Superintendent Mansus had a little office in Scotland Yard proper, which, he complained, was not so much a private bureau, as a waiting-room to which repaired every official of the police service who found time hanging on his hands. On the afternoon of Miss Holland’s surprising adventure, a plainclothes man of “D” Division brought to Mr. Mansus’s room a very scared domestic servant, voluble, tearful and agonizingly penitent. It was a mood not wholly unfamiliar to a police officer of twenty years experience and Mr. Mansus was not impressed.
“If you will kindly shut up,” he said, blending his natural politeness with his employment of the vernacular, “and if you will also answer a few questions I will save you a lot of trouble. You were Lady Bartholomew’s maid weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” sobbed the red-eyed Mary Ann.
“And you have been detected trying to pawn a gold bracelet, the property of Lady Bartholomew?”
The maid gulped, nodded and started breathlessly upon a recital of her wrongs.
“Yes, sir — but she practically gave it to me, sir, and I haven’t had my wages for two months, sir, and she can give that foreigner thousands and thousands of pounds at a time, sir, but her poor servants she can’t pay — no, she can’t. And if Sir William knew especially about my lady’s cards and about the snuffbox, what would he think, I wonder, and I’m going to have my rights, for if she can pay thousands to a swell like Mr. Kara she can pay me and—”
Mansus jerked his head.
“Take her down to the cells,” he said briefly, and they led her away, a wailing, woeful figure of amateur larcenist.
In three minutes Mansus was with T.X. and had reduced the girl’s incoherence to something like order.
“This is important,” said T.X.; “produce the Abigail.”
“The — ? asked the puzzled officer.
“The skivvy — slavey — hired help — get busy,” said T.X. impatiently.
They brought her to T.X. in a condition bordering upon collapse.
“Get her a cup of tea,” said the wise chief. “Sit down, Mary Ann, and forget all your troubles.”
“Oh, sir, I’ve never been in this position before,” she began, as she flopped into the chair they put for her.
“Then you’ve had a very tiring time,” said T.X. “Now listen—”
“I’ve been respectable—”
“Forget it!” said T.X., wearily. “Listen! If you’ll tell me the whole truth about Lady Bartholomew and the money she paid to Mr. Kara—”
“Two thousand pounds — two separate thousand and by all accounts—”
“If you will tell me the truth, I’ll compound a felony and let you go free.”
It was a long time before he could prevail upon her to clear her speech of the ego which insisted upon intruding. There were gaps in her narrative which he bridged. In the main it was a believable story. Lady Bartholomew had lost money and had borrowed from Kara. She had given as security, the snuffbox presented to her husband’s father, a doctor, by one of the Czars for services rendered, and was “all blue enamel and gold, and foreign words in diamonds.” On the question of the amount Lady Bartholomew had borrowed, Abigail was very vague. All that she knew was that my lady had paid back two thousand pounds and that she was still very distressed (“in a fit” was the phrase the girl used), because apparently Kara refused to restore the box.
There had evidently been terrible scenes in the Bartholomew menage, hysterics and what not, the principal breakdown having occurred when Belinda Mary came home from school in France.
“Miss Bartholomew is home then. Where is she?” asked T.X.
Here the girl was more vague than ever. She thought the young lady had gone back again, anyway Miss Belinda had been very much upset. Miss Belinda had seen Dr. Williams and advised that her mother should go away for a change.
“Miss Belinda seems to be a precocious young person,” said T.X. “Did she by any chance see Mr. Kara?”
“Oh, no,” explained the girl. “Miss Belinda was above that sort of person. Miss Belinda was a lady, if ever there was one.”
“And how old is this interesting young woman?” asked T.X. curiously.
“She is nineteen,” said the girl, and the Commissioner, who had pictured Belinda in short plaid frocks and long pigtails, and had moreover visualised her as a freckled little girl with thin legs and snub nose, was abashed.
He delivered a short lecture on the sacred rights of property, paid the girl the three months’ wages which were due to her — he had no doubt as to the legality of her claim — and dismissed her with instructions to go back to the house, pack her box and clear out.
After the girl had gone, T.X. sat down to consider the position. He might see Kara and since Kara had expressed his contrition and was probably in a more humble state of mind, he might make reparation. Then again he might not. Mansus was waiting and T.X. walked back with him to his little office.
“I hardly know what to make of it,” he said in despair.
“If you can give me Kara’s motive, sir, I can give you a solution,” said Mansus.
T.X. shook his head.
“That is exactly what I am unable to give you,” he said.
He perched himself on Mansus’s desk and lit a cigar.
“I have a good mind to go round and see him,” he said after a while.
“Why not telephone to him?” asked Mansus. “There is his ‘phone straight into his boudoir.”
He pointed to a small telephone in a corner of the room.
“Oh, he persuaded the Commissioner to run the wire, did he?” said T.X. interested, and walked over to the telephone.
He fingered the receiver for a little while and was about to take it off, but changed his mind.
“I think not,” he said, “I’ll go round and see him tomorrow. I don’t hope to succeed in extracting the confidence in the case of Lady Bartholomew, which he denied me over poor Lexman.”
“I suppose you’ll never give up hope of seeing Mr. Lexman again,” smiled Mansus, busily arranging a new blotting pad.
Before T.X. could answer there came a knock at the door, and a uniformed policeman, entered. He saluted T.X.
“They’ve just sent an urgent letter across from your office, sir. I said I thought you were here.”
He handed the missive to the Commissioner. T.X. took it and glanced at the typewritten address. It was marked “urgent” and “by hand.” He took up the thin, steel, paperknife from the desk and slit open the envelope. The letter consisted of three or four pages of manuscript and, unlike the envelope, it was handwritten.
“My dear T.X.,” it began, and the handwriting was familiar.
Mansus, watching the Commissioner, saw the puzzled frown gather on his superior’s forehead, saw the eyebrows arch and the mouth open in astonishment, saw him hastily turn to the last page to read the signature and then:
“Howling apples!” gasped T.X. “It’s from John Lexman!”
His hand shook as he turned the closely written pages. The letter was dated that afternoon. There was no other address than “London.”
“My