somebody. Where is his letter?"
Mr. Dodge looked on his table. "Oh, here it is. Addressed from 'Yacht White Heather,' if you please. Quite swell, eh? Sir William Browne! That's the covey. I think I will let Sir William have 'em. It's a good, solid sort of name to have on the share register."
"I would if I were you," said Bruce, hardly conscious of his surroundings.
"If you think so, I will. By Jove, this has been a good morning for me. Come and have lunch."
"No, thanks. I have a lot to attend to. By the way, where did Mensmore live?"
"I don't know. His address was always at the Orleans Club."
Somehow, Bruce reached the street and a hansom. As the vehicle rolled off westward he crouched in a corner and tried to wrestle with the problem that befogged his brain.
Was Albert Mensmore Sydney H. Corbett? Was he Mrs. Hillmer's brother? The "Bertie" she had spoken of meant Albert as well as a hypothetical Herbert. Mensmore was an old schoolfellow of Sir Charles Dyke's. In all probability he knew Lady Dyke as well. He lived in Raleigh Mansions under an assumed name, and quitted his abode two days after the murder.
Every circumstance pointed to the terrible assumption that at Mensmore's hands the unfortunate lady met her death. And Bruce had sworn to avenge her memory!
He laughed with savage mirth as he reflected that he himself had helped this man to escape the punishment of Providence, self-inflicted. It was, indeed, pitifully amusing to think how the clever detective had used his powers to befool himself. The very openness of the clue had helped to conceal it the more effectually. Were it not for Dodge and his Springboks he might have gone on indefinitely covering up the criminal's tracks by his own friendly actions. The situation was maddening, intolerable. Bruce wanted to seize the reins and flog the horse into a mad gallop through the traffic as a relief to his feelings.
Blissfully unconscious of the living volcano he carried within, the cabby on the perch did not indulge in any such illegal antics. He quietly drove along the Embankment and delivered his seething fare at his Victoria-street chambers.
Quite oblivious of commonplace affairs, the barrister threw a shilling to the driver and darted out.
The man gazed at his Majesty's image with the air of one who had never before seen such a coin. It might have been a Greek obolus, so utter was his blank astonishment.
But Bruce was across the pavement, and cabby had to find words, else it would be too late.
"Here guv'nor," he yelled, "what the ballyhooley do you call this?"
"What's the matter?" was the impatient query.
"Matter!" The cabman looked towards the sky to see if the heavens were falling. "Matter!" in a higher key, as a crowd began to gather. "I tykes him from Leaden'all Street to Victoria. 'E gives 

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