“They should have thought of that before,” said Loveday sharply. “I hope you declined the case. Here’s the country inspector to the backbone! He’ll keep a case in his own hands so long as there’s a chance of success; then, when it becomes practically hopeless, hand it over to you just to keep his own failure in countenance by yours.”
“Ye‑es,” said Mr. Dyer, slowly. “I suppose that’s about it. But still, business has been slack of late—expenses are heavy—if you thought there was a ghost of a chance—”
“After ten days!” interrupted Miss Brooke, “when the house has settled down into routine, and everyone has his story cut and dried, and all sorts of small details have been falsified or smudged over! Criminal cases are like fevers; they should be taken in hand within twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Dyer irritably, “but still, as I said before, business is slack—”
“Oh, well, if I’m to go, I’m to go, and there’s an end of it,” said Loveday resignedly. “I only say it would have been better, for the credit of the office, if you had declined such a hopeless affair. Tell me a little about this Mr. Richard Golding, who and what he is.”
Mr. Dyer’s temper grew serene again.
“He is a very wealthy man,” he answered, “an Australian merchant; came over to England about a dozen years ago, and settled down at Langford Hall. He had, however, been living in Italy for some six or seven years previously. On his way home from Australia he did Italy, as so many Australians do, fell in love with a pretty girl, whom he met at Naples, and married her, and by her had this one child, Irené, who is causing such a sensation at the present moment.”
“Is this Italian wife living?”
“No, she died just before Mr. Golding came to England. He has not yet married again, but I hear is on the point of so doing. The lady he contemplates making the second Mrs. Golding is a certain Mrs. Greenhow, a widow, who for the past year or so has acted as chaperon to his daughter and housekeeper to himself.”
“It is possible that Miss Irené was not too well pleased at the idea of having a stepmother.”
“Such is the fact. From all accounts she and her future stepmother did not get on at all well together. Miss Irené has a very hasty, imperious temper, and Mrs. Greenhow seems to have been quite incapable of holding her own with her. She was to have left the hall this month to make her preparations for the approaching wedding; the young lady’s disappearance, however, has naturally brought matters to a standstill.”
“Did Miss Golding take any money away with her, do you know?”
“Ah, nobody seems sure on that head. Mr. Golding gave her a liberal allowance and exacted no accounts. Sometimes she had her purse full at the end of the quarter, sometimes it was empty before her quarterly cheque had been cashed a week. I fear you will have to do without exact information on that most important point.
“She had lovers, of course?”
“Yes; in spite of her quick temper she seems to have been a lovable and most attractive young woman, with her half-Australian half-Italian parentage, and to have turned the heads of all the men in the neighbourhood. Only two, however, appear to have found the slightest favour in her eyes—a certain Lord Guilleroy, who owns nearly all the land for miles round Langford, and a young fellow called Gordon Cleeve, the only son of Sir Gordon Cleeve, a wealthy baronet. The girl seems to have coquetted pretty equally with these two; then suddenly, for some reason or other, she gives Mr. Cleeve to understand that his attentions are distasteful to her, and gives unequivocal encouragement to Lord Guilleroy. Gordon Cleeve does not sit down quietly under this treatment. He threatens to shoot first his rival, then himself, then Miss Golding; finally, does none of these three things, but starts off on a three years’ journey round the world.”
“Threatens to shoot her; starts off on a journey round the world,” summed up Loveday. “Do you know the date of the day on which he left Langford?”
“Yes, it was on the 19th; the day before Miss Golding disappeared. But Ramsay has already traced him down to Brindisi; ascertained that he went on board the Buckingham, en route for Alexandria, and has beaten out the theory that he can, by any possibility, be connected with the affair. So I wouldn’t advise you to look in that quarter for your clue.”
“I am not at all sanguine about finding a clue in any quarter,” said Loveday, as she rose to take leave.
She did not feel in the best of tempers, and was a little disposed to resent having a case, so to speak, forced upon her under such disadvantageous conditions.
Her last words to Mr. Dyer were almost the first she addressed to Inspector Ramsay when, towards the close of the day, she was met by him at Langford Cross Station. Ramsay was a lanky, bony Scotchman, sandy-haired and slow of speech.
“Our hopes centre on you; we trust you’ll not disappoint us,” he said, by way of a greeting.
His use of the plural number made Loveday turn in the direction of a tall, good-looking man, with a remarkably frank expression of countenance, who stood at the inspector’s elbow.
“I am Lord Guilleroy,” said this gentleman, coming forward. “Will you allow me to drive you to Langford Hall? My cab is waiting outside.”
“Thank you; one moment,” answered Loveday, again turning to Ramsay. “Now, do you wish,” she said, addressing him, “to tell me anything beyond the facts you have
