At Bruce's residence White's colleague left him. Soon the barrister and the policeman were sitting snugly before a good fire.

There Claude took him step by step through each branch of his inquiry as it is known to the reader.

He omitted nothing. The discovery of Jane Harding and of Mensmore, the latter's transactions with Dodge & Co., his dramatic _coup_ at Monte Carlo and its attendant love episode--all these were exhaustively described. He enlarged upon Mrs. Hillmer's anxiety when the tragedy became known to her, and did not forget Sir Charles d.y.k.e's amazement at the suggestion that his old playmate might prove to be responsible for the death of his wife.

He produced the waxen moulds of the piece of iron found on the body at Putney, and the ornamental scroll from which it had been taken.

At this bit of evidence Mr. White's complacency forsook him. Thus far he had experienced a feeling of resentment against Bruce for having concealed from him so much that was material to their investigation.

But when he realized that a powerful link in the chain of events had all along been placidly resting before his eyes his distress was evident, and the barrister came to his rescue.

"You are not to blame, White," he said, "for having failed to note many things which I have now told you. You are the slave of a system. Your method works admirably for the detection of commonplace crime, but as soon as the higher region of romance is reached it is as much out of place as a steam-roller in a lady's boudoir. Look at the remarkable series of crimes the English police have failed to solve of late, merely because some _bizarre_ element had intruded itself at the outset. Have you ever read any of the works of Edgar Allan Poe?"

The detective answered in the affirmative. "The Murders of the Rue Morgue" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget" were familiar to him.

"Well," went on Bruce, "there you have the accurate samples of my meaning. Poe would not have been puzzled for an hour by the vagaries of Jack the Ripper. He would have said at once--most certainly after the third or fourth in the series of murders--'This is the work of an athletic lunatic, with a morbid love of anatomy and a morbid hatred of a certain cla.s.s of women. Seek for him among young men who have pestered doctors with outrageous theories, and who possess weak-minded or imbecile relatives.' Then, again, take the murder on the South-Western Railway. Do you think Poe would have gone questioning bar-tenders or inquiring into abortive love affairs? Not he! Jealous swains do not carry pestles about with them to slay their sweethearts, nor do they choose a four-minutes' interval between suburban stations for frenzied avowals of their pa.s.sion. Here you have the clear trail of a clever lunatic, dropping from the skies, as it were, and disappearing in the same erratic manner. That is why I tell you most emphatically that neither you nor I have yet the remotest conception as to who really killed Lady d.y.k.e."

"Surely things look black now against this Mensmore?"

"Do they? How would it have fared with an acquaintance of one of the unfortunate women killed by Jack the Ripper had the police found him in the locality with fresh blood-stains on his clothes? What would have resulted from the discovery of a chemist's mortar among the possessions of one of Elizabeth Camp's male friends? Come now, be honest, and tell me."

But Mr. White could only smoke in silence.

"Therefore," continued Bruce, "let us ask ourselves why, and how, it was possible for Mensmore to commit the crime. Personally, notwithstanding all that we apparently know against him circ.u.mstantially, I should hardly believe Mensmore if he confessed himself to be the murderer!"

"Now, why on earth do you say that, Mr. Bruce?"

"Because Mensmore is normal and this crime abnormal. Because the man who would blow out his brains on account of losses at pigeon-shooting never had brains enough to dispose of the body in such fashion. Because Mensmore, having temporarily changed his name for some trivial reason, would never resume it with equal triviality with this shadow upon his life."

"Then why have you told me all these things that tell so heavily against him?"

"In order that, this time at least, you may feel that the production of a pair of handcuffs does not satisfactorily settle the entire business."

"I promise there shall be no more arrests until this affair is much more decided than it is at present."

"Good. I shall make a detective of you after my own heart in time."

"Yet I cannot help being surprised at the very strange fact that his own sister should seem to suspect him!"

"Ah! Now you have struck the true line. Why did she have that fear?

There I am with you entirely. Let us ascertain that and I promise you an important development. Mrs. Hillmer and Mensmore are both concerned in the disappearance of Lady d.y.k.e, yet neither knew that she had disappeared, and both are deeply upset by it, for Mrs. Hillmer flies off to warn her brother, and the brother posts back to London the moment it comes to his ears through her. There, you see, we have a key which may unlock many doors. For Heaven's sake let it not be battered out of shape the instant it reaches our hands."

But Mr. White was quite humble. "As I have told you," he said, "I have done with the battering process."

"I am sure of it. And now listen to the most remarkable fact that has yet come to light. Lady d.y.k.e's body was taken from Raleigh Mansions to Putney in a four-wheeler. The cabman was forthwith locked up by the police and clapped into prison for three months. He was released yesterday, and will be here within the next quarter of an hour."

The detective's hair nearly rose on end at this statement.

"Look here, Mr. Bruce!" he cried, "have you any more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?"

"That is the last shot in my locker."

"I'm jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you would say was that you did the job yourself."

"It wouldn't be the first time you thought that; eh, my friend?"

White positively blushed.

"Oh! that's chaff," he said. "But why the d.i.c.kens did the police lock up this cabman--the only witness we could lay our hands upon? Why, I myself questioned every cabman in the vicinity several times."

"Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the journey, and subsequently thought he was Phaeton driving the chariot of the sun. But, there, he will tell you himself. I met him yesterday morning outside Holloway Jail, and persuaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not gone on the spree again with disastrous results."

The entrance of Smith--obviously relieved to see his master and the "tec" on such good terms--to announce the arrival of "Mr. William Marsh," settled any doubts as to the cabman's intentions, and his appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three months "hard" had made the cab-driver a new man.

Recognition was mutual between him and Mr. White.

"h.e.l.lo, Foxey," cried the latter. "It's you, is it?"

"Me it is, guv'nor; but I didn't know there was to be a 'cop'

here"--this with a suspicious glance at Bruce and a backward movement towards the door.

"Do not be alarmed," said the barrister; "this gentleman's presence implies no trouble for you. We want you to help us, and if you do so willingly I will make up that lost fiver you received for driving two people to Putney the night you were arrested."

The poor old cabman became very confused on hearing this staggering remark. Up to that moment he regarded Bruce as the agent for a charitable a.s.sociation, and there was no harm, he told his "missus," in trying to "knock him for a bit."

He stood nervously fumbling with his hat, but did not answer. White knew how to deal with him.

"Sit down, Foxey, and have a drink. You need one to cheer you up. Answer this gentleman's questions. He means you no harm."

"Honor bright?"

"Honor bright."

"Well, I don't mind if I do. No soda, thank you, sir. Just a small drop of water. Ah, that's better stuff 'n they keep in Holloway."

Thus fortified, Marsh had no hesitation in telling them what he knew.

Substantially, his story was identical with the version given to Bruce by the ticket collector.

"Can you describe the gentleman?" said the barrister.

"No, sir. He was just like any other swell. Tall and well-dressed, and talked in the 'aw-'aw style. It might ha' been yerself for all I could tell."

"Do you think it was I?"

Foxey scratched his head.

"No, p'r'aps it wasn't, now I come to rec'llect. He 'ad a moustache, and you 'aven't. Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but you 'ave a bit of the cut of a parson or a hactor, an' this chap wasn't neither--just an every-day sort of toff."

"Could you swear to him if you saw him?"