“She will tell you herself. Let us have her up.”
“Don’t trouble her. If I remember aright the police did not examine Jane Harding’s room. They simply took your report and the statements of the other servants, while the housekeeper was responsible for the partial search made through the girl’s boxes for some clue that might lead to her discovery.”
“That is so.”
The barrister smoked in silence for a few minutes, until Sir Charles broke out rather querulously:
“I suppose I did wrong in letting Harding take her traps?”
“No,” said Bruce. “It is I who am to blame. There is something underhanded about this young woman’s conduct. The story about the sudden wealth is all bunkum, in one sense. That she did receive a bequest or gift of a considerable sum cannot be doubted. That she at once decided to go on the stage is obvious. But what is the usual course for a servant to pursue in such cases? Would she not have sought first to glorify herself in the sight of her fellow-servants, and even of her employers? Would there not have been the display of a splendid departure—in a hansom—with voluble directions to the driver, for the benefit of the footman? As it was, Jane Harding acted suddenly, precipitately, under the stress of some powerful emotion. I cannot help believing that her departure from this house had some connection, however remote, with Lady Dyke’s disappearance.”
“Good heavens, Claude, you never told me this before.”
“True, but when we last met I had not the pleasure of Miss Marie le Marchant’s acquaintance. I wish to goodness I had rummaged her boxes before she carried them off.”
“And I sincerely echo your wish,” said Sir Charles testily. “It always seems, somehow, that I am to blame.”