CHAPTER XXIII
THE LETTER
Quick on the heels of the footman's stammered explanation came the voiceof Sir Charles himself:
"Sorry to disturb you, Bruce, if you are busy, but I must see you for amoment on a matter of the utmost importance."
There was that in his utterance which betokened great excitement. He wasnot visible to the occupants of the room. During the audible silencethat 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 SirCharles Dyke's proffered statement as to the reason for his presence bythe startling cry:
"Wait a bit, Dyke. There's a lady in a faint inside. We must attend toher at once."
Mrs. Smith, fortunately, was at hand, and with the help of herministrations, 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 fullytogether, you may be able to send for us and clear up this wretchedbusiness."
For answer Mensmore silently pressed his hand. With the help of thehousekeeper he led his sister from the room, passing Sir Charles Dyke inthe hall. The baronet politely turned aside, and Mensmore did not lookat him, being far too engrossed with his sister to pay heed to aughtelse at the moment. As for Mrs. Hillmer, she was in such a state ofcollapse 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 oneelse."
Sir Charles Dyke grasped Bruce's arm.
"What on earth is going on?" he said.
"Merely a foolish woman worrying herself about others," replied Brucegrimly.
"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 theallegations 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 onthe face of it?"
"So it seems, when we have just discovered that your wife was killed inhis sister's house, and Mrs. Hillmer persists in declaring that she wasresponsible for the crime."
"Look here, Bruce. Don't lose your head like everybody else mixed up inthis wretched business. My wife is not dead."
"What!" The cry was a double one, for both Bruce and White gavesimultaneous 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'spost. I came here with it as fast as I could travel. I have been in thetrain 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. Ihave brought some old correspondence of hers for the purpose ofcomparison, as I could hardly believe my eyes when I first received it."
Bruce was so dumfounded by this remarkable development that he could butmutely take the document produced by the baronet and read it.
He himself recognized Lady Dyke's handwriting, which he had oftenseen--a clear, bold, well-defined script, more like the caligraphy of abanker than of a fashionable lady.
The letter was dated February 1, bore no other superscription, and readas 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 thewater-mark against the light, and noting that the paper was Britishmade; 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. "Detainedin 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 thewriter 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, evenyourself, Bruce, must have a good recollection of my wife's style."
"Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this was not Lady Dyke'sproduction."
"Well, what are we to do?"
"And what did Mrs. Hillmer mean by kicking up that fuss when we spoke toher?" interpolated White. "I'll take my oath that some one was killed inher house, else how comes it that a woman found in the Thames at Putneyis carrying about in her head some of Mrs. Hillmer's ironwork? I wishshe hadn't fainted just now. Why, she said herself that she was thecause of Lady Dyke's death, and here is Lady Dyke writing to say she isalive. This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got to explain agood deal yet before I am done with her."
The detective's wrath at this check in the hunt after a criminal did notappeal to the baronet.
"You can please yourself, Mr. White, of course," he said coldly; "but sofar as I am concerned, I will respect my wife's wishes, and let thematter 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 apparentlystated one in a letter which never reached me, as you know. She hasselfishly caused me a world of suffering and misery for three longmonths. I refuse to be plagued in the matter further."
Sir Charles was excited and angry. He was in bitter revolt againstcircumstances.
"Do you intend to show this letter to Lady Dyke's relatives?" askedBruce, 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 bythis business. There is so much that is wildly impossible in itsirreconcilable features. I must have time. Will you give me a copyof the letter?"
"Certainly, keep it yourself. We have all seen it."
"Thank you." Bruce placed the envelope and its contents in hispocket-book. Then, turning to the detective, he said:
"Now, Mr. White, do me a favor. Do not worry Mrs. Hillmer until you hearfrom me."
"By all means, Mr. Bruce. But am I to report to the Commissioner thatLady Dyke has been found, or has, at any rate, e
xplained that she is notdead?"
"There is no immediate necessity why a report of any kind should bemade."
"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 mayadd, 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 ultimatedecision 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 hisphilosophy could find but one comprehensive dictum. "This _is_ a rumgo," he muttered, unconsciously plagiarizing himself on many previousoccasions.
The baronet sat down, and meditatively chewed the handle of hisumbrella.
"What is this nonsense Mensmore's sister talked about being responsiblefor my wife's death?" he said.
"I do not pretend to understand," answered Bruce. "Little more than aweek 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 themeasures 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 hereto-night. During our interview it came out, quite by accident, that somefurniture was taken from her place to her brother's on the morning ofNovember 7, thus shifting the venue of Lady Dyke's death--or imaginarydeath I must now say--from No. 12 Raleigh Mansions to No. 61. Thisdiscovery was as startling to Mrs. Hillmer as to us, for she forthwithprotested that the whole affair arose from her fault, and practicallyasked 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 momentbelieve the monstrous insinuation?"
"No, not in that sense. But her brother was about to make somerevelation regarding a third person when she appealed to him not tospeak. What would have happened finally I do not know. At that criticalmoment my servant announced your arrival."
"But what can Mrs. Hillmer have to conceal? She and her brother havebeen lost to Society since long before my marriage. Neither of them, sofar as I know, has ever set eyes on my wife during the last sevenyears."
"Yet Mrs. Hillmer _must_ have had some powerful motive in acting as shedid."
"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, notweakness, that sustained her."
"What do you mean?"
"There is but one force that sustains in such a crisis--the power oflove. Mrs. Hillmer was not flying from consequences. She met themhalf-way in the spirit of a martyr."
"'Pon my honor, Bruce, I am beginning to think that this wretchedbusiness is affecting your usually clear brain. You are acceptingfancies 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 adifficulty like the almanac. Let us both go off somewhere."
"What, and leave Mrs. Hillmer to die of sheer pain of mind? Let thisunfortunate fellow, Mensmore, suffer no one knows what consequences fromthe 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 Iwho suffer most." The baronet stood up and dejectedly gazed into thefire.
"I, at least, can feel for you, Dyke," said Bruce sympatherically, "butyou must admit that things cannot be allowed to remain in their presentwhirlpool."
"So be it. Let them go on to their bitter end. If my wife was tired ofmy 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 itin every possible way, critically and microscopically.
There could be no doubt that it was a genuine production. The conditionof the ink bore out the correctness of the date, and the fact that thenote paper and envelope were not of Continental style was not verymaterial.
It did not appear to have been enclosed in another envelope, as thewriter implied, for the purpose of being re-posted in London. Rather didthe slightly frayed edges give rise to the assumption that it had beencarried in some one's pocket before postage. But this theory was vagueand undemonstrable.
The handwriting was Lady Dyke's; the style, allowing for the strangeconditions under which it was written, was hers; yet Bruce did notbelieve in it.
Nothing could shake his faith in the one solid, concrete certainty thatstood 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 Smithsat up late to regale his partner with the full, true, and particularnarrative of the "lydy a-cryin' on her knees, and the strange gentlookin' as though he would like to murder Mr. White."