“It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to stealsuch papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbedat what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got.”
“Why should they go to my son’s things?” asked Mrs. Maberley.
“Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they triedtheir luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it,Mr. Holmes?”
“I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson.”
Then, as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. Itbegan in the middle of a sentence and ran like this:
“. . . face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it wasnothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face,the face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled—yes, byHeaven! she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked upat her. It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Manmust live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, thenit shall surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge.”
“Queer grammar!” said Holmes with a smile as he handed thepaper back to the inspector. “Did you notice how the ‘he’ suddenlychanged to ‘my’ ? The writer was so carried away by his own storythat he imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero.”
“It seemed mighty poor stuff,” said the inspector as he replacedit in his book. “What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?”
“I don’t think there is anything more for me to do now that thecase is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did yousay you wished to travel?”
“It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes.”
“Where would you like to go—Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?”
“Oh if I had the money I would go round the world.”
“Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may dropyou a line in the evening.” As we passed the window I caught aglimpse of the inspector’s smile and shake of the head. “Theseclever fellows have always a touch of madness.” That was what Iread in the inspector’s smile.
“Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey,” saidHolmes when we were back in the roar of central London oncemore. “I think we had best clear the matter up at once, and itwould be well that you should come with me, for it is safer to havea witness when you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein.”
We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address inGrosvenor Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but heroused himself suddenly.
“By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. I only gather that we are going to seethe lady who is behind all this mischief.”
“Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing toyou? She was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was nevera woman to touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of themasterful Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders inPernambuco for generations. She married the aged German sugarking, Klein, and presently found herself the richest as well asthe most lovely widow upon earth. Then there was an interval ofadventure when she pleased her own tastes. She had several lovers,and Douglas Maberley, one of the most striking men in London,was one of them. It was by all accounts more than an adventurewith him. He was not a society butterfly but a strong, proud manwho gave and expected all. But she is the ‘belle dame sans merci’
of fiction. When her caprice is satisfied the matter is ended, and ifthe other party in the matter can’t take her word for it she knowshow to bring it home to him.”
“Then that was his own story—”
“Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about tomarry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son.
His Grace’s ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would bea different matter, so it is imperative—Ah! here we are.”
It was one of the finest corner-houses of the West End. Amachine-like footman took up our cards and returned with wordthat the lady was not at home. “Then we shall wait until she is,”
said Holmes cheerfully.
The machine broke down.
“Not at home means not at home to you,” said the footman.
“Good,” Holmes answered. “That means that we shall not haveto wait. Kindly give this note to your mistress.”
He scribbled three or four words upon a sheet of his notebook,folded it, and handed it to the man.
“What did you say, Holmes?” I asked.
“I simply wrote: ‘Shall it be the police, then?’ I think that shouldpass us in.”
It did—with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in anArabian Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom,picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady hadcome, I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beautyfinds the half light more welcome. She rose from a settee as weentered: tall, queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, withtwo wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at us both.
“What is this intrusion—and this insulting message?” she asked,holding up the slip of paper.
“I need not explain, madame. I have too much respect for yourintelligence to do so—though I confess that intelligence has beensurprisingly at fault of late.”
“How so, sir?”
“By supposing that your hired bullies could frighten me frommy work. Surely no man would take up my profession if it werenot that danger attracts him. It was you, then, who forced me toexamine the case of young Maberley.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to dowith hired bullies?”
Holmes turned away wearily.
“Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!”
“Stop! Where are you going?”
“To Scotland Yard.”
We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken usand was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steelto velvet.
“Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over.
I feel that I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes. You have thefeelings of a gentleman. How quick a woman’s instinct is to find itout. I will treat you as a friend.”