to the hotel at once and unpacked--that
is a process I can always accomplish without the aid either of the
chambermaid or the boots--and sent word to the office that I had
changed my mind and should not be leaving at present.
Soon after eight o'clock the waiter came up to my sitting-room and
said that a lady wished to see me, and a minute later Dorcas Dene
--not, I am glad to say, attired as a hawker of flowers--was sitting
in the easy-chair and enjoying my confession of the turn which the
sudden revelation of the flower-woman's identity had given me that
morning.
"It was a good plan as it turned out," she said, "but it bothered
me a long time before I could think how to hold the Count in the
public streets long enough for one of my witnesses to identify him."
"The young man then was one of your witnesses?"
"Yes," said Dorcas, "and an important one."
"But surely it would have been easy enough for anyone to identify
the Count without all that elaborate business. He makes no mystery
of himself, and goes about continually."
"Quite so," replied Dorcas, "but my witness had only seen him
once or twice before, and then he wore a beard and he didn't call
himself Count von Phalsdorf. I had to hold the Count to be identified,
because what my witness had to look for was a peculiar scar just
under the chin, a mark the Count, I expect, received in a duel in
his old student days."
"I have never noticed that mark," I said.