# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 13

CHAPTER III
ON PRIMROSE HILL
If Mr. Samuel Dwayne, clever and astute as he was in a great many respects, found the affair in which he discovered himself to be involved rather more than a puzzle, no one can wonder that Miss Millicent Oxenham, who, in the whole course of her existence, had never been faced by any problems at all, found herself in a whirl of wondrous perplexities. Everything had come upon her with a rush. She had been rudely awakened out of a dream of girlish bliss to receive a succession of shocks. There was the announcement made by Marcus Bartenstein; there was the scene with her father; there was the news of the next morning. Millicent was the sort of girl who cherishes no malice and is ready to forgive on due repentance being made manifest, but she could scarcely repress a feeling of something desperately like relief and satisfaction when she heard of Bartenstein's death.
Although she was naturally courageous she had been afraid of him, for she had instinctively guessed the cruelty of his nature and the implac​able fashion in which he pursued anything he desired. It was impossible not to feel that something wicked had been removed from her way, and she made no attempt to deceive herself as to her gladness that she would never again see the man who had regarded her as something to be bargained for.
But uppermost in Millicent's mind was the danger in which her lover now found himself. It was impossible to deny that things looked black against him. She had sufficient knowledge of the world to know that twelve imaginative, stolid-natured jurors, accustomed to buy and sell without other than practical thoughts, would simply say: "Oh, this case is as plain as a pikestaff! The young fellow lost his head when he found Bartenstein wanted his sweetheart and meant to have her; they had a row, and he ran him through before he realized what he was doing!" She had already heard hints that this was the popular theory, and she did not wonder at it; it seemed, or would seem to those who did not know Lauderdale, so very probable.
Then there had been the anxiety about her father—the sickening apprehension as to what was about to happen. That anxiety as the hours had gone on had changed to wonder that nothing did happen. It was now two days since the crash was to come, and so far the crash had not come. What was more, Sir Nicholas Oxenham was now sure that there was not only not going to be any crash, but that he was safe. And this circum​stance had already begun to arouse some curious suspicions in his mind and in his daughter's.
It was Sir Nicholas who had brought the news of Bartenstein's murder to Millicent, at an early hour of the day which succeeded the delivery of the dead man's intimation to her. There was little known then, and it was not until the afternoon newspapers came out that they connected Lauderdale with it in any way. Then the description of the young man who had called so late at night convinced Millicent that her lover was the person for whom the police were now looking, and she had immediately sent messages in several directions to him, forgetting that he was out of town for the day. It was not until he telephoned to her late in the afternoon and reassured her, that she remembered her father's affairs, and went to him to make inquiry about them.
But nothing had happened—nothing. Sir Nicholas was obviously bewildered about the matter. He could give no explanation of things which his daughter could understand. He had expected something very dreadful—a catastrophe—to take place at noon. There had been no catastrophe. And on the following day, when Millicent returned from Bow Street, after hearing Lauderdale's case adjourned, she found him jubilant. Events had occurred which had brought everything round—the danger was over.
Millicent was filled with a doubt.
​"Father," she said, "I want to ask you a plain question. Do you think Mr. Bartenstein's death had anything to do with this?"
"Indirectly it may have had, my dear," answered Sir Nicholas. "He was a great operator, and his death, of course, affected many things."
Millicent considered matters. "I think," she said presently, "I think this is the time to tell you something which, after all, I was only keeping back until I knew the truth about your affairs," and she told him everything that had passed between Bartenstein and herself. And as she proceeded Sir Nicholas' face grew graver and graver and he began to look more grim and reflective than was his wont.
"It is terrible to think, Millie," he said at last, "yes, worse than terrible, that a man whom one has trusted and made a friend of could behave like this, and it has aroused a train of thought in me. Can it be that Bartenstein can have been behind the operation that would have ruined me? If a certain deal had taken place at noon the day before yesterday I should have been ruined. And it never did take place. If I thought that he had devised a cunningly laid trap in order to get you into his power———"
"I am afraid that was so, Father," she said. "However, it is over, and you are safe. The great thing to think of now is Jack's safety."
Sir Nicholas lifted his hands.
"Oh, dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed. ​"What a mystery! And from all I read, and all you tell me, there is no clue but that. Something must be done—Bartenstein's affairs must be gone into. He must have had secret enemies. Do you think the police are doing all they can, my dear?"
Millicent refrained at that moment from telling her father of her own errand that evening. She made a plausible excuse for absenting herself from the house, and left it full of speculation as to what she might be about to hear, and what, if any, adventure would befall her. She had no sense of fear, for she did not intend to go beyond reach of help, and she knew that Inspector Dwayne's assistants would be at hand. But her curiosity as to what the evening might bring made her heart beat quicker than usual when, leaving a hansom at the entrance gate on the Albert Road, she turned into the avenue of trees which leads up to the slight eminence from which enthusiastic Londoners get, on clear mornings and evenings, a somewhat extensive view of the metropolis.
If Miss Oxenham had only known it, she was not only under the observation of Inspector Dwayne's emissaries, but of someone whom she would not have suspected of being in her immediate vicinity, but who had kept an eye on her from the time she left Sussex Square until she arrived at Primrose Hill. In fact, if she had been told that her cousin, Mr. Ronald Tyndale, had charged himself with the duty of looking after her ​safety, she would have been more surprised than if she had suddenly heard that that young gentleman had just been made Archbishop of Canterbury. Yet, when she got out of her hansom at the entrance to Primrose Hill, Mr. Tyndale, who had passed her in a taxi-cab somewhere about St. John's Wood Church, was already lying in wait for her, and had the impudence to pass her by, full face, and to chuckle afterwards on finding that she did not show the slightest recognition of him.
The truth was that Mr. Tyndale—who had been born with several silver spoons in his mouth, had nothing to do but amuse and dress himself, and had torn himself away from his house-boat near Henley that morning in order, as he had explained to Inspector Dwayne, to see what he could do for his cousin—had conceived the brilliant idea of having a little fun out of all this mystery, and at the same time of practising a bit of detective business on his own behalf. He happened to be an exceedingly good amateur actor, and possessed a choice collection of costumes at his flat in Mayfair, and thither he repaired when he left his cousin; and after due thought and much anxious consultation with his man, he made himself up as an old gentleman, and flattered himself when he had finished his toilette, that not even Mr. Cyril Maude could I have done better, in which opinion the valet—and not without reasonable excuse—heartily agreed.
​In fact, Mr. Tyndale, artistically finished off as to wrinkles, whiskers, and wig, and carefully arrayed in a broad-brimmed hat, dark spectacles, an old-fashioned cut-away coat, fancy waistcoat, high collar, black, voluminous stock, and pearl-grey trousers, and terminated by comfortable boots and gaiters, looked very well in the part of a respectable though diminutive buffer who would be likely to take the cool of the evening by sitting on a Park chair, resting his hands and his chin on the head of his stick, and taking a benevolent interest in the children and lovers around him.
That, at any rate, was what Miss Oxenham took him to be as she passed him on her way up the hill. She was certainly preoccupied and not a little agitated, and therefore paid no very particular attention to anything but the business in hand, yet she gave Mr. Tyndale one direct glance, and he felt mightily pleased for more than one reason when he saw that his disguise was good. He let her go on with her free, elastic step, and soon afterwards followed her, walking as an old man does, slowly and haltingly, with one hand on his back. Mr. Tyndale had no fear for Millicent's safety, once she came within view of Dwayne's people. He himself was more concerned with an idea which had been shaping itself in his mind during the evening.
Primrose Hill, as most Londoners know, is a sort of tumulus-shaped eminence which rises on the north side of Regent's Park. It is of no ​great height and would not be glorified by the name of hill anywhere else, but it is so placed in the geographical scheme of things, that from its crown one may obtain a wide-spreading view of London, extending for a long distance from east to west, and including a great many prominent landmarks, such as St. Paul's Cathedral and the great towers of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. There are also numerous subsidiary heights and towers and spires to be picked out of these vistas, and folk who love panoramic effect (like the late Robert Browning, who used to climb the hill very often in order to view the prospect) are fond of visiting this eminence of a fine morning or cool evening, to point out delightedly to whomsoever accompanies them, that yonder is such-and-such a church, and that surely must be the roof of this-or-the-other station.
It is a peaceful delight and hurts nobody, and there is a sun-dial on the little asphalted space at the top which assures you which is north and south and east and west. About this asphalted space there are seats where lovers and many children sit; and here Miss Oxenham, arriving in due course, very quickly perceived Inspector Dwayne's lady and gentleman, who, seated a little to the left of the sundial, played well up to their supposed characters and appeared to be deeply engaged in conversation.
Millicent, showing no sign of knowledge of these two or of anybody else, walked slowly ​towards the sun-dial. There were several people and many children about, but at first she saw nothing of the person she had come to meet. Striving to appear not to be looking for anybody, she glanced about her, and suddenly she saw, seated on a chair by the belt of trees on the north side of the cleared space, a woman in black, and so heavily veiled that nothing of her features could be seen. She looked like some shape of gloom that threatened the calm quiet of the summer evening.
Millicent, feeling that she must face whatever was to come, crossed over and sat down close to the dark figure. For a moment or two the woman remained silent and motionless, then she said, without turning her head:
"I'll drop my bag, miss, and you can pick it up, and that'll bring us into conversation natural-like, and then we shan't be noticed."