Soon after ten o’clock in the evening he came in, accompanied by a gentleman, whose description, as given by three witnesses, employés of the hotel, who saw him, corresponded exactly with that of the Count.

“Together the two gentlemen went up to Mr Hubert Turnour’s rooms, and at half past ten they ordered whisky to be taken up to them. But at this point all trace of Count Collini had completely vanished. The passengers arriving by the 10.49 boat-train, and who had elected to spend the night in Dover, owing to the gale, had crowded up and filled the hall.

“No one saw Count Collini leave the Grand Hotel. But Mr Hubert Turnour came down into the hall at about half past eleven. He said he would be leaving by the 1.50 a.m. boat-train for town, but would walk round to the station as he only had a small bag with him. He paid his account, then waited in the coffee-room until it was time to go.

“And there the matter has remained. Mrs Brackenbury has spent half her own fortune in trying to trace the missing man. She has remained perfectly convinced that he slipped across the Channel, taking Alice Checkfield’s money with him. But, as you know, at all ports of call on the South Coast, detectives are perpetually on the watch. The Count was a man of peculiar appearance, and there is no doubt that no one answering to his description crossed over to France or Belgium that night. By the following morning the detectives on both sides of the Channel were on the alert. There is no disguise that would have held good. If the Count had tried to cross over, he would have been spotted either on board or on landing; and we may take it as an absolute and positive certainty that he did not cross the Channel.

“He remained in England, but in that case, where is he? You would be the first to admit that, with the whole of our detective staff at his heels, it seems incredible that a man of the Count’s singular appearance could hide himself so completely as to baffle detection. Moreover, the question at once arises, that if he did not cross over to France or Belgium, what in the world did he do with the money? What was the use of disappearing and living the life of a hunted beast hiding for his life, with £80,000 worth of foreign money, which was practically useless to him?

“Now, I told you, from the first,” concluded the man in the corner, with a dry chuckle, “that this strange episode contained no sensational incident, nor dramatic inquest or criminal procedure. Merely the complete, total disappearance, one may almost call it extinction, of a striking-looking man, in the midst of our vaunted civilization, and in spite of the untiring energy and constant watch of a whole staff of able men.”

4

“Very well, then,” I retorted in triumph, “that proves that Hubert Turnour murdered Count Collini out of revenge, not for greed of money, and probably threw the body of his victim, together with the foreign banknotes, into the sea.”

“But where? When? How?” he asked, smiling good-humouredly at me over his great bone-rimmed spectacles.

“Ah! that I don’t know.”

“No, I thought not,” he rejoined placidly. “You had, I think, forgotten one incident, namely, that Hubert Turnour, accompanied by the Count, was in the former’s room at the Grand Hotel drinking whisky at half past ten o’clock. You must admit that, even though the hall of the hotel was very crowded later on, a man would nevertheless find it somewhat difficult to convey the body of his murdered enemy through a whole concourse of people.”

“He did not murder the Count in the hotel,” I argued. “The two men walked out again, when the hall was crowded, and they passed unnoticed. Hubert Turnour led the Count to a lonely part of the cliffs, then threw him into the sea.”

“The nearest point at which the cliffs might be called ‘lonely’ for purposes of a murder, is at least twenty minutes’ walk from the Grand Hotel,” he said, with a smile, “always supposing that the Count walked quickly and willingly to such a lonely spot at eleven o’clock at night, and with a man who had already, more than once, threatened his life. Mr Hubert Turnour, remember, was seen in the hall of the hotel at half past eleven, after which hour he only left the hotel to go to the station after 1 o’clock a.m.

“The hall was crowded by the passengers from the boattrain a little after eleven. There was no time between that and half past to lead even a willing enemy to the slaughter, throw him into the sea, and come back again, all in the space of five-and-twenty minutes.”

“Then what is your explanation of that extraordinary disappearance?” I retorted, beginning to feel very cross about it all.

“A simple one,” he rejoined quietly, as he once more began to fidget with his bit of string. “A very simple one indeed; namely, that Count Collini, at the present moment, is living comfortably in England, calmly awaiting a favourable opportunity of changing his foreign money back into English notes.”

“But you say yourself that that is impossible, as the most able detectives in England are on the watch for him.”

“They are on the watch for a certain Count Collini,” he said dryly, “who might disguise himself, perhaps, but whose hidden identity would sooner or later be discovered by one of these intelligent human bloodhounds.”

“Yes? Well?” I asked.

“Well, that Count Collini never existed. It was his personality that was the disguise. Now it is thrown off. The Count is not dead, he is not hiding, he has merely ceased to exist. There is no fear that he will ever come to life again. Mr Turnour senior will see to that.”

“Mr Turnour!” I ejaculated.

“Why, yes,” he rejoined excitedly; “do you mean to tell me you never saw through it all? The money lying in his hands; his brother about to wed the rich heiress; then Mrs Brackenbury’s matrimonial ambitions, Alice Checkfield’s coldness to Hubert Turnour, the golden prize slipping away right out of the family for ever. Then the scheme was evolved by those two scoundrels, who deserve to be called geniuses in their criminal way. It could not be managed, except by collaboration, but as it was, the scheme was perfect in conception, and easy of execution.

“Remember that disguise previous to a crime is always fairly safe from detection, for then it has no suspicion to contend against, it merely deceives those who have no cause to be otherwise but deceived.