Transcriber’s Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY

THE ’PHONE BOOTH
MYSTERY

BY

JOHN IRONSIDE

AUTHOR OF
“THE RED SYMBOL,” “FORGED IN STRONG FIRES,” ETC.

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1924

AUTHORIZED EDITION
First Printing, August, 1924
Second Printing, October, 1924

PRINTED IN
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

THE ’PHONE BOOTH MYSTERY

CHAPTER I LADY RAWSON

“I’m extremely sorry, Carling. It’s too bad to keep you to-night, but——”

“That’s all right, sir. Lucky they came in to-night and not to-morrow. I shall soon be through with them.”

“It’s most awfully good of you,” rejoined Sir Robert Rawson heartily. “I would deal with them myself, but we are dining with Lord Warrington, as you know.”

“Yes, sir; but it’s of no consequence really. I can spare the time perfectly well.”

Already Carling’s sleek head was bent over the special dispatches which had just been delivered at the private residence of Sir Robert Rawson. There were two sets, written in different languages, but both referring to one subject—secret intelligence concerning the strained relations between two foreign countries: a matter that at present was suspected rather than known, but that might at any moment develop on serious lines, and even occasion a war involving Great Powers.

These particular papers were probably of immense importance. That remained to be seen; and Carling’s duty was to translate and prepare a précis of them for his chief.

They certainly had arrived at rather an awkward moment for the young secretary—on the eve of his six weeks’ holiday, which would include a honeymoon, for he was to be married on the morrow.

“I don’t know what on earth I shall do without you, Roger,” Sir Robert remarked, casting a glance of mingled affection and compunction at the young man, whom he had learnt to regard as his right hand, and to whom he was sincerely attached, wishing with all his heart that he had a son like him; but he had married late in life and he and his wife were childless.

She entered the room at this moment, and he advanced to meet her with courtly apology.

“Have I kept you waiting, Paula? Forgive me.”

“It is no matter, we are in good time,” she answered in a voice so rich and soft that the words sounded like a caress, accompanied as they were by a smiling glance at her husband. “Why, is that poor Mr. Carling still at work? It is too bad of you, Robert, to detain him on this night of all others.”

She spoke as though she had but just caught sight of the industrious secretary, yet as she entered the room she had seen him at once, and noted his occupation.

She crossed to his side now in a graceful, leisurely manner that, to her husband’s admiring eyes, seemed perfectly natural. He did not perceive the keen glance she directed, not at the secretary, but at the papers over which he was poring.

“It is too bad!” she repeated in her caressing voice. “You should—what is the word?—ah, yes, you should strike, Mr. Carling.”

Roger looked up and stumbled to his feet, thereby interposing himself as a screen between her and his writing-table.

“Not at all, though it’s awfully kind of you to say so, Lady Rawson,” he murmured confusedly. “As I told Sir Robert, I had nothing particular to do this evening; Grace doesn’t expect me, and I’d rather finish up everything to the last moment.”

“Is the work important?” She directed the question to her husband.

“Yes, and we really must not hinder him. Good night, my boy. We shall see you to-morrow. You’ll put those papers in the safe as usual, of course. I’ll attend to them in the morning—or to-night, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir. Good night. Good-bye, Lady Rawson.”

“Not good-bye; you forget that I also will come to the marriage,” she said graciously, giving him her hand.

“We shall be honoured,” he murmured, as he bowed over the small gloved hand, with outward deference and inward aversion.

He disliked and distrusted his chief’s lovely young wife—why he did not know, for her manner towards him had always been charming. It was a purely instinctive feeling which, naturally, he had carefully concealed, and of which he was not a little ashamed; but there it was.

She was of foreign birth, but of what nationality no one seemed to know; a strikingly handsome young woman, whose marriage to the elderly financier had created a considerable sensation, for Sir Robert had long been considered a confirmed bachelor. Malicious tongues had predicted a speedy and scandalous dissolution of this union of May and December, but those predictions were as yet unfulfilled, for Lady Rawson’s conduct was irreproachable. She appeared as absolutely devoted to her husband as he was to her, and even the most inveterate and malignant gossip found no opportunity of assailing her fair fame. Yet, although immensely admired she was not popular. There was something of the sphinx about her—a serene but impenetrable mystery. Roger Carling was by no means the only person who felt that strong aversion from her.

He watched her now as, by her husband’s side, she recrossed the large room, moving with the languid, sinuous grace peculiar to her. She looked royally beautiful to-night, in a diaphanous robe of vivid green and gold tissue, an emerald tiara poised proudly on her splendid, simply dressed black hair, a magnificent emerald collar scintillating on her white neck.

She turned at the door and flashed a farewell smile at the young man, to which, as to Sir Robert’s genial nod, he responded with a bow.

“What is there about her that always makes me think of a snake?” he asked himself as, with a sigh of genuine relief, he reseated himself at the writing-table. “And Grace feels just the same, though she has always been jolly nice to her. I wish she wasn’t coming to-morrow, but of course it can’t be helped. Wonder what took her to that unlikely place yesterday, for I’ll swear it was she, though I’ve never seen her in that get-up before, but I’d know her walk anywhere. However, it’s none of my business where she goes or what she does.”

He addressed himself to his task again—an absorbing one, for the papers contained startling and most valuable information, which should be communicated to the Government with as little delay as possible. That was Sir Robert’s duty, of course.

He finished at last, folded and arranged the papers in order, with his translation and notes on top, tied them with red tape, stuffed them into a blue, canvas-lined official envelope printed with Sir Robert’s address, sealed the package—quite a bulky one—and bestowed it in a small safe in the wall, cunningly concealed behind one of the oak panels. Only he and his chief knew the secret of the panel or possessed keys of the safe.

“Thank goodness, that’s done,” he ejaculated, as he closed the panel, which slid noiselessly into place. “Ten o’clock, by Jove! Those fellows will think I’m never coming.”

He was to spend the last night of his bachelor existence at Austin Starr’s chambers in Westminster, where a convivial supper-party awaited him. He had already telephoned that he would not arrive till late.

In the hall he encountered Thomson, Sir Robert’s confidential man—a short, spare, reticent individual, who had grown grey in his master’s service.

“Won’t you have some coffee, sir, or a whisky-and-soda,” he asked, as he helped Roger into his coat.

“No, thanks. Good night, Thomson, and good-bye. I shan’t be back for some weeks, you know.”

“Good-bye, sir, and the best of good luck to you and the young lady.”

The last words were an astonishing concession, for Thomson seldom uttered an unnecessary syllable—not even to his master. Roger was surprised and touched.

“Good old Thomson!” he thought, as he hailed a passing taxi. “I suppose he actually approves of me after all, though I should never have guessed it! What a queer old stick he is.”

He was greeted uproariously by the small assemblage that awaited him at Austin Starr’s snug flat in Great Smith Street: Starr himself, a smart young American journalist, whom he had met when he was on service during the war, and with whom he had formed a friendship that seemed likely to prove permanent; George Winston, a Foreign Office clerk, who was to be his “best man” to-morrow; and some half-dozen others.

Already he had dismissed from his mind everything connected with the task that had detained him, and never gave it another thought. But it was abruptly recalled to him the next morning when he was awakened by his host.

“Real sorry to disturb you, Roger. Late? No, it’s quite bright and early, but they’ve rung you up from Grosvenor Gardens—Sir Robert himself.”

“Sir Robert! What on earth can he want at this hour!” he exclaimed, springing out of bed and hurrying to the telephone.

“Is that you, sir?... Those papers? They’re in the safe.... Not there! But they must be. Sealed up in one of the blue envelopes. They can’t have been stolen—it’s impossible.... Yes, of course, sir, I’ll come up at once.”

CHAPTER II “MURDER MOST FOUL!”

“I want to telephone.”

“Yes, madam. What number?”

“I—— Can’t I ring up for myself?”

The momentary hesitation in speech caused the busy little postmistress to glance up at her customer—a lady of medium height and slender figure, well but quietly dressed. She wore a motor hat with a dark-blue veil which fell loosely over her face, shrouding her features; but Mrs. Cave judged her to be handsome, and guessed her elderly, for she saw the gleam of white hair. A nervous old lady, probably unused to telephoning.

“No, madam. If you will just give me the number I will tell you when you are connected. The booth is at the end of the shop.”

The lady glanced in the direction indicated and again hesitated, standing at the railed-in post office counter and resting a fairly large morocco bag on it—a dressing or jewel bag—though she retained her grip of the handle with both hands. The right hand was ungloved and several valuable rings sparkled on the delicate white fingers.

“Oh, very well! No. 5339 Granton. How much?” she said at last, speaking in a low voice, with a slight but perceptible foreign accent. Removing her bejewelled hand from the bag, she fumbled in a châtelaine purse and produced a shilling.

Mrs. Cave entered and applied for the call before she took the coin and dealt out the change.

The bell tinkled, and at the same instant two other customers came into the shop.

“Your number, madam,” said Mrs. Cave, indicating the ’phone booth. “Your change.”

But the lady was already on her way to the box, and, setting the change aside on the counter, the postmistress turned to serve the new-comers—a woman who wanted to draw ten shillings from the savings bank, a man and a child demanding stamps. As she attended to them briskly in turn, two more people entered and went to the stationery counter opposite.

Mrs. Cave glanced at them apologetically; fortunately she knew them both, but it really was trying that a rush should come just at this moment when she was single-handed. Her husband was out, her niece at dinner upstairs.

“That’s your parcel, Mr. Laidlaw,” she called from behind her grating. “There, on the right. Jessie will be down to serve you in half a minute, Miss Ellis.”

As she spoke she rang the bell to summon her niece, and also, as the telephone sounded the end of the call, she mechanically rang off. Other customers came in, and for a few minutes she and Jessie were as busy as they could be, and only when the shop was clear again did she notice the change set aside for the telephone customer.

“There, that lady never asked for her change after all, and I didn’t see her go out either. I dare say she’ll be back for it directly. Did you finish your dinner, Jessie? No? Then you’d better run up and have it while there’s time.”

Jessie Jackson, a nice-looking, fresh-complexioned girl, very like her capable little aunt, came from behind the news counter, and passed along to the door at the back leading to the house, close by and at right angles to that of the telephone booth; a dark corner on this dull, foggy November day.

“There’s something wet here!” she exclaimed. “Somebody must have been spilling some water.”

She reached for an electric switch and turned on the light.

An instant later Mrs. Cave heard a shriek that brought her rushing out of the post office, to find the girl leaning back against the doorpost, her face blanched, her dilated eyes staring at the horrible pool in which she was standing—a pool of blood, forming from a stream that trickled over the sill of the telephone booth, the door of which was partly open.

“My God! What’s happened?” cried Mrs. Cave. “Here, pull yourself together, girl, and get out of the way.”

Clutching Jessie’s arm she hauled her aside and pulled open the door. Something lurched forward—a heap surmounted by a blue veil.

“It’s her, the lady herself; she—she must have broken a blood vessel—or something,” she gasped, bending down and trying to lift the huddled figure, for she was a clever and resourceful little woman, and as yet no suspicion of the ghastly truth had flashed to her mind. “Run, Jessie—run and call someone—anyone.”

But Jessie had collapsed on a chair by the counter, sobbing and shaking, half-fainting, and it was her aunt whose screams summoned the neighbours and passers-by. The greengrocer from the opposite corner shop was first on the scene, wiping his mouth as he ran, for he too had been disturbed at dinner. In less than a minute the shop was filled to overflowing, and a crowd had gathered outside, through which a belated policeman shouldered his way.

“’Ere, make way there! Stand back, will you? What’s up ’ere?” he began with pompous authority. “Good Lord! Why, it’s murder!”

“It can’t be—how can it?” sobbed poor Mrs. Cave, whose nerve had given way at last. “Why, there wasn’t a soul anywhere near her!”

“Do you know who she is?” demanded the officer, bending over the corpse, but not touching it. The woman was dead, not a doubt of that. It was best to leave her as she was till the doctor arrived.

A ghastly object she looked lying huddled there, her head still shrouded in the blue motor veil, now horribly drenched and bedabbled. It had been flung back from her face—probably she had raised it herself when she entered the booth a few short minutes before—and her naturally handsome features were distorted to an expression of fear and horror, the dark eyes half open, the lips drawn back showing the white, even teeth. There was no doubt as to the cause of death, for under her left ear was plainly visible the still-welling wound—a clean stab less than half an inch broad that had completely severed the jugular vein.

“I never saw her before,” cried Mrs. Cave, wringing her hands helplessly. “She just came in to telephone, and when she went into the booth several people came in and we were busy for a few minutes, and I never thought a word about her till we found her—Jessie and I—like that! She must have done it herself—and in our shop, too! Oh, whatever shall we do!”

At the moment the obvious thing to be done was to clear the shop and summon the local doctor and the district police inspector, who arrived simultaneously a few minutes later.

The woman had been murdered, not a doubt of that, for it was impossible that such a wound could have been self-inflicted. It was extraordinarily deep, penetrating nearly three inches, and causing practically instantaneous death; while no weapon whatever was discovered nor anything that, at the moment, disclosed the identity of the victim.

One fact was established at once: that she had been partially disguised, for the white hair which Mrs. Cave had noticed proved to be a wig—what hairdressers describe as a “transformation”—adjusted over the natural hair, silky, luxuriant dark tresses closely coiled about the shapely head. Her age was judged by the doctor to be about five-and-twenty, and she was a fine and handsome young woman, presumably wealthy also. Certainly her white, well-shaped, beautifully kept hands had had no acquaintance with work of any kind, and the rings on the slender fingers were extremely valuable, among them a wedding ring. On the floor of the booth was found her gold purse, containing a sum of four pounds odd in notes and silver.

But of the murderer there was no trace whatever, except, indeed, a wet and bloodstained dishcloth lying in the sink of a little scullery place behind the shop. The house was originally a private one, and the whole of the ground floor had been converted into business premises. The Cave’s kitchen and living-room were on the first floor, the stairs going up just inside the door leading into the shop at the back, beside the telephone booth. At the foot of the staircase was a private door opening on to a side street, and beyond it the scullery and a fairly long garden, with a door at the end through which also the side street could be gained. This door had bolts top and bottom, but they were now drawn back, though the door itself was closed.

“Is this door always kept open like this?” asked the inspector of little Mrs. Cave, who, though still piteously agitated, followed him and managed to answer his many questions promptly and intelligibly.

“No, it’s never unbolted except when the dustmen come, and I bolted it myself after them yesterday.”

The inspector nodded, and jotted a line in his notebook. Stepping out into the street, he glanced up and down. It was a particularly quiet and respectable little street, the upper end flanked by the walls of the gardens belonging to the two corner houses, the lower by small suburban villas, each with its tiny garden in front: a street where usually at this time of day the only passers-by were children returning to school, but where already a big and increasing crowd was assembled at the corner by the Cave’s shop and house.

“There’s the inspector; you just come along and tell him what you saw, Margie,” cried a woman, who thereupon ran towards him, dragging a pretty little girl by the hand. “Please, sir, my Margie saw a man come out of the side door and run away just before the screaming began.”

“What’s that? Come, tell me all about it, my dear. Quick, where did he come from? This door?”

“No, sir—that,” said the child promptly, pointing to the house door. “Mother sent me for a lemon, and——”

“What was he like?”

“One of them shovers, sir, that drives the taxis. He was saying swear words, and run ever so fast down the street.” Again she pointed.

“Did you see his cab—a taxicab?”

“No, there wasn’t only me and the man.”

“Should you know him again?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Good girl! What’s your name? Margery Davies—at number six? That’s right.”

With a kindly nod, leaving Margie and her mother to be surrounded and questioned by the excited crowd that had followed them and listened to the brief colloquy—he entered the garden, just in time to encounter Jessie Jackson, who stumbled against him, and would have fallen if he had not shot out a ready arm to support her.

“Hallo! Who’s this young woman, and what’s the matter with her?” he demanded, lowering her to the ground, gently enough, and scrutinizing her face—a pretty, innocent-looking young face, deadly pale at this moment, for the girl had fainted.

“It’s Jessie, my niece, that found the poor thing, as I told you. It’s upset her—no wonder. Why, Jessie, dear,” cried Mrs. Cave, incoherently, kneeling beside her and frantically chafing her limp hands.

“I must see her presently, when you’ve got her round,” said the inspector, and returned to the house.

CHAPTER III THE TAXICAB

A curious hush brooded over the shop, closed by order of the inspector. Even the post office business must be suspended for the present.

On the floor between the counters was a long object covered by a coloured tablecloth—the corpse of the murdered woman, with limbs decently straightened now. Beside it, on a shop chair, sat the doctor, grave and silent, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance which would convey the body to the mortuary, there to await identification.

Outside the glass doors two constables were stationed, monotonously requesting the crowd to “pass along there”; and behind the post office counter was a third, who turned to his superior.

“I’ve rung up 5339 Granton, sir, and——”

“Half a minute,” said the inspector, going to the telephone and giving instructions to the station, that instituted an immediate search for a fugitive taxicab driver—one who presumably belonged to and was familiar with the neighbourhood.

“Well, what about 5339?”

“They say that they were rung up, sir, just about the time—one thirty-five—but nobody spoke, and they supposed it must have been a wrong call as they were rung off again immediately.”

“Who are they?”

“A flat in Lely Mansions, Chelsea, sir, name of Winston; it was a maid servant spoke, but the name’s all right—Mr. George Winston. I’ve looked it up in the Directory.”

A slight commotion was heard from the back, Mrs. Cave was helping her niece up the stairs, and Inspector Evans promptly followed to the kitchen over the back shop, which was also the living-room, with the remains of dinner on the table, including a plate with a mutton chop and potatoes, untouched.

The girl had only partially recovered, and was trembling and sobbing. As the inspector appeared in the doorway she uttered a moan as of fear, and really looked as if she was about to faint again.

“Come, come, this won’t do,” he said, cheeringly and encouragingly. “Pull yourself together, missie. Have you got a drop of brandy to give her, Mrs. Cave? It’s what she wants.”

“There’s some in my cupboard upstairs, in case of illness. There, sit down, dearie, while I run and fetch it.”

Little Mrs. Cave hurried away, and the girl eyed her companion shrinkingly, but to her momentary relief he said nothing—merely glanced round the room in a seemingly casual manner. In half a minute her aunt fluttered back, bringing a small flat bottle half filled with brandy.

“Give it her neat, ma’am. There, that’s better; it’s been an upsetting time for you both, eh?”

“That it has!” Mrs. Cave assented vehemently. “I can’t believe it even now, and never shall I forget it. I don’t wonder the child nearly died of fright. And—why, Jessie, dear, why ever hadn’t you eaten your dinner?”

“I was just going to—when you rang—and—and——”

The mumbling words broke off and Jessie hid her face in her hands.

“You didn’t feel to want your dinner then?”

The inspector’s voice was mild but insistent.

“Or you hadn’t time to begin—was that it?”

“But you came up ever so long before. I left it all ready for you; we haven’t got a servant just now, you see, only a girl that comes in mornings,” Mrs. Cave interposed flustered, perplexed, and explanatory.

“Who was here talking to you, so that you forgot to eat your dinner?”

That question was blunt and sharp enough, and Mrs. Cave stared in incredulous astonishment and dismay from the inspector to Jessie.

“Come, answer me, missie!”

The girl looked up at that, and the wild fear in her eyes rendered his suspicion a certainty.

“There wasn’t anyone here,” she muttered.

“Then what’s this?” It was a half-smoked cigarette, that he picked up from a used plate at the other side of the table—the plate from which Mrs. Cave had eaten her pudding an hour before. “Do either of you ladies smoke Woodbines?”

“Smoke? I should think not!” cried Mrs. Cave. “Jessie, Jessie—oh, what does it all mean?”

The girl started to her feet, her eyes glaring, a spot of colour flashing into each pallid cheek.

“I don’t know. I tell you there wasn’t anyone here. I’ll swear it! What do you want to goad me like this for? I won’t answer another question—so there!” she vociferated hysterically. “I never murdered her. I never knew or thought a thing about it all till I saw—I saw——”

Her fictitious strength departed, and she sank down again, wailing like a distraught creature.

“You’ll have to answer questions at the inquest to-morrow, my girl, and you’ll be on your oath then,” said Evans, stowing the cigarette in the pocket of his notebook as he retreated. He knew she was concealing something, but recognized that it was impossible to get any information out of her at the moment, while there were many other matters that claimed his immediate attention.

The ambulance had arrived, together with several more police constables, and a taxicab had drawn up by the curb. From it an alert-looking, clean-shaved young man alighted, and, pushing his way authoritatively through the crowd, began interrogating the men on guard at the door.

Evans saw him through the glass, recognized an acquaintance, and himself opened the door.

“Come in, Mr. Starr; might have known you’d be turning up, though how you got wind of it so soon beats me. Vultures aren’t in it with you newspaper gents!”

“Pure chance this time. I was on my way to a wedding and saw the crowd,” said Austin Starr. “You’ll give me the facts as far as they go? Is that—it?”

Evans nodded.

“A lady; we don’t know yet who she is.”

At a sign from him the doctor bent, and with a quiet reverent touch uncovered the face. Starr looked down at it, and started uncontrollably.

“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, in an awestruck whisper.

“You know her?”

“I’ve seen her a good few times. She’s Lady Rawson—Sir Robert Rawson’s wife.”

“Lady Rawson!”

“That’s so; and I’m plumb certain she was to have been at this very wedding to-day, and Sir Ralph, too!”

“What wedding’s that?”

“Sir Robert’s secretary, Roger Carling. We’re old friends; he slept at my place last night, and he’s marrying Miss Armitage at St. Paul’s Church near here. But that’s no matter. Give me the story right now, please.”

A story that, a few minutes later, was augmented by the startling news that the taxicab for which the police were on the look out had already been traced, and under singular circumstances. Recklessly driven, it had come to grief at the Broadway, a mile or so distant, by colliding with a motor van; with the result that the cab was smashed, the driver—identified as Charles Sadler, No. C417—badly injured, while within the vehicle was found Lady Rawson’s bag, which had been cut open by some sharp instrument and was quite empty.

CHAPTER IV A BELATED BRIDEGROOM

While the tragic commotion in the High Road was at its height a very different scene was being enacted at the fine old riverside church three-quarters of a mile away. A smart wedding is a rare event in the suburbs, and, despite the gloomy weather conditions—for a thick fog hung over the river and was now rapidly extending inland—an interested crowd assembled outside, watching the arrival of the many guests, dimly seen through the thickening murk, while along the Mall was a line of carriages and motors, looking like a file of fiery-eyed monsters, when the rapidly increasing darkness necessitated the lighting of their head-lamps.

The bevy of bridesmaids waited in the porch, chief among them Winnie Winston, a tall, handsome girl, with frank, laughing blue eyes. She alone of the little group appeared undaunted by the sinister gloom.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t look so lugubrious, girls!” she counselled, in a laughing undertone. “It’s too bad of the fog to come just now—after such a lovely morning too!—but it can’t be helped, and——”

She turned as someone touched her arm—her brother George, who was “best man” to-day, and even her high spirits were checked by his worried expression.

“I say, Win, Roger hasn’t turned up yet. What on earth’s to be done?”

“Not turned up! Why, where is he? Haven’t you been with him?”

“No. When I got to Starr’s rooms he wasn’t there. He left a message that Sir Robert had ’phoned for him, and if he didn’t get back by one o’clock he’d come straight on to the church, but he’s not here.”

“Perhaps there’s a fog in Town too,” she suggested, with a backward glance at the Rembrandtesque scene outside, where the shaft of light from the open door shone weirdly on the watching faces. “He’ll come directly—he must! Where’s Mr. Starr?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Then they’re probably together, or he may be coming on with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson. They’re not here yet, are they? What on earth can Sir Robert have wanted him for this morning? Horribly inconsiderate of him! Goodness, here’s Grace! Have you told the vicar that Roger hasn’t come? Then you’d better do so.”

She resumed her place as the bride advanced on her father’s arm, looking like a white ghost in her gleaming satin robe, with the filmy veil shrouding her bent head and her fair face.

“What’s the matter?” whispered the second brides maid.

“Nothing. S—sh!” answered Winnie, and breathed a silent thanksgiving as the choir struck up the hymn and began slowly to advance up the aisle, the bridal procession following. But her heart sank as she saw her brother hurry along the south aisle and out at the side door, evidently in the hope of meeting the tardy bridegroom.

Where could he be? And why hadn’t Austin Starr arrived? Not that Starr’s absence was anything extraordinary, for his exacting profession rendered him a socially erratic being. It was for that very reason that he had refused to fill the office of best man.

The hymn came to an end, the choir stood in their stalls, the bridal party halted at the chancel and there was a horrible pause, punctuated by the uneasy whispers exchanged by the guests.

The vicar came forward at length and proposed an adjournment to the vestry. He was no ordinary cleric, but a man with a fine, forceful, and magnetic personality, endowed, moreover, with consummate tact and good feeling; in brief, the Reverend Joseph Iverson was—and is—a Christian and gentleman in every sense of those often misused words.

“We can wait more comfortably in here,” he announced cheerily, as he brought forward a rush-bottomed chair for the bride, and in fatherly fashion, with a compelling hand on her shoulder, placed her in it.

“There, sit you down, and don’t be distressed, my dear child. I’m quite sure there’s no cause for alarm. Anyone—even a bridegroom—may be excused for losing his way in such a fog as this that has descended upon us. That’s the explanation of his absence, depend upon it. And he will arrive in another minute or two—in a considerable fluster, I’ll be bound, poor lad!”

His genial laugh reassured the others, who stood round, awkward, anxious, and embarrassed, as people naturally are at such a moment; but Grace looked up at him with a glance so tragic that it startled and distressed him.

He had known her ever since she was a little child, and never had he thought to see such an expression in her gentle grey eyes.

“It’s not that—not the fog,” she whispered, so low that he had to bend his head to catch the words. “Something terrible has happened; I feel it—I’m certain of it!”

Winnie Winston, standing close beside her, overheard the whisper. Her eyes met the vicar’s in mutual interrogation, perplexity, and dismay, and the same thought flashed through both their minds. Grace knew something, feared something; but what?

“Nonsense!” he responded. “You are nervous and upset—that’s only natural; but you mustn’t start imagining all sorts of things, for——”

“Here he is!” exclaimed Winnie in accents of fervent relief, as Roger, attended by George Winston, hurried into the vestry, hot and agitated, looking very unlike a bridegroom, especially as he was still wearing his ordinary morning suit.

He had eyes and speech only for his bride.

“Grace! Forgive me, darling! I couldn’t help it really. Sir Robert kept me, and then I couldn’t get a cab, and had to walk from—from the station.” She did not notice the momentary hesitation that marked the last words, though she remembered it afterwards. “I lost my way in the fog and thought I should never get here in time!”

“Just as I said!” remarked the vicar triumphantly. “Come along now, we’ve no time to lose.”

He led the way, a stately self-possessed figure, and the delayed service proceeded.

“Oh, Roger, I was so frightened!” Grace confided to her bridegroom as they drove slowly back through the gloom to her father’s house. “I felt sure something dreadful had happened to you; and the fog coming on like this too! It—it seems so unlucky, so sinister!”

She shivered, and he clasped her more closely, with masculine indifference to the danger of crumpling her finery.

“Cheer up, darling, it’s all right. We shall soon be out of the fog and into the sunshine,” he laughed. “And the fog wasn’t the chief cause of delay, after all. I should have got to the church before it came on if I hadn’t had to go to Sir Robert. I was awfully upset about it, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“Why, is anything wrong?”

“Afraid so. Some important papers have disappeared. I put them in the safe myself last night; the Rawsons were dining out and I stayed rather late, over these very papers. When Sir Robert went to get them this morning they were gone, though there was nothing to show that the safe had been tampered with; in fact, it hadn’t. It’s a most mysterious thing!”

He tried to speak lightly, but her sensitive ears caught the note of anxiety in his voice, and that queer sense of foreboding assailed her afresh.

“Oh, Roger, have they been found?”

“They hadn’t when I came away soon after twelve.”

“Then—then what will happen? Were they very important?”

“Very,” he replied, ignoring the first question, which was really unanswerable. “However, it’s no use worrying about them, darling; if they should have turned up Sir Robert is sure to come or telephone. Here we are!”

There was no time to spare for further thought or conjecture concerning the mystery of the missing papers until, an hour and a half later, they were on their way to Victoria, whirling rapidly along in a taxi, for the fog had lifted.

They had none too much time to get the train to Dover, where they intended to stay the night at the “Lord Warden” and cross to Calais next day, en route for Paris and the Riviera.

“The Rawsons didn’t come after all,” Grace remarked. “Mother was so disappointed, poor dear, for she had been telling every one about them, and then they never turned up! I’m not sorry though—at least about Lady Rawson. I don’t know what there is about her that always makes me think of a snake. That sounds very ungrateful when she gave me these lovely furs”—she glanced down at the costly chinchilla wrap and muff she wore, which had been Lady Rawson’s wedding gift—“but really I can’t help it.”

“Same here! And it really is curious considering she’s always been so jolly decent to us both. I wonder——”

He broke off, knitting his brows perplexedly, and as if in response to his unspoken thought Grace exclaimed:

“Roger, do you think she could have had anything to do with those missing papers?”

He glanced at her in astonishment.

“What makes you ask that, darling?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. It just flashed into my mind. But do you think so? Sir Robert didn’t ’phone to you, did he?”

“No. And I don’t know what to think about Lady Rawson. Oh, bother the papers; let’s forget all about them—for to-day, anyhow! I say, beloved, it doesn’t seem possible that we’re really married and off on our honeymoon, does it?”

She laughed, softly and shyly, and again the shadow fled for a time. What did anything matter save the fact that they were together, with all the world before them?

“Why don’t you smoke?” she asked presently. “I’m sure you’re dying for a cigarette, you poor boy; and I don’t believe you had anything to eat at the house—it was all such a fluster. We’ll have tea in the train, if George Winston has the sense to order a tea-basket for us.”

“Trust old George for that,” laughed Roger, feeling in one pocket after the other. “He never forgets anything. Now, where on earth is that cigarette case?”

“Did you have it this morning?”

“Of course I did. It’s the one you gave me at Christmas; I’ve never been without it since.”

“Perhaps it’s in your other suit,” she suggested; “the clothes you were to have worn.”

“No, it’s not, for I had it all right this morning; but I haven’t got it now, that’s certain!”

His face and manner expressed more concern than mere loss of a cigarette case would seem to warrant, even though it was one of her gifts to him.

“Never mind. I dare say it will turn up; and perhaps you’ll have time to get some at Victoria. We’re nearly there. Why, Roger, what’s the matter?”

The cab had halted by the station entrance in Wilton Road, waiting its turn to enter, and Roger, still fumbling in his pockets in the futile search for the cigarette case, suddenly leaned forward and stared out of the window, uttering a quick exclamation as of surprise and horror.

There was the usual bustling throng passing in and out of the station, and on the curb stood a newsboy vociferating monotonously,

“’Orrible murder of a Society lady; pyper—speshul.”

“What is it, Roger? Oh, what is it?” cried Grace, leaning forward in her turn and craning her pretty neck. The newsboy turned aside at that instant, and she did not see the placard he was exhibiting, but Roger had seen it:

LADY
RAWSON
MURDERED!

The great black letters seemed to hit him in the face. He felt for a moment as if he had received a physical and stunning blow.

“What is it?” Grace repeated, as the cab glided on.

“What? Oh, nothing at all, dear. I thought I saw someone I knew,” he muttered confusedly. But his face was ghastly, and little beads of sweat started out on his forehead.

“Here’s George!” he added, and Winston, who had gone on with the luggage, opened the door of the taxi. He also looked worried and flustered, though perhaps that was only natural since he greeted them with:

“Here you are at last! I thought you were going to miss the train. We’ve only a bare minute, but the luggage is in all right, and I’ve reserved a compartment. Come on.”

He hustled them on to the platform, and as Grace, bewildered and disturbed, entered the carriage, he detained Roger, ostensibly for the purpose of handing him the tickets.

“I say, have you heard the news—about Lady Rawson?”

“I saw a placard a moment ago, and I can’t credit it.”

“It’s true enough, I’m afraid. Awful, isn’t it? So mysterious too, and within a mile of the church where you were married—that makes it all the more horrible. Here’s a paper; don’t let Grace see it though; keep the whole thing from her as long as you can. It will upset——”

“Going on, sir? Step in, please.”

At the guard’s admonition Roger sprang in, the door was slammed, the whistle sounded, and as the train glided away George Winston ran alongside, waving his hat and shouting with an excellent assumption of gaiety.

“Good-bye, Grace—good-bye, old man. Good luck to you both.”

Roger leaned out of the window and nodded as if in responsive farewell, an action that gave him a few seconds in which to regain his self-possession and marshal his distracted thoughts.

George was right. The knowledge of the tragedy that necessarily would affect them both so strongly must be kept from Grace as long as possible. That it should have occurred on their wedding day, and that the victim should have been the woman who was to have been the principal wedding guest seemed monstrous, incredible. Yet it was true! Hastily he stuffed the evening paper Winston had given him into his pocket. If he had kept it in his hand he could not have resisted the impulse to read the fatal news, and he dare not trust himself to do that at present. Grace’s voice, with a new, nervous note in it, roused him to the necessity of facing the situation.

“Roger! Do take care, dear. You’ll lose your hat or——”

“Or my head? Mustn’t lose that, or it will be all up with me, considering that I lost my heart ages ago!”

He laughed as he settled himself in the seat opposite her, but he did not meet her eyes, dark with trouble and perplexity. She loved him with all the strength of her nature—a nature essentially sweet and pure and steadfast. She thought she understood his every mood; but now, on this supreme day that linked her life to his once and for all, his manner was so strange that her heart failed her.

His restless gaze lighted on a tea-basket and a pile of periodicals ranged on the cushions beside her.

“Hallo! So he thought of the tea after all. Good old George! Let’s have it, shall we, darling?”

He talked gaily, irresponsibly, as they drank their tea but she was not deceived—was more than ever certain that he was concealing something from her, though what it might be she could not imagine.

Presently she leant back in her corner and closed her eyes, but after an interval of silence she glanced up. Roger’s face was concealed behind a newspaper, which he appeared to be studying intently.

“Any news?” she asked. “I don’t believe I’ve looked at a paper for days.”

He did not lower the sheet immediately, and she noticed, half mechanically, that his grip on it tightened. She recalled later, as one does recall such trifles when circumstances have invested them with special significance, the little convulsive movement of his hands—fine, characteristic hands they were, strong and nervous.

“Nothing of any consequence; these rags are all alike,” he answered, as he tossed the paper out of the open window and moved impetuously to her side. “Grace! My own—my very own at last, there’s nothing in the world matters to you and me to-day except ourselves!”

He caught and held her in his embrace with a passion that increased her vague fears, for hitherto he had never been a demonstrative lover, devoted though they were to each other.

He kissed her lips, her eyes, her soft white throat, fiercely, hungrily.

“Roger, Roger, don’t; you—you frighten me!” she gasped, weak and breathless. “Oh——”

Her head drooped limply on to his shoulder. For a moment he thought she had actually fainted, and the shock restored his self-control.

“Forgive me, sweetheart!” he cried with quick compunction. “I must have been mad to upset you so. It’s been an upsetting sort of day, hasn’t it? But it’s all right now, really!”

He was holding her now firmly, tenderly, protectively, master of himself once more; and she nestled against him, revived and reassured. He was her own Roger again—the man whom she loved and trusted.

“It was silly of me,” she confessed, smiling up at him—an April smile, for the tears had risen to her sweet grey eyes. “And you’re right, dear; it has been an upsetting day, with the fog, and Sir Robert detaining you, and—and everything else. And you’re still worrying about those missing papers. I know you are, though you’re trying to pretend you’re not! Perhaps you think I might be—oh, I don’t know how to put it—jealous. No, that’s not the word I want. That you’re afraid I might be vexed because you could think of anything in the world except me, on this day, of all the days in our life! But it’s not so, Roger—really it isn’t! I want to share your troubles—I mean to share them. I—I’m your wife.”

Too deeply moved for words he held her to his heart, and again their lips met, though this time the kiss was reverent as a sacrament.

CHAPTER V RETURNED!

“You are certain no one but yourself and Mr. Carling possesses a key to the safe, Sir Robert?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think it impossible that anyone may have obtained either of the keys and had a duplicate made.”

“No copy has been made,” Sir Robert answered. “The pattern is unique, it could not be reproduced except by the makers, and I telephoned to them this morning. In any case they would not have made another key except from my personal instructions.”

“H’m.”

Snell, the detective, who had been summoned to Grosvenor Gardens on that eventful afternoon, stood thoughtfully sliding the secret panel to and fro.

“You are sure no one could have access to either of the existing keys—in the course of the night, or early this morning?”

“Quite sure. Carling declares that his was never out at his possession for an instant till he handed it to me just now, and I put it on the ring with my own.”

Sir Robert pulled the keys, attached to a strong steel chain, out of his trousers pocket, and slipped them back again.

“Just so. I’d like to have seen Mr. Carling, but of course he had to go; a man doesn’t get married every day. Where do you keep your own keys at night, Sir Robert?”

“Under my pillow. It is quite impossible that anyone can have obtained possession of them without my knowledge.”

“Yet the papers disappeared,” remarked the detective dryly. “Well, will you give me a description of them, Sir Robert? You say they were secret dispatches; were they in cipher?”

“One was; it was in French, and would be quite unintelligible to anyone who did not possess the key to the code used. Mr. Carling’s report on them both was also written in our private cipher, which only he and I understand.”

“Have you a key to that cipher?”

“Only in our heads; Carling invented it, and we memorized it.”

“How about the French code? Was that memorized also?”

“By ourselves, yes; at least we are so familiar with it that we never need to consult the code. It’s in the drawer of the safe.”

“That has not been stolen, then?”

“No. The theft of the French paper and of Carling’s report really does not matter much, for practically it would be impossible for any outside person to decipher them; but the other, which is by far the most important, was not in cipher, unfortunately.”