“That’s how I take it,” said Sir Charles.
“Unless the whole thing is a fraud.”
“How can it be a fraud? I am sure as to the handwriting. Why, even yourself, Bruce, must have a good recollection of my wife’s style.”
“Undoubtedly. No man born could swear that this was not Lady Dyke’s production.”
“Well, what are we to do?”
“And what did Mrs. Hillmer mean by kicking up that fuss when we spoke to her?” interpolated White. “I’ll take my oath that some one was killed in her house, else how comes it that a woman found in the Thames at Putney is carrying about in her head some of Mrs. Hillmer’s ironwork? I wish she hadn’t fainted just now. Why, she said herself that she was the cause of Lady Dyke’s death, and here is Lady Dyke writing to say she is alive. This business is beyond me, but Mrs. Hillmer has got to explain a good deal yet before I am done with her.”
The detective’s wrath at this check in the hunt after a criminal did not appeal to the baronet.
“You can please yourself, Mr. White, of course,” he said coldly; “but so far as I am concerned, I will respect my wife’s wishes, and let the matter rest where it is.”
“My dear fellow,” said the barrister, “such a course is impossible. Assuming that her ladyship is really alive, why did she leave you?”
“How can I tell? She herself refuses to give a reason. She apparently stated one in a letter which never reached me, as you know. She has selfishly caused me a world of suffering and misery for three long months. I refuse to be plagued in the matter further.”