Next day Jennie Baxter drove to the address the editor had given her,
and she found Mr. Cadbury Taylor at home, in somewhat sumptuous offices
on the first floor. Fastened to his door was a brass plate, which
exposed to public view the carven words--
CADBURY TAYLOR,
Private Enquiry Agent.
The detective was quite evidently very glad to see her.
“I intended calling to-day at the office of the _Bugle_ on the chance of
finding you,” he said; “but I am delighted to meet you here, because we
can talk without fear of interruption. Has the editor told you anything
of this case?”
“Very little; he didn’t seem to know much about it himself.”
“It was impossible for me to go into full particulars with him. I could
only give him a hint or two in order to convey to him some idea of the
interest which the mystery, when solved, might have from a newspaper
standpoint. Of course I wished to gain his assistance so that he might,
perhaps, persuade you to help me in this matter.”
“He seems to be quite willing that I should lend what aid I can,” said
Jennie; “but I must have full details before I promise. I have a good
deal of work on hand, and, unless this case is interesting from a
newspaper point of view, as you have just said, I don’t think that I
should care to touch it.”
“Oh, you will find it of great interest,” the detective assured her with
much eagerness. “It relates to the sudden and hitherto unexplained
disappearance of a woman. That of itself is absorbing, for I may tell
you, as one having a large experience, that there is nothing more
difficult in this world than for any person, and more especially for a
woman, to disappear entirely and leave no trace behind.”
“I should have thought it quite easy,” said Jennie, “especially in a
large city like London.”
“You have given expression to the universal opinion, but I pledge you my
word that a completely successful disappearance is one of the most
rare events that we detectives have to meet with in our line of
investigation.”
“Please tell me the story,” said the girl; “then we can speak more
understandingly about it.”
The detective selected a packet of papers, one of many which occupied
the end of his table. He slipped from it a rubber band which held the
documents together.
“The first act of the drama, if we may call it so, began at the Duchess
of Chiselhurst’s ball.”
“The Duchess of Chiselhurst’s ball!” echoed Jennie, with a shudder. “Oh,
dear!”
The detective looked up at her.
“Why do you say ‘Oh, dear’?” he asked.
“Because,” said the girl wearily, “I am tired hearing of the Duchess of
Chiselhurst’s ball; there seems to have been nothing else in the papers
for weeks past.”
“It has excited a great deal of comment,” assented the detective; “and,
by the way, the _Daily Bugle_ had one of the best accounts of it that
was printed in any newspaper.”
“So I have heard,” said Jennie carelessly, “but I most confess that I
didn’t read that copy of the _Bugle_.”
“You amaze me! I should have thought that would have been the first part
of the paper to which any lady would turn. However, the report of the
ball has nothing to do with what we have in hand. Now, you remember the
Princess von Steinheimer, at whose castle I first had the pleasure of
meeting you?”
“You had the pleasure of meeting me before that,” said Jennie, speaking
without giving thought to what she said.
“Really!” cried the detective, dropping his papers on the table; “and
where was that?”
“Oh, well, as you have just said--it has nothing to do with this
case. Perhaps I was wrong in saying you saw me; it would be more
correct to say that I saw you. You must remember that you are a
public character, Mr. Taylor.”
“Ah, quite so,” said the detective complacently, turning to his
documents again. “Now, the Princess von Steinheimer was invited to the
Duchess of Chiselhurst’s ball, but she did not attend it.”
“Are you sure of that?” said the girl. “I thought her name was among the
list of those present.”
“It was in the list, and that is just where our mystery begins. Someone
else attended the ball as the Princess von Steinheimer; it is this
person that I wish to find.”
“Ah, then you are employed by the Duke of Chiselhurst?”
“No, I am not, for, strangely enough, I believe the Duke thinks it was
actually the Princess who attended the ball. Only one man knows that the
Princess was not present, one man and two women. Of the latter, one is
the Princess von Steinheimer, and the other, the lady who impersonated
her. The one man is Lord Donal Stirling, of the Diplomatic Service,
whose name is no doubt familiar to you. Lord Donal has done me the
honour to place the case in my hands.”
“Why does his lordship wish to find this--this--fraudulent person?”
asked Jennie, speaking slowly and with difficulty.
“Because,” said the detective, with the air of a man who knows whereof
he speaks, “he is in love with her.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t think it, I know it. Listen to his description of her.”
The detective chose a paper from among his pile of documents, folded,
labelled, and docketed for reference.
“‘The girl is of average height, or perhaps a trifle taller than the
average; carries herself superbly, like a born duchess. Her eyes are of
a deep, velvety black--’”
“Dear me!” cried the girl, “he describes her as if she were a cat!”
“Wait a moment,” said the detective.
“I don’t see much trace of love in that,” continued Jennie breathlessly.
“Wait a moment,” repeated the detective. “‘They light up and sparkle
with merriment, and they melt into the most entrancing tenderness.’”
“Good gracious!” cried Jennie, rising, “the conceit of the man is
illimitable. Does he mean to intimate that he saw tenderness for himself
in the eyes of a woman he had met for an hour or two?”
“That’s just it,” said the detective, laughing. “You see the man is head
over ears in love. Please sit down again, Miss Baxter, and listen. I
know this sentimental kind of writing must be irksome to a practical
woman like yourself, but in our business we cannot neglect even the
slightest detail. Let’s see, where was I?--‘tenderness,’ oh, yes. ‘Her
hair is of midnight darkness, inclined to ripple, with little whiffs of
curls imperiously defying restraint about her temples. Her complexion is
as pure as the dawn, touched now and then with a blush as delicate as
the petal of a rose.’”
“Absurd!” cried Jennie impatiently. “The complexion of a woman at a
ball! Of course, she put it on for the occasion.”
“Of course,” agreed the detective. “But that merely shows you how deeply
in love he is. Lord Donal is quite a young man. He came up to this room
to consult with me, and certainly he doesn’t know the difference between
a complexion developed in a Surrey lane and one purchased in New Bond
Street.”
“Still, the blushing would seem to indicate that the complexion was
genuine,” retorted Jennie, apparently quite unflattered by Mr. Taylor’s
agreement with the theory she herself had put forward.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I believe modern science enables an
enamelled woman to blush at will; I wouldn’t be sure of it, because it
is outside of my own line of investigation, but I have understood such
is the case.”
“Very likely,” assented Jennie. “What is that you have at the bottom of
your packet?”
“That,” said the detective, drawing it forth and handing it to the girl,
“is her glove.”
Jennie picked up the glove--which, alas! she had paid for and only
worn on one occasion--and smoothed it out between her fingers. It was
docketed “G; made by Gaunt et Cie, Boulevard Hausmann; purchased in
Paris by one alleging herself to be the Princess von Steinheimer.”
“You have found out all about it,” said Jennie, as she finished reading
the label.
“Yes, it is our business to do so; but the glove has not been of much
assistance to us.”
“How did he say he became possessed of the glove?” asked the girl
innocently. “Did she give it to him?”
“No; he tore it from her hand as she was leaving him in the carriage. It
seemed to me a most ungentlemanly thing to do, but of course it was not
my business to tell Lord Donal that.”
“So the glove has not been of much assistance to you. Tell me, then,
what you have done, and perhaps I shall be the better able to advise
you.”
“We have done everything that suggested itself. We traced the alleged
Princess from the Hotel Bristol in Pans to Claridge’s in London. I have
a very clever woman in Paris who assisted me, and she found where the
gloves were bought and where the dress was made. Did I read you Lord
Donal’s description of the lady’s costume?”
“No, never mind that; go on with your story.”
“Well, Claridge’s provided carriage, coachman and footman to take her to
the ball, and this returned with her sometime about midnight. Now, here
a curious thing happened. The lady ordered a hansom as she passed the
night-porter and shortly after packed off her maid in the cab.”
“Her maid!” echoed Jennie.
“Yes. The maid came down in ordinary street dress shortly after, deeply
veiled, and drove away in the hansom; the lady paid her bill next
morning and went to the eight o’clock Paris express, with carriage and
pair, coachman and footman. Of course it struck me that it might be the
lady herself who had gone off in the cab, but a moment’s reflection
showed me that she was not likely to leave the hotel in a cab at
midnight, and allow her maid to take the carriage in state next
morning.”
“That doesn’t appear reasonable,” murmured Jennie. “You made no attempt,
then, to trace the maid?”
“Oh yes, we did. We found the cabman who took her from Claridge’s,
and he left her at Charing Cross Station, but there all trace of her
vanishes. She probably left on one of the late trains--there are only a
few after midnight--to some place out in the country. The lady took a
first-class ticket to Paris, and departed alone next morning by the
eight o’clock Continental express. My assistant discovered her and took
a snapshot of her as she was walking down the boulevard; here is the
picture.”
The detective handed Miss Baxter an instantaneous view of one of the
boulevards taken in bright sunshine. The principal figure in the
foreground Jennie had no difficulty in recognizing as her own maid,
dressed in that _chic_ fashion which Parisian women affect.
“She seems to answer the description,” said Jennie.
“So I thought,” admitted the detective, “and I sent the portrait to Lord
Donal. See what he has written on the back.”
Jennie turned the picture over, and there under the inscription, “H.
Supposed photo of the missing woman,” was written in a bold hand, “Bosh!
Read my description of the girl; this is evidently some Paris lady’s
maid.”
“Well, what did you do when you got this picture back?” asked Jennie.
“I remembered you, and went to the office of the _Daily Bugle_. This
brings us to the present moment. You have now the whole story, and I
shall be very pleased to listen to any suggestions you are good enough
to offer.”
The girl sat where she was for a few moments and pondered over the
situation. The detective, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in
his hand, regarded her with eager anticipation. The more Jennie thought
over the matter, the more she was amazed at the man before her, who
seemed unable to place two and two together. He had already spoken of
the account of the ball which had appeared in the _Daily Bugle_; of
its accuracy and its excellence; he knew that she was a member of the
_Bugle_ staff, yet it had never occurred to him to inquire who wrote
that description; he knew also that she had been a guest at the Schloss
Steinheimer when the invitation to the ball must have reached the
Princess. These facts were so plainly in evidence that the girl was
afraid to speak lest some chance word would form the connecting link
between the detective’s mind and the seemingly palpable facts. At last
she looked up, the colour coming and going in her cheeks, as Lord Donal
had so accurately described it.
“I don’t think I can be of any assistance to you in this crisis, Mr.
Taylor. You have already done everything that human ingenuity can
suggest.”
“Yes, I have--everything that _my_ human ingenuity can suggest. But does
nothing occur to you? have you no theory to put forward?”
“None that would be of any practical advantage. Is Lord Donal certain
that it was not the Princess herself whom he met? Are you thoroughly
convinced that there was really an impersonation?”
“What do you mean, Miss Baxter?”
“Well, you met Prince von Steinheimer; what do you think of him?”
“I thought him an overbearing bully, if you ask me. I can’t imagine
what English or American girls see in those foreigners to cause them
to marry. It is the titles, I suppose. The Prince was very
violent--practically ordered me out of the Castle, spoke to his
father-in-law in the most peremptory manner, and I could easily see the
Princess was frightened out of her wits.”
“A very accurate characterization of his Highness, Mr. Taylor. Now, of
course, the Princess being a woman--and a young woman--would naturally
be very anxious to attend the Duchess of Chiselhurst’s ball, wouldn’t
she?”
“One would think so.”
“And, as you have just said, she has a bear of a husband, a good deal
older than herself, who does not in the least care for such functions as
that to which the Princess was invited. Is it not quite possible that
the Princess actually attended the ball, but, for reasons of her own,
desired to keep the fact of her presence there a secret; and you must
remember that Lord Donal Stirling had not seen the Princess for five
years.”
“For five years?” said the detective sharply. “How did you learn that,
Miss Baxter?”
“Well, you know,” murmured the girl, with a gasp, “he met her last in
Washington, and the Princess has not been in America for five years; so
you see--”
“Oh, I was not aware that he had met her in America at all; in fact,
Lord Donal said nothing much about the Princess--all his talk had
reference to this lady who impersonated her.”
Jennie leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes for a moment, and
breathed quickly.
“I am afraid,” she said at last, “that I do not remember with sufficient
minuteness the details you have given me, to be able to advise. I can
only suggest that Lord Donal met the Princess herself at the Duchess of
Chiselhurst’s ball. The Princess, naturally, would wish to mislead
him regarding her identity; and so, if he had not met her for some
time--say two years, or three years, or five years, or whatever the
period may be--it is quite possible that the Princess has changed
greatly in the interval, and perhaps she was not reluctant to carry on
a flirtation with the young man--your client. Of course, she could not
allow it to go further than the outside of the door of the Duke of
Chiselhurst’s town house, for you must remember there was her husband
in the background--a violent man, as you have said; and Lord Donal must
have thoroughly angered the Princess by what you term his rudeness in
tearing off her glove; and now the Princess will never admit that she
was at the ball, so it seems to me that you are wasting your time in a
wild goose chase. Why, it is absurd to think, if there had been a real
disappearing woman, that you, with all your experience and all your
facilities, should not have unearthed her long ago. You said at the
beginning that nothing was more difficult than to disappear. Very well,
then--why have you been baffled? Simply because the Princess herself
attended the ball, and there has been no disappearing lady at all.”
The detective, with great vehemence, brought down his fist on the table.
“By Jove!” he cried, “I believe you are right. I have been completely
blinded, the more so that I have the clue to the mystery right here
under my own eyes.”
He fumbled for a moment and brought forth a letter from his pile of
documents.
“Here is a note from St. Petersburg, written by Lord Donal himself,
saying the Princess had sent him the companion glove to the one you
now have in your hand. He says he is sure the Princess knows who her
impersonator was, but that she won’t tell; and, although I had read this
note, it never struck me that the Princess herself was the woman. Miss
Baxter, you have solved the puzzle!”
“I should be glad to think so,” replied the girl, rising, “and I am very
happy if I have enabled you to give up a futile chase.”
“It is as plain as daylight,” replied the detective. “Lord Donal’s
description fits the Princess exactly, and yet I never thought of her
before.”
Jennie hurried away from the detective’s office, happy in the belief
that she had not betrayed herself, although she was not blind to the
fact that her escape was due more to good luck than to any presence of
mind of her own, which had nearly deserted her at one or two points in
the conversation. When Mr. Hardwick saw her, he asked how much space he
should have to reserve for the romance in high life; but she told him
there was nothing in the case, so far as she could see, to interest any
sane reader.
Here matters rested for a fortnight; then the girl received an urgent
note from Cadbury Taylor, asking her to call at his office next day
promptly at four o’clock. It was very important, he said, and he hoped
she would on no account disappoint him. Jennie’s first impulse was not
to go, but she was so anxious to learn what progress the detective had
made in the case, fearing that at last he might have got on the right
track, that she felt it would be unwise to take the risk of not seeing
him. If his suspicions were really aroused, her absence might possibly
serve to confirm them. Exactly at four o’clock next afternoon she
entered his office and found him, to her relief, alone. He sprang up
from his table on seeing her, and said in a whisper, “I am so glad you
have come. I am in rather a quandary. Lord Donal Stirling is in London
on a flying visit. He called here yesterday.”
The girl caught her breath, but said nothing.
“I explained to him the reasons I have for believing that it was
actually the Princess von Steinheimer whom he met at the Duchess of
Chiselhurst’s ball. He laughed at me; there was no convincing him. He
said that theory was more absurd than the sending him a picture of
a housemaid as that of the lady he met at the ball. I used all the
arguments which you had used, but he brushed them aside as of no
consequence, and somehow the case did not appear to be as clear as when
you propounded your theory.”
“Well, what then?” asked the girl.
“Why, then I asked him to come up here at four o’clock and hear what an
assistant of mine would say about the case.”
“At four o’clock!” cried the girl in terror; “then he may be here at any
moment.”
“He is here now; he is in the next room. Come in, and I will introduce
you, and then I want you to tell him all the circumstances which lead
you to believe that it was the Princess herself whom he met. I am sure
you can place all the points before him so tersely that you will succeed
in bringing him round to your own way of thinking. You will try, won’t
you, Miss Baxter? It will be a very great obligement to me.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried the girl; “I am not going to admit to anyone
that I have been acting as a detective’s assistant. You had no right to
bring me here. I must go at once. If I had known this I would not have
come.”
“It won’t take you five minutes,” pleaded Cadbury Taylor. “He is at this
moment waiting for you; I told him you would be here at four.”
“I can’t help that; you had no right to make an appointment for me
without my knowledge and consent.”
Taylor was about to speak when the door-handle of the inner room turned.
“I say, detective,” remarked Lord Donal, in a voice of some irritation,
“you should have assistants who are more punctual. I am a very busy man,
and must leave for St. Petersburg to-night, so I can’t spend all my time
in your office, you know.”
“I am sure I beg your pardon, my lord,” said the detective with great
obsequiousness. “This young lady has some objections to giving her
views, but I am sure you will be able to persuade her--”
He turned, but the place at his side was vacant. The door to the hall
was open, and the girl had escaped as she saw the handle of the inner
door turn. Taylor looked blankly at his client with dropped jaw. Lord
Donal laughed.
“Your assistant seems to have disappeared as completely as did the lady
at the ball. Why not set your detectives on _her_ track? Perhaps she
will prove to be the person I am in search of.”
“I am very sorry, my lord,” stammered the detective.
“Oh, don’t mention it. I am sure you have done all that could be done
with the very ineffective clues which unfortunately are our only
possession, but you are quite wrong in thinking it was the Princess
herself who attended the ball, and I don’t blame your assistant for
refusing to bolster up an impossible case. We will consider the search
ended, and if you will kindly let me have your bill at the Diplomatic
Club before six o’clock to-night, I will send you a cheque. Good
afternoon, Mr. Taylor.”