Short Fiction · Disappeared from Her Home (5/14) (2/2)

“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl here? I was beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.”

“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings; including, as a matter of course, the first foreign or country letter she receives.”

“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find work for me, I must find it for myself.”

“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,” the Detective added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.”

“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this, Hill,” and Frank took from his pocketbook a small bow of lace and ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket.

“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?”

“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill, looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases the maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her mistress, and acts according to some prearranged plan. Even the diamonds for instance⁠—”

“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that. No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could she⁠—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story as that, Hill.”

“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion, but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed muscles.

Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious, worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought.

“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in his notebook for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!”