The decree was never made absolute. The information that Dorcas had been able to gather was communicated to the Queen's Proctor, and the lady's maid was arrested on a charge of perjury. The Count, who had scented danger, disappeared, and was fortunately for himself nowhere to be found when the police began to make anxious inquiries for him. The private inquiry agent, who had been the prime mover in the infamous conspiracy, was criminally prosecuted, and was with the lady's maid sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.
The husband protested that he had accepted the evidence tendered as genuine, and that all he had done was to promise a large sum to the firm in the event of their services obtaining him a divorce. Being a man of high position, the more merciful view of his conduct was taken. It was agreed that he had been deceived by the people to whom he had entrusted the inquiry, which he was led to make by the information which they assured him they already had of his wife's unfaithfulness.
While everything had appeared to point to the guilt of the unhappy lady, Dorcas Dene had triumphantly vindicated her honour, and restored to her her good name, and the right to claim the love and respect of her children.
"And I think," said Paul, when we were talking the case over afterwards over our pipes in the little garden at Oak Tree Road, "that if I had ever had any compunction about my good little wife turning private detective, the last vestige of it would have vanished with the result of this case. No soldier on the field of battle, no missionary in a heathen land, no gentlewoman at the bedside of the sick ever did a nobler deed than my little wife when she saved the honour of this poor lady from the wretches who had so vilely plotted against her."
I had been away for a holiday trip to Switzerland, and had been staying for some time at Lucerne. I like Lucerne, because there you can have a great deal of Swiss scenery without going through any great exertion to enjoy it. I am quite content to take everything that I am told about the joys of Alpine climbing in good faith, without trying the experience for myself. I am very fond of the top of a mountain, and if there is a railway all the way up and a decent restaurant within easy distance of the summit, nothing delights me more than to be a mountaineer for one day only. But I object strongly to melodramatic adventures with guides and ropes, and crevasses and ice axes. From Lucerne you can ascend Pilatus—by rail. From the neighbourhood of Lucerne you can make a pleasant trip up the Righi—by rail. And when you don't want mountains you can have quiet trips on the Lake, and come back in the evening to a big hotel, decent cooking, the electric light, a railway station, the English newspapers, and civilisation.
I had spent a lazy fortnight in Lucerne, and it had done me an immense amount of good. When I returned to town I felt inclined for a little excitement.
Sitting alone in my study one beautiful September afternoon a day or two after my return, I had a sudden inspiration. "I will go and call on the Denes," I said to myself. Dorcas told me before I went away that they were going to Scotland for their holiday, but they expected to be back by the end of August.
Eight o'clock that evening found me in front of the familiar wooden door. I rang the bell, and the servant who answered it informed me that Mrs. Dene was out, but that Mr. Dene was in the drawing-room with Mrs. Lester.
Paul, who had heard my voice in the hall, stood at the open door, "Come in, my dear fellow," he said. "Dorcas is out, but I don't think she'll be very long. We were to expect her at nine."
Mrs. Lester was not in a particularly good humour. Soon after I came in she picked up her work and retired to her own apartment.
"What's the matter with the old lady, Paul?" I said. "She doesn't seem very amiable to-night."
"No," replied Paul, picking up Toddlekins, the bulldog, who had put his paws upon his master's knee as a gentle hint that he wanted to be nursed; "Mrs. Lester is cross with Dorcas."
"What about?"
"Oh, it's really nothing—only Dorcas isn't very well. Our holiday in Scotland was interrupted, and Dorcas had to return to town to take up a case that worried her a great dal, and left her quite knocked over; and just as she was through with it and we had made up our minds to try a little sea trip, another case came along, and Dorcas is now engaged on it."
"But why should Mrs. Lester be disagreeable about that? She, I presume, wouldn't want to go on the sea trip with you, and business is business."
"Yes. But this case isn't business. Dorcas has taken it up to oblige a poor woman who cannot even afford to pay expenses out of pocket."
"Ah, I see—that is why Mrs. Lester objects."
"Yes; she says it is idiotic of Dorcas to ruin her health and lose her much-needed holiday worrying about other people's affairs, when there isn't anything to be made by it."
"She has reason on her side. After all, her daughter's health is her first consideration."
"Yes; and unfortunately the old lady considers that in this instance Dorcas is doubly foolish to work for nothing. I'll tell you the facts, and then you'll understand my mother-in-law's attitude better."
Paul was smoking a cigarette, so I asked his permission to light my pipe, which he granted with a pleasant smile. I can always follow the plot of a story better when I have a pipe in my mouth.
"Ten days ago," said Paul, "just as we were packing to go away, there was a ring at the bell, and the servant came in and said that an old lady wished to see Mrs. Dene. The 'consulting room,' as we call it, was being 'turned out,' so the old lady was shown into the drawing-room.
"I knew by the voice and the manner in which she introduced herself that she was not a very promising client. She began by apologising for the liberty she had taken, and seemed so confused and nervous that Dorcas invited her to sit down and 'collect herself.'
"'You're very kind, ma'am,' said the old lady, 'but I'm taking a liberty, I'm sure.'
"'Never mind about the liberty,' said Dorcas. 'Sit down and tell me why you've come to see me.'
"The old lady, after a good deal of gasping and a few tears, eventually became composed enough to tell her story.
"She had read in the papers about the famous lady detective, Dorcas Dene, and what wonderful things she had done, and, being in great distress of mind about an only daughter who had disappeared, and being unable to get any information through the police, she had determined to come and bring her case before Mrs. Dene.
"'You want me to take it up professionally,' said my wife.
"'Well, ma'am, that's where I feel that I'm taking a liberty. I'm only a poor woman. My daughter, who was in a West End house of business, was my right hand. It was she who kept the home, and a good girl she was, and the best of daughters. I am a widow, and let part of my house in lodgings, but my daughter earned good money, and now she's left me in such a sudden and mysterious way I don't know what to do. I know, of course, that you are paid a great deal of money for what you do, and you deserve it—but—you see—I—I am not in a position——'
"'I understand,' said my wife. 'You can't afford to pay for my services.'
"'No, ma'am—I'm sorry to say I can't, not at once—but for my dear girl's sake I'll sell everything I have in the world, and if perhaps you could make the terms easy for me, and take a little at a time—oh, dear—oh, dear—of course it's a liberty to ask such a thing—but I'm nearly distracted with grief and—and you must forgive me.'
"The old lady broke down, and there was no doubt in my mind that her grief was genuine. I did not see it, but I heard it. Every tone of her voice rang true.
"'Well,' said my wife, soothingly, 'tell me all about your daughter first, and we can discuss my terms afterwards.'
"Briefly this is what the old lady had to tell:
"Her name was Edwards. Her daughter Miriam, who was eight-and-twenty, was a 'tryer-on' at one of the West End drapery houses. She was a tall, graceful, lady-like young woman, and, as the old lady observed parenthetically, 'everything looked well on her.' She put the mantles on for ladies to see how they looked. She came home every evening. Some six months ago Miriam Edwards had informed her mother that she had made the acquaintance of a gentleman—a Mr. John Carlton—who was in a good position, so she understood, in the City. She had met him accidentally one evening in the street when she was being annoyed by a man who was following her. He had interfered, and, seeing she was upset, had asked and obtained the privilege of seeing her as far as her door. The next evening she encountered him again. He explained that he left his office at the same time every evening, and walked home, which accounted for their meeting. He walked a little way with her. In that way the acquaintance commenced and gradually ripened into affection on her part, and presumably on Mr. Carlton's, for he made her an offer of marriage, and begged that he might be introduced to her mother. Miriam told her mother everything, and Mr. Carlton became a constant visitor. He was most gentlemanly, seemed to have plenty of money, made the girl one or two handsome presents, and the marriage was arranged to take place in September. Mr. Carlton explained that he would not allow his wife to remain in business—he could afford to keep her. He took Miriam and her mother about to look for a little house, and early in August he said he had taken one and would furnish it and give up his present lodgings, move into it, and get everything ready for his wife. At the end of July he asked Miriam to leave her situation, and handed her twenty pounds in gold. 'This,' he said, 'will enable you to buy certain things, and will compensate your mother for the loss of your salary. He did the whole thing in a very nice and gentlemanly way, and explained that Mrs. Edwards, if she found that the lodging-house did not pay sufficiently well, could sell off and come to live with them.
"On the August Bank Holiday Miriam left home to meet her lover. They were going to see the house he had taken. From that hour Mrs. Edwards had never seen her daughter again, or heard a single word from her or from Mr. Carlton. She had gone to a magistrate and to the police, but nothing had been discovered, and now, as her last hope, she came to my wife.
"When she had finished her narrative, which was, of course, far more disjointed than I have given it to you," said Paul, "my wife commenced to cross-examine her.
"'Your daughter was engaged with your consent to this Mr. Carlton. Did they write to each other?'
"'No,' said the lady, 'I don't think so—you see they met almost every evening.'
"'But sometimes he might not be able to keep the appointment. Try and think—did he never send a message by anyone?'
"'Yes, I remember now,' said the old lady. 'Twice when she had missed him there was a telegram for her the next morning.'
"'The next morning,' said my wife. 'Ah, he telegraphed and spent sixpence when he could have written for a penny. He didn't want her to have any of his handwriting in her possession!'
"'You think, then,' said the old lady, nervously, 'that Mr. Carlton's at the bottom of my poor girl's disappearance—that he never intended to marry her, but has 'ticed her away, the villain!'
"'I don't say that,' said my wife. 'I really haven't any right to form an opinion at all as yet, but the fact that he never wrote during the whole of his courtship is a point I must bear in mind. Now, another question. Did your daughter ever write to him?'
"'Yes, I think so—I'm sure so—I have seen her write and go out and post the letter.'
"'Did you see the address?'
"'No.'
"'Where did he tell you he lived?'
"'He was in lodgings, I understood; it was a house in the Hampstead Road, I remember.'
"'Did you ever go there?'
"'No ma'am, I never went out with them; I had the house to look after, and a young man doesn't want his sweetheart's mother with him.'
"'Quite so. Did your daughter ever go to his lodgings?'
"'Oh no, she wouldn't do that. I have young men lodgers; I shouldn't like them to bring young women to their rooms.'
"'Then you only think he lived in Hampstead Road because——.'
"'Well, ma'am, I remember his saying so; and I suppose that's where my daughter wrote to him.'
"'You say he was something in the City. Do you remember a business address ever being mentioned?'
"'No ma'am; my poor girl told me he was in a very good position. He said he was on the Stock Exchange, whatever that is. He said he was a confidential clerk to a big firm, and his salary was £500 a year. You see, ma'am, I thought it was a good match for my girl. He was a man of five-and-thirty—very quiet, quite the gentleman, and he certainly had money to spend, and treated her most handsomely.'
"'I understand. But you've been to the police and told your story. What have they done?'
"'They've inquired on the Stock Exchange. There's no one known there by the name of Mr. John Carlton.'
"'He never wrote, and he gave a false description of himself,' said my wife. 'I don't think there is much doubt that Mr. John Carlton is at the bottom of your daughter's mysterious disappearance. At any rate he must know she has disappeared; otherwise he would have called at your house and made inquiries concerning her.'
"'I'm sure it must be that,' said the old lady; 'but why hasn't my poor girl written to me? She was a kind and loving daughter—she must know the state of anxiety I am in. If—if he has deceived her—persuaded her to live with him without being married—surely she might have found some means to send me a line to let me know she is alive.'
"'Yes,' said my wife, 'that is the mystery I have to unravel.'
"'You will take the case up, then?'
"'Yes.'
"'Ah, find my poor girl for me, ma'am; let her know that I will forgive her everything if she will only come to me and let me see her once again. I'll pay you when I can—I'll——'
"'Never mind about that,' said my wife, 'you shall pay me when you like—or not at all. I'll take the case up.'
"'God bless you for that; God bless you for that!'
"My wife sat silent for a moment; then she said to the old lady, 'I'll do the best I can for you, and I hope I shall be able to solve the mystery, and at least to let you know the truth. Now go home. Leave me your address, and to-morrow I will come to your house. I shall want to go over everything your daughter has left behind. I suppose she didn't take much with her?'
"'Nothing but the clothes she stood upright in. I'm sure that when she left the house in the morning she intended to come back again that evening.'
"'Then to-morrow I'll call and see if I can find anything that may help us in her search among her things. Good-night.'
"The old lady with a profusion of thanks bade my wife good-night. The next day my wife went to her house, and——"
The door had opened noiselessly—neither I nor Paul had heard a sound. We were both startled when a familiar voice exclaimed—
"Good evening. Paul, dear, what are you telling Mr. Saxon about your wife in her absence?"
Dorcas Dene came towards me and held out her hand. Then she took off her hat, plunged the long hat pin into it violently, and flung it on the table, and sat down wearily in an armchair.
"You are tired," I said. "Paul tells me you have not been very well."
"No, I'm played out—I'm no good."
"You are no nearer, dear?" said Paul gently. "You have found out nothing?"
"Yes, I've found out something," answered Dorcas, with a sigh, "but it's the sort of thing that is worse than nothing."
"Why?"
"Because it is something I don't understand. I have found Miriam Edwards but——"
"You have found her? Then your task is accomplished."
"No."
Dorcas turned to me. "Paul has told you the story so far as he knows it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then you will understand what I have to add to it. After poor old Mrs. Edwards had left on the night of her visit, I made up my mind that this was no ordinary case of abduction. The girl had not been a consenting party, because she would in that case have found some means of soothing her mother's fears and preventing the publicity of a police inquiry. It looked to me like a long-planned plot, because Mr. Carlton had been so careful not to write, and had evidently purposely deceived the mother as to his address.
"The next day I went to the old lady's house. It was a thoroughly respectable place, and I was more favourably impressed with the old lady than ever. My mother, you know, differs with me over this case. She thinks I am giving my time to the task of finding a worthless girl who has eloped with a man her superior in station, but from the first I was inclined to believe that the girl was the victim of some deep-laid scheme.
"At the house I went over all Miriam Edwards's possessions. I searched every drawer, I felt in all her pockets, I read every scrap of paper with writing on it that she had left behind, and I found absolutely nothing. I didn't expect to find that Mr. John Carlton had given away a photograph of himself, so I was not disappointed, but I did hope to discover something that had been his, and that would give me a clue, however slight, to go upon.
"I was absolutely in despair, and was bidding the old lady good-bye in the little parlour which she kept as her own sitting-room, when I noticed an old-fashioned blotting-book.
"'Is that yours?' I said.
"'Yes.'
"'Is that the blotting-book your daughter used when she wrote a letter?'
"'Yes, always.'
"'Thank you. I'll take it with me if you'll allow me.'
"I brought the old blotting-book home. It contained only two sheets of cheap pink blotting paper, and these had evidently been used for years, for they were faded and blackened with ink marks.
"However, I got a hand glass and studied the reflected pages as well as I possibly could. In a glass, as of course you know, the writing which is reversed on the blotting pad is reflected in its original form. After some half-hour's close study I was rewarded by finding—indistinct, but still legible—the name of John Carlton. Miriam Edwards had evidently addressed an envelope to him. It took me some time, though, to discover the address, for that had been crossed and recrossed with other blottings, but at last I had succeeded in making out the number 317A. The rest was absolutely illegible, but I remembered that the old lady had said she had heard Hampstead Road mentioned by her daughter, and so I set out to look for 317A, Hampstead Road.
"It was not a private house, but a stationer's shop. I went in and asked if anyone named Carlton had ever lived there. The man behind the counter said no, but he had some recollection of such a name—probably it was that of someone who had letters addressed there.
"'Oh, you have letters addressed here?'
"'Yes; anyone can have their letters sent here. We charge a penny for taking care of them.'
"It was evident to me at once that this was the address at which Carlton had pretended to live. As a matter of fact, it was only the address at which he received letters.
"I described Carlton as well as I could from Mrs. Edwards's description, and the proprietor said he remembered such a person distinctly. He was in the habit of coming for letters, but not frequently. The letters, so far as he remembered, were always in a female handwriting. He didn't think he could identify the writing now if it were shown to him. He didn't take any particular notice of the handwriting of customers' letters. Mr. Carlton had not come for any letters for weeks.
"That information and a portrait of Miriam Edwards, taken just before she disappeared, were all that I had to go upon, and you will confess they were not much.
"The portrait was the most valuable. I had a couple of dozen copies made by the photographer who had the negative, and I got my assistant, the retired police-sergeant, to take me round to the railway police at the various stations of London, and I sent one to Brighton, Hastings, Portsmouth, and various seaside towns, to my correspondents there. We have always in our business a good many agents whom we use for local information, you know. I sent one to Boulogne, and one to Calais, and I hoped that perhaps eventually I might receive some information, however meagre, which might put me on the direct track.
"Fortune favoured me. Yesterday I received a telegram. A woman corresponding exactly with the photograph had arrived at Dover, and had inquired of one of the porters if he could tell her of quiet respectable lodgings in the town. The porter had been struck by the likeness to the photo which the railway police-officer had shown him, and he at once recommended her to the constable's own house—the constable's wife kept a lodging-house—and then informed the constable what he had done. A telegram was at once sent to me. I went down the first thing this morning with Mrs. Edwards. When we arrived the 'lady' was out, but the constable's wife, who had been apprised by her husband of our business, showed us into a sitting-room.
"I went upstairs to the first floor, which the new lodger had taken for a week. I examined the things in the bedroom, and had a good professional pry into everything. In a drawer I found a watch and a locket. I showed them to Mrs. Edwards. She recognised them at once as having been given to Miriam by Mr. Carlton. She remembered that she wore them the day she went away. I asked the landlady what jewellery her lodger wore, and she said the only thing she had noticed was a ring with two small diamonds and a sapphire in the centre.
"'It is my poor girl!' exclaimed the old lady, almost beside herself with excitement. 'That was just the ring he gave her as an engagement ring.'
"I begged her to be calm and not to give way yet, as it was most important we should gather as much information as possible before we revealed ourselves.
"While we were talking the landlady looked out of the window, and exclaimed, 'She's coming up the street—she'll be here directly.'
"We went out of the room and up to the second floor.
"The landlady opened the door and let her lodger in.
"In a few minutes she came upstairs and told us that the lady had taken off her hat and was sitting in her room.
"Quietly we came downstairs. I tried the handle and flung the door open, exclaiming, 'Miss Edwards, your mother has come to see you.'
"The woman started to her feet with a cry of surprise. Mrs. Edwards rushed in and cried out, 'Miriam—my darling!'
"Then she started and drew back, her face white with terror.
"'It is her living image,' she cried; 'but it is not my daughter!'"
When Dorcas told us that Mrs. Edwards refused to accept as her daughter Miriam the woman who was her living image, and had in her possession the watch, the locket, and the ring which Miriam Edwards had worn on the day she disappeared, I could not keep back an exclamation of astonishment.
"But, my dear Dorcas," I said, "it must have been Miriam Edwards. The mother must have made a mistake."
"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I still believe that it was Miriam Edwards, but let me tell you what happened.
"The lady, as soon as she had recovered from her first surprise at our intrusion, exclaimed, 'What do you want here? What do you mean by calling me Miriam, and what does this old lady mean by calling me her daughter? Are you lunatics?'
"'No,' I replied. 'If we are mistaken you must excuse us—but you are the absolute double of a young lady of whom we are in search, and you have in your possession jewellery which undoubtedly belonged to her. If you are not Miriam Edwards, you must please explain how you come to be in possession of Miriam Edwards's property.'
"'What property do you mean?'
"'You have a watch and a locket in your bedroom, and a ring on your finger—that one with the diamonds and sapphire—which were Miss Edwards's.'
"'Indeed!' said the lady indignantly; 'so you have dared to search my things in my absence; how otherwise could you have known that I have the watch and locket I left in the drawer?' Then, turning to the landlady who had followed us in, she exclaimed, 'I shall be glad of an explanation. What do you mean by letting strangers have access to my property in my absence?'
"'I'm sure I beg pardon, ma'am,' said the landlady, 'but I really believed what this lady (pointing to me) told me, that you were Mrs. Edwards's daughter, and I—I didn't see any harm.'
"'There is harm—a great deal of harm—and I shall leave your house at once and take lodgings elsewhere. As to the property you claim as Miss Edwards's,' she said, turning to me, 'it has been in my possession for years—if necessary, I can prove it.'
"I looked at Mrs. Edwards, who appeared very upset, and was trembling violently.
"'It isn't my daughter, ma'am,' she said; 'it isn't her voice—and perhaps, after all, I may be mistaken about the jewellery.'
"'You are,' said the lady, 'and now perhaps you will have the goodness to leave my rooms.'
"I could not refuse. The old lady had taken away any chance I had of making a distinct charge by hesitating about the jewellery. So I bowed with as much dignity as I could muster, and we went out and sat downstairs and talked the strange affair over.
"'Her living image, ma'am,' said Mrs. Edwards to me, 'and I don't wonder the photograph deceived your friends here, but it's not my daughter. A mother must know her own child.'
"'But it is the jewellery—you know it is. Why did you say you weren't sure in her presence?'
"'Well, ma'am, I felt frightened at what we'd done. We'd made a mistake about her, and of course I might be mistaken about the jewellery. There's plenty made of the same pattern, I suppose.'
"I understood the old lady's nervousness. With people of her class there is always a terror of doing anything illegal. But I was convinced in my own mind that I had found Miriam Edwards—the likeness and the three articles of jewellery could hardly be mere coincidences.
"We remained for some time talking downstairs, and presently the landlady came down.
"'She's gone, Mrs. Dene,' she said. 'She packed, and I went for a cab, and glad I was to let her go.'
"'You let her go without telling me! Where has she gone?'
"'I don't know—I didn't wait to hear.'
"'But, my good woman, I must know! I want to follow this person up. You ought to have told me she was going so soon. I should then have been able to ascertain where she had gone.'
"The landlady shook her head. 'I didn't want any more trouble,' she said. 'After all, she might have brought an action against me, you know, for letting you overhaul her property. That kind of thing gets about and might injure my letting if it got into the papers. I don't want any paragraphs about my place, especially my husband being a constable.'
"'But you were quite right in what you did. We identified the property as that of the missing woman of whom we are in search.'
"'Well, Mrs. Dene, you see it's not a police search—it's only private—and the old lady here said it wasn't her daughter, and she might be mistaken about the jewellery. That didn't leave me nor you a leg to stand on, and it gave the woman a clear case against me if she wanted to be nasty—so I was glad to let her go quietly.'
"What could I do? I went out and succeeded in finding the flyman who had been called. He had driven the lady to the station and she had caught the train to London.
"There was nothing more to be done. I came up to town with Mrs. Edwards, and here I am, as far off as ever."
"But," said Paul, "you said when you began your story that you had found Miriam Edwards. Do you really believe that the mother wouldn't know her own daughter?"
"I don't know what to think," replied Dorcas. "I have an idea that the old lady refused to recognise her daughter. She may have seen something—have learnt something—from the woman's glance or manner which caused her to deny the identity in the presence of strangers. I can't make it out. I can't believe that the extraordinary likeness and the three articles of jewellery were accidental."
Dorcas rose from the sofa and paced the room.
"It must have been Miriam Edwards!" she cried. "It must have been! I have been fooled! But why—why should that old lady say it was not her daughter when it was? I'm not going to let the mystery rest there. Good night, Mr. Saxon—I don't want to talk—I want to think. Come and see me again in a couple of days."
"Will you be able to tell me then what the explanation of the mystery is?"
"Perhaps—I hope so."
There was nothing more to be said after that peremptory dismissal, so I shook hands and left.
I called again in a couple of days. Dorcas was out. I saw Paul, but he could tell me nothing. For the first time in her professional career, his wife was not confiding in him.
"When I ask her," he said, "how she is getting on, she only says, 'Wait—I don't know anything myself. I have an idea, but I can't explain it. Don't ask me to talk about it. Let me think.'"
It was quite a week later that I received a little note from Dorcas. It was short and to the point.
"You can come this evening."
I found Dorcas alone in the drawing-room. Paul had gone out with Mrs. Lester to a friend's house.
Dorcas was pale and looked very grave.
"You have unravelled the mystery of Miriam Edwards?"
"Yes, I know everything now. It is a strange story."
"And the woman in the lodgings was the old lady's daughter?"
"No—the jewellery was Miriam Edwards's jewellery, but the woman who was her living image and was wearing it was the wife of the man who passed himself off as Mr. John Carlton."
"Good heavens! Do you mean to say that the man was married to a woman who was the exact counterpart of the woman he was courting?"
"Yes; but let me tell you the details of this peculiar case exactly as I arrived at them.
"After the extraordinary result of my visit to Dover, I decided to act entirely by myself, and to leave Mrs. Edwards under the impression that I had abandoned the case.
"I was suspicious of her—wrongly as I now know—but I could not get rid of the idea that the daughter had, when she found herself in her mother's presence, managed in some way to convey a warning to the old lady—to impress her with the idea that there would be danger in recognition. I thought the matter out till my head ached, but I could see no other solution of the difficulty.
"I made up my mind that the first thing I had to do was to find that Dover lady who had Miriam Edwards's face and Miriam Edwards's jewellery again. The clue to the mystery lay there, and it was no good searching for it anywhere else.
"I went back to Dover and interviewed the constable's wife. Now that her lodger had gone, and she felt safe from legal proceedings, she was eager to render me all the assistance in her power. She let me search the rooms, which were unlet. There was nothing—not even a scrap of paper or a thread. I turned up the carpets, I opened cupboards and doors, I searched the grates, I looked in the chimney ornaments—everywhere where some scrap that would mean nothing to the ordinary observer, but which yet might serve as a clue to a trained detective, might be lying. I found nothing but an ordinary hairpin.
"Then I asked the landlady if anything had been taken from the room since her lodger left.
"'Nothing,' she said.
"'Now try and think. When she came in she unpacked her boxes. Did you notice anything? Do you remember anything that could give me the slightest indication as to the profession or habits of the woman?'
"'Nothing. She didn't unpack much—only a few things, and those you saw in the drawers.'
"There was nothing on her handkerchiefs or the linen I saw, because I looked carefully for traces of Miriam Edwards. It was all new and unmarked. The trunks in the room were locked.
"Suddenly the landlady gave a little start.
"'I do remember something now; but I'm sure that won't be of any use to you.'
"'I don't know. What was it?'
"'The day she came in she undid her trunk and took out one or two things, and among them a pair of boots. The boots were wrapped up in brown paper. She threw the piece of paper in the grate, and going into her room to tidy up I took it away.'
"'Was there anything written on the paper?'
"'It was brown paper—I don't think so. It was scrobbled up.'
"'Where is the paper? Have you got it?'
"'Yes, it's in the kitchen with the paper put by to light fires. It won't be used because we never use the brown paper—it smells so. I think I can find it.'
"She went out and presently brought me two pieces of 'scrobbled up' brown paper.
"'I've only brought these pieces, because that's all that there is there.'
"I took the pieces and unfolded them carefully. On the end of one piece was a torn gummed label—a portion of the label which drapers stick on parcels which are sent out for delivery. The paper had been torn through the label. All that was on it was this:
"There was absolutely nothing on the other piece of brown paper.
"I folded the piece with the torn label carefully and put it in my pocket.
"'You can't get anything from that, surely?' said the landlady.
"'I don't know,' I said. 'At any rate the lady wrapped her boots up in it, and it may be of more service to me than you imagine.'
"I returned to town, and the next morning I went to Messrs. Shoolbred and Co. of Tottenham Court Road, and asked to see one of the managers.
"I explained my business, and showed him the torn label on the piece of brown paper.
"'That is our label,' he said. 'It would be gummed on a parcel sent out for delivery. The 1/7 means the first of July. The 13642 is the number of the order, and we shall find it in the Cash Sales Day Book for the 1st of July, because the "Paid" means that the articles, whatever they were, were bought and paid for at the time. If you will take a seat I will have the books referred to.'
"In about a quarter of an hour the manager returned with a slip of paper. 'Here,' he said, 'is the label traced.' I took the slip of paper and read:
Then followed a small list of feminine underwear, and on the bottom of the paper '4 p.m. delivery.'
"I left the magnificent establishment in the Tottenham Court Road with a beating heart. I had found out where the brown paper had come from in which the lady who took lodgings at Dover and had Miriam Edwards's jewellery in her possession had wrapped up her boots.
"But the date caused me to put my considering cap on. On July 1 Miriam Edwards was at home with her mother, and certainly would not have been having articles sent to Notting Hill Gate in the name of Mrs. Coombes.
"I went straight to the address in Hansworth Road. No. 17 was a small, double-fronted house. In the front garden was a notice-board: 'This House to Let—Keys at the Agents'—Messrs. Dever & Co.'
"I noted the address given and went to it. I inquired what the rental of No. 17 was, and was informed it was £100 a year.
"'Might I inquire why the last tenant left it, and a few particulars?'
"The clerk informed me that the house was in good sanitary repair, had a large garden, and it was a most eligible residence. The late tenant had left it on account of his wife's death.
"'Let me see,' I said, 'he was a Mr. Coombes, was he not?'
"'Yes—Mr. John Coombes.'
"Then I entered into conversation with the clerk, who seemed quite willing to chat, and I inquired about Mr. John Coombes. He had lived in the house for some time, and was a gentleman of independent means. He did nothing. His wife was a very charming woman, but her fate had been a sad one. She had been subject to epileptic fits, and had been drowned in her bath during a seizure.
"'Ah,' I said, 'that is very terrible. How long ago was this?'
"'It was on the night of last Bank Holiday.'
"'Was there an inquest?'
"'Oh, yes, the inquest was held on the following Thursday.'
"'Ah,' I said, 'I'm afraid my friends who are looking for a house wouldn't care to take one which has been the scene of such a tragedy—I will communicate with them and let you know.'
"I left the house-agents', my brain in a whirl. What could it mean? On the very day that Miriam Edwards disappeared Mrs. Coombes had been drowned in her bath. The woman, who was the living image of Miriam Edwards, and had her jewellery in her possession, had wrapped up her boots in a piece of brown paper which had been directed to Mrs. Coombes.
"I went to the British Museum and searched the newspaper files. I found the inquest.
"The tragedy happened on Bank Holiday. Mr. John Coombes explained in his evidence before the coroner that the two servants had had leave, it being Bank Holiday, to be out all day. In the evening his wife said she would have a bath. She had complained of the heat. She went into the bath-room. She was a long time gone, and going upstairs and not hearing any sound he opened the bath-room door, and found her lying with her face under water. He got her out, and called to a neighbour from a window to go for a doctor.
"Dr. William Ferguson deposed that he was the regular medical attendant. He had attended Mrs. Coombes occasionally for epileptic fits, to which she was subject. When he arrived he found her dead. The cause of death was drowning. He had no doubt that she had a fit in the bath.
"After further evidence the coroner expressed himself satisfied, and the jury found a verdict of 'Accidentally drowned owing to an epileptic seizure while in a bath,' and expressed their sympathy with the bereaved husband.
"That evening I called upon Dr. William Ferguson, obtaining an introduction to him from an eminent physician who is a personal friend of mine.
"He readily gave me the particulars. He had known Mrs. Coombes for some years, but had not had to visit her often. The fits from which she suffered were not frequent—perhaps two a year. The Coombes were a most devoted couple. He had no doubt the cause of death was what he had suggested. Had he made a post-mortem? Yes. The body was quite healthy, and there was nothing else to cause death. The epileptic seizure in the bath fully accounted for the accident. He had known several cases in the course of his professional experience.
"How long after the accident did he see the body? About an hour. He was out at the time he was sent for. Life must have been extinct when the body was taken out of the bath. Probably the unfortunate lady had been under the water for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour when her husband discovered her.
"The next day I made particular inquiries in the neighbourhood. Mr. Coombes had moved immediately after the funeral. The furniture had been sold by auction. I found the auctioneers. They had forwarded the proceeds to Mr. Coombes' solicitors.
"I found the solicitors. They wanted to know what Mr. Coombes' affairs had to do with me. I explained that having read the inquest in the papers I had formed the idea that Mrs. Coombes was a relative of mine whom I had not seen for some years. They gave me Mr. Coombes' address. He was living in chambers in Great Russell Street.
"Then I went to Mrs. Edwards and asked her to come with me. I had an idea that I might be able to give her some information as to her daughter's fate. We went to Great Russell Street, and I asked to see Mr. Coombes.
"The porter told us that he was out, but was expected back at about four o'clock. At a quarter to four we returned. Mr. Coombes had not come in.
"At about ten minutes past four a gentleman came hurrying along.
"As he came near, Mrs. Edwards gave a cry, and, had I not caught her, would have fallen to the ground.
"'What is it?' I said.
"'That—that man!' gasped the old lady. 'It is John Carlton.'
"The man was quite near us; he was turning into Russell Chambers.
"I went up to him, and said, 'Mr. John Coombes, alias John Carlton, where is Miriam Edwards?'
"At that moment I heard a shriek; I looked round—the old lady had fainted. I ran to her assistance.
"When I had, with the help of the hall porter, lifted her up, Mr. John Coombes had disappeared.
"I sent the old lady home and waited. Mr. Coombes did not return. Then I went to Scotland Yard and saw one of the heads, and gave him all the particulars in my possession.
"Official information was soon obtained. Mr. John Coombes, whose wife had died in her bath from an epileptic fit, was not quite unconsoled for the loss of his partner. The lady was insured for £5,000 in a life assurance office. The policy was an old one, and dated from the time of her marriage.
"The claim had not been paid, owing to certain formalities, but it was not disputed. No idea of fraud had entered anyone's head. But it is disputed now, and when Mr. Coombes is found he will be charged with wilful murder."
"He murdered his wife!" I exclaimed.
"No," said Dorcas, "he murdered Miriam Edwards."
"But——"
"He didn't murder his wife, because the woman we found at Dover, who was so like Miriam, was his wife. There is no doubt they were very fond of each other. All the evidence we could obtain pointed to that fact. But he was in desperate need of money, so we found out, and his accidental meeting one night with a girl who was the exact counterpart of his wife in form and feature put a diabolical idea into his head.
"He laid his plans well. He courted Miriam Edwards. On the Bank Holiday he sent his wife away quietly, probably telling her to keep out of the way for a time, for reasons on which his safety depended. He got Miriam Edwards to the house on the pretence that it was the one he had taken as a future home for them to live in when they were married. The servants were away. The poor girl was done to death in that house in some way which defied detection. The presumption is that she was chloroformed. That would leave her powerless, and all trace of the crime would have vanished before the post-mortem examination. She was rendered insensible and laid in the bath, under the water, and the rest was easy. There would be no resistance, no outcry, only certain death, which would look like accident.
"The resemblance of Miriam Edwards to Mrs. Coombes deceived everyone but the mother. The doctor never dreamed that the body he was called in to see was not that of Mrs. Coombes, the patient he was attending for epileptic fits."
"But surely," I said, "all this cannot be proved? The person who might do so is not likely to speak, for she is his wife, and the man was presumably alone, and would not convict himself."
"No; we can only assume that the thing happened as I have said. But we are certain that Miriam Edwards is in the coffin at Highgate which lies under the stone on which is the inscription, 'Sacred to the Memory of Jane, the beloved Wife of John Coombes.' The grave is to be opened by the Home Secretary's order.
"That is the mystery of the disappearance of Miriam Edwards."
"But the jewellery?"
"Must have been taken from the body of Miriam Edwards by Coombes and given to his wife when he met her shortly afterwards. In all probability it was his wife's jewellery first, and he borrowed it to give to Miriam, for the purposes of his villainous plot."