“You are right. Your instinct seldom fails you. I question if he ever, to his own knowledge, saw my wife.”
“Ah! You see you have hit upon the difficulty. Show me her reason for making that secret journey, and I will tell you how she met her death.”
His concluding words sank to a murmur. An old friend of Dyke’s had entered the room and came toward them.
A few minutes later Bruce quitted the Imperial and drove to his chambers, where he found a note from the ticket collector stating that Foxey’s name was William Marsh.
The day was still young, and the barrister paid a visit to the West London Police Court, where the records soon revealed the conviction of the cab-driver and the period of his sentence.
“Let me see,” said the resident inspector, “his time at Holloway is up on February 6. That is a Monday, and as Sunday doesn’t count, he will be liberated on the 4th, about 8 A.M. That is the habit, sir, in the matter of short sentences. If you want to see him when he leaves the jail you can either wait at the gates or at the nearest public-house, where the prisoners go for their first drink. They seldom or never miss.”
Bruce thanked the official and returned home.
He was on the point of going out to drive, when he received a letter from Sir Charles Dyke. It ran:
“My Dear Claude,—Today’s experiences have taught me to take the inevitable step of announcing my wife’s death. Hence, I have forwarded the enclosed notice to an advertisement agency, with instructions to insert it in the principal papers. I have also decided to follow your advice and leave town for a few days. I am going to Wensley, my place in Yorkshire, should you happen to want me.
“Yours,
“Charles Dyke.”