Though not a true “London particular,” the fog was chilly, exasperating, tedious. People bumped against each other without apology, ’buses crunched through the traffic with deadly precision, pair-horse vans swept around corners with magnificent carelessness.
In the result, Lady Dyke, who meant to walk, as she was somewhat in advance of the time she had fixed on for this very important engagement, took a hansom. In her present mood slight things annoyed her. Usually, the London cab-horse is a thoughtful animal; he refuses to hurry; when he falls he lies contented, secure in the knowledge that for five blissful minutes he will be at complete rest. But this misguided quadruped flew as though oats and meadow-grass awaited him at Victoria Station on the Underground Railway.
He raced down Park Lane, skidded past Hyde Park Corner, and grated the off-wheel of the hansom against the kerb outside the station within eight minutes.
In other words, her ladyship, if she would obey the directions contained in the voluminous letter, was compelled to kill time.
As she stepped from the vehicle and halted beneath a lamp to take a florin from her purse, a tall, ulster-wrapped gentleman, walking rapidly into Victoria Street, caught a glimpse of her face and well-proportioned form.
Instantly his hat was off.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Dyke. Can I be of any service?”
She bit her lip, not unobserved, but the law of Society forced her features into a bright smile.
“Oh, Mr. Bruce, is it you? I am going to see my sister at Richmond. Isn’t the weather horrid? I shall be so glad if you will put me into the right train.”
Mr. Claude Bruce, barrister and man about town, whose clean-cut features and dark, deep-set eyes made him as readily recognizable, knew that she would have been much better pleased had he passed without greeting. Like the footman, he wondered why she did not drive in her carriage rather than travel by the Underground Railway on such a night. He guessed that she was perturbed — that her voluble explanation was a disguise.
He reflected that he could ill afford any delay in dressing for a distant dinner — that good manners oft entail inconvenience — but of course he said:
“Delighted. Have you any wraps?”
“No, I am just going for a chat, and shall be home early.”
He bought her a first-class ticket, noting as an odd coincidence that it bore the number of the year, 1903, descended to the barrier, found that the next train for Richmond passed through in ten minutes, fumed inwardly for an instant, explained his presence to the ticket-collector, and paced the platform with his companion.
Having condemned the fog, and the last play, and the latest book, they were momentarily silent.
The newspaper placards on Smith & Son’s bookstall announced that a “Great Society Scandal” was on the tapis. “The Duke in the Box” formed a telling line, and the eyes of both people chanced on it simultaneously.
Thought the woman: “He is a man of the world, and an experienced lawyer. Shall I tell him?”
Thought the man: “She wants to take me into her confidence, and I am too busy to be worried by some small family squabble.”
Said she: “Are you much occupied at the Courts just now, Mr. Bruce?”
“No,” he replied; “not exactly. My practice is more consultive than active. Many people seek my advice about matters of little interest, never thinking that they would best serve their ends by acting decisively and promptly themselves.”
Lady Dyke set her lips. She could be both prompt and decisive. She resolved to keep her troubles, whatever they were, locked in the secrecy of her own heart, and when she next spoke of some trivial topic the barrister knew that he had been spared a recital.
He regretted it afterwards.
At any other moment in his full and useful life he would have encouraged her rather than the reverse. Even now, a few seconds too late, he was sorry. He strove to bring her back to the verge of explanations, but failed, for her ladyship was a proud, self-reliant personage — one who would never dream of risking a rebuff.
A train came, with “Richmond” staring at them from the smoke and steam of the engine.
“Good-bye!” he said.
“Good-bye!”
“Shall I see you again soon?”
“I fear not. It is probable that I shall leave for the South of France quite early.”
And she was gone. Her companion rushed to the street, and almost ran to his Victoria Street chambers. It was six o’clock. He had to dress and drive all the way to Hampstead for dinner at 7.30.
At ten minutes past nine Sir Charles Dyke entered Wensley House. A handsome, quiet, gentlemanly man was Sir Charles. He was rich — a Guardsman until the baronetcy devolved upon him, a popular figure in Society, esteemed a trifle fast prior to his marriage, but sobered down by the cares of a great estate and a vast fortune.
His wife and he were not well-matched in disposition.
She was too earnest, too prim, for the easy-going baronet. He respected her, that was all. A man of his nature found it impossible to realize that the depths of passion are frequently coated over with ice. Their union was irreproachable, like their marriage settlements; but there are more features in matrimony than can be disposed of by broad seals and legal phrases.
Unfortunately, they were childless, and were thus deprived of the one great bond which unites when others may fail.
Sir Charles was hurried, if not flurried. His boots were muddy and his clothes splashed by the mire of passing vehicles.
“I fear I am very late for dinner,” he said to the footman who took his hat and overcoat. “But I shall not be five minutes in dressing. Tell her ladyship — ”
“Milady is not at home, Sir Charles.”
“Not at home!”
“Milady went out at half-past five, saying that she was going to Richmond to see Lady Edith Talbot, and that you were not to wait dinner if she was late in returning.”
Sir Charles was surprised. He looked steadily at the man as he said:
“Are you quite sure of her ladyship’s orders?”
“Quite sure, Sir Charles.”
“Did she drive?”
“No, Sir Charles. She would not order the carriage when I suggested it.”
The baronet, somewhat perplexed, hesitated a moment. Then he appeared to dismiss the matter as hardly worth discussion, saying, as he went up stairs:
“Dinner almost immediately, James.”
During the solitary meal he was preoccupied, but ate more than usual, in the butler’s judgment. Finding his own company distasteful, he discussed the November Handicap with the butler, and ultimately sent for an evening paper.
Opening it, the first words that caught his eye were, “Murder in the West End.” He read the paragraph, the record of some tragic orgy, and turned to the butler.
“A lot of these beastly crimes have occurred recently, Thompson.”
“Yes, Sir Charles. There’s bin three since the beginning of the month.”
After a pause. “Did you hear that her ladyship had gone to Richmond?”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“Do you know how she went?”
“No, Sir Charles.”
“I wanted to see her to-night, very particularly. Order the brougham in ten minutes. I am going to the Travellers’