French was delighted with the reply. It was on a Thursday night, seven weeks earlier, that Mrs. X had driven from the Savoy to Victoria, left her boxes there, and vanished. The thing was working in.
“What time of the day did she arrive?”
“In the evening.” Miss Scott answered promptly this time. “It was about half eight or a quarter to nine.”
Better and better! Mrs. X left the Savoy shortly before eight, and it would take her about three-quarters of an hour to drive to Victoria, leave her trunks in the left luggage office, and get out to St. John’s Wood Road.
“Now,” French went on, “if you or your sister could just remember the week that happened, I should be very much obliged.”
Susan Scott sat with a heavy frown on her rather pretty features. Concentrated thought was evidently an unwonted exercise. But at last her efforts bore fruit.
“I’ve got it now,” she said with something of triumph in her tone. “It was the last week of November. I remember it because my brother-in-law got his new job in the first week of December, and that was the following Monday. I heard that much about his job that I ought to know.”
French had scarcely doubted that this would prove to be the date, but it was most excellent to have it fixed in so definite a manner. He felt that he was progressing in his weaving of the net round the elusive Mrs. X.
“That’s very good,” he said approvingly. “Now will you tell me about Mr. Vane?”
The girl sniffed.
“Him?” she said scornfully. “There ain’t much to tell about him. He didn’t trouble us much with his company.”
“How was that? Did they not get on? Remember we’re speaking in confidence.”
“Why, I never even saw him. He didn’t turn up all the three months I was there. But I heard about him from cook. He was away all the time or next thing to it. When he did come, it was generally for two days. He would come late in the evening, so cook said, and stay for two days without ever going so much as outside the door, and then go away again in the evening.”
“You mean that if he came, say, on a Monday night, he would stay until the following Wednesday night?”
“Yes; or sometimes for three days, so cook said.”
“What time in the evening would he come and go?”
“About half-past ten he always came, and a little before eight he left.”
“Do you mean that he arrived and left at the same time on each visit?”
“Yes, always about the same time.”
“After dark?”
“No. Just at those times. It was the same summer and winter. At least, that’s all what cook told me. We talked about it many a time. She thought he was balmy.”
French was somewhat puzzled by this information. The whole story had what he called with a fine disregard for metaphorical purity, a “fishy ring.” At first it had looked uncommonly like as if Mr. Vane were paying clandestine visits to his own house, and, if so, he might well be the man the old stage doorkeeper had spoken of, and still have another establishment elsewhere. But this last answer seemed to suggest some other explanation of Vane’s mysterious movements. After a pause, French went on:
“Did it ever strike you he was trying to keep his visits secret?”
“I can’t say it did,” the girl answered with apparent regret. “Cook never said that. But,” more hopefully, “it might have been that, mightn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” French rejoined. “I’m asking you.”
Miss Scott didn’t know either, but in her opinion the Inspector’s suggestion might well be the truth. French noted the matter as one for future consideration as he continued his interrogation.
“What was Mr. Vane like in appearance? Did cook ever say?”
Cook, it appeared, had supplied information on this point also. Even French, who knew the ways of servants, was amazed at the detailed thoroughness with which these two had evidently discussed their employers’ affairs. Mr. Vane was tall, but stooped, with a sallow complexion, a heavy dark moustache, and glasses.
As French listened to this description an almost incredible idea flashed into his mind. He seemed to see a vision of the Duke & Peabody office in Amsterdam, and to hear again the voice of the dapper agent, Schoofs, saying: “A tall man, but stooped, with a sallow complexion, a heavy dark moustache, and glasses.” Could it be? Could this mysterious Mr. Vane be none other than his old acquaintance, Vanderkemp?
For a time he sat motionless, lost in thought, as he considered the possibility. It would certainly clear up a good deal that was mysterious in the case. It would account for Vanderkemp’s actions previous to the murder, as well as his bolt to Switzerland; it would supply a cause for Sylvia Duke’s perturbation and for the postponement of the wedding; and it would explain how Mrs. Vane received her warning, Mr. Duke having stated he would, without delay, tell Vanderkemp of the discovery of Cissie Winter. The choice of the name Vane even tended in the same direction. There were advantages in an alias beginning with the same letter as the real name, lest an inadvertent initial on clothing or elsewhere should give the secret away. Moreover, the theory involved nothing inherently impossible. Vanderkemp was then, and had been for some time, ostensibly on an extended tour in the United States, so that, as far as he could see at present an alibi was out of the question.
At first sight it seemed to French as if he had hit on the solution of the mystery, but as he continued turning it over in his mind he became less and less certain. Several important points were not covered by the theory. First of all, it did not, in his opinion, square with Vanderkemp’s personality. The Inspector had a very exalted opinion of his
