Chapter One.

Missing.

1,000 Pound Reward.

The above-named Sum will be paid to any person giving information which will lead to the discovery of the whereabouts of a young Englishman named Richard Grenville, who was last seen at Durban on 15th December, 1877.

Apply to Masterton and Driffield, Advocates, Port Natal.

Facing this striking announcement, and with his back to the Standard Bank of South Africa, in Durban, stood, one morning in July, 1880, a wiry-looking, clean-shaved man of about five- or six-and-thirty, dressed in a rough grey homespun suit.

Man after man paused, read, marked, learned, and, no doubt, inwardly digested, the contents of the advertisement, then passed on his way without giving the matter a second thought—beyond, perhaps, half wishing, in a lazy sort of way, that he knew something about this man who seemingly was so much wanted by his own people. But our grey-coated friend still stood there, and appeared to be literally devouring the announcement.

At length he turned sharply away with a muttered “Hum! It’s a big pile. Five thousand dollars—now, I wonder if—” But here his keen eye noted the stoppage of another person—a fashionably-dressed man—before the advertisement, which seemed of considerable personal interest to him, judging from the way he stared at it, and from the fact that his cigar dropped from his lips, which mechanically opened with an involuntary exclamation the moment the wording caught his eye. Quickly recovering himself, the man glanced keenly at grey-coat, who was, however, diligently charging his pipe, and then he, too, like his predecessors, passed on his way.

“Snakes!” muttered our friend. “Now, I wonder who that swell is, and why this lay startled him so infernally. Reckon I’ll have to get you weighed up before I clear, old chap;” and, lighting his pipe, he moved briskly away in the direction of Masterton and Driffield’s office.

Arrived there, he in due course expressed to a young clerk his desire to interview one of the principals on the subject of a considerable interest which he proposed to acquire in certain land at Durban, and very shortly found himself closeted with Mr Driffield.

“I have called, sir,” he said, “to see you regarding this advertisement of yours for one Richard Grenville, and to learn what further details you can afford me beyond the information given in the announcement.”

Our friend, be it observed, was something of a curiosity. A thorough-bred Yankee, he seldom or never indulged in “Americanisms” of any kind except when soliloquising, which he had a singular habit of doing whilst deducing his own peculiar theories.

“Oh!” said the lawyer, in a somewhat aggrieved tone. “My clerk stated that you wished to consult me with regard to the purchase of some land. That advertisement was only printed off last night, and if we have had one call concerning it, we have already had at least two hundred.”

“I didn’t choose to let your clerk know my business, or anything about me, Mr Driffield,” replied grey-coat curtly; “but here’s my card, sir, and now let me hear all you’ve got to say, without further loss of time.”

Mr Driffield took the pasteboard, read it, and stared blankly at the other, who laughed quietly, and then reached out his hand, which the lawyer grasped in most unmistakably hearty fashion.

“Why, God bless me, Kenyon,” said he, “I should never have known you in this get-up; but look here, come and dine with me to-night, and we’ll go right into this business. You are the one man I would have chosen for it out of all the world, and I shall be very much mistaken if I haven’t a good twelve months’ work for you. To-night, at seven, at the Athenaeum, then. And now ‘good morning,’ for I’m up to the eyes in work. Oh! by the way, Kenyon, if you haven’t read this book, do so at once, there’s a good fellow, for it contains a full account of Grenville’s South African adventures, and your perusal of it will prepare my way, and save me going over most of the old ground again to-night.” So saying, the lawyer dismissed his visitor, who was none other than Stanforth Kenyon, the keenest and wiliest detective New York could boast of—a man born to his profession, and consequently an ornament to it.

At five-and-twenty Kenyon was an unknown, but—having regard to his literary merit—an overpaid scribbler on one of the big New York dailies; but now, only ten years later, he was universally admitted to be the most unerring sleuth-hound of the whole shrewd band of secret police owning allegiance to Uncle Sam, and whose business in South Africa at the present time, needless to say, was known only to himself.

At once retaking his way to the hotel he had left that morning, the detective settled down to read the book in question, (“Into the Unknown”) and in a few hours’ time had mastered its contents, and lay quietly back in his chair, smoking, and thinking deeply.

After a further hour had been expended in this comforting and, no doubt, edifying fashion, he took out a well-worn notebook, and wrote several lines therein in shorthand; then, returning the book to his pocket, he started out for a stroll, and seven o’clock saw him seated opposite to the lawyer, and enjoying most thoroughly the excellent dinner provided for him by that worthy gentleman.

“And now,” said Mr Driffield, when the cloth was removed and both men had lighted their cigars, “let me have your opinion of ‘Into the Unknown,’ or, rather, as to what extent the events narrated therein may or may not bear upon the present disappearance of our friend Grenville.”

“First,” said the detective, calmly begging the question, and taking out his notebook, “who are you working for, Mr Driffield? I mean,” he added, quickly, “is it some relation of Grenville’s who is anxious about the missing man, or have you yourself any personal interest in the search?”

“None at all,” was the reply. “Let me be quite frank with you, Kenyon. I am employed by his cousin, Lord Drelincourt, who shared his adventures amongst the Mormons, and my lord is in no end of a taking about him. You see, the two men were like twin brothers all their lives, and now that Lord Drelincourt has lost his wife and child, he feels alone in life, poor fellow, and would give his whole fortune to have his cousin by his side.”

“How very sad,” commented the detective. “So he took poor Dora Winfield homo only to bury her. How did it all happen?”

“No one knows,” said the little lawyer, dropping his voice. “Poor Lady Drelincourt and her one-year-old boy were found dead in bed one morning, without even the suspicion of a mark of violence upon them.

“My lord was away from home when it happened, and the shock almost unseated his reason, and for weeks after the sad event he was down with brain fever. Though quite a young man, his hair turned snowy-white when he realised the awful extent of his cruel loss, and awoke from his long illness only to find that his dead had long been buried out of his sight. Doctors and detectives were called in at the time, but everything was in vain. The detectives were hopelessly at fault, and the only theory the doctors could advance was that mother and child had been chloroformed to death.

“The servants were old family retainers, and were entirely beyond suspicion, being all of them passionately devoted to their sweet young mistress, and bound to their loved master as much by his personal worth and goodness as by the unbroken ties of voluntary servitude during three generations.

“And now, Kenyon, will you undertake the case? The reward is already well worth working for, great though the risks may be;