wealthy and refined, with more than a spice of unconventionality. At times, too, beneath her habitual expressions of lively and vivacious interest, there was a touch of melancholy.
For an instant her face grew sad when her eyes rested on a typical family party of father, mother, and two girls who occupied seats in the row of stalls directly in front of her.
For some reason Bruce felt sorry for Mrs. Hillmer. He regretted that the exigencies of his quest forced him to make her his dupe, and he resolved that, if by any chance her scapegrace brother were concerned in Lady Dyke’s death, Mrs. Hillmer should, if possible, be spared personal humiliation or disgrace.
Indeed, he had formed such a favorable opinion of her that he had made up his mind to conduct his future investigations without causing her to assist involuntarily in putting a halter around her relative’s neck.
Nevertheless, it was impossible to avoid getting some further information, as the lady herself paved the way for it. Her comments betrayed such an accurate acquaintance with the technique of the stage that he said to her, “You must have acted a good deal?”
“No,” she said, “not very much. But I was stage struck when young.”
“But you have not appeared in public?”
“Yes, some six years ago. I worked so hard that I fell ill, and then – then I got married.”
“Do you go out much to theatres, nowadays?”
“Very little. It is lonely by oneself, and there are so few plays worth seeing.”
Bruce wondered why she insisted so strongly upon the isolation of her existence. In his new-found sympathy he forebore to question, and she continued:
“When I do visit a theatre I amuse myself mostly by silent criticism of the actors and actresses. Not that I could do better than many of them, or half so well, but it passes the time.”
“I hope you do not regard killing time as your main occupation?”
“It is so, I fear, however hard I may strive otherwise.” And again that shadow of regret darkened the fair face.
Some one in front turned round and glared at them angrily, for the famous comedian, Mr. Prospect Ricks, was singing his deservedly famous song, “It was all because I buttoned up her boots,” so the conversation dropped for the moment.
Claude focussed his opera-glasses on the stage. While his eyes wandered idly over the pretty faces and shapely limbs of the coryphées his brain was busy piecing together all that he had heard. The odd coincidence of the dates of Lady Dyke’s murder and the speedy departure of the self-styled Sydney Corbett for the Riviera would require a good deal of explanation by the latter gentleman.
True, it was not the barrister’s habit to jump at conclusions. There might be a perfectly valid motive for the journey. If the man did not desire his whereabouts to be known, why did he leave his address at the post-office?
And, then, what possible reason could Lady Dyke have in visiting him voluntarily and secretly at his chambers in Raleigh Mansions? This virtuous and high-principled lady could have nothing in common with a careless adventurer, taking the most lenient view of his sister’s description of him. And as Bruce’s subtle brain strove vainly to match the queer fragments of the puzzle, his keen eyes roved over the stage in aimless activity.
Suddenly they paused. His power of vision and mental analysis were alike inadequate to the new and startling fact which had obtruded itself, unasked and unsought for, upon his sight.
Among the least prominent of the chorus girls, posturing and moving with the stiffness and visible anxiety of the novice, who is not yet accustomed to the glare of the footlights upon undraped limbs, was one in whose every gesture Bruce took an absorbing interest.
He was endowed in full measure with that prime requisite in the detection of criminals, an unusually good memory for faces, together with the artistic faculty of catching the true expression.
Hence it was that, after the whirl of a dancing chorus had for a few seconds brought this particular member of the company close to the proscenium, Bruce became quite sure of having developed at least one branch of his inquiry within measurable distance of its conclusion.
The girl on the stage was Jane Harding, Lady Dyke’s maid.
When her features first flashed upon his conscious gaze he could hardly credit the discovery. But each instant of prolonged scrutiny placed the fact beyond doubt. Not even the make-up and the elaborate wig could conceal the contour of her pretty if insipid face, and a slight trick she had of drooping the left eyelid when thinking confirmed him in his belief.
So astounded was he at this sequel to his visit to the theatre, that he utilized every opportunity of a full stage to examine still further the appearance and style of this strange apparition.
When the curtain fell and Jane Harding had vanished, he was brought back to actuality by Mrs. Hillmer’s voice.
“Fie, Mr. Bruce. You are taking altogether too much notice of one of the fair ladies in front. Which one is it? The tall standard bearer or the little girl who pirouettes so gracefully?”
“Neither, I assure you. I was taken up by wondering how a young woman manages to secure employment in a theatre for the first time.”
“I think I can tell you. Influence goes a long way. Talent occasionally counts. Then, a well-known agent may, for a nominal fee, get an opening for a handsome, well-built girl who has taken lessons from either himself or some of his friends in dancing or singing, or both.”
“Is such a thing possible for a domestic servant?”
“It all depends upon the domestic servant’s circle of acquaintances. As a rule, I should say not. A theatre like this requires a higher average of intelligence.”
This, and more, Bruce well knew, but he was only making conversation, while he thought intently, almost fiercely, upon the latest phase of his strange quest.
During the third act he devoted more time to Mrs. Hillmer. If that sprightly dame were a little astonished at the celerity with which he conducted her to her carriage and the waiting Dobson, it was banished by the nice way in which he thanked her for the pleasure she had conferred.
“The enjoyment has been mostly on my side,” she cried, as he stood near the window of her brougham. “Come to see me again soon.”
He bowed, and would have said something if an imperious policeman had not ordered the coachman to make way for the next vehicle. So Mrs. Hillmer was whisked into the traffic.
From force of habit, he glanced casually at the crowd struggling through the exit of the theatre, and he caught sight of Mr. White, who, too late, averted his round eyes and strove to shield his portly form in the portico of a neighboring restaurant.
He did not want to be bothered by the detective just then. He lit a cigarette, and Mr. White slid off quietly into the stream of traffic, finally crossing the road and jumping on to a Charing Cross ’bus.
“So,” said Claude to himself, “White has been watching Raleigh Mansions, and watching me too. ’Pon my honor, I shouldn’t wonder if he suspected me of the murder! I’m glad I saw him just now. For the next couple of hours I wish to be free from his interference.”
Waiting a few moments to make sure that White had not detailed an aide-de-camp to continue the surveillance, he buttoned his overcoat to the chin, tilted his hat forward, and strolled round to the stage door of the Jollity Theatre.
CHAPTER VI
MISS MARIE LE MARCHANT
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