“Sir Charles thought you might come, sir, so he sent his carriage.”
London looked dull but familiar as they rolled across Leicester Square and up Regent Street. Your true Cockney knows that he is out of his latitude when the sky is blue overhead. Let him hear the tinkle of the hansoms’ bells through a dim, fog-laden atmosphere, and he knows where he is. There is but one London, and Cockneydom is the order of Melchisedek. Claude’s heart was glad within him to be home again, even though the band was just gathering in the Casino gardens, and the lights of Monaco were beginning to gleam over the moon-lit expanse of the Mediterranean.
At Wensley House the traveller was warmly welcomed by the baronet, who seemed to have somewhat recovered his health and spirits.
Nevertheless, Bruce was distressed to note the ineffaceable signs of the suffering Sir Charles Dyke had undergone since the disappearance of his wife. He had aged quite ten years in appearance. Deep lines of sorrowful thought had indented his brow, his face was thinner, his eyes had acquired a wistful look; his air was that of a man whose theory of life had been forcibly reversed.
At first both men fought shy of the topic uppermost in their minds, but the after-dinner cigar brought the question to Dyke’s lips:
“And now, Claude, have you any further news concerning my wife’s—death?”
The barrister noted the struggle before the final word came. The husband had, then, resigned all hope.
“I have none,” he answered. “That is to say, I have nothing definite. I promised to tell you everything I did, so I will keep my promise, but you will, of course, differentiate between facts and theories?”
The baronet nodded an agreement.
“In the first place,” said Bruce, “let me ask you whether or not you have seen Jane Harding, the missing maid?”