A Mysterious Disappearance by Louis Tracy (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

“My dear Sydney,—Your good news is more than surprising. Although I believe you, I cannot yet grasp its full significance. However, let us leave explanations until we meet. I am fixed here for a few days more, as I have just become engaged to the sweetest girl in the world, but will return home at the end of next week. Meanwhile I want you to take up your residence at my flat, No. 12 Raleigh Mansions, Sloane Square, where my housekeeper has instructions to receive you. Do not be surprised if you find the name of Corbett familiar there. Indeed, I took the place in your name in August last. However, all explanations when we meet.

“Yours ever,
“Bertie Mensmore.”

This, with a note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Robinson, and another to the hall-porter of the Universities Club, lest by any chance the Liverpool letter missed his friend, completed his task.

He laughed as he hurried from the post-office to the harbor.

“By Jove!” he said to himself, “won’t old Robinson be surprised when she gets my letter telling her that another Mr. Corbett is coming from America, and that my name, concealed for family reasons, is Mensmore. I guess that Sydney will feel a bit mixed up, too, until I tell him the whole yarn.”

No wonder his housekeeper would fail to understand him.

Others, whose influence on his fortunes he little suspected, were already puzzled by the circumstances. Bruce, for instance, and White would be very glad if some occult power enabled them to read the seemingly trivial letters posted that day in Genoa.

Every person known to the reader, and not the least the visitor from the United States, was on the eve of a mad whirl of events, the outcome of which no man could prophesy. As yet, one man only, Claude Bruce, had the slightest suspicion that affairs were approaching a crisis.

When Mensmore reached the White Heather he found Lady Browne and Phyllis dressed for a drive before dinner. Sir William seized the opportunity to cross-examine his daughter’s suitor as to his means. Phyllis was an only child, and her father did not propose that she should live in penury, whatever the financial position of her husband might be. He liked Mensmore, and had ascertained by private inquiries that his social position was good.

“His father was a Major-General,” said his informant, “who lost his savings by speculation, and was unable to maintain his son in a crack cavalry corps, so the youngster resigned and went to America to try to better himself. There was a daughter, too, by the first wife, a very charming woman, who, when the crash came, was supposed to have gone on the stage. But I have never heard of her since.”

So far, the credentials were not bad; but Sir William thought it his duty to ascertain definite particulars.

Mensmore was quite candid with him.

“I have been somewhat of a rolling stone,” he said, “but I am glad to believe that people have never had cause to think ill of me. At times, my affairs have been at a desperate stage, but I hope such periods have passed forever. I have already spoken to you about the Springbok Mine—”

The old gentleman nodded.

“Well, this morning I have received very satisfactory news from America,” and he handed over Corbett’s letter for perusal.

“Yes,” agreed Sir William, “these things promise well. We will look into them when we reach England. Meanwhile, I give my provisional sanction to my daughter’s engagement. She is a good girl, Mensmore. She will be a true and excellent wife. I think you are worthy of her, and I hope that whatever clouds may have darkened your life will now pass away. You two ought to be happy.”

“We will, sir,” said Mensmore fervently.

“By the way, where is your sister? Is she in England or abroad?”

Mensmore had been expecting this question. He was prepared for it.

“Mrs. Hillmer is my half-sister,” he explained. “I have not seen much of her since—since an unhappy marriage she contracted some years ago.”

“Indeed. Is her husband alive?”

“I can hardly tell you. I believe so. But she does not live with him. She is well provided for, but it was partly on account of this matter that I came to the Riviera for the winter. To tell the truth, I quarrelled with her about it.”

“Ah, well. Her troubles need not affect Phyllis and you, except to give you warning. And take my advice. Never interfere between husband and wife. However good your motive, ill is sure to come of it.”

In the growing dusk Sir William Browne did not note his companion’s embarrassment in discussing this topic. Mensmore was essentially an honorable man, and he detested the necessity which forced him to permit false inferences to be drawn from his words. Yet there was no help for it. He was compelled to suffer for the faults of another.

It was relief when the dressing-bell for dinner allowed him to escape to his cabin.

There was quite a large gathering for dinner. Places like Genoa contain a number of highly interesting personages if the visitor discovers them. The British race produces a richer variety of human flotsam and jetsam than any other. These derelicts come to anchor in out-of-the-way parts of the earth. They seem to have been everywhere and have done everything, while the whole world is an open book to them.

Thus there was no lack of variety in the conversation, and, as usual in such assemblies, it dealt more with persons than with incidents.

Phyllis had arranged the guests, so it may be taken for granted that her lover was near her—in fact, he sat exactly opposite. The lady he took in to dinner was the wife of an English doctor, and the British consul at the port was Miss Browne’s table companion.

The consul was a chatty man, who kept himself well informed concerning society events.

“By the way,” he said to Phyllis, “did you ever meet Lady Dyke?”

“No, her name is not familiar to me.”

“Do you mean the wife of Sir Charles Dyke?” said Mensmore; and the sudden interest he evinced caused Phyllis to glance at him wonderingly.

“Yes, that is she.”

“I know Sir Charles well. What is there new about his wife?”

“She is dead.”

“Good Heavens! Dead! When, and how?”

Mensmore was so obviously agitated that others present noticed it, and Phyllis marvelled much that in all their confidence the name of Dyke had never escaped his lips.

The consul, too, was a little nonplussed by the sensation caused by his words.

“I fear,” he said, “that I have blurted out the fact rather unguardedly. The Dykes are friends of yours?”

“No, no, not in that sense. Sir Charles I have known for many years. But are you sure his wife is dead?”

“My authority is an announcement in the Times to hand by to-day’s post. I should not have mentioned it were not her ladyship so well known in society, and the affair is peculiar, to say the least.”

“Peculiar—how?”

In his all-absorbing interest in the consul’s statement, Mensmore paid no heed to the curious looks directed at him; he had become very pale, and was more excited in manner than the circumstances appeared to warrant.

“In this sense: The paper is the issue of January 28, yet the notice says that Lady Dyke died on November 6. This is odd, is it not? A woman of her position could hardly have quitted life so quietly that no one would trouble to publish the fact until nearly three months after the event.”

“It