THE LETTER
Quick on the heels of the footman's stammered explanation came the voice
of Sir Charles himself:
"Sorry to disturb you, Bruce, if you are busy, but I must see you for a
moment on a matter of the utmost importance."
There was that in his utterance which betokened great excitement. He was
not visible to the occupants of the room. During the audible silence
that followed his words, they could hear him stamping about the passage,
impatiently awaiting Bruce's presence.
Mrs. Hillmer quietly collapsed on the floor. She had fainted.
The barrister rushed out, calling for Mrs. Smith, and responding to Sir
Charles Dyke's proffered statement as to the reason for his presence by
the startling cry:
"Wait a bit, Dyke. There's a lady in a faint inside. We must attend to
her at once."
Mrs. Smith, fortunately, was at hand, and with the help of her
ministrations, Mrs. Hillmer gradually regained her senses.
After a whispered colloquy with White, the barrister said to Mensmore:
"You must remove your sister to her residence as quickly as possible.
She is far too highly strung to bear any further questioning to-night.
Perhaps to-morrow, when you and she have discussed matters fully
together, you may be able to send for us and clear up this wretched
business."
For answer Mensmore silently pressed his hand. With the help of the
housekeeper he led his sister from the room, passing Sir Charles Dyke in
the hall. The baronet politely turned aside, and Mensmore did not look
at him, being far too engrossed with his sister to pay heed to aught
else at the moment. As for Mrs. Hillmer, she was in such a state of
collapse as to be practically unconscious of her surroundings.
She managed to murmur at the door:
"Where are you taking me to, Bertie?"
"Home, dear."
"Home? Oh, thank Heaven!"
They all heard her, and even the detective was constrained to say:
"Poor thing, she needn't have been afraid. She is suffering for some one
else."
Sir Charles Dyke grasped Bruce's arm.
"What on earth is going on?" he said.
"Merely a foolish woman worrying herself about others," replied Bruce
grimly.
"But those people were my old friends, Mensmore and his sister?"
"Yes."
"What are they doing here?"
"Mensmore has been brought back to London by Mrs. Hillmer to face the
allegations made against him with regard to your wife's disappearance.
They came here by their own appointment, and--"
"Did I not tell you that this charge against Mensmore was wild folly on
the face of it?"
"So it seems, when we have just discovered that your wife was killed in
his sister's house, and Mrs. Hillmer persists in declaring that she was
responsible for the crime."
"Look here, Bruce. Don't lose your head like everybody else mixed up in
this wretched business. My wife is not dead."
"What!" The cry was a double one, for both Bruce and White gave
simultaneous utterance to their amazement.
"It is true. She is alive all the time. I have had a letter from her."
"A letter. Surely, Dyke--"
"I am neither mad nor drunk. The letter reached me by this morning's
post. I came here with it as fast as I could travel. I have been in the
train all day, and am nearly fainting from hunger."
"Where is it?" cried White. "Is it genuine?"
"I could swear to her writing amidst a thousand letters. Here it is. I
have brought some old correspondence of hers for the purpose of
comparison, as I could hardly believe my eyes when I first received it."
Bruce was so dumfounded by this remarkable development that he could but
mutely take the document produced by the baronet and read it.
He himself recognized Lady Dyke's handwriting, which he had often
seen--a clear, bold, well-defined script, more like the caligraphy of a
banker than of a fashionable lady.
The letter was dated February 1, bore no other superscription, and read
as follows:
"_My Dear Charles_,--I have just seen in the newspapers the
announcement of my death, and the theories set on foot to
account for my disappearance on November 6. This seems to
convey to me the strange fact that you have not received the
explanation I sent you of my reasons for leaving London so
suddenly. Otherwise you must have kept your own counsel very
closely. However, I do not now desire to reopen the question of
motive; let it suffice to say that no one save myself was
responsible for my disappearance, and that neither you nor any
one acquainted with me will ever see me again. Do not search
for me; it will be time wasted. If you have legal proof of my
death and wish to marry again, be satisfied. Tear up this
letter and forget it. I am dead--to you and to the world. You
can neither refuse to accept the genuineness of this letter nor
trace me by reason of it, as I have taken such precautions that
the latter course will be impossible. Let me repeat--forget me.
"ALICE."
The barrister carefully refolded the sheet after scrutinizing the
water-mark against the light, and noting that the paper was British
made; he then examined the envelope. The obliterating postmark was
"London, February 4, 9 P.M., West Strand." The office of delivery was
"Wensley, February 6."
"Posted at the West Strand Post-Office on Saturday," he said. "Detained
in London all Sunday, and delivered to you this morning in the North."
"Exactly."
"It was written three days earlier, if the date be accurate. So the
writer is somewhere in Europe."
"That's how I take it," said Sir Charles.
"Unless the whole thing is a fraud."
"How can it be a fraud? I am sure as to the handwriting. Why, even
yourself, Bruce, must have a good recollection of my wife's style."
"Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this was not Lady Dyke's
production."
"Well, what are we to do?"
"And what did Mrs. Hillmer mean by kicking up that fuss when we spoke to
her?" interpolated White. "I'll take my oath that some one was killed in
her house, else how comes it that a woman found in the Thames at Putney
is carrying about in her head some of Mrs. Hillmer's ironwork? I wish
she hadn't fainted just now. Why, she said herself that she was the
cause of Lady Dyke's death, and here is Lady Dyke writing to say she is
alive. This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got to explain a
good deal yet before I am done with her."
The detective's wrath at this check in the hunt after a criminal did not
appeal to the baronet.
"You can please yourself, Mr. White, of course," he said coldly; "but so
far as I am concerned, I will respect my wife's wishes, and let the
matter rest where it is."
"My dear fellow," said the barrister, "such a course is impossible.
Assuming that her ladyship is really alive, why did she leave you?"
"How can I tell? She herself refuses to give a reason. She apparently
stated one in a letter which never reached me, as you know. She has
selfishly caused me a world of suffering and misery for three long
months. I refuse to be plagued in the matter further."
Sir Charles was excited and angry. He was in bitter revolt against
circumstances.
"Do you intend to show this letter to Lady Dyke's relatives?" asked
Bruce, at a loss for the time to discuss the situation coherently.
"I do not know. What would you advise? I trust fully to your judgment.
But is it not better to obey her wishes?--to forget, as she puts it?"
"We must decide nothing hastily. I am perplexed beyond endurance by
this business. There is so much that is wildly impossible in its
irreconcilable features. I must have time. Will you give me a copy
of the letter?"
"Certainly, keep it yourself. We have all seen it."
"Thank you." Bruce placed the envelope and its contents in his
pocket-book. Then, turning to the detective, he said:
"Now, Mr. White, do me a favor. Do not worry Mrs. Hillmer until you hear
from me."
"By all means, Mr. Bruce. But am I to report to the Commissioner that
Lady Dyke has been found, or has, at any rate, explained that she is not
dead?"
"There is no immediate necessity why a report of any kind should be
made."
"None."
"Then leave matters where they are at present."
"But why," put in Sir Charles. "Is it not better to end all inquiries,
at least so far as my wife is concerned? It is her desire, and, I may
add, my own, now that I know something of her fate."
"Of course, if you wish it, Dyke, I have no valid objection."
"Oh, no, no. Do not look at it in that way. I leave the ultimate
decision entirely to you."
"In that case, I recommend complete silence in all quarters at present."
The detective left them, and as he passed out into Victoria Street his
philosophy could find but one comprehensive dictum. "This _is_ a rum
go," he muttered, unconsciously plagiarizing himself on many previous
occasions.
The baronet sat down, and meditatively chewed the handle of his
umbrella.
"What is this nonsense Mensmore's sister talked about being responsible
for my wife's death?" he said.
"I do not pretend to understand," answered Bruce. "Little more than a
week ago she learned for the first time of your wife's supposed murder.
Of that I am quite positive. She feared that her brother was implicated,
and, without trusting me with the reasons for her belief, took the
measures she thought best to safeguard him."
"Took measures! What?" Sir Charles jerked the words out impetuously.
"She followed him to the South of France, and found him in Florence.
What she said I cannot guess, but the result was their visit here
to-night. During our interview it came out, quite by accident, that some
furniture was taken from her place to her brother's on the morning of
November 7, thus shifting the venue of Lady Dyke's death--or imaginary
death I must now say--from No. 12 Raleigh Mansions to No. 61. This
discovery was as startling to Mrs. Hillmer as to us, for she forthwith
protested that the whole affair arose from her fault, and practically
asked the detective to arrest her on the definite charge of murder."
"Pooh! The mania of an hysterical woman!"
"Possibly!"
"Why 'possibly'? No one was murdered in her abode. Do you for a moment
believe the monstrous insinuation?"
"No, not in that sense. But her brother was about to make some
revelation regarding a third person when she appealed to him not to
speak. What would have happened finally I do not know. At that critical
moment my servant announced your arrival."
"But what can Mrs. Hillmer have to conceal? She and her brother have
been lost to Society since long before my marriage. Neither of them, so
far as I know, has ever set eyes on my wife during the last seven
years."
"Yet Mrs. Hillmer _must_ have had some powerful motive in acting as she
did."
"Is it not more than likely that she had a bad attack of nerves?"
"A woman who merely yields to nervous prostration behaves foolishly.
This woman gave way to emotion, it is true, but it was strength, not
weakness, that sustained her."
"What do you mean?"
"There is but one force that sustains in such a crisis--the power of
love. Mrs. Hillmer was not flying from consequences. She met them
half-way in the spirit of a martyr."
"'Pon my honor, Bruce, I am beginning to think that this wretched
business is affecting your usually clear brain. You are accepting
fancies as facts."
"Maybe. I confess I am unable to form a logical conclusion to-night."
"Why not abandon the whole muddle to time? There is no solution of a
difficulty like the almanac. Let us both go off somewhere."
"What, and leave Mrs. Hillmer to die of sheer pain of mind? Let this
unfortunate fellow, Mensmore, suffer no one knows what consequences from
the events of to-day? It is out of the question."
"Very well, I leave it to you. Every one seems to forget that it is I
who suffer most." The baronet stood up and dejectedly gazed into the
fire.
"I, at least, can feel for you, Dyke," said Bruce sympatherically, "but
you must admit that things cannot be allowed to remain in their present
whirlpool."
"So be it. Let them go on to their bitter end. If my wife was tired of
my society she might at least have got rid of me in an easier manner."
With this trite reflection Sir Charles quitted his friend's house.
Bruce sat motionless for a long time. Then, as his mind became calmer,
he lit a cigar, took out the doubly mysterious letter, and examined it
in every possible way, critically and microscopically.
There could be no doubt that it was a genuine production. The condition
of the ink bore out the correctness of the date, and the fact that the
note paper and envelope were not of Continental style was not very
material.
It did not appear to have been enclosed in another envelope, as the
writer implied, for the purpose of being re-posted in London. Rather did
the slightly frayed edges give rise to the assumption that it had been
carried in some one's pocket before postage. But this theory was vague
and undemonstrable.
The handwriting was Lady Dyke's; the style, allowing for the strange
conditions under which it was written, was hers; yet Bruce did not
believe in it.
Nothing could shake his faith in the one solid, concrete certainty that
stood out from a maze of contradictions and mystery--Lady Dyke was dead,
and buried in a pauper's grave at Putney.
At last, wearied with thought and theorizing, he went to bed; but Smith
sat up late to regale his partner with the full, true, and particular
narrative of the "lydy a-cryin' on her knees, and the strange gent
lookin' as though he would like to murder Mr. White."