The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

suicide!”

      “Yes, so I read,” remarked Jamieson cheerfully.

      “Supposed to be a fabulously rich old johnny, wasn’t he, and turned out to be a bankrupt. Friend of yours?” he asked curiously.

      Van Ingen lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. “I — I was with him at the opera last night,” he said. Jamieson whistled softly.

      “He was slightly indisposed and left early,” continued Van Ingen, “and I thought no more about it.”

      He rose hurriedly and reached for his hat. “I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris—” He broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.

      Jamieson looked at him sympathetically. “Why don’t you go round by the newspaper offices?” he suggested. “There may be new developments — possibly a mistake. You note that the — the body has not been recovered?”

      Van Ingen’s face brightened. “A fine idea! Thanks, old man.” He wrung the other’s hand fervently. “I’ll be off at once.”

      Out upon the pavement, he caught a passing taxicab. “Drive to the nearest newspaper office,” he directed, “and wait for me.”

      At the information desk inside the huge building where he preferred his request, his worst fears were realised. The note was unmistakably in Grayson’s handwriting.

      “We verified that, of course,” said the reporter who had been sent out to speak to the young man.

      “How?” asked Van Ingen sharply.

      “Through his daughter, naturally,” was the calm response. “We sent a man out this morning to her aunt’s house, and she recognised the handwriting at once.” Van Ingen groaned. “Couldn’t you have left her in peace?” he demanded.

      “Mr. Van Ingen, you don’t seem quite to realise the importance of this tragedy. Grayson was a financial king — a multimillionaire. Or, at least, he was so considered up to this morning. It now appears that he had speculated heavily during the last few weeks — we gathered this from Lady Dinsmore — who kindly told us what she knew — and lost everything, every penny of his own and his daughter’s fortune. Last night, in a fit of despair, he ended his life.”

      Van Ingen looked at him in a kind of stupefaction. Was it of Grayson the man was talking such drivel? Grayson who only the week before had told him in high gratification that within the last month he had added a cool million to his girl’s marriage portion. Grayson who but yesterday had hinted mysteriously of a gigantic financial coup in the near future. He passed a bewildered hand across his eyes. And now all that fortune was lost, and the loser was lying at the bottom of the Thames!

      “I think I must be going mad!” he muttered.

      “Grayson wasn’t the kind to kill himself. Why, I tell you,” he cried, “that last night, when I bade him goodnight, he was gay, smiling. He looked like a man who goes forth to meet success.”

      “You saw him, then?” the reporter queried eagerly. “When? Where? Please give us full details, Mr. Van Ingen. This may turn out to be of tremendous importance.” He pulled out his notebook.

      “I was at the opera with his party last night,” replied Van Ingen. He repeated the events of the previous evening.

      “Grayson was not meditating suicide when I left him,” he concluded positively. “I could swear it! Rather, he seemed to be reflecting with relish upon some particularly fine joke. May I see that note he is supposed to have written?”

      “Certainly!” The reporter vanished into an inner room, and presently returned holding a scrap of white paper in his hand. “Torn from his memorandum book, you see,” he observed quietly. Van Ingen read it through. “It’s his handwriting, right enough,” he admitted. “But somehow, it doesn’t sound like Grayson himself. Too theatrical, dramatic!” He frowned, as if trying to catch some haunting impression. “It sounds like— “He broke off sharply, his face paling.

      “Good God, no!” he whispered, “that couldn’t be! And yet “ — his eyes sought the paper again— “it’s the dead ringer of the kind of rot he talks! But why— “He pressed his hand to his temples. “I give it up!” He returned the slip to the reporter, who had been watching him with cool, level eyes.

      “You have a clue?” he asked.

      “No, no!” replied Van Ingen hurriedly. “The whole affair is utterly inexplicable to me at present. I cannot believe that Grayson deliberately killed himself. The thing is beyond reason! The paper says that his hat and overcoat were found?”

      “Together with his wallet and some personal letters. It seems a clear case.” The reporter hesitated a moment. “It is not as yet known to the public, but I think I may tell it to you that Mr. T.B. Smith has been given charge of the matter. He will probably wish to know your address. And in the meantime, if you run across anything—”

      “Certainly! I will let you know. Smith is an able man, of course.” Van Ingen gave the number of his chambers, and retreated hastily, glad that the man had questioned him no further.

      Out in the fresh air he drew a deep breath of relief, which ended in a sigh. But, at any rate, he had not betrayed his suspicions, if indeed they could be termed suspicions — those wild surmises which had flashed like forked lightning across the blackness of his mind. He found his cab and flung himself wearily back against the cushions. And now for Doris!

      But Doris was not visible. Lady Dinsmore met him in the morning-room, her usually serene countenance full of trouble. He took her hand in silence.

      “It is good of you, my dear Cord, to come so quickly. You have heard all?”

      He nodded. “How is Doris?”

      She sank into a chair and shook her head. “The child is taking it terribly hard! Quite tearless, but with a face like frozen marble! She refused quite scornfully to believe the news, until she saw his own handwriting. Then she fainted. She fell to the floor at the man’s feet as if she had been stabbed to the heart.” Lady Dinsmore took out her lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “Doris,” she continued in a moment, “has sent for Count Poltavo.”

      Van Ingen started. “Why?” he demanded in a low voice.

      “I cannot say, definitely,” she replied, with a sigh. “She is a silent girl. But I fancy she feels that the count knows something She believes that Gerald met with foul play.”

      Cord leaned forward breathlessly. “My own idea!” he articulated.

      Lady Dinsmore surveyed him with faint, good-humoured scorn. “You do not know Gerald!” she said finally.

      “But — I do not follow you! If it was not murder it must have been suicide. But why should Grayson kill himself?”

      “I am sure that he had not the slightest idea of doing anything so unselfish,” returned Lady Dinsmore composedly.

      “Then what—”

      She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan.

      “Why are you so absolutely sure that he is dead?” she asked softly.

      Cord stared at her in blank amazement. “What do you mean?” he gasped. Was she mad also?

      “Simply that he is no more dead than you or I,” she retorted coolly. “What evidence have we? A letter, in his own handwriting, telling us gravely that he has decided to die! Does it sound probable? It is a safe presumption that that is the farthest thing from his intentions. For when did Gerald ever tell the truth concerning his movements? No, depend on it, he is not dead. But, for purposes of his own, he is pretending to be. He has decided to exist — surreptitiously.”

      “Why should he?” muttered Cord. This was the maddest theory of all. His head swam with