A Mysterious Disappearance. Tracy Louis

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      The uncertain rays of a weak lamp, struggling through panes dulled by dirt and black letters, cast a fitful light about the precincts of the stage-door.

      Elderly women and broken-down men, slovenly and unkempt, kept furtive guard over the exit, waiting for the particular “super” to come forth who would propose the expected adjournment to a favorite public-house. Some smart broughams, a four-wheeler, and a few hansoms, formed a close line along the pavement, which was soon crowded with the hundred odd hangers-on of a theatre – scene-shifters, gasmen, limelight men, members of the orchestra, dressers, and attendants – mingling with the small stream of artistes constantly pouring out into the cold night after a casual inquiry for letters at the office of the doorkeeper.

      This being a fashionable place of amusement there were not wanting several representatives of the gilded youth, some obviously ginger-bread or “unleavened” imitations, others callow specimens of the genuine article.

      Bruce paid little heed to them as they impudently peered beneath each broad-leafed and high-feathered hat to discover the charmer honored by their chivalrous attentions.

      Yet the presence of this brigade of light-headed cavaliers helped the barrister far more than he could have foreseen or even hoped.

      At last the ex-lady’s maid appeared, dressed in a showy winter costume and jaunty toque. She was on very friendly terms with two older girls, on whom the stage had set its ineffaceable seal, and the reason was soon apparent.

      “Come along,” she cried, her words being evidently intended to have an effect on others in the throng less favored than those whom she addressed; “let us get into a hansom and go to Scott’s for supper. Here, cabby!”

      She was on the step of a hansom when a tall, good-looking boy, faultlessly dressed, and with something of Sandhurst or Woolwich in his carriage, darted forward.

      “Hello, Millie,” he said to one of Jane Harding’s companions. “How are you? A couple of fellows have come up with me for the night. Let’s all go and have something to eat at the Duke’s,” thereby indicating a well-known club usually patronized by higher class artistes than this trio.

      After a series of introductions by Christian names, among which Bruce failed to catch the word “Jane,” the party went off in three hansoms, a pair in each.

      Claude was not a member of the “Duke’s,” though he had often been there. But there was a man close at hand who was a member of everything in London that in any way pertained to things theatrical. Every one knew Billy Sadler and Billy Sadler knew every one. A brief run in a cab to a theatre, a restaurant, and another restaurant, revealed the large-hearted Billy, drinking a whisky and soda and relating to a friend, with great gusto and much gesticulation, the very latest quarrel between the stage-manager and the leading lady. He hailed Claude with enthusiasm.

      “’Pon my soul, Bruce, old chap, haven’t seen you for an age. Where have you bin? An’ what’s the little game now?”

      Mr. Sadler was fully aware of the barrister’s penchant for investigating mysteries. The two had often foregathered in the past.

      “Are you ‘busy’”? said Bruce.

      “Not a bit. By-bye, Jack. See you at luncheon to-morrow at the Gorgonzola. Well, what is it?”

      “I want you to come with me to the ‘Duke’s.’ There’s a young lady there I’m interested in.”

      Billy squeezed round in the hansom, which was now bowling across a corner of Trafalgar Square.

      “You,” he cried. “After a girl! Is she in the profession? Is mamma frightened about her angel? The correct figure for a breach just now, my boy, is five thou’.”

      “Oh, it’s nothing serious. I will tell you all about it when matters have cleared a bit. It is a mere item in a really big story. But, here we are. Take me straight to the supper-room.”

      As they entered the comfortable, brightly lit club the strains of a band came pleasantly to their ears, and in a minute they were installed at a corner table in the splendid room devoted to the most cheery of all gatherings – a Bohemian meal when the labors of the night are past.

      Bruce soon marked his quarry. Jane Harding was in great form – eating, drinking, and talking at the same time.

      “Who is that, Billy?” he said, indicating the girl.

      Sadler carefully balanced his pince-nez on his well-defined nose, gazed, and laughed: “Goodness knows. She’s a new-comer, and not much at the best. Do you know where she carries a banner?”

      “At the Jollity.”

      “Oh! then here’s our man” – for a Mephistophelian gentleman was passing at the moment. “Say, Rosenheim, who’s the new coryphée over there?”

      Mephistopheles halted, looked at Jane and laughed, too. “Her name is Miss Marie le Marchant; but as she happened to be born in London she pronounces it Mahrie Lee Mahshuns, with the accent on the ‘Mahs.’ Anything else you would like to know?”

      “Yes, I’m stuck on her! Where did you pick her up?”

      “She’s a housemaid, or something of the sort. Came into money. Wants to knock ’em on the stige. The rest is easy.”

      “Has she been with you long?” put in Claude, as their informant was the under-manager of the Jollity.

      Mr. Rosenheim glanced at him. Sadler, he knew, had no interest in the girl, and the barrister did not quite possess the juvenile appearance that warranted such solicitude.

      “She joined us just before Christmas. What’s up? Is she really worth a lot of ’oof?”

      “I should imagine not,” laughed Bruce; and Mr. Rosenheim joined another group.

      Supper ended, Marie and Millie, and eke Flossie, attended by their swains, discussed coffee and cognac in the foyer.

      Chance separated Miss le Marchant, as she may now be known, momentarily from the others, and Bruce darted forward.

      “Good-evening,” he said. “I am delighted to meet you here.”

      The girl recognized him instantly. She would have denied her identity, but her nerve failed her before those steadfast, penetrating eyes. Moreover, it was not an ill thing for such a well-bred, well-dressed man to acknowledge her so openly.

      “Good-evening, Mr. Bruce,” she said, with a smile of assurance, though her voice faltered a little.

      He resolved to make the situation easy.

      “We have not met for such a long time,” he said; “and I am simply dying to have a talk with you. I am sure your friends will pardon me if I carry you off for five minutes to a quiet corner.”

      With a simper, Miss le Marchant took his proffered arm, and they went off to an unoccupied table.

      “Now, Jane Harding,” said he, with some degree of sternness in his manner, “be good enough to explain to me why you are passing under a false name, and the reasons which led you to leave Sir Charles Dyke’s house in such a particularly disagreeable way.”

      “Disagreeable? СКАЧАТЬ