They were silent for a little while, when Sir Charles returned to the subject nearest his heart.

"Has your search developed in other directions?"

Bruce fenced with the query. "To be candid," he said, "I am now most busily engaged in the not very difficult task of throwing dust in the eyes of the police. My motives are hardly definite to myself, but I do not want this unfortunate man, Mensmore, to be arrested until I have personally become convinced of his guilt."

"You are right. Your instinct seldom fails you. I question if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife."

"Ah! You see you have hit upon the difficulty. Show me her reason for making that secret journey, and I will tell you how she met her death."

His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old friend of d.y.k.e's had entered the room and came toward them.

A few minutes later Bruce quitted the Imperial and drove to his chambers, where he found a note from the ticket collector stating that Foxey's name was William Marsh.

The day was still young, and the barrister paid a visit to the West London Police Court, where the records soon revealed the conviction of the cab-driver and the period of his sentence.

"Let me see," said the resident inspector, "his time at Holloway is up on February 6. That is a Monday, and as Sunday doesn't count, he will be liberated on the 4th, about 8 A.M. That is the habit, sir, in the matter of short sentences. If you want to see him when he leaves the jail you can either wait at the gates or at the nearest public-house, where the prisoners go for their first drink. They seldom or never miss."

Bruce thanked the official and returned home.

He was on the point of going out to drive, when he received a letter from Sir Charles d.y.k.e. It ran:

"_My Dear Claude_,--Today's experiences have taught me to take the inevitable step of announcing my wife's death. Hence, I have forwarded the enclosed notice to an advertis.e.m.e.nt agency, with instructions to insert it in the princ.i.p.al papers. I have also decided to follow your advice and leave town for a few days. I am going to Wensley, my place in Yorkshire, should you happen to want me.

"Yours, "CHARLES d.y.k.e."

The notice read:

"d.y.k.e.--On November 6, Alice, wife of Sir Charles d.y.k.e, Bart., suddenly, at London."

Next morning it figured in the obituary columns of many newspapers.

Bruce, though taken back by the suddenness of his friend's resolve, saw no reason to endeavor to dissuade him. In the words of the letter, it was "the inevitable step."

CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT HAPPENED ON THE RIVIERA

The _White Heather_ swung quietly at her moorings in the harbor of Genoa the Superb. The lively company on board, tired after a day's sight-seeing, had left the marble streets and palace cafes to the Genoese, and sought the pleasant seclusion of the yacht's airy promenade deck.

"Dinner on board, followed by a dance," said Phyllis, as arbiter of the procedure. A few hasty invitations sent out to British residents in Genoa met with general acceptance, and the lull between afternoon tea and the more formal meal was a grateful interlude.

Genoa is so shut in by its amphitheatre of hills that unless a gale blows from the west its bay is unruffled, and its atmosphere oppressively hot during the day, even in the winter months.

Sir William Browne's excursion had proved so attractive to those invited that the _White Heather_ was taken farther along the coast than was originally intended. When all the best known resorts of the Riviera itself were exploited, some one, probably prompted thereto by Phyllis or Mensmore, suggested a run to Genoa.

They had been in the port three days, and on the morrow would hand the yacht over to the owner's agents, those on board separating on their different routes. The Brownes went to Florence and Rome, and Mensmore was pretending to hold out against a pressing request to accompany them, cordially given by his prospective father-in-law.

This afternoon Phyllis and he were leaning over the taffrail and discussing the point.

The young lady was slightly inclined to be angry. Her eyes roamed over the magnificent panorama of church-crowned hills and verdant valleys, with the white city in front and the picturesque quays looking as though they had been specially decked for a painting by Clara Montalba. But Phyllis paid heed to none of these things. She wanted her lover to come with her, and not to fly away to smoke-covered London.

"Business!" she cried, "it is always business that men think of. Of course I know that affairs must be attended to, but now that everything is settled and we are quite happy, it is too bad of you to run away immediately."

"But, dearest--"

"There! Take your hand off my arm. You are not going to coax me into agreement. Just because you receive a horrid letter this morning you go and upset all the arrangements."

"Phyllis, listen to me. I--"

"You _shan't_ go. I think it is mean of you to insist upon it when I am so urgent."

"I am not insisting. You might at least help me to settle matters; otherwise they will get terribly mixed."

"And you _will_ stay?"

"What else can I do when you ask me?"

"Oh, you darling!"

This little quarrel was very delightful, and made them feel ever so much more in love than before; but it did not help Mensmore out of his difficulty.

"Let us see what Corbett really says," he remarked, ruefully taking a letter from his pocket.

"Am I to look, too?"

"Of course. I have no secrets from you, little woman."

Phyllis nestled up close to him. This time she did not object to his hand resting on her shoulder, and together they read the following letter:

"_My Dear Bertie_,--At last I am able to write you definitely.

The prospectors have struck it rich on our property, and I have sold two claims outright for $50,000. With this nest-egg I am taking the girls to New York, and shall then start by the _Teutonic_ for your side of the pond. I am due in Liverpool on February 4, so look out for me.

"Yours ever, "SYDNEY H. CORBETT."

Both gazed thoughtfully at the doc.u.ment for a few moments before Phyllis said:

"Does that mean we shall be rich, Bertie?"

Her companion emphasized the gratification of the plural p.r.o.noun by a squeeze.

"I hope so, sweet."

"That will be very nice, won't it? I will marry you even if you have to take a place in father's office; but it will be so much better if we haven't to explain to him that we are poor after all."

Mensmore laughed. "It is not so bad as that in any case," he said. "This Springbok Mine speculation will probably turn out well, but I look to Wyoming to yield the best and most permanent results."