address ever being mentioned?'
"'No ma'am; my poor girl told me he was in a very good position. He
said he was on the Stock Exchange, whatever that is. He said he was
a confidential clerk to a big firm, and his salary was £500 a year.
You see, ma'am, I thought it was a good match for my girl. He was a
man of five-and-thirty--very quiet, quite the gentleman, and he
certainly had money to spend, and treated her most handsomely.'
"'I understand. But you've been to the police and told your story.
What have they done?'
"'They've inquired on the Stock Exchange. There's no one known there
by the name of Mr. John Carlton.'
"'He never wrote, and he gave a _false_ description of himself,'
said my wife. 'I don't think there is much doubt that Mr. John
Carlton is at the bottom of your daughter's mysterious disappearance.
At any rate he must know she has disappeared; otherwise he would have
called at your house and made inquiries concerning her.'
"'I'm sure it must be that,' said the old lady; 'but why hasn't my
poor girl written to me? She was a kind and loving daughter--she must
know the state of anxiety I am in. If--if he has deceived her--
persuaded her to live with him without being married--surely she
might have found some means to send me a line to let me know she is
alive.'
"'Yes,' said my wife, '_that_ is the mystery I have to unravel.'
"'You will take the case up, then?'
"'Yes.'
"'Ah, find my poor girl for me, ma'am; let her know that I will
forgive her everything if she will only come to me and let me see
her once again. I'll pay you when I can--I'll----'
"'Never mind about that,' said my wife, 'you shall pay me when you
like--or not at all. I'll take the case up.'
"'God bless you for that; God bless you for that!'
"My wife sat silent for a moment; then she said to the old lady,
'I'll do the best I can for you, and I hope I shall be able to solve
the mystery, and at least to let you know the truth. Now go home.
Leave me your address, and to-morrow I will come to your house. I
shall want to go over everything your daughter has left behind. I
suppose she didn't take much with her?'
"'Nothing but the clothes she stood upright in. I'm sure that when
she left the house in the morning she intended to come back again
that evening.'
"'Then to-morrow I'll call and see if I can find anything that may
help us in her search among her things. Good-night.'
"The old lady with a profusion of thanks bade my wife good-night.
The next day my wife went to her house, and----"
The door had opened noiselessly--neither I nor Paul had heard
a sound. We were both startled when a familiar voice exclaimed--
"Good evening. Paul, dear, what are you telling Mr. Saxon about
your wife in her absence?"
Dorcas Dene came towards me and held out her hand. Then she took
off her hat, plunged the long hat pin into it violently, and flung it
on the table, and sat down wearily in an armchair.
"You are tired," I said. "Paul tells me you have not been very well."
"No, I'm played out--I'm no good."
"You are no nearer, dear?" said Paul gently. "You have found out
nothing?"
"Yes, I've found out _something_," answered Dorcas, with a sigh,
"but it's the sort of thing that is worse than nothing."
"Why?"
"Because it is something I don't understand. I have found Miriam
Edwards but----"
"You have found her? Then your task is accomplished."
"No."
Dorcas turned to me. "Paul has told you the story so far as he
knows it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then you will understand what I have to add to it. After poor old
Mrs. Edwards had left on the night of her visit, I made up my mind
that this was no ordinary case of abduction. The girl had not been a
consenting party, because she would in that case have found some
means of soothing her mother's fears and preventing the publicity of
a police inquiry. It looked to me like a long-planned plot, because
Mr. Carlton had been so careful not to write, and had evidently
purposely deceived the mother as to his address.
"The next day I went to the old lady's house. It was a thoroughly
respectable place, and I was more favourably impressed with the old
lady than ever. My mother, you know, differs with me over this case.
She thinks I am giving my time to the task of finding a worthless
girl who has eloped with a man her superior in station, but from the
first I was inclined to believe that the girl was the victim of some
deep-laid scheme.
"At the house I went over all Miriam Edwards's possessions. I
searched every drawer, I felt in all her pockets, I read every scrap
of paper with writing on it that she had left behind, and I found
absolutely nothing. I didn't expect to find that Mr. John Carlton had
given away a photograph of himself, so I was not disappointed, but I
did hope to discover something that had been his, and that would give
me a clue, however slight, to go upon.
"I was absolutely in despair, and was bidding the old lady good-bye
in the little parlour which she kept as her own sitting-room, when I
noticed an old-fashioned blotting-book.
"'Is that yours?' I said.
"'Yes.'
"'Is that the blotting-book your daughter used when she wrote a
letter?'
"'Yes, always.'
"'Thank you. I'll take it with me if you'll allow me.'
"I brought the old blotting-book home. It contained only two sheets
of cheap pink blotting paper, and these had evidently been used for
years, for they were faded and blackened with ink marks.
"However, I got a hand glass and studied the reflected pages as well
as I possibly could. In a glass, as of course you know, the writing
which is reversed on the blotting pad is reflected in its original
form. After some half-hour's close study I was rewarded by finding--
indistinct, but still legible--the name of John Carlton. Miriam
Edwards had evidently addressed an envelope to him. It took me some
time, though, to discover the address, for that had been crossed and
recrossed with other blottings, but at last I had succeeded in making
out the number 317A. The rest was absolutely illegible, but I
remembered that the old lady had said she had heard Hampstead Road
mentioned by her daughter, and so I set out to look for
317A, Hampstead Road.
"It was not a private house, but a stationer's shop. I went in and
asked if anyone named Carlton had ever lived there. The man behind
the counter said no, but he had some recollection of such a name--
probably it was that of someone who had letters addressed there.
"'Oh, you have letters addressed here?'
"'Yes; anyone can have their letters sent here. We charge a penny
for taking care of them.'
"It was evident to me at once that this was the address at which
Carlton had pretended to live. As a matter of fact, it was only the
address at which he received letters.
"I described Carlton as well as I could from Mrs. Edwards's
description, and the proprietor said he remembered such a person
distinctly. He was in the habit of coming for letters, but not
frequently. The letters, so far as he remembered, were always in a
female handwriting. He didn't think he could identify the writing now
if it were shown to him. He didn't take any particular notice of the
handwriting of customers' letters. Mr. Carlton had not come for any
letters for weeks.
"That information and a portrait of Miriam Edwards, taken just before
she disappeared, were all that I had to go upon, and you will confess
they were not much.
"The portrait was the most valuable. I had a couple of dozen copies
made by the photographer who had the negative, and I got my assistant,
the retired police-sergeant, to take me round to the railway police
at the various stations of London, and I sent one to Brighton,
Hastings, Portsmouth, and various seaside towns, to my correspondents
there. We have always in our business a good many agents whom we use
for local information, you know. I sent one to Boulogne, and one to
Calais, and I hoped that perhaps eventually I might receive some
information, however meagre, which might put me on the direct track.
"Fortune favoured me. Yesterday I received a telegram. A woman
corresponding exactly with the photograph had arrived at Dover, and
had inquired of one of the porters if he could tell her of quiet
respectable lodgings in the town. The porter had been struck by the
likeness to the photo which the railway police-officer had shown him,
and he at once recommended her to the constable's own house--the
constable's wife kept a lodging-house--and then informed the
constable what he had done. A telegram was at once sent to me. I went
down the first thing this morning with Mrs. Edwards. When we arrived
the 'lady' was out, but the constable's wife, who had been apprised
by her husband of our business, showed us into a sitting-room.
"I went upstairs to the first floor, which the new lodger had
taken for a week. I examined the things in the bedroom, and had a
good professional pry into everything. In a drawer I found a watch
and a locket. I showed them to Mrs. Edwards. She recognised them at
once as having been given to Miriam by Mr. Carlton. She remembered
that she wore them the day she went away. I asked the landlady what
jewellery her lodger wore, and she said the only thing she had
noticed was a ring with two small diamonds and a sapphire in the
centre.
"'It is my poor girl!' exclaimed the old lady, almost beside
herself with excitement. 'That was just the ring he gave her as an
engagement ring.'
"I begged her to be calm and not to give way yet, as it was most
important we should gather as much information as possible before we
revealed ourselves.
"While we were talking the landlady looked out of the window, and
exclaimed, 'She's coming up the street--she'll be here directly.'
"We went out of the room and up to the second floor.
"The landlady opened the door and let her lodger in.
"In a few minutes she came upstairs and told us that the lady had
taken off her hat and was sitting in her room.
"Quietly we came downstairs. I tried the handle and flung the door
open, exclaiming, 'Miss Edwards, your mother has come to see you.'
"The woman started to her feet with a cry of surprise.
Mrs. Edwards rushed in and cried out, 'Miriam--my darling!'
"Then she started and drew back, her face white with terror.
"'It is her living image,' she cried; 'but it is _not my daughter!_'"
_VII. A PIECE OF BROWN PAPER_
When Dorcas told us that Mrs. Edwards refused to accept as her
daughter Miriam the woman who was her living image, and had in her
possession the watch, the locket, and the ring which Miriam Edwards
had worn on the day she disappeared, I could not keep back an
exclamation of astonishment.
"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "it _must_ have been Miriam Edwards.
The mother must have made a mistake."
"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I still believe
that it _was_ Miriam Edwards, but let me tell you what happened.
"The lady, as soon as she had recovered from her first surprise
at our intrusion, exclaimed, 'What do you want here? What do you
mean by calling me Miriam, and what does this old lady mean by
calling me her daughter? Are you lunatics?'
"'No,' I replied. 'If we are mistaken you must excuse us--but you
are the absolute double of a young lady of whom we are in search,
and you have in your possession jewellery which undoubtedly belonged
to her. If you are not Miriam Edwards, you must please explain how
you come to be in possession of Miriam Edwards's property.'
"'What property do you mean?'
"'You have a watch and a locket in your bedroom, and a ring on
your finger--that one with the diamonds and sapphire--which
were Miss Edwards's.'
"'Indeed!' said the lady indignantly; 'so you have dared to search
my things in my absence; how otherwise could you have known that I
have the watch and locket I left in the drawer?' Then, turning to the
landlady who had followed us in, she exclaimed, 'I shall be glad of
an explanation. What do you mean by letting strangers have access to
my property in my absence?'
"'I'm sure I beg pardon, ma'am,' said the landlady, 'but I really
believed what this lady (pointing to me) told me, that you were
Mrs. Edwards's daughter, and I--I didn't see any harm.'
"'There is harm--a great deal of harm--and I shall leave your house
at once and take lodgings elsewhere. As to the property you claim as
Miss Edwards's,' she said, turning to me, 'it has been in my
possession for years--if necessary, I can prove it.'
"I looked at Mrs. Edwards, who appeared very upset, and was trembling
violently.
"'It isn't my daughter, ma'am,' she said; 'it isn't her voice--and
perhaps, after all, I may be mistaken about the jewellery.'
"'You are,' said the lady, 'and now perhaps you will have the
goodness to leave my rooms.'
"I could not refuse. The old lady had taken away any chance I had
of making a distinct charge by hesitating about the jewellery. So I
bowed with as much dignity as I could muster, and we went out and sat
downstairs and talked the strange affair over.
"'Her living image, ma'am,' said Mrs. Edwards to me, 'and I don't
wonder the photograph deceived your friends here, but it's not my
daughter. A mother must know her own child.'
"'But it _is_ the jewellery--you know it is. Why did you say you
weren't sure in her presence?'
"'Well, ma'am, I felt frightened at what we'd done. We'd made a
mistake about her, and of course I might be mistaken about the
jewellery. There's plenty made of the same pattern, I suppose.'
"I understood the old lady's nervousness. With people of her class
there is always a terror of doing anything illegal. But I was
convinced in my own mind that I had found Miriam Edwards--the
likeness and the three articles of jewellery could hardly be mere
coincidences.
"We remained for some time talking downstairs, and presently the
landlady came down.
"'She's gone, Mrs. Dene,' she said. 'She packed, and I went for a
cab, and glad I was to let her go.'
"'You let her go without telling me! Where has she gone?'
"'I don't know--I didn't wait to hear.'
"'But, my good woman, I must know! I want to follow this person up.
You ought to have told me she was going so soon. I should then have
been able to ascertain where she had gone.'
"The landlady shook her head. 'I didn't want any more trouble,'
she said. 'After all, she might have brought an action against me,
you know, for letting you overhaul her property. That kind of thing
gets about and might injure my letting if it got into the papers. I
don't want any paragraphs about my place, especially my husband being
a constable.'
"'But you were quite right in what you did. We identified the
property as that of the missing woman of whom we are in search.'
"'Well, Mrs. Dene, you see it's not a police search--it's only
private--and the old lady here said it _wasn't_ her daughter, and
she _might_ be mistaken about the jewellery. That didn't leave me
nor you a leg to stand on, and it gave the woman a clear case against
me if she wanted to be nasty--so I was glad to let her go quietly.'
"What could I do? I went out and succeeded in finding the flyman
who had been called. He had driven the lady to the station and she
had caught the train to London.
"There was nothing more to be done. I came up to town with
Mrs. Edwards, and here I am, as far off as ever."
"But," said Paul, "you said when you began your story that you had
found Miriam Edwards. Do you really believe that the mother wouldn't
know her own daughter?"
"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I have an idea that
the old lady _refused_ to recognise her daughter. She may have seen
something--have learnt something--from the woman's glance or manner
which caused her to deny the identity in the presence of strangers.
I can't make it out. I can't believe that the extraordinary
likeness and the three articles of jewellery were accidental."
Dorcas rose from the sofa and paced the room.
"It must have been Miriam Edwards!" she cried. "It must have been!
I have been fooled! But why--why should that old lady say it was
not her daughter when it was? I'm not going to let the mystery rest
there. Good night, Mr. Saxon--I don't want to talk--I want
to think. Come and see me again in a couple of days."
"Will you be able to tell me then what the explanation of the
mystery is?"
"Perhaps--I hope so."
There was nothing more to be said after that peremptory dismissal,
so I shook hands and left.
* * * * * *
I called again in a couple of days. Dorcas was out. I saw Paul, but
he could tell me nothing. For the first time in her professional
career, his wife was not confiding in him.
"When I ask her," he said, "how she is getting on, she only says,
'Wait--I don't know anything myself. I have an idea, but I can't
explain it. Don't ask me to talk about it. Let me think.'"
It was quite a week later that I received a little note from Dorcas.
It was short and to the point.
"You can come this evening."
* * * * * *
I found Dorcas alone in the drawing-room. Paul had gone out with
Mrs. Lester to a friend's house.
Dorcas was pale and looked very grave.
"You have unravelled the mystery of Miriam Edwards?"
"Yes, I know everything now. It is a strange story."
"And the woman in the lodgings was the old lady's daughter?"
"No--the jewellery was Miriam Edwards's jewellery, but the woman who
was her living image and was wearing it was the wife of the man who
passed himself off as Mr. John Carlton."
"Good heavens! Do you mean to say that the man was married to a
woman who was the exact counterpart of the woman he was courting?"
"Yes; but let me tell you the details of this peculiar case exactly
as I arrived at them.
"After the extraordinary result of my visit to Dover, I decided to
act entirely by myself, and to leave Mrs. Edwards under the
impression that I had abandoned the case.
"I was suspicious of her--wrongly as I now know--but I could not get
rid of the idea that the daughter had, when she found herself in her
mother's presence, managed in some way to convey a warning to the
old lady--to impress her with the idea that there would be danger in
recognition. I thought the matter out till my head ached, but I could
see no other solution of the difficulty.
"I made up my mind that the first thing I had to do was to find
that Dover lady who had Miriam Edwards's face and Miriam Edwards's
jewellery again. The clue to the mystery lay there, and it was no
good searching for it anywhere else.
"I went back to Dover and interviewed the constable's wife. Now
that her lodger had gone, and she felt safe from legal proceedings,
she was eager to render me all the assistance in her power. She let
me search the rooms, which were unlet. There was nothing--not
even a scrap of paper or a thread. I turned up the carpets, I opened
cupboards and doors, I searched the grates, I looked in the chimney
ornaments--everywhere where some scrap that would mean nothing
to the ordinary observer, but which yet might serve as a clue to a
trained detective, might be lying. I found nothing but an ordinary
hairpin.
"Then I asked the landlady if anything had been taken from the
room since her lodger left.
"'Nothing,' she said.
"'Now try and think. When she came in she unpacked her boxes. Did
you notice anything? Do you remember anything that could give me the
slightest indication as to the profession or habits of the woman?'
"'Nothing. She didn't unpack much--only a few things, and those
you saw in the drawers.'
"There was nothing on her handkerchiefs or the linen I saw, because
I looked carefully for traces of Miriam Edwards. It was all new and
unmarked. The trunks in the room were locked.
"Suddenly the landlady gave a little start.
"'I do remember something now; but I'm sure that won't be of any
use to you.'
"'I don't know. What was it?'
"'The day she came in she undid her trunk and took out one or two
things, and among them a pair of boots. The boots were wrapped up in
brown paper. She threw the piece of paper in the grate, and going
into her room to tidy up I took it away.'
"'Was there anything written on the paper?'
"'It was brown paper--I don't think so. It was scrobbled up.'
"'Where is the paper? Have you got it?'
"'Yes, it's in the kitchen with the paper put by to light fires. It
won't be used because we never use the brown paper--it smells so.
I think I can find it.'
"She went out and presently brought me two pieces of 'scrobbled up'
brown paper.
"'I've only brought these pieces, because that's all that there is
there.'
"I took the pieces and unfolded them carefully. On the end of one
piece was a torn gummed label--a portion of the label which drapers
stick on parcels which are sent out for delivery. The paper had been
torn through the label. All that was on it was this:
SHOOL
Tott
Mrs.
1/7
13642
_Paid_
"There was absolutely nothing on the other piece of brown paper.
"I folded the piece with the torn label carefully and put it in
my pocket.
"'You can't get anything from that, surely?' said the landlady.
"'I don't know,' I said. 'At any rate the lady wrapped her boots
up in it, and it may be of more service to me than you imagine.'
"I returned to town, and the next morning I went to Messrs. Shoolbred
and Co. of Tottenham Court Road, and asked to see one of the managers.
"I explained my business, and showed him the torn label on the piece
of brown paper.
"'That is our label,' he said. 'It would be gummed on a parcel sent
out for delivery. The 1/7 means the first of July. The 13642 is the
number of the order, and we shall find it in the Cash Sales Day Book
for the 1st of July, because the "Paid" means that the articles,
whatever they were, were bought and paid for at the time. If you will
take a seat I will have the books referred to.'
"In about a quarter of an hour the manager returned with a slip of
paper. 'Here,' he said, 'is the label traced.' I took the slip of
paper and read:
Mrs. Coombes,
17, Hansworth Road,
Notting Hill Gate.
Sold for cash.
Then followed a small list of feminine underwear, and on the bottom
of the paper '4 p.m. delivery.'
"I left the magnificent establishment in the Tottenham Court Road
with a beating heart. I had found out where the brown paper had come
from in which the lady who took lodgings at Dover and had Miriam
Edwards's jewellery in her possession had wrapped up her boots.
"But the date caused me to put my considering cap on. On July 1
Miriam Edwards was at home with her mother, and certainly would not
have been having articles sent to Notting Hill Gate in the name of
Mrs. Coombes.
"I went straight to the address in Hansworth Road. No. 17 was a
small, double-fronted house. In the front garden was a notice-board:
'This House to Let--Keys at the Agents'--Messrs. Dever & Co.'
"I noted the address given and went to it. I inquired what the rental
of No. 17 was, and was informed it was £100 a year.
"'Might I inquire why the last tenant left it, and a few particulars?'
"The clerk informed me that the house was in good sanitary repair,
had a large garden, and it was a most eligible residence. The late
tenant had left it on account of his wife's death.
"'Let me see,' I said, 'he was a Mr. Coombes, was he not?'
"'Yes--Mr. John Coombes.'
"Then I entered into conversation with the clerk, who seemed quite
willing to chat, and I inquired about Mr. John Coombes. He had lived
in the house for some time, and was a gentleman of independent means.
He did nothing. His wife was a very charming woman, but her fate had
been a sad one. She had been subject to epileptic fits, and had been
drowned in her bath during a seizure.
"'Ah,' I said, 'that is very terrible. How long ago was this?'
"'It was on the night of last Bank Holiday.'
"'Was there an inquest?'
"'Oh, yes, the inquest was held on the following Thursday.'
"'Ah,' I said, 'I'm afraid my friends who are looking for a house
wouldn't care to take one which has been the scene of such a
tragedy--I will communicate with them and let you know.'
"I left the house-agents', my brain in a whirl. What could it mean?
On the very day that Miriam Edwards disappeared Mrs. Coombes had been
drowned in her bath. The woman, who was the living image of Miriam
Edwards, and had her jewellery in her possession, had wrapped up her
boots in a piece of brown paper which had been directed to
Mrs. Coombes.
"I went to the British Museum and searched the newspaper files.
I found the inquest.