At five-and-twenty Kenyon was an unknown, but—having regard to his literary merit—an overpaid scribbler on one of the big New York dailies; but now, only ten years later, he was universally admitted to be the most unerring sleuth-hound of the whole shrewd band of secret police owning allegiance to Uncle Sam, and whose business in South Africa at the present time, needless to say, was known only to himself.
At once retaking his way to the hotel he had left that morning, the detective settled down to read the book in question, (“Into the Unknown”) and in a few hours’ time had mastered its contents, and lay quietly back in his chair, smoking, and thinking deeply.
After a further hour had been expended in this comforting and, no doubt, edifying fashion, he took out a well-worn notebook, and wrote several lines therein in shorthand; then, returning the book to his pocket, he started out for a stroll, and seven o’clock saw him seated opposite to the lawyer, and enjoying most thoroughly the excellent dinner provided for him by that worthy gentleman.
“And now,” said Mr Driffield, when the cloth was removed and both men had lighted their cigars, “let me have your opinion of ‘Into the Unknown,’ or, rather, as to what extent the events narrated therein may or may not bear upon the present disappearance of our friend Grenville.”
“First,” said the detective, calmly begging the question, and taking out his notebook, “who are you working for, Mr Driffield? I mean,” he added, quickly, “is it some relation of Grenville’s who is anxious about the missing man, or have you yourself any personal interest in the search?”
“None at all,” was the reply. “Let me be quite frank with you, Kenyon. I am employed by his cousin, Lord Drelincourt, who shared his adventures amongst the Mormons, and my lord is in no end of a taking about him. You see, the two men were like twin brothers all their lives, and now that Lord Drelincourt has lost his wife and child, he feels alone in life, poor fellow, and would give his whole fortune to have his cousin by his side.”
“How very sad,” commented the detective. “So he took poor Dora Winfield homo only to bury her. How did it all happen?”
“No one knows,” said the little lawyer, dropping his voice. “Poor Lady Drelincourt and her one-year-old boy were found dead in bed one morning, without even the suspicion of a mark of violence upon them.
“My lord was away from home when it happened, and the shock almost unseated his reason, and for weeks after the sad event he was down with brain fever. Though quite a young man, his hair turned snowy-white when he realised the awful extent of his cruel loss, and awoke from his long illness only to find that his dead had long been buried out of his sight. Doctors and detectives were called in at the time, but everything was in vain. The detectives were hopelessly at fault, and the only theory the doctors could advance was that mother and child had been chloroformed to death.
“The servants were old family retainers, and were entirely beyond suspicion, being all of them passionately devoted to their sweet young mistress, and bound to their loved master as much by his personal worth and goodness as by the unbroken ties of voluntary servitude during three generations.