The Project Gutenberg eBook of The adventures of Dora Bell,
detective, by Elizabeth Burgoyne Corbett

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Title: The adventures of Dora Bell, detective

Author: Elizabeth Burgoyne Corbett

Release Date: June 6, 2023 [eBook #70924]

Language: English

Produced by: Payton D. Cooke using digitized scans generously made
             available online by the National Library of Wales.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADVENTURES OF DORA BELL,
DETECTIVE ***

[Transcriber's Notes: The Adventures of Dora Bell, Detective was 
originally serialized in twelve parts in the South Wales Echo on 
Saturdays, beginning January 6th, 1894. It was reserialized several 
times over the next few years in the United Kingdom, United States, 
and Australia. Digitized scans of the original newspapers can be 
found free online at The National Library of Wales Newspapers. This 
eBook was transcribed from the original serialization in the South  
Wales Echo except for one sentence which was omitted in the original 
serialization but reproduced in multiple reserializations. It 
appears in the ninth story, Miss Rankin's Rival, and is recorded here 
for clarity: "I rather fancy that he is engaged to Miss Beatrice."]

The Adventures of Dora Bell, Detective

by Elizabeth Burgoyne Corbett, a.k.a Mrs. George Corbett


Contents

   I.     SWE-E-P
   II.    Hoist on Her Own Petard
   III.   One of Dora's Failures
   IV.    Dora Turns the Tables
   V.     The Acquaintance Dodge
   VI.    A Broken Trust
   VII.   Madame Duchesne's Garden Party
   VIII.  A Pattern of Virtue
   IX.    Miss Rankin's Rival
   X.     The Path to Fame
   XI.    The Recluse of Hallow Hall
   XII.   The Mysterious Thief




I. SWE-E-P!

“I shall be ruined, if this misfortune becomes known! You must help 
me out of the difficulty without the affair coming into the papers.”

“We will do our best. But we cannot guarantee success; and I must 
say that it is an invaluable advantage to have the police on our 
side.”

“The police must know nothing about it. The business lies entirely 
between my clients and myself. I should lose all my customers at 
once if, through the slightest indiscretion, they were led to 
suspect their valuable property to have passed into other hands 
pro tem.”

“But suppose some of them wish to redeem the property upon which you 
have advanced them money?”

“They are not likely to do that at present. The season has been an 
exceptionally gay one, and a gay season is always an expensive one. 
Society dames will be glad to leave their plate and jewellery at 
‘their bankers’ until their most pressing debts are settled. 
Meanwhile, I have sufficient confidence in your acumen to hope that 
you will speedily recover the missing goods.”

We could not help thinking that Mr Davison’s confidence in us was 
too overweening to be anything but embarrassing, even though our 
vanity was flattered by having the sole onus of responsibility for 
the recovery of stolen goods fixed upon us.

The facts are briefly as follows: –

Mr Davison drove a very peculiar trade. In society he figured as a 
man of culture, and of large independent means. He lived in one of 
the most costly of the many palatial flats in which opulent London 
loves to disport itself, and dispensed his hospitality on a very 
lavish and comprehensive scale. Assisted by his wife, a woman who 
was very beautiful, and as clever as himself, he gave receptions to 
which the titled and untitled flower of English aristocracy thought 
itself fortunate to be invited, and spent vast sums in apparently 
ostentatious extravagance.

But this extravagance was really the medium by which he found 
opportunities of gauging, and of trading upon, the social and 
financial position of his hosts of acquaintances, who never dreamed 
that the wherewithal of the splendid hospitality at which they 
wondered was derived from their own needs.

Mr Davison was really a money-lender on a huge scale, and had at 
least half-a-dozen flourishing West-End establishments. At one of 
them he traded, under a fictitious name, as a dealer in gold and 
silver plate, and at another, under another alias, he made costly 
jewellery his principal line. From still another establishment he 
drew plethoric profits by lending large sums of money on valuables, 
at another he advanced money on real estate at huge interest, and 
at one or two others he drove an equally lucrative trade on 
somewhat different lines. 

But at none of his shops did he ever put in a personal appearance, 
though he was actually the guiding spirit of them all. He had one 
little room in his flat to which no one was ever allowed to 
penetrate except himself and his wife. Connecting this room with 
his various establishments was an elaborate system of telephoning, 
and from this so-called “study” he was able to direct the 
multifarious threads of his vast business.

Add to his acquisitive capacity the fact that he had the power of 
winning the confidence of others to an extraordinary degree, and it 
will be seen how much more easy it was for him to manage so 
complicated a business than for a man with less tact and polish, 
or for a man whose wife was inferior to Mrs Davison, who was her 
husband’s very double in cunning and suavity.

And then they both had such a clever way of advising their friends 
out of their difficulties, that success was a foregone conclusion 
with them.

“Do you know, Lady C.,” would be Mrs Davison’s advice to a bosom 
friend whose present condition was that of chronic impecuniosity, 
but whose future was assured wealth. “If I were you, I would do 
just what dear Gerald and I had to do a year or two ago, when we 
were at our wit’s end for money, owing to a temporary depreciation 
of land values. We knew that all would come right in time, and we 
bought a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery from 
Edison & Co. and a thousand pounds worth of gold and silver plate 
from Meeson’s.”

“But how could it help you to go several thousand pounds deeper 
into debt?”

“My dear Lady C., how unsophisticated you are! We pawned the things 
for a thousand pounds at Grinling’s. It’s a capital place for 
business of that sort. No questions asked, and no fear of things 
being lent on hire, as sometimes happens. You see, we got all that 
ready money without laying any out, and paid all up as soon as we 
were better off.”

The result of some such talk would be that Lady C. and her kindred 
spirits would do a rather tall business with Edison, Meeson, and 
Grinling, unconscious of the fact that all three were embodied in 
the persons of Davison and his charming, sympathetic wife.

Or the prospective heir to vast estates would forestall his 
inheritance by mortgaging his interest at Robson’s estate office at 
a ruinous percentage, being advised thereto by his friend Davison.

It was this complicated nature of his business which made Davison so 
nervous about employing the police. He didn’t mind trusting us. But 
he gave the force more credit for bungling, and preferred to lose 
the things, which, after all, were really his own, since they were 
not paid for, rather than risk exposure.

Grinling’s didn’t look at all like a pawnshop, and it was, oddly 
enough, only patronised by people who knew the Davisons or some of 
their friends. To all outward seeming, it was but a middle-class 
private dwelling, hardly likely to tempt a gang of burglars. Even 
the servants were supposed to be in profound ignorance of the nature 
of Mr Grinling’s business, or of the contents of a certain room on 
the third storey, into which they were never admitted.

“Do you think Mr Grinling requires a new set of blinds for his 
windows?” inquired Mr Bell. “If so, I will send a man to measure 
the windows, and to show you patterns.”

Mr Davison had employed Messrs Bell and White before, and understood 
my uncle’s drift at once.

“By all means,” he replied. “You will find him prepared to receive 
your messenger in an hour.”

Just an hour later Adam Henniker was interviewing Mr Grinling, who 
had already been advised of the intended visit. Could the two 
manservants have seen the systematic way in which the supposed 
blindmaker pried, peeped, and smelled in every corner, and over 
every inch of the room from which the theft had been made, they 
would have been greatly surprised. As it was they were a little 
astonished, for the man actually went into the back area, and 
measured the lower windows for outside sunblinds.

“My goodness, I wonder what’ll happen next!” said the housemaid. 
“The master must be thinking of getting married, and if he brings 
a missis here we shall have to mind our p’s and q’s. Last week the 
sweeps and a lot of new furniture, and this week new blinds! We’re 
comin’ out, ain’t we?”

“Looks like it. Me and my missis would like to come out, too,” said 
Adam Henniker. “But we can’t afford new furniture. The whitewashers 
and sweeps is enough for us. Do you have a decent sort of sweep 
round here?”

“Oh, yes, he did very well, and was particularly clean. I never knew 
a sweep take such pains over a job. He lives round the corner, in 
the back street.”

That same evening Adam Henniker imparted his discoveries to me, and 
invoked my aid in the matter. He had found certain marks on the 
window-sill, spout, and the flooring of the looted room which his 
magnifying glass and his sense of smell assured him were produced by 
soot, and as soot is generally associated with people whose garments 
are habitually covered with it he had no hesitation in deciding that 
the sweep must have become suspicious as to the contents of the 
closed chamber, and that he had made a very profitable nocturnal 
visit to it, aided by the spout, and by the implements of his real 
trade.

“I don’t know how the people failed to hear the noise that must have 
been made,” continued Adam, “for the man fell and hurt himself 
severely. I saw evidences of this in the area. There were some spots 
of blood on the ground, and there were marks on the wall. I should 
fancy that he must have tied the bag of jewellery on his back, and 
that he was coming down the spout again, when he slipped, and was 
supported by his trousers until they gave way, and left this piece 
of cloth hanging on a nail which projects from the wall. I went to 
the sweep’s house, ostensibly to order a chimney to be swept, but 
was told that the man had hurt himself at his trade, and was laid 
up with a broken leg. It is now your turn to take the matter up.”

I saw no difficulty in doing this, for my work seemed cut and dried. 
The next morning witnessed a metamorphosis in my appearance. I 
presented myself at the sweep’s house in the garb of a charity 
nurse, and said that I had heard there was a man lying ill there, 
and was willing to nurse him two or three hours a day. As it 
happened, the sweep’s wife was very glad of my services, for though 
the fellow’s leg was not broken, he had sustained so many injuries 
that I marvelled how he had managed to reach home with his booty.

I concluded that the wife was ignorant of the real cause of her 
husband’s accident, and of the robbery, or she would not have 
trusted me to sit at the now delirious man’s bedside, while she 
attended to her household duties in the room which served as a 
kitchen.

It did not take me long to discover that my patient kept a feverish 
hold upon a small key. This key fitted a box that stood at the foot 
of the bed, and a judiciously administered opiate enabled me to get 
it into my possession at a time when Mrs Sweep had gone upon a 
lengthy errand.

In five minutes my task was accomplished. I opened the box, withdrew
a well-filled black leather bag, disposed of its contents in my 
multitudinous pockets, put the key back in the hand of the sleeping 
man, after locking the empty bag in the box again, and was ready to 
leave when the woman came back.

My readers will not be surprised to hear that I did not go back 
again. But, lest the thief should blame his wife for the loss of his 
booty, we caused a letter to be sent to him, in which we asserted 
that he had been tracked and followed to his home. “The property has 
been returned to Mr Grinling, the rightful owner,” concluded this 
letter, “and he has decided not to prosecute you, for your wife’s 
sake, so long as you keep clear of dishonest doings in the future.”

Mr Davison was very much astonished to recover his property so 
quickly, especially as we gave him no clue to the thief, or a hint 
of our modus operandi.

We only advised him to remove his pawnbroking business to safer 
premises.

It does not do for private detectives to let their clients know how 
simple their business can be on occasion.




II. Hoist on her Own Petard


We were morally certain that Madame Rose Gringoire was no other than 
the Fraulein Bertha Gerhardt, whom we had been patiently seeking for 
six months. But moral certainty is a long way removed from proof 
positive, and the client who was employing us was slow to believe 
that we had almost cornered our quarry.

You see, the circumstances were not merely peculiar. They were of 
desperate moment, and upon the circumvention of Bertha Gerhardt’s 
intrigues depended either the reputation or the fortune of a family 
which had, by virtue of its wealth and spotless lineage, made itself 
a power in its residential county. Sir Arthur and Lady Brackett were 
desperately anxious to recover some papers which the whilom 
governess had abstracted from a secret drawer in which they were 
believed to be in absolutely safe keeping.

Of the precise nature of these documents professional honour forbids 
me to speak. Equally momentous secrets are often confided to us, and 
the many cases of a delicate nature with which our firm are 
entrusted are the outcome of a steadily growing reputation for 
discretion and reliability. Were blackmailing our forte, we might 
wax rich on our knowledge of the strange events and conditions 
which harass the lives, and endanger the prosperity, of the 
apparently rich and happy.

To the latter class belonged Sir Arthur and Lady Brackett, and we 
were the more anxious to bring their case to a satisfactory issue 
because we knew that the somewhat disreputable family doings in 
which this trouble originated were condemned by them at the time, 
and were beyond their power to prevent.

How Bertha Gerhardt obtained her knowledge of the skeleton in their 
cupboard is still a mystery. But it is believed that Sir Arthur’s 
scapegrace brother, who hated his father’s heir with a hatred which 
could hardly be equalled by men of alien races, had made a confidant 
of her, and that she had sought the post of governess as a means of 
securing the incriminating documents.

“Have you a photograph of Fraulein Gerhardt?” inquired Mr Bell, 
before whom Sir Arthur had just laid his case.

“Yes, we have a small one, though the original does not know,” was 
the reply. “My wife is very fond of amateur photography, and has 
photographed nearly every nook and cranny of the house and estate. 
Miss Gerhardt is not handsome, and she always laughingly refused to 
have her plainness perpetuated on paper. One morning Lady Brackett 
had had her camera taken into the drawing-room and had embraced 
the governess within its scope ere that lady was aware of her 
intention. When she discovered she had been photographed she with 
difficulty kept back the signs of her anger, and it was rather odd 
that the negative of the little picture should have been found 
broken a day or two later. But, though Miss Gerhardt was not made 
aware of the fact, two or three prints had been taken before the 
negative was destroyed, and from one of these we have enlarged her 
photograph. Here is a copy. It is not very good, but will no doubt 
be useful.”

“Excellent, Sir Arthur! It is evidently a good likeness, and will 
suit us even better than one which has been toned down and touched 
up by a professional photographer for the sake of flattering a 
customer. It is quite apparent that this clever lady meant to take 
every precaution against being over-reached. She will be astonished 
when we run her to earth.”

“I hope you will manage that feat.”

“I do not think there is much doubt on the subject. It is simply a 
matter of time.”

“And meanwhile my fortune is being drained.”

“We will be as expeditious as possible. You say that Miss Gerhardt 
must not be arrested.”

“By no means! Everything depends upon strict secrecy. Were this not 
the case we would not have parted so readily with the money which 
has been demanded of us from time to time.”

“And you have no idea where this woman resides since she quitted 
Brackett Hall?”

“Not the slightest. We were surprised and mystified at her sudden 
departure, but did not suspect her of any covert act until she wrote 
to us. Her letter was an impudent avowal of her abstraction of the 
papers upon which our destiny hangs, and she demanded a large amount 
of money as the price of her silence. Since then we have had several 
letters from her, but both her letters and our remittances all pass 
through the hands of a shady solicitor, who lives in a short street 
off the Strand, and who will give us no clue to his client’s 
whereabouts.”

Mr White elicited several more particulars from the troubled 
baronet, and then set about performing the mission entrusted to him. 
The fact that Miss Gerhardt transacted all her business through a 
London agent made it seem probable that she herself resided in 
London, and for several weeks we kept a strict watch upon the 
lawyer’s premises, but without result.

The lady evidently knew better than to show herself in that quarter, 
and we might have failed to rescue our client from his insatiate 
blackmailer had not a very unforeseen occurrence taken place.

“When thieves fall out, honest men get their own,” and this was a 
case in point.

One hot July afternoon a lady came to our office to invoke our aid 
in bringing back to her an individual who had absconded with a large 
sum of money belonging to her. The gentleman she described and 
named was Hulbert Brackett, Sir Arthur Brackett’s ne’er-do-weel 
younger brother, and our would-be new client bore such a strong 
resemblance to the photograph of Bertha Gerhardt, that we believed 
this to be that lady herself.

But she gave the name of Madame Rose Gringoire, and professed to be 
a French widow, who had entrusted Mr Brackett with all her fortune 
to invest for her, and the onus of proof of her identity with the 
German schemer whom we were seeking rested with us. She certainly 
spoke and comported herself as Frenchified as if to the manner born, 
but we soon discovered that she understood German equally well.

Mr Henniker, got up in very Teutonic fashion called in to the office 
and bungled so much in his efforts to pass himself off as a needy 
German, who couldn’t speak English, that madame was highly amused, and 
I, who was an unsuspected witness of the scene, was an unsuspected 
witness of the scene, could see that she understood every word that 
was said.

This discovery helped to convince us that we were indeed on the 
right track, even if the sum of which this adventuress complained of 
having been robbed had not tallied exactly with the amount extorted 
from Sir Arthur only a week before her visit to us.

“I am afraid the thief has too great a start, but we will do all we 
can in the matter,” said Mr Bell. “I hope your entire resources are 
not exhausted?”

“By no means! I can always get more money where that came from. But 
I have no mind to be such a heavy loser, all the same.”

“Then you will pardon me, I hope, if I inquire whether you would 
care to have the matter made public, or not? Most of our clients 
prefer us to conduct all their affairs with the utmost secrecy.”

“And so do I. On no account must anyone else know of this business. 
If you can find Hulbert Brackett for me, I can soon bring him to 
terms again.”

The next day our firm received a note from Madame Gringoire, stating 
that she was too ill to keep an appointment she had made to call 
again at the office, and asking us to let her know at once if we 
heard anything about her absconding friend, who was, we afterwards 
discovered, actually married to her.

That note proved very useful to us, as we were anxious to call at 
her house, and the usually so ultra-cautious woman had given her 
present address upon it. She had been followed home the night 
before, and we knew her address already. But having received it 
from herself in the way of business simplified matters for us.

That afternoon, armed with an introduction from our firm, I called 
upon Madame Gringoire. I found her suffering from a bilious 
headache, and she was none too pleased to see me.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asked suspiciously.

“Why, Madame,” I exclaimed, in deprecative surprise; “you gave us 
your address in the note you sent this morning, and as we have 
already traced your fugitive from London to Liverpool, we thought it 
better to consult you at once about him, as we did not know what 
further course to take without definite instructions from you.”

In an instant madame was all eagerness and attention, and I was so 
well armed with details, thanks to Sir Arthur’s circumstantial 
explanations, that I succeeded in convincing her of the plausibility 
of my story.

Henceforth all was plain sailing.

The next Atlantic liner would leave Liverpool in two days. There was 
time for madame to overtake the fugitive, or rather, it suited us to 
persuade her that such was the case.

It was arranged that on the following morning at nine o’clock, 
madame was to be at our office, ready to start at once with Mr Bell 
and myself to Liverpool. We were to be paid for our services out 
of the money recovered from the absconding accomplice.

The lady was all excitement, and rang the bell violently for her 
maid.

“Bring some tea upstairs,” she commanded, “and set about packing my 
things. I am going to Liverpool in the morning with this lady, and 
will be away a few days.”

“With that headache?”

“No, you stupid, not with that headache. I am going to leave the 
headache at home for you to take care of while I am away. Now, go on 
with your work.”

The next morning at a quarter past nine, while madame was in our 
office, I presented myself at her house in a great state of fluster. 
“Your mistress has forgotten some papers which she must have with 
her. She has other business to do, and has no time to come back for 
them. Here is a note from her. Be as quick as you can, please.

Such was the message to Sophie, and she never doubted my bona-fides, 
seeing that I was armed with a letter, apparently in her mistress’s 
handwriting, authorising me to hunt for a packet of papers of which 
the appearance was accurately described.

Sophie had seen her mistress looking at such a packet as was 
described, and at once took me to the bureau in which they were 
kept. Oddly enough, I had forgotten to bring the key with me, and 
there was no time to go back for it, so, rather to Sophie’s horror, 
I broke the drawer lock open. Then, having found the great prize I 
sought, I hurried to the street, jumped into the hansom waiting for 
me, and was soon in the presence of the lady whose schemes I had 
circumvented.

She was already impatient at the long delay, and started up in alarm 
when she saw me enter the office smiling triumphantly, and holding 
in my hands the papers upon which hung the destiny of the Bracketts. 
She sprang forward, and would have snatched them out of my hand. 
But I was too quick for her. I was also protected by my colleagues, 
and Sir Arthur, who had been telegraphed for, arrived at the same 
moment.

For awhile the baffled woman shrieked out rage and threats, and 
swore that all the world should know the disreputable secret 
connected with Sir Arthur’s parents.

But the latter had now the upper hand, and meant to keep it. Taking 
the packet from my hand, and opening it to see that all the papers 
were there, he promptly threw it into the empty fireplace, set a 
match to it, and watched it burn to the last atom.

“You have filched ten thousand pounds out of me because I dreaded to 
have my family name disgraced. You will get no more. Every proof of 
these past events is now destroyed, and any assertions you might 
make would not be believed. I saw the man who claims to be my 
brother last night. He tells me that he is married to you. You will 
find him in our village if you want him. But he understands as fully 
as you must do that any further injury he may attempt to do me will 
recoil on his own head.”

Mrs Hulbert Brackett seemed to comprehend the situation thoroughly. 
She left the office without another word, and we have never heard 
of her since.




III. One of Dora's Failures


Is it usual to record one’s failures? I believe not. And yet many of 
them are perforce as interesting to the public as one’s most 
brilliant successes.

Here is a case in point.

A young lady, whom we will call Ada Calmour, had had the misfortune 
to displease her wealthy father to so great an extent that he vowed 
never to forgive her. Her crime was a common one. She loved a 
handsome young fellow who was impulsive, unlucky, poor, and a cousin 
to boot, and steadfastly declined to give him up when ordered to do 
so by her father, from whom, by-the-by, she inherited the self-will 
which roused his ire.

Just about this time Mr Calmour fell under the spell of a lady whom 
his daughter did not hesitate to dub an adventuress of the most 
pronounced type, and it became evident to his friends that he was 
sickening for matrimony.

The ordinary judge of humanity would have imagined that Mr Calmour’s 
own infatuation would have made him more tolerant of his daughter’s 
love affair. But, to the tell the truth, he was perversity 
personified, and as his appreciation of Miss Reede’s insidious 
advances increased, so did his depreciation of his nephew’s 
qualities progress in inverse ratio.

At last matters reached a crisis. The adventuress’s intrigues 
progressed successfully, and Miss Reede succeeded in transforming 
her impecunious self into the wife of a wealthy country magnate. 
She had evidently entered upon her new sphere of life with fixed 
ideas as to the fitness of things, for she had no sooner returned 
from her short honeymoon that she began to turn the house upside 
down, and coolly informed her step-daughter that she must vacate the 
bedroom she had always occupied, as it was to be transformed into a 
boudoir for the new mistress of the establishment. As there were at 
least two other rooms in the rambling old house that would have 
suited Mrs Calmour’s purpose equally well, Ada recognised in the new 
arrangement a deliberate intention to insult her, and suspected that 
the ulterior motive was to drive her from the house.

A girl of meek and yielding spirit would have submitted to the 
indignity without audible complaint. Miss Calmour was too 
high-spirited for that, and declined to yield her treasured 
privileges without a struggle. Her father had always petted and 
indulged her until these unfortunate love differences arose. He had, 
in her opinion, shown strong signs of mental aberration in marrying 
a woman of whose antecedents he knew nothing beyond the fact that 
she owed money in all directions before she secured him for her 
husband, and that her very close intimacy with a man whom she 
represented to be her guardian provoked invidious comments.

Ada was therefore not greatly surprised when her father declined to 
put a veto upon Mrs Calmour’s appropriation of her pet sanctum.

“I can’t see that there is anything worth making a fuss about,” he 
observed, carelessly. “If the room is wanted, you can easily find 
another that will be just as comfortable.”

In fact, he dismissed the matter as too trivial to worry about. The 
mischief lay deeper than he either knew or cared, and one encroachment 
followed another until the daughter of the house decided that her 
room was preferable to her company. The immediate result of this 
conviction was action on her part. She quitted the home she idolised, 
and it was surmised by her father and his wife that she had eloped 
with Pearce Churchill. Mrs Calmour did her best to encourage this 
supposition, and to fan the already unreasonable anger of the man 
whose money she coveted for herself.

Her schemes prospered to perfection. Mr Calmour swore never to look 
upon his daughter again, or to allow her to touch a farthing of his 
money.

“Her good-for-nothing husband may keep her,” he observed, callously. 
“She didn’t know when she was well off, and as she has chosen to 
make her own bed, she may lie upon it.”

But the poor girl had not married her cousin after all, although he 
was eager that she should become his wife, even though the fortune 
she once expected to inherit was probably alienated from her for 
ever. When Ada discovered that her lover’s income was totally 
inadequate for even one, she declined to add to his responsibilities, 
and went into the world to earn her own living.

“And you must not write to me for twelve months,” she said firmly 
but tearfully. “I love you dearly, Pearce; but you shall not 
sacrifice yourself to a penniless wife until time and absence have 
tested your affection. You need not fear for me. I shall get on well 
enough. And in twelve months I will write to you, and will gladly 
marry you if you still want me.”

All Pearce Churchill’s arguments in favour of an immediate marriage 
were in vain, and when Mr Calmour died quite suddenly, three months 
after his daughter’s disappearance, none knew where to find her. 
Probably the misguided man had been visited by compunctious qualms 
of conscience concerning his treatment of his own child, for his 
will, as read at the funeral, savoured of a half-hearted attempt to 
saddle Fate with the responsibility of deciding whether his wife or 
his daughter should inherit his wealth. Said will was fantastic to 
a ridiculous degree, and provoked the indignation of all the old 
friends of the family, who estimated Mrs Calmour at her true value, 
and set her down as the unscrupulous, scheming adventuress she 
really was.

Some even went so far as to hint that Mr Calmour, who was in the 
prime of life, and had always been a healthy man, would have been 
alive still, if he had been further removed from his wife’s 
influence. But hints and suspicions are more easily indulged in than 
open accusations, and many a tragedy remains unexposed because 
nobody likes to be the initiative accuser.

Thus, though many black glances were levelled at the newly made 
widow, she was allowed to pursue the even tenor of her way 
unmolested, in spite of the fact that her badly disguised rage at 
the gist of her husband’s will increased the distrust with which she 
was already regarded.

Mr Calmour had been enlightened as to the true state of affairs with 
regard to his daughter, at least as far as his nephew could 
enlighten him, and had become aware that she was struggling unaided 
to earn a livelihood which he could have given her without missing 
the money.

“I am very anxious about Ada,” Pearce had written. “I have written 
to the last address I had, and my letters have been returned, marked 
‘Not known.’ I have now got a good appointment, and could I but find 
her Ada would marry me at once. She only refused me before because 
she was afraid of making me still poorer than I was. She is a noble 
girl, and has been shamefully treated. On your head be it, if she 
has come to grief in her fight with adversity. I wonder what my 
aunt, whom you used to pretend to love, would think if she could 
know that within two years of her death you have practically turned 
her only child into the streets, to make room for a professional 
adventuress, whom no one but you would have married?”

Pearce Churchill knew that his letter would enrage his uncle. But he 
also hoped that it might have a salutary effect. The will which he 
heard read convinced him that his hope had not been quite in vain.

Mr Calmour left all his property, subject to an annuity of one 
hundred per annum for his wife, to his nephew Pearce Churchill, on 
condition that he was married to Ada within three months of the 
testator’s death. Should this marriage not take place within the 
stipulated period, Ada and Pearce were to have one hundred per annum 
each, and everything else was to go to his wife absolutely, no less 
than five thousand a year being involved altogether.

The stake was so big, and it seemed so monstrous that this hated 
interloper should succeed to the estates that had been in the 
Calmour family over three hundred years, that every effort was made 
to baffle her.

We were speedily commissioned to discover Ada Calmour and put forth 
all our energies to the task. Indeed, we had been offered such a 
large sum in the event of success, that we engaged a colleague for 
me, in the person of a woman of thirty or thereabouts, who came to 
us with very good credentials. One of these we verified. The other 
reference had just started on a Continental tour when Mr White wrote 
to him, and was uncomeatable. But Mrs Deane was engaged, and proved 
herself so exceedingly smart that our firm soon congratulated itself 
on having secured her services.

Just at this time the Calmour case was engrossing the greater part 
of my attention. We had advertised very freely, but our advertisements 
met with no response, and as one week after another passed, and all 
our plans for discovering Miss Calmour failed, we grew very anxious 
about the matter.

The case was so exasperatingly disappointing, too. Several times we 
believed ourselves to be on the eve of discovery, and each time our 
expected triumph turned out to be a will-o’-the-wisp. Twice I 
journeyed to a distant town, feeling confident of meeting Miss 
Calmour. Each time she had disappeared and left no trace behind her, 
or at least so little that it was difficult to work upon. Three 
times Mrs Deane set off on a similar errand, and three times she 
returned with failure written on her face.

At last the fateful day of limitation came and went. Wherever she 
might be now, Ada’s inheritance was lost to her, and the adventuress 
was triumphant possessor of the coveted acres and personalty. At the 
end of twelve months’ probation she had given herself, Miss Calmour 
returned, and then we managed to understand the cause of our failure. 
She had been engaged as travelling companion by some people who 
turned out to have been in the pay of Mrs Calmour, and who, oddly 
enough, were the people who had been given as reference by Mrs Deane. 
All newspapers were tabooed by Miss Calmour’s employers, a Mr and 
Mrs Carlile, and she neither knew of her father’s death or of our 
advertisements. The Carliles were very erratic travellers, and it 
subsequently transpired that their hurried departures had been 
co-incidental with the futile journeys of myself or my lady colleague.

They had, in fact, been warned of our intended arrival, and had 
always managed to carry their unsuspecting companion away in time to 
avoid discovery.

Miss Calmour bitterly regretted having insisted upon twelve months’ 
probation, for although she was soon very happily married to her 
cousin, and although his earnings and their joint little incomes 
brought in a total of six hundred a year, this was very far short of 
what would have been theirs had they inherited under Mr Calmour’s 
stupid and eccentric will.

They did not doubt that Mrs Calmour learnt somehow that we were 
employed to trace the heiress, and had counter-schemed to prevent 
the discovery we were so anxious to make.

A few months after this painful failure of ours, I was in the 
neighbourhood of Calmour Grange, and saw the lady of the house 
driven past me in great style. I was naturally curious as to her 
personality, and am not sure that I was quite as surprised as I 
might have been at the discovery I made.

I knew now that success would have been will nigh impossible for me.

Mrs Calmour was no other than Mrs Deane, the clever lady detective 
who stayed in our employment three months, and to whom we confided 
all the details about the great will case.

I have another story to relate about her.




IV. Dora Turns the Tables


“There will soon be very little of my uncle Calmour’s property left, 
if this woman is allowed to pursue her present reckless course of 
extravagance,” observed Mr Churchill, discontentedly, about two 
years after the incidents narrated in the last story.

He had come to consult me as to the possibility of still outwitting 
Mrs Calmour, and of regaining possession of the family acres. He had 
but the haziest idea as to the plan most likely to realise his 
wishes, and admitted that the widow’s position seemed unassailable 
from an ordinary point of view; yet, in spite of our previous 
failure, he was imbued with such an extravagant belief in the 
abnormal ability of Messrs Bell and White that he had taken it into 
his head to see if we could not unseat the adventuress, even now.

“According to the law of England,” I observed to Mr Churchill, “Mrs 
Calmour is perfectly entitled to squander the property. The will has 
been duly proved, and unless we could show that this clever schemer’s 
title is base there is little chance of ousting her.”

“What are the pleas upon which we could upset her right to possession?”

“Probably a clever lawyer, if you could find such an individual, 
might suggest several. At present I can only think of two.”

“And they are?”

The illegality of Mr Calmour’s marriage and the existence of a will 
posterior to the one that has been proved.”

“Miss Bell! You give me new hope! There may really be another will 
in existence, or rather, there may have been. When I come to think 
of it, it is not likely that such a will would have been kept so 
long, even if it had ever been penned. To suppress a will is a 
serious thing, and culprits do not, I should imagine, carefully 
preserve the evidence of their own guilt.”

“There you are quite wrong. There are innumerable instances on 
record of people who have been punished for grave crimes that would 
never have been brought home to them but for their own incredible 
carelessness. A letter, an article of wearing apparel, a trivial 
trinket – these have often been the principal factors in elucidating 
criminal puzzles.”

“Then you really think Mrs Calmour has kept the real will back?”

“My dear sir! I never said any such thing. I only supposed it 
possible that, to secure the property, Mrs Calmour had suppressed 
her husband’s final testament, in which case it might safely be 
concluded that it would have been entirely in your or your wife’s 
favour, since the will that was eventually proved required a lot of 
very clever scheming on the successful legatee’s part.”

“Just so, and I mean to act on the supposition that you have made a 
correct guess at the true state of affairs. The idea that the 
marriage was not legal cannot be entertained for a moment. There are 
too many proofs to the contrary, worse luck.”

“So you think. But we are accustomed to look at a case from every 
point of view. An exhaustive analysis of Mrs Calmour’s past might 
disclose the existence of a prior right on the part of some 
accommodating individual, who is content to remain in the background 
for the sake of a liberal share of the plunder.”

But this view of the case, excited my impulsive client so much that 
I with difficulty restrained his prematurely triumphant exultation, 
and when he left our office he seemed to be firmly convinced that 
his wife would still become possessor of what was left of her 
father’s estate. As she was an only child, it had always been natural 
to suppose herself the heiress, and as at first one beloved piece of 
land and then another was sold by the present possessor she found it 
very hard to hear of such wanton waste of fine property. Probably 
she would share her husband’s newly-awakened hopes and enthusiasm 
when he told her of his interview with me.

And were these hopes quite as unfounded as they appear at the first 
blush?

Probably not.

I had been so much chagrined at the manner in which I had been 
outwitted by Mrs Calmour, that I had resolved to ferret well into 
her past life, and rake thence such items of interest as would help 
to turn the tables on her, and return to Mrs Churchill the property 
which I deemed morally hers.

I had already made good progress in my researches before I was 
consulted again by my client. But it would not have been wise, from 
a professional point of view, to betray the full extent of my 
knowledge at once. Clients have sometimes a rather a nasty knack of 
imagining that the remuneration due to a private detective is 
commensurate with the amount of research required after a case has 
been actually taken in hand on their behalf. They forget that all 
the knowledge and experience which is anterior to their application 
for their assistance has been the result of determined labour and 
forethought, without which no detective could hope to succeed, and 
which deserve ultimate interest equally with the client’s own 
provision for the future, whether it be in the shape of invested 
funds or acquired mental knowledge.

Of course, a great proportion of our clients are of a more reasonable 
nature. But the exceptions have taught us caution, and we rarely 
fall into a confidential mood until we are quite sure that our 
professional prestige will not suffer by doing so.

Thus it happened that I forebore to tell Mr Churchill how hopeful 
I really considered his wife’s cause to be. But I knew enough already 
to have made Mrs Calmour quake in her shoes, could she have guessed 
that I was on her trail. For instance, I knew that a certain Mr Selby 
formerly posed as the guardian of the lady, who, by-the-by, was at 
least thirty-six years of age, though she only owned to being 
twenty-seven. On making certain inquiries, I learned something else 
about Mr Selby, and came to the conclusion that his doings were 
quite as shady as those of his “ward.”

He made it a practice to hunt up charming country cottages or 
handsomely furnished suites of rooms and to offer such liberal terms 
for them as tempted their owners to take a lodger in for once, in 
order to earn an extra honest penny. Then Mr Selby, who had sung the 
praises of his accomplice sky-high, would superintend the 
installation of that individual with much empressement. The lady, 
whom he always represented as rich, and whom he endowed with 
fictitious relationship to people of note, who would have repudiated 
all connection with her, would bring her maid and her bosom female 
crony, a certain Miss Losteel, and they and the reputed guardian 
would eat and drink the poor hosts into ruination.

This would last until the latter began to look askance at the idea 
of always receiving excuses instead of money, and then the gang 
would suddenly seek fresh victims. Oddly enough, the victimised 
hosts generally found that some of their treasured knick-knacks 
always disappeared at the same time as their swindling lady lodger, 
who, while the spell of her fascination lasted, borrowed money for 
stamps, stationery, railway fares, and any other thing for which 
money is absolutely needed.

The woman was short, squat, dark, and of curious, square set 
features. While under the aegis of the charm which she could use at 
will, people found all sorts of excuses for her constant lapses into 
vulgarity, and smiled at the egregious vanity she displayed. Once 
fully alive to the unscrupulous creature’s real nature, they 
wondered how such an ugly incarnation of selfishness could ever have 
fascinated them, and were inclined to attribute her power to sorcery, 
or hypnotism, or to anything but the deep-laid plots of mere cunning.

After Miss Reede’s marriage to Mr Calmour, the whilom guardian (he 
posed as “uncle” at Dieppe) lived in bachelor chambers in London in 
great style, and did not even trouble to go to the office in which 
he had formerly done occasional business of a shady sort. He had 
money enough to live upon, and I had no difficulty in surmising 
whence it came.

Soon after Mrs Calmour succeeded to the estates Mr Selby developed 
into a property buyer. He figured at several of the purchases of 
land sold by the widow. As the latter showed no signs of being 
better off for all the cash she got, I inferred that it found its 
way back into Mr Selby’s possession, and that the latest scheme was 
intended to divert the ownership of the property to the nominal 
purchaser, instead of the widow.

I argued that there must be a reason for this, and the painstaking 
researches I made resulted in the astounding discovery that the 
couple were really man and wife. They had found it pay better to 
profess a different relationship. The marriage with Mr Calmour was, 
therefore, null and void. But I was not quite sure that this fact 
would suffice to restore her fortune to Mrs Churchill.

Prolonged observation convinced me that the utmost harmony existed 
between the two conspirators.

I felt sure that fear of discovery was prompting the transfer of the 
property, and argued that as friendly relations existed between the 
two principals, there must be a third party of whose revelations 
they were afraid.

It did not require much ingenuity to supply the missing link in the 
chain of evidence I was weaving round the lady who had outwitted me 
so cleverly when posing as my colleague. Suppose I turned my 
attention to the Mr and Mrs Carlile, whose active co-operation 
ensured the success of the widow’s schemes?

I thought the plan a very good one, and followed it up with such 
success that I learnt enough of the past life of the Carliles to 
have sent them both to penal servitude.

My colleagues had given me their active co-operation, and when I had 
arrived at a quite triumphant point of my personal investigations, 
I knew exactly where to put my hands on the people I wanted. But I 
did not care to present myself unsupported in the lion’s den, so was 
accompanied both by my uncle and by Mr Henniker when I paid the 
unsuspecting swindlers a visit.

Within half an hour we convinced them that we had them in our power, 
and that the only way to escape imprisonment themselves was to 
confess everything they knew relating to Mr Calmour’s inheritrix and 
her accomplice. And a pretty confession it was too!

It seems that the misguided squire had made two wills, both in legal 
form, and both drafted without the assistance of a lawyer. Of the 
one the reader has heard particulars, and though it did not carry 
out Mrs Calmour’s own views, she preferred to risk her chances on it 
rather than on the one made by the legatee in the heat of passion, a 
few hours before he died.

This last will left everything to Ada Calmour, absolutely and 
unconditionally, and was the outcome of Mr Calmour’s discovery that 
he had been duped and fooled. He was altogether so excited at this 
revelation that he was visited by a stroke, and died without being 
able to impart his knowledge to anyone who would have helped to see 
justice done to his daughter.

Mrs Carlile was a visitor in the house at the time. She obtained 
possession of Mr Calmour’s last will, and declined to give it up 
when asked to do so by the supposed widow, as she was quite aware of 
the power its possession gave her. The Carliles had lived quite 
luxuriously at Mrs Calmour’s expense, but had found it necessary to 
threaten exposure lately, as they had become suspicious of her 
intention to realise all she could, and levant with her lawful husband.

The reader can guess the rest. Mr and Mrs Churchill are installed in 
their own again. Even the land nominally sold to the man calling 
himself Selby is restored to them, as the transfer was a palpably 
fraudulent transaction between him and his wife, who had no legal 
power to sell.

The Carliles have deemed it wise to emigrate. I wish I could add that 
the Selbys had been duly punished for their misdeeds. But Mrs 
Churchill did not care to expose her poor father’s weakness too 
widely, and has let them go scot free.

For anything I know to the contrary, they have reverted to their 
former farcical pretence of being a guardian of his rich genius of a 
ward. Certain it is, that wherever they are, they are swindling 
somebody, and I would earnestly warn my readers against trusting the 
unsupported testimony of a plausible, gentlemanly fellow who wants 
to engage costly board and lodgings for his lady friend, whom he 
endows with the additional recommendation of being about to outstrip 
her pretended talented relations in the race for fame.




V. Acquaintance Dodge


Yes, it was undoubtedly the same woman. I had seen her before, and 
knew her to be of very equivocal character. Nay, I will go a step 
further, and assure my readers that she was a person of very 
disreputable antecedents, and had recently served a term of 
imprisonment in consequence of certain disclosures for which our 
firm was responsible.

Her penchant for frequent changes of names made it difficult to 
follow her career. But the last name under which I had known her was 
Angelina Dyer, and as Angelina Dyer she was convicted of assisting 
at the operations of a gang of burglars, of whom I have an exciting 
story to tell some day.

Knowing the true character of this woman, therefore, it caused me 
no small surprise to see her talking to Mr Lanimore, one of our city 
aldermen, whom I would have deemed one of the last individuals in 
the world to have dealings with Angelina Dyer.

My curiosity was aroused. I determined to see the farce to the end, 
and for the present relinquished my intention of taking a hansom to 
Liverpool-street Station, whither I was bent on a mission that could 
easily wait for another opportunity.

Angelina was naturally rather handsome, and on the present occasion 
was dressed with such remarkably good taste that the casual onlooker 
might easily mistake her for the lady she was evidently pretending 
to be.

Her face wore an expression of pleased surprise, and she held out 
her hand with a warmth of welcome which there was no resisting. 
There was a handshake, very cordial on the one side, somewhat 
hesitating on the other, and then I knew what was going on just as 
well as if I had been within earshot.

Alderman Lanimore was finding it difficult to recognise his 
impulsive interlocutor, and Angelina was expressing her delight at 
meeting such an old friend. And in London, too, of all places in 
the world!

There was a few moments’ smiling repudiation of bygone acquaintanceship 
on one side, and an apparently regretful realisation of the truth 
on the other, and then the little comedy ended, the lady bowing 
ceremoniously, and the gentleman raising his hat politely.

A second later Angelina had vanished in the never-ending crowd which 
makes the neighbourhood of the Mansion House one of the typical 
sights of London. Mrs Dyer’s abrupt departure did not trouble me. I 
knew where to find her if I wanted her again. And I also knew that 
there would be a further development of this seemingly trivial 
adventure, for that the lady with the angelic name had had an 
ulterior motive in accosting the alderman I was certain.

Nor was my conviction long in being verified. Mr Lanimore, followed 
by myself, walked along Cheapside, with a good-natured smile on his 
face, until he reached Sir William Bennet’s famous horological 
establishment. Then it struck him that he had better compare his 
timepiece with the big clock over the shop, and he mechanically put 
his hand to his fob to withdraw his costly gold repeater.

It was gone!

I could almost have laughed, aloud at this development of my little 
comedy, for though I had not been quite sure what form Angelina’s 
cunning would take, and although in spite of my keen watch I had not 
seen her take anything, I had no doubt that pocket-picking was the 
lady’s real game.

Nor did the alderman’s next act surprise me. He hailed an empty 
passing hansom and almost shouted to the driver, “Bell and White, 
Holborn, and drive like wildfire.”

That he would invoke our aid had also been one of my foregone 
conclusions, for we had already transacted business for him in 
connection with the large firm of which he was the senior partner.

Feeling glad that Mr Lanimore had not seen me, I waited until 
another hansom had appeared, and then gave the driver a somewhat 
similar order to the one given by the alderman a few moments before.

Arrived at our office, I found that the impatient victim of the 
“auld acquaintance” dodge had been waiting a few minutes for an 
audience with one of the principals. Mr Jones conducted a branch 
business now, and was seldom at the London office. Mr White had sold 
out and retired, and my uncle only just entered the office as I did.

“Leave this case to me,” I whispered, “I know all about it.”

With a smile and a nod of comprehension, Mr Bell betook himself to 
his own private sanctum, while I removed my outdoor wraps and 
proceeded to interview the alderman.

“Good morning, Mr Lanimore! What can we do for you this time?”

“Oh, such a fool as I have been, Miss Bell! Actually let a strange 
woman stop me in the street and talk to me! Pretended to know me, 
and I never suspected the hussy’s intentions.”

“And the result?”

“My beautiful gold repeater, given to me by our employees when I was 
elected sheriff, has disappeared.”

“That is very serious.”

“Serious! good heavens! It’s as much as my happiness and reputation 
are worth to lose that watch! I must have it back, and the affair 
must not get into the newspapers.”

“I suppose not. Publicity is not always desirable.”

“In this case it would be ruination. The circumstances are so 
exasperating. My partners are inclined to twit me about what they 
call my ‘starched morality!’ My rivals in the Council Chamber are on 
the lookout for a chance of picking a hole in my character. My wife 
is desperately and absurdly jealous. They would one and all refuse 
to believe that I did not know to whom I was speaking, and I should 
be branded as a hypocrite who practised social vices under the cloak 
of pretended morality.”

“What was the woman like?”

“Tall, of fine figure, and ladylike appearance, with bright 
complexion, and a quantity of bright golden hair. She also wore a 
pair of gold rimmed eyeglasses.”

“H’m! not much to go by. There are so many stylish-looking woman 
with yellow hair and bright complexions nowadays. A little ready 
money and a determination to be in the fashion can work wonders. 
Did you observe any other peculiarity about the pick-pocket?”

“No, nothing. You see, I had not time to notice much, for the 
interview was short and I was quite unsuspicious.”

“Well, there is very little to act upon. Still, I daresay you will 
find our firm of more use than the police would have been.”

“I am quite sure of it. Those other cases you undertook for me were 
nothing short of miraculous, and I have the utmost faith in your 
powers.”

“Thank you. I believe I may almost promise that you shall have your 
watch back within a week. Meanwhile, say nothing about the affair to 
anyone else. You can be supposed to have taken your repeater to be 
regulated.”

When Mr Lanimore left our office he was much more at ease about his 
property than when he came in, and I was pretty confident about my 
ability to fulfil my apparently rash promise.

I had taken shorthand notes of all the details Mr Lanimore was able 
to give me. Not that I needed them. But it looks well to be as 
business-like as possible.

A few minutes later I was explaining the whole affair to my uncle, 
and we soon had our plans for future action completed. We generally 
keep an eye, through our subordinates, on such likely people for 
business as Angelina Dyer, and knew that she was lodging in a street 
off Commercial-road at this moment.

We also felt sure that for this day, at least, she would suspend 
further active operations in the city. At present she would be 
displaying her prizes to the admiring gaze of her associates. 
Pawnshops are a worked-out field for our regular watch-lifters. 
They have a safer means of disposing their gains. Not far from 
Houndsditch there lives a man under whose clever manipulative 
fingers stolen watches and jewellery lose their identity. If 
ordinary “faking” won’t work the oracle, then the melting-pot is 
resorted to.

In all probability Alderman Lanimore’s repeater would be in the 
hands of the watch-faker within twenty-four hours. We must, 
therefore, secure it to-night – if not by strategy, then by force.

Four subordinates were instantly instructed to keep a careful watch 
upon Angelina Dyer’s abode, and to set about the business without 
delay. Half-an-hour later I started on the track, accompanied by 
Adam Henniker. We had both undergone a considerable transformation, 
and would not have been recognised by our best friends. We looked 
like very well-to-do country simpletons who had never been in London 
before, and who were agog with amazement at all we saw. We noticed 
many a smile of covert meaning on the faces of passers-by, whose 
knowledge of the neighbourhood we were in made them question the 
wisdom of our gorgeously liberal display of jewellery.

But we did not anticipate trouble, as our colleagues were mostly 
near enough to assist us at a moment’s notice, although until they 
received that notice, we were as utter strangers to each other in 
our occasional encounters. 

I had had no time to snatch a meal before setting out to watch for 
Angelina again, and was feeling very hungry, but dared not relax my 
attention. I knew, however, that people of the class we had chosen 
to represent saw no breach of manners in eating in the street, and 
we decided that our assumption of the roles of country Johnnies 
would look much more natural if we comported ourselves with true 
country unconsciousness.

When, therefore, Angelina realised our expectations by emerging from 
her habitation, and walking towards Aldgate, Adam was cutting a big 
sandwich with a huge clasp-knife, and I was making futile efforts to 
dispose of a cake that had proved much less tempting than when it 
was displayed in the vendor’s window.

In an instant Angelina spotted prey, and Adam, with his mouth 
half-full of sandwich, contrived to give her an excuse for speaking 
to us, if she had needed one, remarking loudly, “Aw doant care, Jane, 
aw’m not gooin’ whoam withawt seein’ th’ place wheer th’ Whitechapel 
murders were done. Aw say, missis, con yo tell us which is th’ 
street as th’ fust murder were done in?”

“Why, yes,” was the smiling reply. “It’s just over here. I’m going 
that way, and I’ll show you the street.”

Five minutes later the business was accomplished. We had caught the 
pickpocket in flagrante delicto, and one of our men had come up in 
time to help us to ease her of the watch and chain she had just 
stolen from Adam. We gave her the alternative of going to prison for 
both thefts she had committed that day, or of purchasing present 
immunity by delivering the alderman’s gold repeater to us.

“Well, if ever I let a set of lags take me in again like that!” she 
remarked, in great disgust. “Here, take the blooming ticker, and 
thank your stars that none of my pals are about.”

When Alderman Lanimore received his property back safe and sound the 
next morning, he could not restrain his admiration of our astuteness, 
which had of course suppressed disenchanting explanations.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I never heard tell of anything like it. 
Your deductions and methods of reasoning must be more than human. 
Wonderful!”




VI. A Broken Trust


“I am sure, Miss Bell, that there is much more in this than meets 
the eye. Mrs Wemysson’s conduct is so altogether unexpected and 
inexplicable that it can only be accounted for on the hypothesis of 
some peculiar development of events of which her daughter and myself 
are supremely ignorant.”

“Will you kindly recapitulate all the circumstances of the case to 
me, Mr Wigan?”

“Certainly. You see, Miss Alice Wemysson and I have known each other 
since we were children, and I can hardly remember the time when I 
did not dream of love in a cottage with Alice. Yes, it was really to 
be love in a cottage at first, for a more ambitious prospect did not 
disclose itself to us until lately. My father has too many claims 
upon his purse to be able to give his sons more towards a start in 
life than a good education. And, until he died, no one dreamed that 
Mr Wemysson possessed more than a modest competence.

“The attachment between Alice and myself was so patent to all our 
friends that our names have been coupled together for years. But no 
formal engagement existed between us, and though Mr Wemysson seemed 
to be rather fond of me than otherwise, he always insisted that his 
daughter was too young to know what was best for her, and that 
there was still plenty of time to decide her future.

“Things were in this position when Mr Wemysson died, and then it 
transpired that he was a comparatively rich man, having left ten 
thousand pounds to his wife, and ten thousand pounds to her in trust 
for Alice Wemysson, who was the daughter of the testator’s first 
wife. The young lady was then eighteen, and she was to be under the 
absolute guardianship of her stepmother until she was twenty-one. 
If she married contrary to the wishes of her guardian, she was to 
forfeit her inheritance.

“The last stipulation afforded nobody any uneasiness, for everyone 
knew Mrs Wemysson to be well disposed towards me, and could hardly 
understand why such a condition should have been made. As a matter 
of fact, Mrs Wemysson gave her cordial consent to the engagement 
soon after her husband’s death, but stipulated for the postponement 
of the marriage until the bride was of age.

“The first summer after this unfortunate event passed tranquilly 
enough. As winter approached my mother-in-law-elect developed a 
restless disposition, which culminated in a determination to travel 
and see the world.

“‘My means have always been too cramped to permit me to enjoy life 
properly,’ she remarked. ‘There is no reason, however, why I should 
make myself miserable now, and I mean to get all the pleasure I can 
this winter. Alice shall do the Continent with me; it will do her 
good to see something worth seeing, before she settled down to a 
humdrum married life.’

“To tell the truth, both Alice and I were rather shocked at this 
speech. It seemed to us to cast a reflection on the good man whom we 
had both loved and implied a certain feeling of elation at being 
relieved of the duties and ties of matrimony, which ill-befitted a 
woman who had always been treated with affection by her husband.

“But no serious objections to the proposed trip could be offered, 
and the day came when I bade farewell to my dear girl, never 
dreaming that aught could now intervene between us and our future 
happiness, or that the cloud which was to overshadow our destinies 
was already rising.

“I received my letters regularly. Alice was delighted with all she 
saw, and gave me wonderful descriptions of the places she and her 
mother visited. For many weeks all seemed to be going gaily with the 
travellers. Then a change came over the spirit of Alice’s letters. 
They were less spontaneously confidential, and a vague sense of 
impending trouble seemed to pervade them. But I could get no 
satisfaction until the travellers returned. It was in vain that I 
questioned. My questions were always parried evasively, and I am not 
at all sure that I was surprised when my darling broke down at 
sight of me, and welcomed me with tears instead of smiles.

“I had been waiting a long time at the station for them, my 
impatience leading me there a good while before the train was due. 
I was able to render Mrs Wemysson some little services, but could 
not help seeing that my attentions were unwelcome, and when I saw 
how harassed and ill Alice looked, I was filled with a vague 
foreboding of mischief to come.

“Nor was my foreboding unfounded. During the course of that same 
evening Mrs Wemysson informed me that I must consider my engagement 
with her daughter at an end, as she had other views for her.

“‘In fact,’ she said, ‘Alice is going to marry Mr Jackson, a 
gentleman whom we met abroad.’ Probably my anger got the better of 
my good manners, for I flatly contradicted the widow at this point. 
I pointed out that Mr Wemysson had always liked me; that she herself 
had consented to our engagement, and that I knew Alice to be true as 
steel from top to toe.

“‘Nevertheless, she will not marry you,’ I was coolly informed. ‘She 
knows that her father wished her to obey my judgment in the matter, 
and she is too good a daughter to act counter to his wishes. Besides, 
if she were to marry you, after I have forbidden her to do so, she 
would forfeit her fortune, and it is poor love that would reduce its 
object to poverty.’

“Now Alice certainly loved her father very much. But she is not 
exactly a girl to sacrifice herself without knowing the reason why. 
Her character is by no means as superficial and yielding as Mrs 
Wemysson imagines, and she vows that if she may not marry me, she 
will marry nobody, least of all this Mr Jackson, who is elderly, 
thin, bald, waspish-looking, and of altogether forbidding exterior. 
His face is also so indicative of craft one instinctively distrusts 
him.

“Now, as I have said before, Mrs Wemysson must have some powerful 
motive for wishing to substitute Mr Jackson for myself as her 
daughter’s husband, and I want you to unravel the mystery for me.”

I had listened to Mr Wigan’s story with some interest, and now 
proceeded to cross-question him.

“Who, or what, is this Mr Jackson?” I asked.

“He is a solicitor, with an office near Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“How long has Mrs Wemysson known him?”

“I should say that on and off she has known him ten years. He was 
the late Mr Wemysson’s solicitor, but was never on visiting terms 
with the family until recently.”

“Where did he meet the Wemysson’s lately?”

“At Monte Carlo. I believe the widow was alarmingly fond of the 
gaming tables there, and Alice suspects that she lost a lot of 
money.”

“Is Mr Jackson rich?”

“On the contrary, he barely subsists on a very poor business.”

“Then what was he doing at Monte Carlo?”

He had to go over there on business for another client – to watch a 
scapegrace young spendthrift, I believe. While there he recognised 
Mrs Wemysson, and speedily became quite familiar. The widow at first 
professed to dislike him very much, but apparently got over her 
dislike, and entered no protest when he proclaimed himself madly in 
love with her ward.”

“Can you give me any clue to this man’s influence over the widow, 
Mr Wigan?”

“Not the slightest. I only know that the influence was very evident, 
and that although Mrs Wemysson’s temper became very trying towards 
Alice, she submitted very quietly to a somewhat impertinent reproof 
from Mr Jackson.”

“Concerning what did he reprove her?”

“He told her that she had lost quite enough at the tables, and that 
she had better not gamble any more.”

“What banker do the Wemysson’s patronise?”

“The National and Provincial Bank.”

“Thank you. I believe that is all I wish to ask you at present, Mr 
Wigan. I will look into the case, and let you know the results as 
soon as possible.”

When my client departed he did not look very hopeful of the results 
of my investigations, and although my plans were already laid, I was 
not at all sanguine as to their success.

But of two fundamental facts I felt certain. Mrs Wemysson had 
committed some indiscretion, in which the welfare of her 
step-daughter was involved. And Mr Jackson was not only cognisant of 
that indiscretion, but was determined to make capital out of it.

Now, whatever the indiscretion was, it had evidently had its origin 
at Monte Carlo. It was probably connected with Mrs Wemysson’s 
rashness at the gaming tables. But at this point the puzzle became 
more tangled. Even if she had been losing money heavily, this would 
not make marriage into her family desirable for an impoverished 
fortune-hunter, for that Mr Jackson had actually fallen in love with 
Alice Wemysson was, I concluded, hardly a likely supposition to 
entertain. I preferred to look upon his motives as entirely mercenary.

Suppose Miss Wemysson proved to be a greater matrimonial prize than 
she knew herself to be? This would explain the solicitor’s conduct 
in forcing his attentions upon an unwilling girl. But it made the 
widow’s behaviour all the more inexplicable.

With a view of satisfying myself as to Miss Wemysson’s financial 
position, I communicated with one of the employees of the bank in 
which her father had invested his money, and desired him to let me 
know how much of this money had been withdrawn. We make a point of 
having friends in all sorts of unlikely places, and their co-operation 
often simplifies our work wonderfully. In this case the information 
I got startled me considerably.

Of the twenty thousand pounds left by Mr Wemysson, there was barely 
five thousand left! Mrs Wemysson must have been completely carried 
away by the gambling demon, to risk her daughter’s little fortune as 
well as her own. Mr Jackson evidently knew of her breach of trust 
and was trading upon it. Now where did his profit come in?

I determined to know.

A few days later, having watched him leave his office, I interviewed 
the poor underpaid soul who served him as clerk. At first I could 
get little information from him. But, prompted by the promise of 
another situation, he showed me what a scoundrel his employer 
really was.

Mr Jackson knew that Mrs Wemysson had gambled her daughter’s money, 
and threatened to expose and ruin her if she did not insist upon 
Alice marrying him. He forebore to tell her that Mr Wemysson’s 
brother, of whom they had not heard for years, had died and left his 
niece a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. He, as the family 
solicitor, knew all about it, but was keeping the information back 
until he had secured the heiress for his wife.

My course was now plain. I paid a visit to Mrs Wemysson and proved 
to her that I knew more about her own and her daughter’s affairs 
than she did. She was very humble and repentant. She was also 
grateful when I undertook to smooth over the ruffled feelings of the 
injured lovers.

The latter are now happily married, and have sealed their forgiveness 
by augmenting Mrs Wemysson’s fortune to its original amount. They 
have, however, taken the precaution to place only the interest at her 
disposal. Every Christmas brings me some wonderful presents from Mr 
and Mrs Wigan, who will have it that I saved them from lifelong 
misery by exposing Mr Jackson’s schemes ere it was too late.

Mr Jackson himself has by this time discovered that shady ways don’t 
pay. He has been struck off the rolls, and Lincoln’s Inn Fields 
knows him no more.




VII. Madame Duchesne's Garden Party


“It cost more than two hundred pounds, Miss Bell. But that is not 
the worst of the matter. My aunt stipulated that I should always 
wear it as a perpetual reminder of her past kindness and her future 
good intentions, and if she misses it I shall lose favour with her 
altogether. To lose Miss Mainwaring’s favour means to lose the 
splendid fortune which is hers to bequeath, so you see how very 
serious the matter is for me. It is, indeed, little short of life 
and death, for poverty would kill me now. For God’s sake do your 
best for me.”

“But surely, if Miss Mainwaring knows that you could not possibly 
have foreseen your loss, she will not be unjust enough to 
disinherit you?”

“Indeed she will. She believes me to be vacillating and unreliable, 
because I broke off an engagement with a rich man to whom I had but 
given a reluctant acceptance, and united myself to the man of my 
choice. My husband was poor and therefore beyond the pale of 
forgiveness, and my own pardon is only based on the most unswerving 
obedience to all my aunt’s injunctions. The pendant came from India, 
and the stones in it are said to possess occult power – I wish they 
had the power to come back to their rightful owner.”

The speaker heaved a sigh of desperation as she spoke, and I glanced 
at her with considerable interest. She was tall, pale, dark-eyed, 
and handsome, but her appearance bore certain signs of that 
vacillation and carelessness of which her aunt accredited her with 
the possession.

The circumstances surrounding the loss of which she complained were 
peculiar. She had been spending the evening at the house of the 
German Ambassador, and was returning home in Miss Mainwaring’s 
carriage, when she became aware of the fact that she had lost the 
jewelled pendant which her aunt had given her as a token of 
reconciliation when she returned to her after being suddenly widowed.

A frantic search of the carriage bore no results, and Mrs Bevan 
hastily told the coachman to return to the embassy. But she 
prudently refrained from confiding the particulars of her loss to 
him, for she was not quite without hope that it might be remedied. 
Madame von Auerbach was, however, able to give her no comfort, for 
she had herself suffered in like manner with her guest.

She had lost a valuable diamond-studded watch, and when the most 
careful search failed to discover it, the conclusion arrived at was 
that some thief must have been present at the reception. It was an 
unpleasant conclusion to arrive at. But it was the only natural one. 
For the Ambassador’s wife had not left her guests, or gone beyond 
the reception rooms, from the time she entered them, wearing the 
watch, to the moment when, the last visitors having just gone, she 
thought of looking at her watch, and found that it had disappeared.

Mrs Bevan’s return a few moments later with the news that her 
pendant had disappeared, confirmed the supposition that some 
professional thief must have been at work, and the police were at 
once communicated with. They were also strictly enjoined to keep 
the matter a profound secret, for various reasons.

But Mrs Bevan was too anxious to rely entirely upon the exertions 
of the regular force, hence her application to our firm and her 
urgent entreaty that I would act with the utmost despatch.

Soon after my client’s departure I sought an interview with Madame 
von Auerbach, but could glean very little useful information. The 
invitations had been sent out with great care, but their 
exclusiveness was negatived by the fact that they were all sent to 
So-and-so and friend. The position of those invited by name had been 
considered sufficient guarantee of the perfect suitability of the 
friends whom they might select to accompany them to the embassy, and 
at least a score of people had been present of whom the hostess 
barely heard even their names.

Of course, no one could treat any single one of these individuals as 
suspects without some definite suspicion to work upon, and 
unfortunately for our prospects of success, there was not the 
slightest ground for suspecting anyone in particular.

I was about to quit Madame von Auerbach’s house when a servant 
entered with a card upon a waiter, and upon hearing that the name 
inscribed thereon was that of one of the guests of the previous 
evening, I hastily decided to stay a little longer, and requested 
Madame von Auerbach to keep my vocation a secret from her visitor.

The next minute a most bewitching little woman was ushered into the 
room.

“Oh, my dear madame!” she exclaimed, with a charming foreign accent. 
“Such an unfortunate thing! I lost my beautiful diamond clasp last 
night. Have your servants seen anything of it?”

Madame von Auerbach turned pale, and I looked with augmented 
interest at the harbinger of this new development of the previous 
evening’s mystery. The depredations had evidently been on a large 
scale, and the depredators had shown remarkably good taste in the 
choice of their spoil. The latest victim was a French lady named 
Madame Duchesne, and she waxed eloquent in lamentations over her 
loss when it was shown to her how little hope there was of 
recovering her diamond clasp.

“And do you know, I feel so terribly upset,” was her pathetic 
protest, “that I would give anything not to have had to go on with 
my own garden party to-morrow. And I don’t like to say it, but it is 
a fact that I may also have included the thief in my invitation, and 
it would be awful if more things were to be stolen. Whatever shall 
I do?”

As no practical advice seemed to be forthcoming, Madame Duchesne 
studied for a moment, and then announced her intention of employing 
a detective.

“Not a real, horrid policeman,” she averred, “but one of those 
extraordinary individuals who seem able to look through and through 
you, and who can find anything out. Private detectives, I think 
they call them.”

Madame von Auerbach looked up eagerly, but I gave her a warning 
glance which caused her to postpone the revelation of my identity 
which she had felt prompted to make.

“Do you know any of these people?” was the Frenchwoman’s appeal to 
me. “Can you help me to the address of one?”

“There are several firms of private detectives in London, if we are 
to judge from their advertisements,” I answered. “I have heard of 
Messrs Bell and White, of Holborn, spoken of as fairly good, but, 
of course, there are plenty of others equally good, or probably 
better.”

“Bell and White, Holborn. Yes, I will try them. Thank you so much 
for helping me. May I ask if you live in London?”

Seizing my cue, Madame von Auerbach promptly came to my assistance.

“I am very angry with Miss Gresham,” she averred. “Since she 
resigned her post as governess to the Duke of Solothurn’s children, 
she has hardly deigned to take any notice of the numerous friends 
she made in Germany. But I mean to make her stay a few days with me, 
now that she has come to see me.”

“Then you must bring her with you to my garden party,” said Madame 
Duchesne, and the invitation so cleverly angled for was accepted 
with a faint pretence of hesitation at the idea of inflicting 
myself upon the hospitality of a total stranger.

After Madame Duchesne’s departure I congratulated Madame von Auerbach 
very warmly upon her tact and presence of mind, and arranged to 
visit the garden party as her friend the next day.

In due course the interesting function was in full swing, and the 
fascinating hostess had quite a crowd of guests to look after. My 
“guarantor” had left me, at my own request, to my own devices. I 
wanted to look about me, and to note all that was going on, without 
being too much in evidence myself.

Presently Madame Duchesne approached me with a very mysterious air, 
and introduced a very handsome man to my notice. “Don’t be shocked,” 
she whispered, “But this is the private detective, Mr Bell. I 
communicated with him at once after leaving Madame von Auerbach’s 
yesterday, and he is here to watch that no pickpocket secures booty 
here. Isn’t it too dreadful to have to take such precautions? I will 
never give another party in London!”

I responded to this confidential communication with due sympathy, 
and gravely acknowledged the attention my new companion bestowed 
upon me for a few moments. And I had need of my gravity and presence 
of mind. For the man introduced to me was not my uncle, the 
detective. I knew that our firm had not been applied to by Madame 
Duchesne, in spite of her assertion to the contrary, and as this was 
certainly no one who had ever been in our office, I knew that 
certain suspicions that I had formed yesterday were likely to be 
verified. Since this stranger was certainly no detective, I concluded 
that he was merely posing as one for the sake of diverting suspicion 
from the offenders whom I was anxious to run to earth. The assumption 
that he was the associate and helpmate of the thieves was also a 
very natural one, although a glance at the lovely hostess and her 
dainty surroundings almost seemed to belie such a supposition.

But I knew that I was on the right track, and within the hour my 
vigilance was rewarded. The sham detective, whose pretended avocation 
had been disclosed to none but Madame von Auerbach and myself, 
sauntered from group to group, as if intent upon scrutinising their 
actions. His real object was to attach their jewellery, and I had 
the satisfaction of seeing him possess himself of a costly watch 
which Lady A. was wearing in somewhat careless fashion. Instant 
denunciation was not my intention. I mean to probe the matter to the 
root, and followed “Mr Bell’s” movements with apparent nonchalance. 
Presently he culled a couple of beautiful standard roses, and handed 
them to Madame Duchesne with a graceful compliment.

The thing was beautifully done, and none but a person keenly on 
guard would have noticed that the watch changed hands with the roses. 
This little comedy over, Madame sauntered towards the house, and, 
five minutes later, I came upon her, quite by accident, of course, 
just as she was relocking a dainty cabinet from which she had 
taken a fresh bottle of perfume, in the use of which she was very 
lavish.

There were two or three other people in Madame’s charming boudoir, 
among them being Madame von Auerbach, by whose side I seated myself 
with an air of sudden weakness. She was really startled by the 
development of events, but she had been previously cautioned, and 
played her part very well indeed, when I exclaimed that I felt 
dreadfully ill.

“What shall I do?” she cried. “I hope it is not one of your old 
attacks.”

“Yes, it is,” I whispered faintly. “Do send for my uncle. He is the 
only one who can help me.”

I was promptly placed on the couch, and dosed with all sorts of 
amateur remedies, pending the arrival of my uncle, who had been sent 
for in hot haste, and who, “entre nous,” was waiting with a police 
officer in private clothes for the expected urgent summons. No 
sooner did they appear than my indisposition vanished, and I 
astonished the bystanders by springing vigorously to my feet.

“Arrest Madame Duchesne,” I cried, “and her accomplice.” Pointing to 
the latter, I continued, “That man has stolen Lady A.’s watch, and 
it is locked in that cabinet.”

What a scene of confusion there was immediately! Not only Lady A., 
but several other people discovered that they had been robbed, and 
the cabinet was found to contain a great quantity of stolen 
valuables, among them being Mrs Bevan’s much-prized pendant.

My discovery was only made in the nick of time. In another twelve 
hours the birds would have flown, for the real Madame Duchesne, the 
lady from whom they had stolen the letters of introduction which had 
obtained them the entree to London society, had arrived in London 
that day. An accomplice had warned them of the fact, and as they 
knew that this garden party they were giving at the gorgeous house 
they had hired would be their last opportunity for some time, they 
had determined to make a large haul and decamp that same evening.

Luckily for many people, I was able to frustrate their intention. At 
present they are lodging in infinitely less luxurious quarters, and 
several members of the upper classes are much more careful than 
formerly as to whom they associate with by virtue of letters of 
introduction.




VIII. A Pattern of Virtue


I wonder how many people have stood on Waterloo Bridge, looking down 
upon the ever-moving river, and feeling themselves irresistibly 
attracted by the weird fascination of its cruel waters! But one 
cannot wonder at the eerie influence it exerts upon the miserable. 
One moment’s nerve – one plunge – one splash – a short struggle – 
and the stress and anguish of life are left behind!

And the Hereafter, what of it? It is truly an inscrutable puzzle. 
But the sudden recollection that an account of earthly doings may be 
required of us in another world has nerved many a desperate victim 
of misery to further endurance, and cheated Father Thames of much of 
his prey.

It was different with Lucy Markham. She was so desperate, so 
despairing, so wildly reckless, that nothing but the forcibly 
detaining arms which I flung around her would have prevented her 
from jumping into the river, and putting an end to a young life that 
had only seen seventeen summers.

“Let me go!” she shrieked. “How dare you hinder me? Can I not do as 
I like with myself?”

“No,” I panted, as I vainly strove to avoid the blows with which the 
frantic girl sought to release herself from my grasp. “I will not 
let you go until you promise that you will not put an end to your 
life.”

“Let me go!” she repeated. “I will do as I like! All the world has 
forsaken me, and I owe it no duty now. You can’t hold me much 
longer, and you shall see how soon I will end it all.”

“Never! If I don’t get your promise, I will scream for help, and 
then you will be locked up until your senses come back to you.”

My determination had its effect. She ceased to struggle, and looked 
solemnly at me with big, lovely eyes, to which the pale light of 
the moon seemed to give an uncanny glitter.

“Who are you?” she asked, “that you should so concern yourself about 
the fate of a stranger?”

“I am a friend of humanity, I hope.”

“Humanity! My God! How much humanity has my short life met with? And 
what sort of a specimen of humanity do you suppose me to be?”

“Unfortunate; that is evident. Not naturally depraved, I am sure. 
The victim of some scoundrel, I imagine. A fitting subject for help 
and counsel. That is certain.”

“Help and counsel! Oh, how I have prayed for them! and now it is 
too late!”

But I saw that I had conquered. The fierceness of the girl’s frenzy 
had passed, and the crisis in her fate was over. Poor child! how my 
heart bled for her! It is sad to witness despair at any time. But 
saddest of all is it to recognise the insatiate ghoul on the face of 
those to whom life should just be opening wide its portals of joy.

“Perhaps I can afford you help and counsel,” I said soothingly. 
“People would never find themselves utterly forsaken if they only 
knew to whom to apply in their need. Tell me about yourself. It will 
relieve you. What is your name, and where do you live?”

“My name,” was the bitter answer, “has been disgraced, and I will 
not add to my folly by involving my family in my disgrace. As for my 
home, it is a truly magnificent one. The air, the sky, and the 
roaring noises of civilisation are all mine to enjoy ad libitum. 
Why, I am quite rich!”

As the stranger made the last remark, she lost her self-restraint, 
and sobbed with hysterical violence. I felt very much relieved at 
this outburst, for I knew that though it would probably leave the 
girl faint and exhausted, it would also leave her in a more gentle 
and pliable frame of mind.

My judgment proved correct, and I was presently fully confided in. 
It was the old story of blind trust and deliberate betrayal, and is 
soon told. Lucy Markham had been well educated and delicately 
reared, but was without relatives or near friends at the time I 
found her. Her mother had died eighteen months before this. The 
penury consequent upon the previous death of the father had been 
partly met by disposing of the furniture and other effects, and when 
Lucy was left unprotected she was also quite without means.

But she meant to be very industrious and attentive to her duties, 
and quite expected to earn her living easily in London. So she 
migrated from the quiet little Surrey village where she had seen so 
much sorrow to seek and to find employment in one of the greatest 
hives of wickedness the world has ever known, to wit – London.

When her employer began to pay her little attentions, she felt 
flattered. When he requested her to observe the strictest secrecy 
regarding his stealthily bestowed attention, she believed his 
representation that her fellow employees would be spitefully jealous 
if they suspected which way the wind was blowing. When he took her 
to a pretty house, she never doubted his assertion that marriage 
would follow immediately upon her transference thither, and it was 
with a feeling of rapturous pride that she obeyed his injunctions 
to the letter, and allowed herself to be introduced to the servant 
as “Mrs Maynard,” “just for the look of the thing” as Mr Collinson 
said.

Asked what the servant would think of her being called “Mrs Collinson” 
soon, the specious schemer replied that the servant really knew all 
particulars, and that it was the neighbours for whose benefit the 
little temporary deception was intended.

But it soon transpired that Lucy herself was the object of deception. 
The self-styled Mr Maynard had ever some excuse ready for putting 
off the marriage until his victim felt herself hopelessly 
compromised. The servant was his willing tool; and when he got tired 
of his toys, he had no difficulty in getting the servant to help him 
further in his rascally work. The latter contrived to tell Lucy that 
all the neighbours already looked down upon her, and that she, being 
kept by a man to whom she was not married, was considered beyond the 
pale of respectability. Innocent the girl was. But who would believe 
her protestations to that effect? In the face of her apparent guilt, 
no one would do it.

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” said the servant. “The master 
will be kind and generous to you as long as he likes you. But you 
will have to give up such a notion as marrying so rich a man as he 
is. Take my advice, and get all you can out of him while you have 
the chance. He’ll soon fall in love with somebody else.”

Lucy’s heartbroken threat to expose her betrayer only provoked the 
derision of the servant.

“You would very likely get locked up for attempted blackmailing,” 
she said. “He has been too careful for such a greenhorn as you to 
circumvent him. He has never been here to see either you or the 
house except after dark, and nobody would believe you if you said 
that Mr Maynard was Mr Collinson. For he is a great man at church, 
and subscribes to everything. He is supposed to have nearly broken 
his heart when his wife died, and if ever anybody was looked upon by 
the world as a pattern of virtue, it is the man whom you, a bit of a 
shopgirl, expected to marry you. You would only get yourself laughed 
at and despised. So take my advice and don’t be fool enough to fly 
in the face of fortune yet.”

Even after these revelations the poor child could hardly believe in 
the utter baseness of her betrayer. But in her next interview with 
him she was soon convinced of the fact that the man whom she, in 
common with the rest of the world, regarded as a pattern of virtue, 
was, in reality, a monster of deceit and vice.

That night she escaped from her pretty home, and from then until I 
saved her from self-destruction she had undergone all manner of 
rebuffs, disappointments, and privations, which were enough to drive 
any other modest girl to the refuge of the wretched.

I found a temporary home for Lucy, and promised to put an end to her 
troubles in some way or other. Nor did I doubt my ability to do this. 
Lucy believed an appeal or a threat of exposure to be equally vain 
weapons to use against Mr Collinson, but I was more worldly wise, 
and more sure of success. I saw that as yet the girl was not fit to 
cope with the world, and I determined to make the “Pattern of 
Virtue” provide for her comfort. In this determination Lucy’s own 
guileless and simple nature aided me. Though tenacious of her 
honour, she did not recoil from the idea of compelling Mr Collinson 
to pay for his deception, as many a girl of more vigorous mind whose 
feelings had been outraged would have done.

I confess to feeling more slightly malicious when I went to 
interview the great draper and clothier, who soon found that he had 
a much more experienced woman than simple little Lucy to deal with. 
His dismay, when I quietly laid the whole array of facts before him 
and proved the strength of my position, was comical to witness. At 
first he tried to frighten me with his bogie reputation as a pattern 
of virtue. But I had several cards up my sleeve, and as I played 
them, one by one, he realised that if I were to make public exposure 
of only one-half the seedy facts I had been able, with the aid of 
my colleagues, to rake up against him, the world would know him in 
all his carnal hideousness, and a vast number of people would take 
their custom elsewhere.

Before I had done with him I convinced him of the expediency of 
providing liberally for Lucy for at least five years to come, and I 
declined to be satisfied with less than three hundred per annum for 
that period. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow, but he saw no 
other way out of the embroglio into which his scoundrelly nature had 
brought him, and I carried my point.

Lucy has a rare taste for music, and her special gifts lie in the 
direction of operatic composition. She is talented, industrious, and 
ambitious, and she is having the best tuition obtainable. Her whole 
soul is in her art, and there is little fear that she will hearken 
to the flattery which her sweet looks, gentle nature, and future 
prospects evoke. When her five years of study are ended there will 
be another star added to our galaxy of genius, and I shall be more 
thankful than ever that the opportunity was given me to rescue a 
despairing soul from a watery grave, and that I had the ability to 
make a Pattern of Virtue pay liberally for his vices.




IX. Miss Rankin's Rival


“If it is as I suspect, I will not marry him. You must use your 
utmost endeavours to find out the real state of the case, for it 
would drive me mad to discover that after all my care, I had become 
the dupe of a mercenary hypocrite.”

Such was the concluding portion of a communication made to me by 
Miss Iris Rankin, only child and sole heiress of the late John 
Graham Rankin, shipowner and millionaire.

The visit she paid me had its origin in a conversation which had 
taken place in her own drawing-room on the previous afternoon. A 
friend had paid her a call, and had regaled her with some gossip 
which had upset her considerably. This friend, Miss Cloudy, to wit, 
related how she, in the capacity of district visitor in connection 
with a very fashionable church, had met with a surprising experience.

“I was never so astonished in my life,” said Miss Cloudy, “as when 
I saw Mr Harold Gilbertson pass the open door of the room in which 
I was sitting talking to old Mrs Tweedy, one of the vicar’s 
parishioners. The old lady saw how surprised I was, and asked who 
had passed the door. In order that no mistake might be made I merely 
remarked that a young gentleman had gone upstairs, and that I 
thought it was somebody I knew.

“‘That is likely enough,’ said the old lady. ‘For though the Hansons 
are poor now, they haven’t always lived in a neighbourhood like 
this, and some of their old friends come to see them yet.’

“‘Who are the Hansons?’ I asked. ‘Do you know anything about them?’

“‘Nothing,’ I was told ‘except that they became poor when their 
father died. They are two very pretty young ladies, and I don’t mix 
much with the people hereabouts, though they have always a pleasant 
word for me. I’m not surprised that Mr Gilbertson is smitten, and 
that he comes to see them nearly every evening. I rather fancy that 
he is engaged to Miss Beatrice.’

“You see, Iris, it seems rather a cruel thing to tell you. But I 
know how you dread fortune-hunters, and I know also that you would 
be miserable with a man whose heart was given to another. It is much 
better to stop the mischief before it has become irrevocable.”

Miss Rankin fully endorsed the opinion thus expressed, although it 
was a bitter experience for her to be told that the man to whom she 
had in all confidence given her heart was merely courting her 
fortune, while his love was bestowed elsewhere.

Still, she never doubted the honesty of purpose of her friend, but 
was wise enough to subject her to a series of searching questions 
ere she was fully convinced that there was apparently a mistake. 
Even then she determined to have additional testimony before she 
decided upon condemning and humiliating the man to whom she was to 
have been married in one short month.

He was very handsome and very clever. But his income had hitherto 
not kept pace with his apparent popularity as a journalist, and his 
profession afforded him an easy excuse for spending his evenings 
away from his fiancée.

“I imagined him always to be hard at work every evening,” she said 
sadly, when consulting me. “But if my friend has really made no 
mistake, Mr Gilbertson has been spending his evenings in more 
congenial fashion than in working at his profession, or in visiting 
me. I cannot condescend to pursue further investigations myself. But 
it will not be a very difficult matter for you. You will lose no 
time over the business?”

“None whatever,” was my prompt assurance. And I kept my word, for 
that very afternoon saw me, very soberly attired and wearing my most 
philanthropic expression, wending my way towards the very quiet 
bye-street in which Mrs Tweedy lived. I was armed with all sorts of 
particulars, and was made aware of Mrs Tweedy’s particular foible. 
She only needed to scent a possible donation to become the most 
servile and plausible of individuals. She had always been poor, but 
not of the poorest, for she contrived to divert a great many gifts 
from indiscriminate philanthropists to herself that ought really to 
have been bestowed elsewhere. As I carried a neat parcel of 
groceries by way of make-weight to the bundle of tracts I was 
supposed to be distributing, I felt pretty sure of my position, and 
was soon chatting quite affably with the cunning old lady.

I was diplomatic enough to pave the way for the tract I had to offer 
by the gift of a quarter of tea and a tin of salmon, after which I 
might have learnt all there was to tell of the whole neighbourhood 
if I had wanted. We were soon chatting quite sociably together, and 
it was of course quite natural that, next to herself, the old lady 
should find her neighbours her readiest medium of gossip. As the 
sisters Hanson were the most interesting of these neighbours, it was 
equally natural that the conversation should be easily brought round 
to them.

I had carefully studied a photograph of Mr Gilbertson with which I 
had been supplied by Miss Rankin, and I purposely say opposite the 
open door as I chatted, in order that I might have a fair look at 
the Mr Gilbertson who visited the sisters every evening.

My visit was well timed, and I had not long to wait. The Misses 
Hansons’ Mr Gilbertson passed before my view, and I had not the 
slightest hesitation in judging him to be also Miss Rankin’s Mr 
Gilbertson. I was sorry for this, for he looked so frank and honest 
that anybody might have trusted him; and it is sad to have one’s 
ideals shattered, even if one be a detective, and, as such, already 
somewhat inured to the depressing influence of treacherous natures.

But my task was by no means finished. I had only seen and heard 
enough to corroborate the truth of Miss Cloudy’s statements, and 
there was too much at stake to permit any chance of blundering to 
survive. So when Mr Gilbertson went upstairs, I terminated my visit 
to the old lady, and stationed myself where he could not emerge from 
the house without being seen by me.

I had to wait above an hour, but it was not at all cold, and I was 
rewarded by seeing the gentleman come forth with one of the sisters, 
who certainly looked quite worthy of a man’s love. The couple walked 
slowly towards Hammersmith-road, followed unobtrusively by myself, 
who, in the gathering dusk, noticed that they appeared to be waiting 
for some one, as they sauntered backwards and forwards for awhile in 
the vicinity of St. Mary Abbott’s-terrace. Presently they were 
joined by another girl, who came out of a neighbouring house, 
carrying a music roll in her hand, and who was sufficiently like Mr 
Gilbertson’s companion to make me conclude that she was her sister.

Then the three retraced their step homeward, and I had no difficulty 
in deciding that the music teacher was the sister to whom Mr 
Gilbertson was supposed to be engaged. I was surprised at the 
openness with which he carried on his clandestine connection, for he 
seemed not to care who noticed him, and it was certainly running an 
apparent risk to show himself out of doors with Miss Rankin’s rival.

I will own to being very tired before I got to bed that night. But I 
was thoroughly satisfied, for I had traversed a great deal of ground, 
and learnt a great many important particulars of the case I was 
investigating. Next morning at eleven o’clock I called to see Miss 
Rankin at her sumptuous flat in Albert-gate Mansions, and induced 
her to write the following note to her fiancée: -

“I cannot see you before half-past eight this evening. But as it is 
absolutely necessary that I should see you then, I must ask you to 
put your work on one side for once, and be here at the time indicated 
without fail.           “Iris.”

At eight-thirty that evening, having donned orthodox evening wear, 
I was sitting with Miss Rankin, waiting for the development of my 
little plot. The poor girl looked very pale, and I could see that 
the great anxiety was almost killing her. But I knew that it could 
not last much longer, and a little thrill of excitement ran through 
me when Miss Hanson and Mr Gilbertson were announced.

As they entered the room both looking somewhat mystified, the 
heiress sprang to her feet, and an angry flush suffused her face as 
she murmured: “This is too much!”

But in a moment she recovered her presence of mind, and haughtily 
addressed Mr Gilbertson: “I see you have brought your intended with 
you. But don’t you think you might have been off with the old love 
before you were on with the new?”

I am not sure who was the more astonished at this outburst, Miss 
Rankin herself, or the man whom she addressed. He, too, looked 
angry, and, bowing with studied politeness, replied, “There seems to 
be some mistake here. We have evidently come to the wrong house, and 
will wish you good evening.”

“Mr Gilbertson!” announced the butler, and, lo! the mystery was 
explained. There were two Romeos in the field, and Miss Rankin saw 
at a glance how the mistake had arisen.

The two men were actually twin brothers, and had been estranged for 
some time through an unjust will which had left the presumably 
younger son penniless, while the other had a large income. Wounded 
to the quick, Harold declined his brother’s friendly offers, and 
sought to make a name for himself in the world of letters.

I had discovered, on following the music-teacher’s admirer to his 
residence, that his Christian name was Gilbert, not Harold, and had 
arrived at a correct conclusion as to their relationship. My next 
proceeding was to plan a meeting of all the parties, feeling sure 
that it could have none but good results, and I requested the 
attendance of Mr Gilbert Gilbertson and Miss Hanson at Albert-gate 
Mansions, “to meet Mr Harold Gilbertson and his fiancée.”

As I expected, they did not fail to put in a punctual appearance, 
with the result that there was happiness and reconciliation all 
round.

Both weddings came off some time ago, and I hear that Miss Evelyn 
Hanson has become engaged to a very nice American, who is a 
millionaire – in dollars.




X. The Path to Fame


There are many experiences which fall to the lot of a detective that 
call forth for very little of the skill with which detectives are 
popularly supposed to be endowed, but which it would be a pity not 
to record, inasmuch as they sometimes probe the depths of pathos.

Of such a nature was my encounter with an actress, whose name was 
once on everybody’s tongue, but whose fame and popularity had 
declined with her beauty, until at last she found herself on the 
borderland of destitution and starvation.

I found her dying in St. George’s Hospital, whither I had gone to 
receive important information from the occupant of the next bed to 
hers. Her big, wistful eyes enlisted my sympathy, and the nurse 
fanned it by telling me as much as she knew about the poor soul, 
whose only prayer now was that she might die soon.

“She has been very rich,” she said. “She is no other than the once 
famous actress, Miss Winsome, whom all theatre-goers went mad after 
some years since. Trouble, as well as penury, have brought her to 
the sorry pass you now see her in. She has told me that she had two 
beautiful children, both of whom died of typhoid fever, and that the 
first intimation which she had of their illness was the news of 
their death. The shock nearly killed her, and she has never been the 
same since. She has given me a box of papers to take care of for 
her. If she gets better I am to give her the little box back again. 
If she dies, I am to burn all the letters, but I am to see that a 
manuscript, which she calls her confession, is published. She says 
it will be a warning to others. But I really don’t know who will 
take it for publication.”

“If she dies, give it to me,” I said, eagerly. “You know who I am. 
I am about to publish some of my experiences, and I will insert this 
among them.”

The nurse very willingly agreed to this, and, after going to the 
patient’s bedside, to ascertain if I could do anything for her, I 
quitted the hospital. The poor soul made a most curious request in 
response to my invitation to tell me what she would like best.

“I shan’t live above a day or two,” she said, “but I would just like 
to taste champagne again before I die.”

I was not sure that it was quite the thing to do. But I promised her 
some champagne, and took her a little bottle the next morning. Alas! 
I was too late! Her spirit had left its earthly casement, and bodily 
longings or desires would trouble her no more. The end had come much 
more swiftly than had been expected. But it could hardly be 
regretted, since a prolongation of life would only have been a 
prolongation of suffering for one with her shattered hopes and 
constitution.

“She just went to sleep,” said the nurse, and but for the fact that 
she ceased murmuring the names of her children, of whom she seemed 
to be dreaming happily, we could hardly tell when she passed away.”

It was better so, I thought, as I left the hospital again with the 
little box which the nurse had handed over to me. And after reading 
the M.S. that had been spoken of,  I was all the more glad that her 
end had been painless. Here is her story, and I pray my readers not 
to judge her too harshly.

“Had any one ever told my mother that her daughter would live to be 
the most talked of and the most courted woman in London, she would 
have scouted the prediction as one that was impossible of fulfilment.

“For were we not miserably poor and obscure? Did not my estimable 
parents cultivate the habit of moonlight flitting, in order to 
evade the landlord’s just demands? Had I not an uncle in prison for 
housebreaking? And was it not a fact that my progenitors had never 
been joined in the bonds of holy wedlock?

“All these things were only too true! But, fortunately, the world 
doesn’t inquire too closely into the antecedents of successful 
people.

“There was also another circumstance greatly in my favour. My 
admirable mother, having been in the habit of patronising King 
Alcohol too freely, found herself unable to resist his insidious 
encroachments upon her constitution, and would have died young, 
even if her end had not been accelerated by a blow received from her 
‘husband’ in a drunken quarrel.

“I was at this time about six years old, as nearly as I can judge, 
having had no definite information on the subject. My vagabond of a 
father promptly absconded, and quite forgot that he owned a lovely 
daughter. Certainly, dirt and coarse clothing then hid the charms 
which time and a knowledge of the art of ‘making-up’ have 
transformed into the irresistible tout-ensemble whose fame is now 
worldwide.

“When the local authorities, duly recognising my unprotected 
condition, transferred me to the Knockemabout Workhouse, I was not 
too promising a specimen of humanity, for the many kicks and blows 
bestowed upon me by my male parent had pretty nearly frightened the 
wits out of me. But I soon improved, for, since I never hungered and 
was at least decently clad, I was vastly better off than ever I had 
been before.

“Perhaps I might not now appreciate the food upon which I was fed in 
those days. But we judge by comparison, and as bread-and-scrape had 
hitherto been my great luxury, except when I once managed to crib a 
sheep’s trotter from a stall in the market, I was to be congratulated 
on the change in my fortunes.

“At the end of eight years the monotony of my life was broken. An 
old wardrobe dealer came to the workhouse in search of a cheap 
servant. Her fancy lighted on me, and as I had been taught to read, 
write, sum, knit, sew, wash, and scrub, I was considered to be 
sufficiently well equipped with worldly knowledge to start life’s 
battle on my own account. I was therefore transferred to Mrs 
Harridan’s keeping, and made to work from dawn till bedtime.

“But I am by nature industrious, and of a jolly, happy-go-lucky 
temperament, and I didn’t feel particularly miserable, even then.

“A trivial incident proved the turning point of my career. During 
one of my mistress’s many absences on business it struck me that I 
would don some of the tawdry things which surrounded me, so as to 
have a bit of fun on my own account.

“So I hurried through my work quicker than usual, and trusting that 
nobody would enter the shop just yet, I slipped into a short, 
rose-coloured tarlatan frock, cut low at the neck, and having mere 
straps for sleeves.

“The result astonished and delighted me. For the first time I 
realised that I was dowered with beauty, and I was admiring myself 
in front of the cracked looking-glass which adorned the shop, when 
I was transfixed with terror by the arrival of Mrs Harridan herself.

“But my mistress actually looked pleased, and speedily set my fears 
at rest by exclaiming, ‘Well, I’m blest if you ain’t cut out for a 
pantomime girl! You look spiffin, and I’ve more than half a mind to 
try it on.’

“A week later I had been engaged at a neighbouring theatre to 
perform in the ballet of the forthcoming pantomime. It was also 
arranged that I should live with Mrs Harridan, and help with some of 
her work, besides giving her the greater part of my earnings in 
exchange for my board and lodgings. But she wasn’t really hard on 
me, and gave me many a bit of useful finery.

“Indeed, I shall never forget that she was my first real friend, 
and I am glad to be able to make her a small weekly allowance, now 
that she is past work. Brevity will not permit me to dwell on my 
early professional struggles.

“Though I can honestly say that I was apt and industrious, it took 
me several years to achieve popularity. I was admittedly beautiful, 
and could act, sing and dance to perfection. But I was not able to 
make such a display as some of my less scrupulous fellow artistes. 
They boasted the ‘protection’ of this, that, or the other 
profligate, who invariably did his best to popularise the efforts 
of his favourite.

“For a long time I prided myself on my virtue. Then I came to 
understand the real cause of my failure, and accepted the 
attentions of Viscount S.

“He has provided quite handsomely for my two children, who are being 
educated in the belief that they are the orphans of a respectable 
couple called Mervyn.

“But even yet I failed to reach the pinnacle of fame which I 
coveted, although I had ample means of display, and I cast round for 
another mode of attaining my object. I found my social step-ladder 
in the person of young Lord F., who became desperately enamoured 
with me, and was for a while more than anxious to marry me. Of 
course, I forgot to tell him about my two children. But I made the 
best of my opportunities, knowing full well that Lord F.’s 
infatuation could not last, and when he really did show an inclination 
to fight shy of the engagement I had plenty of people to prove that 
it had been an existing fact.

“Three months later the ‘cause celebre’ of the day was the breach of 
promise action brought by Miss Winsome against Lord F. There was no 
vigorous attempt at a defence. I won my case ‘hands over,’ together 
with £5,000 damages.

“I also won the notoriety I craved for, and the photographs of the 
beautiful and ill-treated Miss Winsome were shown in every fancy 
shop window in the country.

“Managers ran after me.

“I could dictate my own terms.

“My audiences adored me, showered presents and bouquets upon me, and 
they have more than once unharnessed my horses and drawn me to my 
hotel in triumph.

“I have gained the summit of my ambition. But oh, God! how I do 
crave for a little, real honest love and sympathy! I would give the 
world to be able to retire with my beautiful innocent children to 
some place where they could never learn that their mother is 
anything but one of the best and purest of women!

“But how foolish I am! Why do I imagine vain things? I am quite 
happy – sometimes!”




XI. The Recluse of Hallow Hall


“Yes, ma’am,” said old Miles Galbraith to me. “Yes, I can tell you 
as queer a tale as here and there a one. In fact, if you find one to 
beat it, I’ll forego that little acknowledgment you promised me.”

“Fie, Miles,” was my amused retort. “You have already received the 
little acknowledgement in question, and have spent part of it. So 
how can you forego it?”

“Indeed, ma’am, it’s all right. You see, I know the little ways of 
ladies and gentlemen. They always pay half when they make the 
bargain, and the other half at the end of the story.”

“H’m! you’re very cute, Miles. But it will all depend upon what you 
have to tell me.”

“Then we’ll consider it settled, ma’am, if you please, so here goes. 
When I first went to be Mr Milsom’s gardener and coachman, he had 
quite a staff of servants in the house, for he still kept 
considerable company. Among these servants was Jenny Pryce, the 
under housemaid, as canny a girl as ever went to place, and I 
thought myself lucky when she promised to marry me. But Mr Wright, 
the butler, didn’t half like it. He was fond of her himself, and 
both he and the housekeeper had a lot to say about how foolish she 
was to promise to marry anybody whose station was so inferior to a 
butler’s. All the same, Jenny had her own notions on the subject, 
and at last she had to shut him up somewhat sharply.

“When the master heard about our love affair he was very good indeed 
to us, and furnished the little cottage in which we live to this day. 
The butler was never friendly to us, and would have cleared me off 
the premises, if he could have done so. The master, however, soon 
after this, took to very queer ways. It was said that he had been 
crossed in love, and that he had vowed never to look in a woman’s 
face again.

“Be that as it may, he withdrew from all society, and by degrees 
even ceased to walk about in his own grounds. Then he made an 
arrangement with his solicitor, whereby we were all put on board 
wages, and very liberal they were, too. Jenny came in for them as 
well, as she was supposed to be the master’s laundress now that she 
was married, though it’s mighty little washing he ever gave her to 
do. There was henceforth no interference in anything we did, there 
being certain rules prescribed by the master, and as long as we 
conformed to these rules we were all to keep our comfortable places.

“For two or three years Mr Milsom lived on like that, never going 
out, and never seeing anybody. At last he wouldn’t even take his 
meals in the dining or breakfast-rooms, but had one end of the house 
disconnected from the other part, that we could only approach his 
rooms by one door. These rooms were very comfortably furnished with 
all sorts of beautiful things collected by the master’s orders, from 
other parts of the house. The room that he called his library had 
thousands of books in it.

“The first room that we entered from the corridor was the one in 
which he took all his meals, and after a time we were forbidden to 
go any further. We would enter this room, clean it, set out his 
food very elaborately on the table, and then retire, only returning 
when we heard his bell ring for us to clear the things away. There 
would always be a paper on the table containing various orders. But 
the master himself no longer appeared to give them in person. In 
fact for several years not one of us was permitted to see him, and 
he always kept his door locked when he was in his dining-room.

“At first these eccentricities caused a deal of comment. But 
by-and-by the neighbourhood found new sensations to talk about, and 
the ‘Recluse of Hallow Hall,’ as Mr Milsom came to be called, was 
by lots of people entirely forgotten.

“But although we were not permitted to look upon the master’s face, 
he did not allow us to forget his presence, for he was very 
particular about the food he ate. He liked several courses to each 
meal. And they had to be beautifully cooked, or he would tell us his 
opinion pretty plainly. The fruit I raised for him had to be of the 
very finest, too, or he would threaten to dismiss me. This, however, 
did not often happen, for we all knew that we would never get such 
another comfortable place, where we all did pretty nearly as we 
liked, and we were careful to see that the master had as little 
cause for complaint as possible.

“If any of us had an apology to make, or anything to ask him, we 
would write what we wanted to say on a piece of paper each. These 
papers would be put on the table with the master’s meals, and we 
would receive our answers soon after.

“The only body that ever seemed inclined to grumble at this queer 
state of affairs was Mr Wright, the butler, and he was never 
satisfied. First he growled about one thing, then about another, and 
he was altogether so ill-tempered that the rest of us threatened to 
complain of him in a body.

“‘I think the best thing you can do, Mr Wright, is to clear out. You 
have got too big for your place, to my thinking.’ This was what the 
housekeeper said to him one day, and you should have seen the evil 
look he put on his face as he shook his fist at her, and shouted, 
‘Maybe I will leave the place mighty soon, and in a way you little 
expect, too.’

“And sure enough he disappeared that very night, and everything went 
to prove that it was a deliberately planned flight. None of us felt 
sorry at losing him. But we were all considerably dismayed to find 
that the greater part of the family plate had disappeared with him. 
He must have had enough to do to carry it away unnoticed and unheard. 
At first we didn’t know what to do. Then I suggested going for the 
police. But the housekeeper said, ‘No, we must do nothing without 
asking the master’s advice first.’

“To this we agreed, and an account of the butler’s disappearance, 
together with a list of things he had stolen, was written and taken 
in with the breakfast. Presently there was a furious peal at the 
bell, and the housekeeper asked me to fetch the note we felt sure 
the master had been writing.

“Be quick, Galbraith,’ said she, ‘I’m on tenterhooks to know how 
he’ll take it, and what we are to do. Perhaps he’ll come out of his 
shell now, and live more like a civilised human being. He used to 
set great store by the silver plate. It’s been in his family more 
than two-hundred years.

“But so far from coming out of his shell, the master became, if 
possible, a more confirmed recluse than ever. His instructions to us 
were brief and to the point. ‘Take no steps to discover Wright,’ was 
his order. ‘Let his greed be his own punishment. What he has stolen 
does not equal the legacy I would have left him. Henceforth, do not 
name him to me. Let him be as one dead, and do not expect a 
successor in his place. My wants become fewer as I get more feeble, 
and I cannot tolerate the idea of having new people about the house. 
But I never forget those who are faithful to me, and a word to the 
wise is sufficient.’

“We took this last to mean that he would remember us in his will if 
we served him well. But this we had always done, so well, indeed, 
that we couldn’t improve ourselves. Soon after this there was a 
letter to Mr Milsom’s solicitors to be forwarded. Then a very big 
one was sent, to which Mr Crowday, the lawyer, brought back an 
answer, and, being curious, he went and laid it on his master’s 
table himself. But all was as quiet as it generally was, and he went 
away no wiser for his pains. Before he went he told the housekeeper 
that the master had been making a new will. But he wouldn’t say what 
it was.

“Soon after this a queer rumour arose in the neighbourhood. It was 
said that the butler had been murdered, and that his ghost haunted 
the park belonging to Hallow Hall. I don’t know that we exactly 
believed this rumour, but we none of us cared to be out too late 
alone at night.

“After a while we began to think the master must be failing, for he 
was often a whole day without taking any of the food that was so 
carefully prepared for him. This made us anxious, and we used to 
listen more intently than ever for any sign of life within the rooms 
we were not allowed to enter. But this sort of thing went on for 
five years, and by that time the folks in the neighbourhood looked 
upon both the house and the grounds as uncanny and haunted.

“One day Jenny and I were both indoors helping the housekeeper, as 
she was having a thorough cleaning down. As was often the case, I 
took my turn at carrying some of Mr Milsom’s food into his 
dining-room. But I had no sooner set foot in it than I heard a 
terrible groaning in one of the inner rooms. For a moment I looked 
as scared as did Jenny, who was with me. Then I rushed at the door, 
and never rested till I had broken it down.

“At last I was inside the place I had often been so curious about. 
But I shall never forget how astonished I was at what I saw.

“On a rich Turkey carpet which covered the floor lay a man writhing 
in pain. I rushed to him, and raised on to the couch – not my 
master, as I had expected, but Wright, the ex-butler! He was in 
horrible agony, but he actually twisted his features into a grin 
when he saw my amazement.

“‘Yes, it’s me,’ he gasped; ‘I’ve been living here all these years 
in clover, and none of you fools any wiser for it, though I doubt 
I’m done for now.’

“‘But the master?’ I asked.

“‘Been dead more than five years. It can’t hurt me now to confess. 
I killed him and buried him under the blighted oak in the park.’

“I let go of Wright when I heard this. By that time all the rest of 
the household came flying in. Wright had accidentally swallowed some 
poison, and died that night. Before he died he told us how he 
managed to get at the old master and kill him. By means of a pass 
key he had had made for him, he was able to get into the inner room, 
and the rest was easy. He removed the silver, knowing that we would 
think he had stolen it. He had for months imitated the master’s 
writing, and effectually deceived everybody. The reputed ghost which 
had been seen in the park was himself. He got in and out through an 
old cellar, and when we thought he was ailing, because his food was 
not eaten, he was enjoying himself elsewhere. He had procured large 
sums of money through Mr Milsom’s solicitors, who certainly 
wondered, but did not hesitate to supply it. He meant to have made 
one more haul, ere leaving Hallow Hall for ever, when he made the 
fatal mistake which ended his life.

“Sure enough, we found the master’s body under the oak, and removed 
it, in a suitable coffin, to the family vault.

“Of course the will which Wright had written was useless. For this 
we were rather sorry, as it provided handsomely for us all. Still, 
we have no need to grumble, for the gentleman who succeeded to the 
estate as heir-at-law – there being no will – treated us all very 
well. In fact, we’re his servants to this day, and we’ve no notion 
of seeking fresh places. Thank you, ma’am; I knew you would like my 
tale.”




VII. The Mysterious Thief


“Now, Miss Bell,” said my uncle to me one day, “I have a nice little 
job for you. A certain Mr Flowers, of Kite-street, City, has had no 
fewer than five different thefts from his house within three months. 
The thief seems to go very cunningly about his work, for so far he 
has proved absolutely undetectable, although the police have had the 
matter in hand from the first.”

“And of what nature are the things that have been stolen?” I asked.

“Well, their variety would be amusing, were it not so perplexing,” 
said Mr Bell. “The first thing that was missed was a small scrip-box, 
containing a recently executed will, and some important trust deeds. 
Mr Flowers, I should mention, is a solicitor, who resides in rooms 
over the premises on which he carries on his business. Of course, he 
was in a great state about losing such responsible property. But not 
the slightest clue to the perpetrators of the theft could be 
discovered.

“‘If it had been my own property that had been stolen I would not 
have minded so much,’ said Mr Flowers. ‘But trust deeds! it is too 
dreadful.’

“Various theories were promulgated as to the nature and motives of 
the thief, the most feasible one being that someone, hearing that a 
relative had made a will, had conceived that it was inimical to his 
interests, and had resolved to steal it from the solicitor with whom 
he believed it to have been deposited. As, however, the abstracted 
will was that of an old lady who had no relations or friends who 
could have expected her money, even this theory suffered from 
objections.

“In a few weeks it was exploded altogether, for a second robbery 
took place at the house of Mr Flowers. This time it was the greater 
part of the silver plate that was missing. Experts were all agreed 
that the thief knew the whole of the interior arrangements of the 
establishment. Clerks and servants were all subjected to rigid 
cross-questioning and watching, but came out of the ordeal with 
flying colours. Mr Flowers, in fact, considered them all above 
suspicion. But it was natural that, for a time, the detectives 
should hardly be of his opinion.

“Very soon robbery number three was discovered. Mrs Flowers’s watch 
and chain had disappeared. Two days later three bank notes of £10 
each were missing. These Mr Flowers was sure he had first locked in 
a cashbox, then in the office safe. After watching the departure of 
his two clerks, and the office boy, he carefully looked to the 
safety of the windows, to which some patent burglar alarms had 
lately been attached, then he locked and double-locked the office 
door, taking all the keys upstairs with him, and putting them under 
his pillow.

“Yet, strange to say, on entering the office next morning, before 
the arrival of his clerks, he found the notes missing. All the doors 
and locks were exactly as he had left them, yet, on opening the 
cashbox, it was found to be empty. By this time both he and those in 
his employ were thoroughly scared, and one of the clerks told me 
this morning that he and his colleagues had only refrained from 
giving Mr Flowers notice to leave because they feared their 
reluctance to stay might be construed into a virtual admission of 
their own participation in the mysterious thefts.

“This morning matters reached a climax when Mr Flowers, on rising, 
discovered his own watch to have disappeared as completely as that 
of his wife had done. I was sent for to see if I could throw any 
light on this strange affair. I found Mr Flowers looking the picture 
of rage and mystification, and his clerks were sulkily proceeding 
with their work, their expressions almost indicating a dawning 
disbelief in the extent of their employer’s losses. The office boy 
struck me as looking rather jubilant. He evidently revels in the 
sensational.

“In the more private part of the establishment things looked no 
better. The lady of the house was in hysterics, and the housemaid 
was packing up her clothes, and vowing that if they locked her up 
for it she wouldn’t stay any longer in a place that was haunted. 
Asked if she had seen anything that could warrant her assertion 
that the house was haunted, she replied that nothing but a ghost 
could take the money and jewellery out of locked-up places without 
having been near the keys, the latter being invariably found where 
they had been put before the master went to bed.

“I managed to persuade the housemaid into a more pliant frame of 
mind by promising to bring her an associate to help in the work, and 
keep the cook and herself company until all the mystery had been 
made clear. The cook was easier to deal with, for she had arrived at 
a pitch of unbelief that was positively amusing.

“‘I’m about sick of all the fuss and bother there has been lately,’ 
she said. ‘And I won’t be worried any more over it. It’s my opinion 
that there ain’t never been a single thing stole, and that the 
master’s trying to get up a sensation all for nothing.’

“‘But where are the things, if they haven’t been stolen?’ I asked.

“‘Well, betwixt you and me, I think there ain’t two ways about it. 
I’ve lived in families before where they was pretty hard up for 
ready money sometimes, and were only too ready to do it.’

“‘Do what?’

“‘Why, pawn ‘em, to be sure.’

“‘What, pawn banknotes?’

“‘No, the banknotes haven’t been pawned. There’s no need of that. I 
expect they’ve been paid away for something on the quiet. The master 
wouldn’t be the first man that had secrets from his wife.’

“‘And how about the papers? You don’t imagine anybody would take 
them in pawn, do you?’

“‘Humph. As if that wasn’t a part of the bamboozlement. You don’t 
throw dust in my eyes too long.’

“With this remark the cook clenched the conversation, and I must 
confess that my thoughts had wandered for some time somewhat in the 
same direction. The incredulous looks of at least one of the clerks 
also bore out the cook’s reasoning. Still, if the object was merely 
to bamboozle his wife, why should the owner of the property said to 
be stolen make such a fuss, and go to such an expense to bring about 
an unravelment that could but be inimical to his own interests, if 
he were playing a double game? The whole case is as complex and 
awkward as any I have come across, and I want your help in it.”

I had listened very attentively to my uncle’s story, and had already 
framed my own idea of the duties expected of me.

“You wish me to keep a careful watch upon all the people in the 
Flowers establishment, while professing to discharge domestic 
duties?” I suggested.

“Precisely,” was the answer. “Both Mr and Mrs Flowers approve of the 
plan, and you are expected to-day.”

A few more preliminaries being settled, I prepared myself at once 
for my new duties, and found, on arriving at 15, Kite-street, that I 
was supposed to be a temporary housekeeper, vice Mrs Flowers 
herself, incapacitated through trouble and anxiety, consequent upon 
the mysterious series of robberies that had taken place in the house.

The poor woman’s incapacity for supervising the daily routine of her 
household was not feigned. She was really so ill and upset that I 
advised her to put herself under the care of the family doctor, who 
would give her something to quieten her nerves. Meanwhile, if she 
would lie down and rest, I told her, I would see that things were so 
conducted in the kitchen and elsewhere that Mr Flowers should miss 
none of his accustomed comforts.

It was with a sigh of satisfaction that she yielded herself to my 
arrangement, and I also found the servants easy to cope with. The 
principal topic of conversation both in parlours and kitchens was 
the facility with which it seemed possible for somebody or other to 
take what they pleased out of the house. Before bed time I had 
gleaned every possible item of information relating to the mystery, 
and had formed my theory as to the true state of things.

After office hours Mr Flowers fastened his lower premises up with 
all possible care, and as soon as I could do so without being 
observed by the servants, I carefully examined all the fastenings, 
and satisfied myself that the individual who entered from without 
would be very clever indeed. He would, in fact, have to be of the 
shadowy nature attributed to the thieves by the housemaid.

At twelve o’clock everyone in the house, except myself, had gone to 
bed. But so far from retiring to rest myself, I had resolved to keep 
careful watch all night. I had wrapped a thick woollen shawl round 
my shoulders, and stationed myself so that I commanded a full view 
of the doors leading from the various bedrooms. Lest I should be 
observed myself, I took advantage of a portiere which shrouded a 
recess used as a wardrobe, and anxiously kept the stairhead in sight.

I am not of a nervous disposition. But I confess I felt a “wee bit 
eerie” as the big hall clock chimed the hours and half hours, while 
all else in the house was as still as death. It was therefore with 
an intense feeling of thankfulness that I at last saw Mr Flowers 
emerge slowly but cautiously from his bedroom, carrying in one hand 
a bunch of keys, and in the other a lighted candle. He went straight 
downstairs, and, holding my very breath through fear of betraying 
my presence, I followed him from the bedroom floor, to the 
drawing-room floor, thence further downstairs to the basement. 
Finally, walking with a strange rigidity which would have struck me 
as awesome had I not conjectured its cause, he preceded me into the 
cellars which underlay the whole building.

A minute or two later he was opening an old disused cupboard, into 
which I saw him place two rings that he had brought downstairs with 
him. It was a clear case of somnambulism. But I dare not wake him 
there and then. Only pausing for an instant to consider what was 
best to be done next, I noiselessly hurried upstairs, entered Mrs 
Flowers’s bedroom, and roused her from a heavy slumber. I had 
scarcely succeeded in making her understand me when we heard her 
husband coming upstairs again. Almost beside herself with alarm, she 
jumped out of bed, and, in spite of my caution, gave a loud scream 
when she saw the glassy and expressionless look in her husband’s 
eyes.

A moment later there was a somewhat wild scene between the two, for 
Mr Flowers was rudely awakened, and could not understand my presence 
in his bedroom at first. When at last he was made to comprehend the 
state of affairs he expressed himself determined to get to the bottom 
of the mystery at once. I retired until the pair had arrayed 
themselves more decorously. Then the three of us explored the cellar 
cupboard together, and just as I had expected, we found all the 
precious things which Mr Flowers’s anxiety had caused his sleeping 
senses to put in a place of safety, of which he had no recollection 
when awake.

The shock of his sudden awakening did him no harm. But it cured his 
somnambulistic tendencies, and there have been no further supposed 
robberies from 15, Kite-street.

THE END

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