As the cab drove rapidly towards the famous detective establishment on the Embankment, Dorcas explained her motive for no longer acting on her own responsibility. So long as she was with Carr she was assisting a properly-authorised police officer to investigate a sensational affair. But Carr being absent—probably disabled, possibly insensible—she was no longer justified in taking any further steps in the matter. It was her duty to communicate her knowledge to the properly-constituted authorities.
When Dorcas arrived at the Yard and sent her name to the chief officer on duty, she was instantly admitted. Beckoning me to follow her, she proceeded along a passage, and we were ushered into the presence of a handsome, smooth-shaven gentleman with a small grey moustache.
This gentleman rose as we entered and greeted Dorcas with a polite bow. Directly she said that she had called to give information with respect to the missing Prince, his official manner vanished and he leant forward to listen.
"My chief is with the Home Secretary at this very minute," he said. "Up to the present we have not the slightest clue. What is your information?"
Dorcas related rapidly the events of the evening, and, as she proceeded, the pleasant face of the official became grave and anxious.
"We knew of these men, of course," he said, "but we never for a moment connected his Royal Highness's disappearance with them. Their arrest ought to be a mere matter of hours, for we know where to lay hands on every Anarchist in England. But their arrest would only retard rather than hasten the rescue of their prisoner. We don't know where they have concealed him."
"At any rate there is someone who does."
"Who is that?"
"The Countess Elstein. I am convinced that it was to the Countess's that the Prince went that night."
"We had an idea ourselves that the Countess must know something," replied the officer, "but on inquiring at her residence we were informed that she had left London for the Continent the previous day. The maid, a French-woman, was to follow her, so she told our man, and join her mistress in Vienna in a week's time."
"Didn't you think it curious then," said Dorcas, "that the Countess should have gone abroad and left her maid behind?"
"There was really nothing to think about in the matter. All that we expected of the Countess was that she might know something of the Prince's movements, but she certainly would be no party to any evil befalling him or any scandal arising in connection with him and herself. She receives a handsome allowance from the Prince, and she is hardly likely to have done anything which would imperil that."
"Well," said Dorcas, "you may be right, but the name of the Countess's maid is Zelie Vossche. She may have communicated to her brother that the Prince was coming. If I am right in my theory, the capture was effected in the Countess's house."
"It might have been outside."
"Hardly; had it been outside your men must by this time have found a clue. His captors wouldn't have dragged him from Regent's Park without being observed by someone."
"But if it was in the house the capture took place the servants must have known it."
"I don't think so. The Prince's visit would be arranged for under any circumstances—the servants would be purposely kept out of the way. Zelie, the maid, who is evidently in her mistress's confidence, probably for a good reason, seeing that that affair of the bracelet was not proceeded with—would let him in."
"But the Countess——"
"There I am in doubt," said Dorcas. "She may have been a party to the outrage—she may have known nothing about it. But I am convinced that the Prince entered that house and never left it."
"But, good heavens! if that has been your idea, why did you not communicate with us at once?"
"You forget," said Dorcas, quietly, "it was not until after the Anarchist meeting in Kennington Road to-night that I had any certainty that my theory was correct."
The official touched a bell and a constable entered.
"Ask Superintendent Johnson to come to me at once."
The constable saluted and retired.
"What do you propose to do?" said Dorcas.
"Send Superintendent Johnson with a number of men at once to the Countess's residence."
Dorcas laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Of course it is presumption on my part, but may I give you a word of advice?"
"I shall listen to anything you say with the greatest respect, because it seems to me that so far you have done more than all our people put together in getting on the right trail—though of course I feel strongly that you ought to have communicated with us before this. What is your advice?"
"That you don't send Superintendent Johnson and his men to alarm the Countess. Remember that one false movement may result in the assassination of the Prince."
"That is true—but we must satisfy ourselves that the Prince is or is not there."
"Of course. My own intention, had Inspector Carr remained with me, was to go to the Countess's house at once. But we should have gone cautiously to work to avoid a mishap."
"One can be too cautious in a desperate affair like this. Even as it is, this man Vossche has had time to communicate with the Prince's captors. If his Royal Highness is a prisoner in the Regent's Park house, he may already have been conveyed away."
"If he has I shall know it!"
"You will know it—how?"
"Directly I heard from Inspector Carr of the Prince's disappearance, and came to the conclusion that the Countess Elstein might have been the instrument employed to get him into a trap, I put two of my assistants whom I can trust—they are both retired police officers—on the case. One has been watching the entrance in the Inner Circle, and the other is concealed in the Park watching the grounds."
"That was well done at any rate. But now we must get inside the house."
"I quite agree with you. But there are two ways of doing it. Will you let the Superintendent and his men go to work my way?"
The officer hesitated. "It isn't usual," he said, "for our men to act under the orders of a private detective, even one so famous and so talented as Dorcas Dene, but under all the circumstances I consent. Up to a certain point Johnson will obey your instructions. But if he finds that they do not look like resulting in immediate success, then he will obey mine."
"I accept the terms," replied Dorcas, rising. Then she added, "I presume there is no objection to my friend here accompanying us. He is my husband's personal friend and my own, and has frequently rendered me valuable assistance."
The official eyed me over as if mentally appraising my value, and then with a patronising little nod exclaimed, "Oh, certainly if you wish it—but I presume he is not a newspaper man? Whatever happens we don't want this affair to be chattered about by the Press."
I assured the official that he might rely on my absolute discretion, and that I quite understood the necessity of silence, and a minute later Superintendent Johnson entered the room.
Jean Vossche had entered the house of Countess Elstein in the Inner Circle of Regent's Park.
Dorcas's man had seen a man answering Vossche's description come up and enter the grounds about half an hour previously. He was walking.
The cab left alone would have attracted attention. Vossche had driven on to the cab-stand at Clarence Gate, which at that hour of the morning was only occupied by a couple of four-wheelers, the drivers of which were inside fast asleep. A hansom standing by itself on the rank would not excite the slightest suspicion.
Dorcas, when she heard how the desperado had disposed of his vehicle, murmured, "My compliments!—that man knows what he is about!"
Superintendent Johnson proved himself to be a tactician of the first water. He readily fell in with Dorcas's suggestions, but managed to add one or two of his own which Dorcas, not to be outdone in amiability, readily acquiesced in. She did so the more willingly as the Superintendent's suggestions were generally those which Dorcas had made a minute or two earlier. Dorcas explained her idea rapidly.
"The Inner Circle is deserted, and my men can get over the gate," said the Superintendent, "and in among the laurels ready for a signal."
"I am afraid of that," said Dorcas. "There is gravel in the front garden, and a gravel scrunch might be heard. Remember, Vossche is inside, and the front may be watched. My proposition is that we get in at the back."
The Superintendent said nothing for a moment. Then suddenly as if struck by an idea he exclaimed, "I propose that we get in at the back. Don't you think it will be safer? They won't expect anybody that way because the back runs down to the ornamental waters and the Park is closed."
"An excellent idea," replied Dorcas, nudging my arm. "Leave a few of your men under the trees on the opposite side of the roadway—ready to dash in at your signal."
"Yes, when I blow my whistle they can rush in at the front garden."
"I shouldn't whistle," said Dorcas. "We might want to surprise the inmates before they can escape. It's a dark night and they might some of them get away. I should imitate the noise of a cat. That would mean nothing except to those who were waiting for the sound."
The Superintendent probably thought that for a man in his position it would be undignified to moe-row, for he made no reply. But a minute later he said to Dorcas, "I've given my men their instructions. My signal to them will be the bark of a dog—I think it will be safer than whistling, don't you?"
"An admirable idea!" replied Dorcas. "Now let us go round to the Outer Circle. We can get into the Park by climbing over the rails."
"But to get into the grounds we must cross the water."
"No—we can get over the bridge and climb over the iron rails on the other side."
Dorcas, myself, the Superintendent, and two men made our way rapidly over the bridge opposite the Botanical Gardens and then climbed over into the private enclosure by York Gate and so went into the vast deserted Park.
Crossing the bridge that spans the ornamental water we made our way along the water's edge until we reached the private grounds of the villa occupied by the Countess. The grounds sloped to the edge of the water and were not in any way protected, as they could only be approached from the lake. No one could enter them by day without attracting the attention of the park-keepers, and at night the Park was carefully cleared, so there was practically no danger of intrusion.
As we crept cautiously through the high laurels, choosing a path that was out of sight of the house in case there should be anyone watching, Dorcas suddenly halted and "quacked." There were scores of ducks asleep upon the island on the lake. But she quacked in a peculiar manner—two quacks, then one quack—then two, then one.
Across the grounds from a laurel bush near a summer house came a low "quack, quack."
"What's that?" exclaimed the Superintendent.
"My signal. My man is over yonder—he'll make his way to us—let us stop here."
Our strained ears caught the rustle of the bushes, and presently a man emerged from the laurels in front of us and came to Dorcas.
"No one's been about all night," he said, "till about a quarter of an hour ago, when a man came out, went to the shed yonder by the water, and got a boat hook. He went to the water's edge, and tried the depth, and then went back into the house again."
Dorcas gave a little cry which she instantly suppressed.
"What do you think that means?" said the Superintendent.
"The worst, I'm afraid," said Dorcas. "It looks as though they were going to drop something into the water that they wanted to conceal. We must hesitate no longer. Your men must break in from the front, and we must try from the back. Hush!"
There was a sound of a door opening.
We peered through the laurel bushes, and saw two figures coming slowly across the grounds. They were carrying a heavy burden between them.
"Make a dash for the door," said the Superintendent to Dorcas's man. "Rush through and open the front door if you can, and let my men in. Are you armed?"
"I have my revolver," replied the man.
As the figures came nearer our man dashed out. There was a cry, and the burden dropped. But our man had dashed in at the open door. At the same time Superintendent Johnson's whistle shrieked out on the quiet night.
Then we all dashed forward—the Superintendent and one of his men seized one of the figures, and I and another man seized the other.
Dorcas snatched a bull's-eye from one of the officers, and flashed it in the faces of the prisoners.
We had captured Jean Vossche and his sister, the lady's maid.
In a moment there were dark figures hurrying across the lawn. The police in front had come through. Handing the prisoners over to them, the Superintendent knelt down, and then examined the lifeless body lying on the ground.
It was a female. Round her body was a stout cord, and attached to the cord two heavy weights.
The Superintendent examined the woman's face by the light of the lantern. On the temple was a fearful bruise, as though the poor creature had been struck by a bludgeon.
Dorcas, with trembling lips, knelt down beside the body, and as the light fell on the features, examined them carefully.
"It is the Countess Elstein!" she said.
At that moment the officers who had Jean Vossche uttered a cry.
The man, with a desperate effort, had wrenched himself free. Before he could be seized again he had dashed across the grounds, leapt the iron railings, and disappeared into the darkness of the Park.
Leaving the police in charge of Zelie and the body, we went into the house, which was in possession of some of the Superintendent's men. A sergeant met us at the door.
"There's a gentleman in one of the rooms," he said. "I can't make him out at all."
We followed the officer upstairs to a back room. There we found a dark gentleman lying on a sofa. His legs and hands were fastened together with cords, and he seemed to be in a heavy sleep. We tried to rouse him, but he only opened his eyes and looked at us, and then his head dropped down again.
"It's the Prince—thank God!" exclaimed the Superintendent. "He's under the influence of some drug, I should think."
"Probably," said Dorcas, "that's how they've kept him quiet. Send one of your men for a doctor."
We tried our best to restore the Prince to consciousness, but failed. When the doctor, who had been fetched from Baker-street, came, he at once found it to be a case of drugging, and said the Prince had probably been kept under the influence of a strong narcotic for some time. He had brought certain remedies with him, acting on the information the police officer who fetched him had given him, and gradually the Prince came to himself. A couple of hours later a brougham arrived with the Chief of Police and the Prince's aide-de-camp, and his Royal Highness was quietly taken to the doctor's house, and Zelie Vossche, who remained obstinately silent, was removed in custody.
His Royal Highness Prince —— of —— was able next day to communicate his adventures to the authorities.
He had arranged to visit the Countess, his morganatic wife, the evening he left the hotel. There were certain matters he wished to discuss with her, but he was anxious that their meeting should be a private one. Zelie Vossche had probably obtained knowledge of the intended interview, and had communicated it to her brother, who saw in it an opportunity of assisting the condemned Anarchists of ——. He communicated with his associates.
When the Prince arrived at the house in Regent's Park late at night the servants had been sent away to a house the Countess had in the country. The Countess was leaving for this house next day, and Zelie advised her to send them on first: then they would not see and gossip about the visit of the Prince, as they might find out who he was.
Zelie and the Countess were alone when the Prince arrived. But after Zelie had let him in she admitted Vossche and two of his accomplices. They waited till the Prince was leaving, then seized and gagged him and carried him to the upstairs room. The Countess rushed out, hearing the noise, but was struck down by Vossche. When it was found she was dead they carried the body to a bedroom, laid it on the bed, and locked the door.
The next morning Zelie telegraphed to the servants that their mistress was going to pay a visit and would not arrive till the end of the week.
The Prince in the meantime was drugged to keep him from attempting to make a noise. He was fed and tended by Vossche and Zelie, as it was not the Anarchists' intention that he should be assassinated if they saved the lives of their comrades.
But when Vossche discovered that a Scotland Yard man was on his track and that probably he would be traced to the house in Regent's Park, his first task on escaping was to get rid of the Countess's body. What the Prince's fate would have been could only be conjectured.
Vossche and Zelie after disposing of the Countess's body would probably have made their escape, hoping that a desire to conceal the adventure of the Prince might lead the police to make no active search for them.
The story of the murder was gathered from Zelie herself, who was naturally anxious to prove that she had no active share in the crime, but only acted to shield her brother and his accomplices afterwards.
Accepting her story as true the authorities at the inquest put her name forward as that of an accomplice, and supported her statement that Vossche was the actual murderer.
They did this not only because they were inclined to believe it, but as an encouragement to Zelie not to make any statement with regard to the share which the Prince had played in the tragedy. The motive of the crime was supposed to be robbery.
A reward for the arrest of Jean Vossche was offered but never claimed. The Continental Police acting on instructions were as remiss as our own in endeavouring to discover the whereabouts of the notorious Anarchist.
As soon as he was restored to health the Prince returned to his father's court, much to the relief of everybody concerned, especially the heads of the Royal Family of ——, who were saved the unpleasant task of rescuing from the scaffold five of the most infamous scoundrels of modern times.
Inspector Carr is a disappointed man. After all his exertions he was unable to crown himself with the glory of having found and rescued the missing Prince. Had he been a better coachman all might have been well, but in his joy at having Jean Vossche for a fare he forgot about his horse and drove into a market wagon, the driver of which was fast asleep. He was pitched off the box into the roadway and lay there stunned. Jean Vossche, anxious to get on, leaped out and bent over the insensible man. Possibly he discovered then the trick which had been played on him. At any rate, jumping on to the box, he drove off at full speed. When the Inspector came to himself he found that he had been very kindly taken to St. Thomas's Hospital by a policeman who thought he was a cabman whose horse had bolted.
Dorcas Dene has a beautiful diamond brooch which she never wears. It is the gift of his Royal Highness Prince —— of —— who somehow came to hear of the important part she had played in his rescue.
The one great drawback to her joy in possessing it is that poor Paul cannot see how beautiful it is. But sometimes when she holds it in the light he stares at it with his poor sightless eyes and declares that really the stones must be very brilliant, for it doesn't seem quite so dark when she holds them up before him.
I had gone down for a week's rest to Brighton, and had put up at the "Old Ship." The "Old Ship," Brighton, has been to me "a home from home" for more years than I care to count. Among my most pleasant recollections of my youth is the smiling face of that fine old English host, "Mr. Arthur," brother of the proprietor, Mr. Robert Bacon. All Brighton lovers who "have come to forty year" remember Mr. Arthur, and still on quiet evenings when old Brightonians gather together in the famous hostelry it is rare indeed that the name of Mr. Arthur does not come up in the conversation. What Mr. Gresham Bacon is to the young Old Shipites to-day, Mr. Arthur was to the middle-aged Old Shipites of twenty years ago.
Mr. Arthur's name came up on the occasion of the visit to which I have referred at the commencement of this narrative. There had been an unusual number of ladies in the coffee-room, and after dinner, noticing Mr. Gresham Bacon in the hall, I could not help remarking on the fact.
In the former days the "Old Ship" rather discouraged lady visitors, and so they were not admitted to the coffee-room, and there was no ladies' drawing-room. The house was essentially a bachelors' resort, and if a man brought his wife he had to take a private sitting-room for her and to keep her there.
"Ladies in the coffee-room, a French table d'hôte and the electric light at the 'Old Ship'!" I exclaimed. "It's enough to make 'Mr. Arthur' turn in his grave."
Gresham Bacon laughed.
"Yes," he said, "if anyone had suggested ladies in the coffee-room in his day the dear old boy would have had a fit. But other times, other manners, and the 'Old Ship' has had to be fitted out as a modern vessel, and she must sail with the times."
I put on my hat, Commodore Gibson, arrayed as befitted in the "Old Ship" in blue serge, gilt buttons, and a yachting cap, gave me a brush down, and as soon as Mr. "Fatty" Coleman, whose portly form completely filled the doorway, had been temporarily dislodged, I passed out into the street, and Gresham Bacon, who had followed me, invited me to come and have my after-dinner coffee at his "arch."
Everyone knows that the "arches" under the King's-road at Brighton have been rented by private persons, and turned into luxurious "smoking-rooms by the sea." Mr. Gresham Bacon's arch is renowned for its hospitality, and one meets there in the season most of the notabilities of Upper Bohemia, who still look upon Brighton as the ideal spot for a jaded Londoner. Dr. Brighton is no quack, but he has the courage to adopt as his motto, "Health restored while you wait," and thousands of hard-working Englishmen and Englishwomen who suffer from an occasional run-down of the nervous system have still a child-like and beautiful faith in him. There is only one disadvantage in the Brighton cure, if you are in search of quiet as well as health. At Brighton you meet people you know all day long, and everybody wants you to dine with him, or to drink with him, or to "go somewhere." A man can have hundreds of friends and be as little disturbed by them in London as if he were on a desert island. But in Brighton you meet someone you know every minute of the day.
I had not been half an hour in Gresham Bacon's arch before half a dozen London men had dropped in whom I knew intimately, but whom I rarely met at home because we were all Londoners.
One of them, a dramatist of repute, had with him the only stranger of the party. The stranger was introduced to us as Count von Phalsdorf, and as soon as the name had been pronounced the dramatist, with the instinct of his art strong upon him, looked round to see what sort of an effect he had made.
It was certainly a big one. As the dramatist slowly and distinctly pronounced the name every man in the arch gave a little gasp, and the eyes of the dramatist gleamed with a feverish delight.
"I met the Count at my hotel," he said with a smile, "we became friendly; he has heard a good deal of the Brighton arches, and I took the liberty of bringing him with me to-night to show him yours, Gresham."
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Mr. Bacon, feeling that as the host he must say something, but there was a hesitancy in his speech which we all understood.
The Count was a handsome man—in his uniform he must have looked a perfectly military Adonis. In ordinary evening dress he was far and away the most distinguished-looking person in our little assembly. He spoke English fluently, and his manners were perfect. But—well, it was a very big "but" indeed.
The Law Courts had just given us one of those sensational scandals in high life which are the delight of the evening newspapers and a godsend to the gentlemen who make out the newspaper contents bills, and to the headline merchants generally.
An English gentleman bearing a name which has been an honourable one in English history since the days of the Conquest had brought an action for divorce against his wife, a lady of lineage equal to his own, and had obtained a decree nisi. The lady had up to the time of the proceedings been considered beyond reproach. When her husband separated from her under circumstances which reflected upon himself, there was universal sympathy for her. She had been everywhere received in society as an injured lady, and it was a great shock to all who knew her when, after some few years of separation, her husband filed a petition for divorce, alleging unwifely conduct on her part, and giving the name of the co-respondent.
The case against the lady was certainly strong. The evidence of the petitioner's witnesses could hardly leave any doubt in the minds of the jury that the neglected wife had sought consolation and companionship elsewhere. The husband had separated from his wife on a question which involved no legal proceedings. It had been a mutual agreement of incompatibility of temper, and it was generally understood that the "temper" was all on the side of the husband. He had left his wife and had gone to reside in the country.
But now the roof had been lifted by the Asmodeus of the Law Courts, and the husband was revealed as an injured man, whose honour had been sacrificed to the wife's admiration for a handsome foreigner.
The co-respondent was called, and—this was the most sensational part of the story—he had naturally, after the manner of co-respondents from the earliest days of Divorce Courts, solemnly protested his entire innocence. And then suddenly the petitioner's counsel had handed him a letter and exclaimed in the fierce tones of a cross-examining Old Bailey barrister, "Now, sir, on your oath! Did you write that letter?" And the co-respondent staring wildly in front of him, and gazing at the respondent, who was seated with her mother at the solicitor's table, had, with a look of mingled horror and pity in his eyes, faltered out "Yes."
"Then," exclaimed the counsel, "I will read it to the jury." And he read it, and its contents left no manner of doubt in the mind of anyone that such a letter could not have been written by an innocent man to an innocent woman.
While the letter was being read the grey-haired mother almost shrank from her daughter's side, and the daughter, her face white and her lips trembling, uttered an hysterical cry and rose hurriedly, and leant across and spoke to her counsel. The husband's counsel had nothing more to ask the co-respondent. He was quite satisfied with his admission that he wrote that letter. It carried the jury's verdict with it.
Then the wife's counsel rose and begged permission to put his client in the box at once, and permission was granted him.
Every eye was fixed on the lady as, trembling and almost hysterical, she fell rather than walked into the witness-box.
"You have heard that letter read?" said her counsel.
"Yes."
"On your oath, have you ever received such a letter?"
"Never—as God is my judge. I have learnt the contents of it for the first time now."
"And is there any truth in the charges that have been made against you?"
"Not one word."
"Have you ever received Count von Phalsdorf under your roof?"
"Never."
"Have you ever spoken to him?"
"Frequently—but as one speaks to any gentleman to whom one has been introduced."
"You have heard the evidence of the hotel servants at Nice, of your own maid, of the servants at your London residence. Do you deny their statements?"
"Absolutely, and on my oath."
But the oath of the respondent availed nothing against the evidence of the other side, which was about as conclusive as it could possibly be, and the result of the trial was a decree nisi, and the husband to have the custody of the children, one a girl of fourteen and the other a boy of twelve.
And the co-respondent in this remarkable case was the Count von Phalsdorf, and all who had read the letter had made up their mind, without being able to say exactly why, that the Count was an infernal scoundrel in the first place to have so cruelly compromised such an amiable and gentle lady, and an infernal fool in the second place to have written such a dangerous and damning love-letter to a married woman.
And that is the reason that, with the details of the case fresh in our memories, we all of us felt that the dramatist had been guilty of an exceedingly unpleasant practical joke in introducing the Count into the little friendly circle gathered together in Mr. Gresham Bacon's arch.
We felt it so much that we were so decidedly uncomfortable, the laws of hospitality preventing us telling the Count what we thought of him, that one by one we rose and remembered an appointment and went, and when there was nobody left but the host, the dramatist rose too, and with a grin that was meant to be a smile, bade Gresham Bacon good-night, and took the Count away with him.
It was about nine o'clock when we broke up, and having nothing to do, I went into the Brighton Alhambra and spent the evening there. It was half-past eleven when I returned to the "Old Ship."
The night-porter opened the door to me, and seeing that I was going towards the smoke-room came after me.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but the waiter on your floor asked me to be sure and tell you when you came in that there is a letter in your sitting room waiting for you. The gentleman in No. 6 gave it to him to give to you."
"Oh," I said to myself. "The usual, I suppose. It's somebody who wants to keep me up half the night playing poker. I shall have to make an excuse."
I went to my room and found a letter on my table. Directly I had seen the handwriting on the envelope I uttered an exclamation of surprise and opened it eagerly.
"Dear Mr. Saxon,—Paul and I are staying here. Our sitting-room is No. 6. If you come in before twelve and have nothing better to do, come in and see us.
"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure!" I exclaimed, as I shook hands with Paul and Dorcas. "Whatever are you doing at Brighton? Having a few days' rest, I suppose."
"I'm having the rest," said Paul, with a smile, "but Dorcas is here on business."
"On a case? Is it an interesting one?"
"Very interesting," said Dorcas, "but a very unpleasant one in many ways, and I'm not very confident about the result."
"What is it? a murder—a robbery—or a mysterious disappearance?"
"No; this time it is a divorce."
"A divorce! But I thought you never touched that branch of the profession."
"I don't as a rule, but in this case the circumstances are peculiar, and I am deeply interested in one of the parties to the suit."
"The husband?"
"No, the wife. You have read the case, I expect, because it has been in all the papers. It is the one in which Count von Phalsdorf was the co-respondent."
"Good gracious!" I exclaimed; "how singular! I've met the man this evening. He's here in Brighton."
"Of course—that is why I am here."
"But I don't quite understand where you can come in as a detective now. You're rather late, are you not, seeing that the case is practically decided, for the judge has granted a decree nisi?"
"Exactly—and nisi means 'unless'—which is, unless before the expiration of six months certain facts should be brought to the knowledge of the Court—or the Queen's Proctor I suppose it would be—which would prevent the judge making the decree absolute."
"I don't know what the process is," I answered with a smile, "because I have never been divorced, but after having read the evidence in this case I can't for the life of me see what possible chance you have of putting a different complexion on the affair."
"Nor did I," said Dorcas, "when I was first consulted. The unhappy lady came to me with her mother the day after the trial. Both were in a state of the greatest excitement and distress. 'Mrs. Dene,' said the old lady, 'my daughter is the victim of the wickedest lies that were ever uttered in a court of justice. She is an absolutely innocent woman. But everything is against her, and on the evidence taken I confess myself the jury could have come to no other verdict. But they have perjured themselves—the whole of my wicked son-in-law's witnesses. We come to you as our last hope. We have heard how clever you are. We have been told that if anyone can save my dear daughter from the shame and infamy which she has no right to bear, it is you.'
"I shook my head and explained that I never took up divorce cases—I didn't think that they were a woman's work, and I objected altogether to the methods employed by the detectives and private enquiry agents who were usually associated with the business.
"The wife added her entreaties to her mother's. With tears in her eyes she declared that unless her innocence could be proved she would put an end to her existence. She could not live on under the suspicion of guilt. She would never see her children again or look into their innocent faces until this foul stain had been removed from her name. 'Ah, madam!' she cried, her voice choked with hysterical sobs, 'for my children's sake I ask you to help me. Think—think of the heritage of shame which will be handed down to them if I cannot prove that these horrible allegations against me are only a fabric of lies built up by the perjured witnesses in my husband's pay.'
"I watched the lady narrowly as she spoke. There was not the slightest doubt as to the genuineness of her emotion, and the idea of her innocent children suffering all their lives from the branding of their mother as an adulteress strongly appealed to my woman's heart.
"I asked them to wait while I re-read the case. I fetched my newspaper file and ran through the evidence, and when I had finished I was still utterly unable to see things in a hopeful light. However, they appealed to me so pitifully that at last I consented to take up the wife's case professionally, and after going over every point with her carefully, and impressing her with the necessity of telling me absolutely everything that occurred, even if it weakened rather than strengthened her position, I sent them away with the assurance that I would do my best, and that they should hear from me in a fortnight. Earlier than that I could not guarantee to have made any progress either one way or the other. I ascertained yesterday that the co-respondent had come to Brighton, so brought Paul with me and came here. I am convinced that my one chance of finding a weak spot in the enemy's armour—always supposing that there is one—will come through Count von Phalsdorf."
"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I also have read the case carefully over, and it seems to me that even you will be unable to put a different construction upon it. You don't imagine that there is the slightest foundation for the wife's contention, that the whole of the husband's witnesses committed deliberate perjury?"
"No; I believe that they gave their evidence truthfully."
"Then that makes your task an impossible one. The evidence taken altogether is damning. There isn't a weak link in it. Just let me run over it with you."
"By all means," said Dorcas.
"Very well. There is the evidence of the meeting at Nice."
"Undisputed by the wife!" exclaimed Dorcas. "She admits that when at the Hôtel de France, with her mother, she was introduced to the Count von Phalsdorf by an English lady of her acquaintance. The Count was understood to be a young man of position, and well known in Berlin society."
"And is that denied?"
"It is not denied that he was all that was claimed for him three years ago. He is undoubtedly a man of high birth, and he was at one time in a very enviable position, but he had ceased to be that when my client met him at Nice. As a matter of fact, I have ascertained that he left Berlin over two years ago in disgrace. He had lost large sums by gambling, and had engaged in a transaction to replenish his purse when the discovery led to his banishment from Court and from Berlin society. He left Berlin practically a ruined man. Though his father is wealthy, he took his son's disgrace so much to heart that he has refused to recognise him and does not allow him a farthing."
"Very well. We will take it that the Count is an exile, that he has no money from his father, and that he is in bad odour generally. That is rather an argument in favour of his behaving discreditably than otherwise."
"Quite so; I am not arguing; I am only telling you the Count's exact position. That is the first thing I had to make sure of. Now go on with the evidence."
"Two witnesses—servants from the hotel—swear that they frequently saw the Count in the lady's company. One declares that late one night, after the other lady, the respondent's mother, had retired to rest, she heard voices in the private sitting-room. Wishing to go in to fetch a tray for one of the waiters, she knocked, and there was sudden silence. She tried the door, found it locked, and went away. Ten minutes afterwards she saw the Count, who occupied a room in the same corridor, come out and go into his own room. Do you suggest that the girl committed perjury?"
"No; I believe she stated the thing exactly as she saw it."
"The next witness is the lady's maid. She declares that on the morning following the night referred to by the hotel servant she found one of the Count's pocket-handkerchiefs, marked with his name, in her mistress's sitting-room. She said nothing to her mistress or to the Count, not wishing to embarrass them. She kept the handkerchief and produced it in court."
"Quite true."
"Examined as to what occurred in London after her mistress's return, the lady's maid states that the Count called frequently, but that there was great secrecy about his visits. On several occasions she admitted him as late as twelve o'clock at night, when the other servants had been sent to bed. Do you believe that when she says this she is committing perjury?"
"On the contrary; I believe that she admitted the Count in this manner frequently."
"She also states that on more than one occasion she went to bed and did not sit up to let him out."
"I have no doubt it was so."
"Then comes the evidence of the footman. One night, having been out to the theatre on leave, he returned about one in the morning, and was letting himself in at the area gate, having the key, when he heard the front door opened quietly, and saw the Count come out. Do you think he was committing perjury, or was mistaken?"
"Neither; I believe that the man gave his evidence in a straightforward manner and with evident reluctance."
"And now the letter—the letter which was sprung upon the Count suddenly, and I should say unexpectedly—the letter which he was fain to admit was in his handwriting. That letter is distinctly the letter of a successful lover to the lady of his heart. It leaves no room for doubt. Consider the words, 'And, darling, if the worst happens, and your husband learns our secret, remember that I have bound myself by the most solemn vows to take you when the law has set you free and make you my honoured wife. Have no fear, then, darling, as to the future.' Do you believe that the Count wrote that letter?"
"Yes; if he had denied it on oath I should have believed he wrote it. It was proved to be unmistakably in his handwriting."
"There is evidence of the finding of that letter. It came into the hands of the petitioner through the private inquiry agent who had been shadowing the wife to procure evidence for the divorce. He called in the lady's absence from town with the card of a first-class firm of upholsterers at the West End, and a light cart, and said the firm had been instructed to call for the escritoire in the bedroom to repair it—a leg had been accidentally broken. The piece of furniture was delivered to him, and he opened the desk and took out the papers, acting under the instructions of the lady's husband. Do you think that story is untrue?"
"Most likely that is where the letter was found."
"Dorcas admits the truthfulness of nearly all the evidence," said Paul, who had been listening quietly. "We have talked it over together—but she has a view."
"Your view first, dear," said Dorcas, taking her husband's hand. "There was no light at all until you saw a gleam."
"Ah, I wasn't always blind," said Paul with a deep sigh. "I was a man of the world as well as an artist, and I knew something of human nature in those days. And now that I am blind and I sit and think in the eternal darkness I see many things clearly that were dim and vague then."
"You have both arrived at the same conclusion?" I asked eagerly.
"Yes," said Dorcas—"that is, very nearly—we still have one slight difference of opinion."
"And you both, in spite of this damning evidence, believe that this lady whom a jury has found guilty, and whom a judge has, by his decision, publicly condemned, is innocent?"
"Yes," replied Dorcas in a firm voice. "In spite of all the evidence, the bulk of which has undoubtedly been truthfully given, in spite of the letter written by the co-respondent and found in the wife's escritoire, we both believe that she is a pure and innocent woman."
"And you think you will be able to prove that?"
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. "That I can't say, but I am going to try."
At that moment the waiter knocked at the sitting-room door and entered with a letter.
"It was sent by the last train from town, madam—the messenger said it was to be given to you at once."
Dorcas broke it open and read it, then handed it to me. I took the letter from her outstretched hand:
"I saw my little girl this evening by arrangement in the presence of her governess. Some time before the trial she was sent away to school. I sent her half-a-dozen handkerchiefs as a present and put them in an old handkerchief sachet I had had for many years. This evening my little one said suddenly, 'Oh, mamma, when you sent me those handkerchiefs I didn't feel in the pocket of the sachet; but this morning I found this in it—you must have left it there.' And she handed me in the governess's presence a portrait of Count von Phalsdorf. On the back was written, 'To my own darling—Heinrich.' What does it mean? Let me see you at once or I shall go mad and believe that I really am guilty."
"Dorcas," I said, as I put the letter down, "you are wasting your time. This woman is trying to impose upon you. She is simply hoping against hope that you will find a possible explanation which she can use in self-defence, and so pose as an injured woman unjustly condemned."
"On the contrary," said Dorcas, "this may give me the very clue I want to make the mystery clear and save my client. I shall go to town the first thing to-morrow and see what else I can find in that Handkerchief Sachet."
While I was at breakfast the following morning at the "Old Ship," I inquired of my waiter if the lady and gentleman in No. 6 had left, and was informed that they had gone to town by the nine o'clock train.
I asked if they were returning that evening, and the waiter said he didn't think so, as they had taken their luggage and given up their apartments.
I was very anxious to know more of this mysterious divorce case, and to ascertain how Dorcas fared in her investigations, and I was therefore considerably disappointed to find that she was not expected back again at Brighton. I had hoped that if anything was to be ascertained in connection with the handsome co-respondent, Count von Phalsdorf, I should have been permitted the privilege of assisting Dorcas in her investigations.
And now the venue had been presumably shifted to London, and although possibly the Count might remain at Brighton, I was wofully in the dark as to Dorcas's views, and had not even the chance of doing a little amateur Sherlock Holmes business on my own account.
After breakfast I strolled along the front as far as the Métropole, and there, reclining peacefully in a basket-chair outside the hotel, with a pipe in his mouth and a straw hat tilted over his eyes, I found the dramatist who had introduced us to the Count at Gresham Bacon's arch the previous evening.
Being old acquaintances, we naturally dropped into conversation, and presently I led him on to the subject that was nearest my heart.
"I can't say much about the Count," said the dramatist. "I really don't know much of him. I had been introduced to him at the Lyric Club, and when I found him here and people nudging each other and saying in a whisper who he was, I thought it would be rather a lark to play him up a bit. That is why I brought him round to the arch last night—deuced good-looking fellow, isn't he?"
"Yes; there is no denying his good looks. But what is your private opinion of him? Apart from the present scandal hasn't he the reputation of being a bad lot?"
"My dear fellow, I should say, from what I have heard, that Phalsdorf is about as warm as they make 'em. I know that he ran up scores wherever he lived when he first came to London, and that people fought shy of him at cards, and I'm told that at one time he was trying to borrow a bit wherever he could. But I suppose he must have come into money, or made it up with his friends in Germany, who are rich, for he certainly isn't hard up now. Before he went to Nice last year and got into this pickle, he had paid up several men to whom he owed small sums, and he seemed generally to be in good feather. I know he's all right so far as coin goes now, for he has the best of everything and he pays as he goes."
"This case will cost him something, at any rate."
"Yes, but he doesn't seem to trouble. The petitioner, you know, didn't claim damages."
"Is he staying here long?"
"He tells me he thinks of being here a fortnight. Says his nerves have given way a bit over this affair, and he wants to pull himself together."
The hint that the Count intended to prolong his stay at Brighton rather raised my hopes. I thought that there was every probability that Dorcas would return to Brighton, especially as she had led me to believe that she attached a good deal of importance to keeping the Count under observation.
Two days passed and there was no sign of Dorcas. I made up my mind that I would return to town. It was hot at Brighton, and the sea and the sun together had begun to have their usual effect upon my liver, and to make me irritable. The work I had brought with me to do lay on the little writing-table in my sitting-room untouched. Every day I saw the now notorious co-respondent on the front, either walking or driving. If I went to the theatre, he was in the stalls; if I went to the Brighton Alhambra, he was in a private box. The handsome Prussian haunted me, and whenever I saw him I found myself wondering how Dorcas Dene was getting on with her case, and what possible use a handkerchief sachet could be against the overwhelming evidence of the guilty love of Dorcas's unfortunate client and Count Heinrich von Phalsdorf.
I had packed up my things with the assistance of the boots and an obliging chambermaid. I had given notice at the office that I intended to leave by the one o'clock train. I had an hour to spare, and I went out, intending to take a stroll on the pier and get as much fresh air as possible during the limited time now left me.
Just as I got to the pier-head I noticed Count von Phalsdorf coming along, followed by a woman selling flowers. The woman's face was bronzed, and she wore a white sun-bonnet. The Count was walking with another gentleman—a man I had never seen before.
The flower-woman was persistent. The Count turned and told her he did not want any flowers, but she still followed him up and begged him to buy a button-hole. She had been out all the morning, and she hadn't sold a flower.
She was a youngish woman, and a pretty woman. The Count, I suppose, was too gallant a man to hold out long as she pleaded so earnestly, and so at last he put his hand in his pocket and gave her a coin.
"Oh, no, sir," said the young woman, "I'm not a beggar. Please take your flower." She picked out a mounted carnation, and, putting down her basket, drew a pin from a cushion hanging to her apron-string, gently took hold of the lappel of the Count's coat, and fastened the flower into his button-hole. But she was not a deft florist, for she bungled and made quite a long job of it before the flower was properly fixed.
I had been watching the operation, for, as I have explained, the Count had generally impressed himself upon me, and whenever I saw him I always found myself staring hard at him. While the flower-woman was fixing the button-hole a young man crossed from the opposite side of the road and, holding out sixpence, asked for a flower.
He had to wait till the flower-woman had finished with the Count, and so the four people—the Count and his friend, the flower-woman and the young man—formed a little group round the flower basket for a minute or two.
As soon as the Count's floral decoration was completed he moved away with his friend. The young man who had come up as a voluntary customer was politely attended to.
But to my surprise I noticed that the woman and the young man were conversing together in a low tone during the operation.
The woman saw that I was watching her, and, turning her head, she gave a glance which nearly caused me to tumble backwards over the rail against which I was leaning.
That glance was an instantaneous revelation. The flower-woman in the sun-bonnet was Dorcas Dene!
Before I had recovered from my astonishment the young man moved away and Dorcas came over to me.
"Buy a button-hole, sir?" she said. Then, without waiting for my reply, she whispered, "I'll come to the 'Old Ship' this evening at eight," and was gone.
Needless to say I returned to the hotel at once and unpacked—that is a process I can always accomplish without the aid either of the chambermaid or the boots—and sent word to the office that I had changed my mind and should not be leaving at present.
Soon after eight o'clock the waiter came up to my sitting-room and said that a lady wished to see me, and a minute later Dorcas Dene—not, I am glad to say, attired as a hawker of flowers—was sitting in the easy-chair and enjoying my confession of the turn which the sudden revelation of the flower-woman's identity had given me that morning.
"It was a good plan as it turned out," she said, "but it bothered me a long time before I could think how to hold the Count in the public streets long enough for one of my witnesses to identify him."
"The young man then was one of your witnesses?"
"Yes," said Dorcas, "and an important one."
"But surely it would have been easy enough for anyone to identify the Count without all that elaborate business. He makes no mystery of himself, and goes about continually."
"Quite so," replied Dorcas, "but my witness had only seen him once or twice before, and then he wore a beard and he didn't call himself Count von Phalsdorf. I had to hold the Count to be identified, because what my witness had to look for was a peculiar scar just under the chin, a mark the Count, I expect, received in a duel in his old student days."
"I have never noticed that mark," I said.
"No," said Dorcas, "it is only visible when the Count raises his chin. That's why I wanted to put that nice spiky carnation into his button-hole. When a man has a flower like that fixed you will notice that he instinctively raises his chin and stretches his neck. I've seen them frequently in the flower-shops. It was noticing that that made me hit on the flower-woman idea last night in town. I came down this morning with my witness by an early train, and travelled third-class in my 'make-up,' basket and all."
"And how did you get rid of it?"
"Oh, that was easy enough. I went to a friend's house, and it didn't take me five minutes."
"Well, my dear Dorcas," I said, "I've no doubt you've done something very clever, but I'm a little in the dark. You left Brighton some days ago to upset the evidence of half a dozen witnesses in a divorce case, with a handkerchief sachet, and here you are in Brighton going through an elaborate performance in order to make the co-respondent hold up his chin. I suppose the sachet told you nothing, and you've started on entirely new lines."
"That is just where you are wrong, my clever gentleman," replied Dorcas, with a malicious little smile. "If it had not been for the handkerchief sachet I should never have thought of playing the little trick I did this morning."
"Then, as they say in the story books, 'Let us begin at the beginning.' You went to town to examine a handkerchief sachet, the property of the divorced woman, which after the trial was over was found to contain a photograph of the co-respondent, with a compromising inscription."
"Exactly. I called on my client immediately after my arrival in town. I had wired her to have the sachet in her possession, and I proceeded at once to inquire into its story.
"She had purchased for her daughter, who was at school, six pretty handkerchiefs. Going to her drawer one day she found the old sachet. She thought it would be a pretty present for the girl, who had often admired it. Taking her own handkerchiefs out she put in the six others for the child.
"While the drawer was open, the maid came in and asked her to look at some dresses which she had laid out in the opposite room and say which of them she—the maid—might have. The lady went into the adjoining room. The maid stayed behind a moment to pick up some hair-pins which had fallen on the floor, and then joined her mistress.
"When her mistress returned to the room she locked the drawer she had been examining and did not open it until the next day, when she took out the handkerchief sachet, put it in a cardboard box, and sent it to her daughter.
"That was about a month before the trial came on.
"The photograph of the Count, which only came into the lady's possession the day she wrote me to Brighton, was found in an inner pocket of the sachet. This is why the child did not find it in taking out the handkerchiefs. It was quite by chance that she discovered the pocket, and feeling in it, drew out the photograph of Phalsdorf, which, on her first meeting with her mother, she handed to her.
"Having ascertained the facts, and accepting the lady's denial of any previous knowledge of the photograph, I examined the sachet carefully. The reason I attached so much importance to this discovery I will tell you. The thing for which a lady is most likely to send her maid to her room is a pocket-handkerchief. 'Fetch me another handkerchief,' is what I frequently say to my own servant. Now, no woman of my client's position carrying on an intrigue would be likely to place a portrait of her lover in a drawer to which she would in the ordinary course of events frequently send her maid. To place a portrait with an incriminating inscription in a handkerchief sachet would be absolutely to court detection.
"I felt that I was in possession of at least one piece of what I suspected to be manufactured evidence. What I wanted to arrive at, if possible, was, 'Who put that portrait in the handkerchief-sachet?'"
"But, Dorcas," I exclaimed, interrupting, "neither the sachet nor the portrait were ever referred to at the trial. They were not part of the evidence you have to disprove."
"No; but they were intended to be. Remember what happened. The lady sent the sachet to her child. That was not an anticipated event. By an accident the manufactured evidence had been sent out of the house. If it had not been, I have not the slightest doubt it would have found its way into the possession of the husband's detectives, just as the letter in the escritoire did."
"And that letter—that damning letter——"
"Was, I expect, placed in the escritoire by the same person who placed the photograph in the handkerchief sachet."
"And—and you found out who that was?"
"I think I have."
"But—you mustn't be cross with me for not quite following your line of argument—the photograph was written on by Count von Phalsdorf—the letter was in his handwriting."
"Undoubtedly."
"They were both intended for the lady. How is it they failed to reach her hands and fell into someone else's?"
"That you will see more clearly when I have told you what I have learnt from the sachet."
"Go on then—I shall be very glad to know."
"I examined the sachet carefully," continued Dorcas, "and found that, with half a dozen handkerchiefs in it, if I slipped the photograph in in a hurry, it slipped into the pocket. I then turned the pocket inside out and examined the lining, which was of a light blue satin. Just at the edge of the lining was a slight black ink smear."
"From the photograph—the ink was wet!" I exclaimed.
"No, the photograph was inscribed with a violet lead pencil—the ink smear was from the finger of the person who thrust the photograph into the sachet in a hurry. The lining must have rubbed the side of the finger. Directly I noticed that I asked the lady if she remembered what her maid was doing at the time she—the maid—asked her to step into the next room and examine the dresses.
"'She was making out a list of things I wanted put into my trunks—I was going away for a few days with my mother.'
"'What was she writing with?'
"'A pen and ink.'
"'Was she a good writer?'
"'No,' replied the lady, 'a clumsy one—she generally inked the side of her fingers. I remember when she came into the inner room telling her not to touch the dresses—her fingers were inky.'"
"Good gracious, Dorcas!" I exclaimed, "then if the maid was conspiring to ruin her mistress, half the evidence that appears so damning can be accounted for."
"Of course it can. I am sure that the maid put that photograph into the sachet, intending it to be found as evidence. The presumption is that she also found an opportunity of slipping the Count's compromising letter into the escritoire. It is certain that she gave the escritoire up to the man who pretended to come for it from a furniture firm. Now, see how easily the other evidence can be accounted for, if we accept a plot in which the maid was concerned. She lets the Count in late at night. She gives the orders, her mistress having retired to her own apartments, to the servants to go to bed. She arranges to let the Count in and let him out just as she hears the footman clanging the area gate."
"But Nice—the servant's evidence there?"
"The servants never saw the lady with the Count in the locked sitting-room. If the lady had gone to bed, what was easier than for the maid to admit the Count, lock the door, chat with him in an undertone, and then let him go out and cross the corridor to be seen by the servants who were about? As to the handkerchief, well, he would only have to put it on the sofa for her to find it."
"But presuming, Dorcas, that such an infamous conspiracy as this has been worked against the honour of an innocent woman, there must have been another party to it—the Count himself."
"That is what I said to myself directly the handkerchief sachet had incriminated the maid. If the maid worked this, she must have been employed to do so—instructed what to do by someone cleverer than herself, and the Count must have been one of her fellow-conspirators. He must have set himself deliberately to make everything appear conclusive of the lady's guilt."
"One can hardly believe that of a man in the Count's position."
"It is difficult—and I felt that my next step must be to find out if the Count could under any circumstances have lent himself to such an infamy. I had already, as you know, obtained certain information concerning him before I commenced my inquiries. Inquiring in a neighbourhood which he was known to have frequented before he suddenly appeared in Nice, elegantly dressed, and with money at his command, I discovered that from the house he lodged in—it is in Soho—he had suddenly moved. He came in one evening quite jolly, and a few minutes afterwards he sent for the landlady and said, 'I'm going. Send my things to Victoria Station—here's what I owe you.' He paid and went away that instant. I inquired and found that on the evening of his sudden desire to leave, the rooms above him had been let to a young German, an artist. All the landlady could think was that perhaps the Count didn't like to have fellow lodgers who were Germans.
"The artist was still living there. I interviewed him. He had heard of Count von Phalsdorf having lived there, but he did not know him by sight. There could be no possible reason why the Count should move because of him.
"Then I asked him if he knew of anyone, a German, who might wish to avoid him.
"'Yes,' he said, 'there is one fellow. A year or two ago I was very hard up, and I was living in a very poor place. Below me was a young German fellow who said he was a gentleman and certainly talked like one. One night we were talking over our troubles, and he said that he was desperate. He didn't know what he should do. I said I was the same. Then he asked me if I was particular. I said I didn't know what he meant. Then he told me that at a cheap restaurant he had been to he had met an Italian who had offered to introduce him to a firm of private inquiry agents—people who got up evidence in divorce cases. They wanted young good-looking men of gentlemanly manners and appearance.'
"'What for,' I said. 'To be detectives?'
"'No,' he said, 'to compromise women. The Italian told me that a good-looking clever fellow might make a big haul at that game.'
"'I felt dreadfully indignant at the bare idea, and I said to him, "Well, I'd sooner starve than lend myself to such infamy as that, wouldn't you?"
"'He said, "Oh, I don't know—I think if the firm made it worth my while I'd sooner do that than starve."
"'I was so shocked by such a brutal speech that I called him an insulting name, and he struck me—as a matter of fact he gave me a sound hiding, and said if we were in Germany he'd kill me. I was a bit afraid after that, for he was a strong fellow, and the next day I left.
"'That's the only German I know who perhaps might feel ashamed of himself, and not want to meet me again.'
"'What was this German's name?'
"'Well, he called himself Carl Hansen.'
"'Should you know him again if you saw him?'
"If I met him I could always identify him by one thing.'
"'What is that?'
"'He had a curious scar under his chin. I noticed it when he knocked me down and stood over me that night threatening to kill me.'
"That young artist was the man I brought down to Brighton to-day," said Dorcas. "He, too, has changed his appearance by growing a beard, and I don't think the Count recognised him, but he recognised the Count by the scar under his chin."
When Dorcas had finished her narrative I could scarcely speak. That such an infamous business could be carried on in the nineteenth century here in England seemed to me inconceivable.
"Do you really think," I said, presently, "that Count von Phalsdorf has been deliberately employed to enable the husband of the lady to get a divorce?"
"I am sure of it," said Dorcas. "The firm of inquiry agents he employed are entirely unscrupulous. I believe that they found the Count and bribed the lady's maid, and worked the whole thing. Probably this handsome Adonis who left his own country in disgrace, and was at his wits' end for money, has had a couple of thousand pounds for his services."
"But why should the husband be so eager for a divorce?"
"My dear fellow—directly the decree is made absolute he intends to marry the lady who is really the cause of his first separation from his wife."