A Mysterious Disappearance. Tracy Louis

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Then here is the vendors’ list,” said Mr. Dodge, taking a foolscap sheet from a drawer.

      Claude perused it nonchalantly. His quick eyes took in each name and address out of half-a-dozen, and rejected all as being in no way connected with the man whose antecedents he was seeking.

      Yet, where possible, he left nothing to chance.

      “Have you any objection to a copy being made?” he asked.

      Mr. Dodge hummed doubtfully.

      “You see,” went on the barrister, “it is best to be quite candid with people whom you wish to bring into risky if apparently high promising ventures. I presume these gentlemen are moneyless. If so, it is a factor in favor of your scheme. Should any of them be men of means, my principals would naturally ask why they did not themselves underwrite the shares.”

      Mr. Dodge was convinced. “From that point of view,” he cried emphatically, “they are above suspicion. Jot them down, sir.”

      The barrister armed himself with the necessary documents, and they parted with mutual good wishes. It was only after reflection that Mr. Dodge saw how remarkably little he had got out of the interview. “He was a jolly smart chap,” communed the company promoter. “I wonder what he was really after. And who the dickens is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett? Anyhow, the Springbok business is quite above board. How can I raise the wind for my little lot?”

      If Mr. Bruce had probed more deeply Mr. Dodge’s holding, he would have been saved much future perturbation. But, clever as he was, he did not know all the methods of financial juggling practised by experts on the Stock Exchange.

      A hansom brought him quickly to Portman Square. In fulfilment of his promise, he was about to place Sir Charles Dyke in possession of his recent discoveries.

      When the door of Wensley House opened, the butler, Thompson, who happened to be in the hall, anticipated the footman’s answer to Bruce’s inquiry.

      “Sir Chawles left yesterday for Bournemouth, sir. ’E was that hovercome by the weather an’ his trouble that ’e has gone for a few days’ rest at the seaside. If you called, sir, I was to tell you ’e would be glad to see you there should you find it convenient to run down. And, sir, you’ll never guess who came ’ere this morning, as bold as brass.”

      “Jane Harding.”

      “Now, ’ow upon earth can you ’it upon things that way, sir? It was ’er, ’er very self. And you ought to ’ave seen her airs. ‘Thompson,’ sez she, ‘is Sir Chawles at ’ome?’ ‘No, ’e isn’t,’ sez I; ‘but you’re wanted at the polis station.’ She was in a keb, and she ’ad asked a butcher’s boy to pull the bell, so ’im and the cabby larfed. ‘Thompson,’ she said, very red in the face, ‘I’ll ’ave you dismissed for your impidence.’ An’ off she went. Did you ever ’ear anythink like it, sir?”

      “No, Thompson, Miss Harding is certainly a cool hand.”

      Bruce walked to his chambers, and his stroll through the parks was engrossed by one subject of thought. It was not Mrs. Hillmer, nor Corbett, nor Dodge who troubled him. What puzzled him more than all else was the “impidence” of Jane Harding.

      CHAPTER VIII

      THE HOTEL DU CERCLE

      Bruce did not go to Bournemouth.

      He quitted London by the next mail, and after a wearisome journey of thirty-six hours, found himself in the garden courtyard of the Hotel du Cercle at Monte Carlo.

      Refreshed by a bath and an excellent déjeuner, he decided to go quietly to work and search the visitors’ book for himself without asking any questions. The Hotel du Cercle was a popular resort, and it took him some time, largely devoted to the elucidation of hieroglyphic signatures, before he was quite satisfied that no one even remotely suggestive of the name of Sydney H. Corbett had recorded his presence in the hotel since the first week in November.

      The barrister, for the first time, began to doubt Mrs. Hillmer. Twice had her statements not been verified by facts. It was with an expression of keen annoyance at his own folly in trusting so much to a favorable impression that he turned to the hotel clerk to ask if the name of Mr. Sydney H. Corbett was familiar to him.

      The courteous Frenchman screwed up his forehead into a reflective frown before he answered: “But yes, monsieur. Me, I have not seen the gentleman, but he exists. There have been letters – two, three letters.”

      “Ah, letters! Has he received them?”

      The attendant examined a green baize-covered board, decorated with diamonds of tape, in which was stuck an assortment of letters, mostly addressed to American tourists.

      “They were here! They have gone! Then he has taken them!”

      “Yes,” cried Bruce; “but surely you know something about him?”

      “Nothing. This hall is open to all the world.”

      “Do you tell me that any one can come here and take any letters which may be stuck in that rack?”

      “Will the gentleman be pleased to consider? Many persons give their address here days and weeks before they come to arrive. Some persons, in the manner of Monte Carlo, do not wish their names to be known of everybody. We cannot distinguish. We do not allow the address of the hotel to be used improperly, if we know it; but there are no complaints.”

      The barrister did not argue the matter further. He only said: “Perhaps you can tell me thus far, as I am very anxious to meet Mr. Corbett. About how long is it since the last letter came for him?”

      “But certainly. It came yesterday. It was re-addressed from some place in London. If possible, with the next one I will keep watch for Mr. Corbett.”

      So Mrs. Hillmer had not misled him. The so-called Corbett was in Monte Carlo, but had possibly disguised himself under another name. Again did Bruce consult the hotel register, this time with the aid of the vendors’ list in the Springbok Mine, but without result.

      There was nothing for it but to familiarize himself with Monte Carlo and its habitués, awaiting developments in the chase of Corbett. In January, when London alternates between fog and sleet, it is not an intolerable thing to remain in forced idleness amid the sunshine and flowers of the Riviera. There are two ways of “doing” Monte Carlo. You may live riotously, lose your substance at the Casino, and go home on a free ticket supplied by the proprietors of the gambling saloons, or you may enjoy to the utmost the keen air, magnificent scenery, fine promenades, and excellent music – the two latter provided by the same benevolent agency.

      It is needless to say which of these alternatives appealed to Claude Bruce. Being a rich man, it was of no consequence to him to lose a few louis in backing the red for a five minutes’ bit of excitement. Being a sensible one, he then quitted the Casino and went for a stroll in the gardens.

      Fashion, backed by the doctors, has decreed that no longer shall the northern littoral of the Mediterranean be the only haven of rest for those afflicted with pulmonary complaints. Weak-chested and consumptive people are now banished to the windless and icy altitudes of Switzerland; so of recent years a walk through Nice, Mentone, or Monte Carlo itself is not such a depressing experience as it was when every second person encountered was a hopeless invalid.

      A pigeon-shooting match was in progress, СКАЧАТЬ