Inspector French’s Greatest Case

later she had given him notice that she wished to leave the stage at the end of her then current contract. He had protested, telling her that she was ruining an extremely promising career, but she had insisted, explaining that she was going to be married. This he had not believed, though he had no definite reason for his opinion. It was generally accepted that she had gone off with some married man, but how this story arose he could not say. He had, at all events, completely lost sight of her. Her age when she left his company thirteen years earlier was twenty-nine, and her address was 17 Stanford Street, Chelsea.

“I’m afraid,” French said, “that she has turned crook,” and he outlined her impersonation of Mrs. Root.

“Of course I know nothing about that,” Mr. Jacques answered, “but I can at least tell you that no one could have carried out a scheme of the kind better than Cissie Winter. She had the brains and the nerve and the knowledge. I’m sorry to hear she has gone wrong, but if you are up against her, I can assure you you’ll find her no mean antagonist.”

French smiled ruefully as he rose.

“I’ve discovered that already,” he admitted, “but knowing what I know now, it can’t be long until I have my hands on her.”

“I suppose I ought to wish you luck,” Mr. Jacques declared, holding out his hand, “but I don’t know that I can. I thought a lot of the young woman once, and I’m sorry that she’s in trouble.”

Inspector French, having cabled to the New York police asking for information as to the actress’s early history, made his way to 17 Stanford Street, which he found was a better-class boarding house. But here he could learn nothing. The former proprietor was dead, and none of the present staff had been connected with the place for thirteen years, or had ever heard of Miss Winter.

Disappointed once more, he returned to the Yard and put through his earlier scheme. He arranged to have the lady’s photograph inserted in the next number of the Police Bulletin, together with the best description of her that he could write, and a note that she was wanted. It was not a promising clue, but it was all he had left.

XIV

Tragedy

Some days later Inspector French was once again sent for by his chief. The great man seemed in an irritable frame of mind, and he began to speak before the other had well entered the room.

“See here, French,” he greeted him; “here’s a fresh development in that confounded Gething case. Read that.”

French stepped up to the desk and took the postal telegraph sheets his superior held out. They bore a message from the Chief of Police at the Hook, which had been sent out at 8:27 that morning.

“Captain of the S.S. Parkeston reports that tall, clean-shaven, white-haired man, apparently named Duke, committed suicide during passage from Harwich last night. Overcoat and suitcase found in cabin with letter addressed Miss Duke, The Cedars, Hampstead. Am sending letter with detailed statement.”

French was considerably surprised by the news. Though he had never felt actually cordial towards the old gentleman, he had respected him for his kindly conduct towards his subordinates and for the sportsmanlike way in which he had taken his loss. But it was evident the man had been hit harder than he had shown. French recalled the details of their last interview, the merchant’s drawn, anxious face, his weary air, his almost despairing words, “I’m getting to the end of my tether. I see ruin staring me in the face.” At the time, French had not taken the complaint as seriously as it had now proved to warrant. Mr. Duke was evidently in difficulties which nothing less than the return of the stolen diamonds would solve, and French did not see how he could have done more to achieve that end than he already had.

“Unexpected, that, isn’t it?” the chief remarked, “though I don’t suppose it will really affect the case.”

“No, sir, I don’t think it will,” French returned, answering the last part of the sentence first. “But I don’t know that it’s so unexpected after all. Leastwise it is and it isn’t. I mean, I’m surprised that a man of Mr. Duke’s character should take that way of escaping from his difficulties, but I knew he was in difficulties.”

The chief raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“The truth is, sir, that I didn’t take what the old gentleman said seriously enough. I met him last week in Piccadilly, and he appeared anxious to hear my news and asked me to have a cup of coffee with him. He was pretty down in the mouth then, saying he was getting short of cash, and near the end of his tether, and so on. He was looking pretty old, too, old and worn.”

The chief grunted.

“As I say, I don’t suppose it will make any difference,” he declared. “But there’s that girl to consider. I think you’d better go along and see her. After all, she should have some warning before she sees it in the paper.”

“That’s so, sir. Then I shall go now.”

It was a job he hated, but there was no help for it, and having phoned to Miss Duke that he was going out on urgent business, he set off.

That his message had alarmed her was obvious. She met him with pale cheeks and anxious eyes, and once again the thought occurred to him that she knew something that she was holding back, and had feared her secret was the subject of his call.

But his news, when haltingly and with some awkwardness he had succeeded in conveying it, took her utterly by surprise. It was evidently quite different to what she had expected to hear, and the poor girl was terribly overcome. She gave a low cry, and sat gazing at him with eyes dilated with