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

And so, for the last time, I sign myself

Charles Dyke.

Much as Bruce would have wished to inter his dead friend’s secret with his mortal remains in the tomb, it was impossible.

Sir Charles Dyke’s sacrifice must not be made in vain, and the strange chain of events encircled other actors in the drama too strongly to enable the barrister to adopt the course which would otherwise have commended itself to him. An early visit to Scotland Yard, where, in company with Mr. White, he interviewed the Deputy Commissioner, and a conference with the district coroner settled two important questions. The police were satisfied as to the cause of Lady Dyke’s death, and the coroner agreed to keep the evidence as to the baronet’s sudden collapse strictly within the limits of the medical evidence.

A wholly unnecessary public scandal was thus avoided.

With Lady Dyke’s relatives his task required considerable tact. Without taking them fully into his confidence, he explained that Sir Charles had all along known the exact facts bearing upon her death and burial-place, but for family reasons he thought it best not to disclose his knowledge.

Bruce needed their co-operation in getting the home office to give the requisite permission for Lady Dyke’s reburial. The circumstance that the deceased baronet had left his estates to his wife’s nephew, joined to the important position Bruce occupied as one of the trustees and joint guardian, with the boy’s mother, of the young heir, smoothed over many difficulties.

After a harassing and anxious week Bruce had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing the remains of the unfortunate couple laid to rest in the stately gloom of the family vault.

The newspapers, of course, scented a mystery in the proceedings, but definite inquiry was barred in every direction. Even the exhumation order gave no clue to the reasons of the authorities for granting it, and in less than the proverbial nine days the incident was forgotten.

Sir Charles had made it a condition precedent to the succession that his heir should bear his name, and should live with his widowed mother on the Yorkshire estate, or in the town house, for a certain number of months in each year, until the boy was old enough to go to school.

The stipulation was intended to have the effect of more rapidly burying his own memory in oblivion. Bruce, too, was given a sum of £5,000, “to be expended in bequests as he thought fit.”

Claude understood his motive thoroughly. Jane Harding had been loyal to her master in her way, so he arranged that she should receive an annual income sufficient to secure her from want. Thompson, too, was provided for when the time came that he was too feeble for further employment at Portman Square, and Mr. White received a handsome douceur for his services.

Mrs. Hillmer did not even know of Sir Charles Dyke’s death until weeks had passed. Acting on Bruce’s advice her brother simply told her that everything had been settled, and that the authorities concurred with the barrister in the opinion that Lady Dyke was accidently killed.

When she had completely recovered from the shock of the belief that her loyal friend had murdered his wife, Mensmore one day told her the whole sad story. But he would allow no more weeping.

“It is time,” he said, “that the misery of this episode should cease. When the chief actor in the tragedy gave his life to end the suffering, we would but ill meet his wishes by allowing it to occupy our thoughts unduly in the future.”

Mensmore’s marriage with Phyllis Browne was now definitely fixed for the following autumn, so he carried his sister off with him on a hasty trip to Wyoming in company with Corbett—a journey required for the protection and development of their joint interests in that State.

Not only did their property turn out to be of great and lasting value, but during their absence the Springbok Mine began to boom. Even the cautious barrister one day found himself hesitating whether or not to sell at half over par, so excellent were the reports and so extensive the dividends from that auriferous locality.

The two young people were married, a scion of the house had become a lusty two-year-old, Mr. White had become Chief Inspector, and Miss Marie le Marchant had, by strenuous effort, risen to the dignity of double crown posters as a “dashing comedienne”—when Bruce’s memories of his lost friends were suddenly revived in an unexpected manner.

Mr. Sydney H. Corbett came to him with measured questionings and brooding thought stamped on his brows.

“It’s like this,” he said, when they were settled down to details, “I want to get married.”

“To whom?” inquired Claude, wondering at the savage tone in which the announcement was made.

“To Mrs. Hillmer.”

“Oh!”

“That’s what everybody yells the moment I mention it. She screams ‘Oh!’ and runs off with tears in her eyes. Her brother says ‘Oh!’ and looks uncomfortable, but refuses to discuss the proposition. Now you say ‘Oh!’ and gaze at me like an owl at the bare statement. What the dickens does it all mean, I want to know? I’m not worrying about what happened years ago. Mrs. Hillmer is just the sort of woman I require as a wife, and I’ll marry her yet if the whole British nation says ‘Oh!’ loud enough to be heard and answered by the U-nited States.”

“That’s the proper sort of spirit in which to set about the business.”

“Yes, sir; but I can’t get any forrarder. There’s a kind of rock below water which holds me up every time I shoot the rapids. She likes me well enough, I know. She calls me ‘Syd’ as slick as butter, and I call her ‘Gwen’; but there you are—if I want to go ahead a bit she pulls up and weeps. Now, why the—”

“Steady, Mr. Corbett. Women weep for many reasons. Do you know her history?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“But perhaps that is exactly what she does want. Remember that she has been married before, with somewhat bitter experience. She probably believes that a husband and wife should have no secrets from each other. Above all else, there should be no cloud between them as to bygone events. Mrs. Hillmer is highly sensitive. If she imagined you were under any misapprehension as to the circumstances under which Sir Charles and Lady Dyke met their deaths—do not forget that you were personally mixed up in the affair—she would neither entertain your proposal nor explain her motives. She would just do as you say—run away and cry.”

“Well, now, that beats everything,” said Corbett admiringly. “That never struck me before.”

“It is the probable explanation of her attitude, nevertheless.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“Write to her. Ask her permission to learn the facts from me. Tell her you believe you understand the reasons for her reticence, and that your only excuse for the request is that you want to go to her on an equal plane of absolute confidence. It seems to me—”

“That I’d better get quick and do it,” shouted Corbett, vanishing with the utmost celerity.

Bruce still occupied his old chambers in Victoria Street. He did not expect to see Corbett again for a couple of days. To the barrister’s utter amazement he returned within ten minutes.

“Fire away!” he cried excitedly. “You struck it first time. I just rang her up—”

“Rang her up?”

“Yes; she’s staying at the Savoy for a few days, so I telephoned from the Windsor. I could never fix up a letter in your words, you know. But switch me on the end of a wire and I know where I am.”

“What on earth did you say?”

“As soon as I got her in the box at the other end, I said, ‘Is that you, Gwen?’ ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I guess you know who’s talking?’ ‘Quite well,’ said she. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘I’ve just been telling Mr. Bruce I wanted to marry you, and that you wouldn’t even discuss the proposition. He said you probably wished me to know the whole story of Sir Charles Dyke, but felt kinder shy of telling me yourself. He will get it off his chest if you give him permission, and then I can come along in a hansom and fix things. What do you say?’ There was no answer, so I shouted, ‘Are you there?’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ faint-like. ‘Don’t let me hurry you,’ said I, ‘but if you agree straight-away I can catch Bruce at home, for I’ve just left him.’ With that she said, ‘Very well. You can see Mr. Bruce.’ And here I am.”

“Having accomplished the whole thing satisfactorily.”

“As how?”

“Don’t you see you have proposed to the lady and practically been accepted?”

“Jehosh! It does look something like it. Say, I’m off! This story of yours will keep until to-morrow.”

He would have gone, but Bruce jumped after him.

“Not so fast, Mr. Corbett. You must not sail into the Savoy flying a false flag. Kindly oblige me with your attention for the next half-hour.”

With that, he unlocked a safe and took from its recesses Sir Charles Dyke’s “confession.” He read the whole of its opening passages, explaining the relations between Mrs. Hillmer and her unfortunate but abiding friend.

The straightforward, honest sentences sounded strangely familiar at this distance of time. Bruce was glad of the opportunity of reading them aloud. It seemed a fitting thing that this testimony should come, as it were, from the tomb.

Corbett listened intently to the recital and to the barrister’s summary of the events that followed.

“Poor chap!” he said, when the sad tale had ended. “I hope you shook hands with him as he asked you to do?”

“I did. Would that my grasp had the power to reassure him of my heartfelt sympathy.”

For a little while they were silent.

“So,” said Corbett at last, “Gwen thought I would make the same mistake as the poor lady, and suspect her wrongfully.”

“No, not that. But naturally she wished the man whom she could trust as a husband to be wholly cognizant of events in which already he had participated slightly.”

“She was right. I like her all the better for it. But, tell me, is there any necessity for that wonderful document to be preserved?”

“Not the slightest. It has served its last use.”

“Then put it in the fire.”

Bruce did not hesitate a moment to comply with the wish. The flames devoured the record with avidity, and the two men watched the manuscript crumbling into nothingness. Then Corbett said:

“I must be off to the Savoy.”

“Good-bye, old chap,” said Bruce. “And good luck to you, too. I congratulate both Mrs. Hillmer and yourself.”

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.