Three days had gone by, and the mystery of Reginald Monkton’s disappearance remained as insoluble as ever. Well, it might be so, since there did not seem a single clue, with the exception of the name muttered by the dying man, which at first had sounded like Molyneux, and afterwards like Mulliner. Neither Sheila nor Grant, who had listened to those faint sounds issuing from the dying lips, could be certain which of the two was correct.
Wingate had seen Smeaton twice, and that astute person assured him that the keenest brains at Scotland Yard were working on the case. But he was very reticent, and from his manner the young man was forced to draw the conclusion that the prospects of success were very slight.
If it had been simply a case of disappearance, uncomplicated by other circumstances, many theories could have been formed. There were plenty of instances of men whose reason had become temporarily unhinged, and who had lost consciousness of their own identity.
Again, men have disappeared voluntarily because they have been threatened with exposure of some shameful secret of the past, and will willingly pay the penalty of separation from their own kith and kin to avoid it.
But no such theories seemed tenable in this instance. Monkton’s life, in the opinion of all who knew him, had been a well-ordered and blameless one. He had been a devoted husband; and he was a devoted father, wrapped up in his charming daughter, the sole legacy of that happy marriage.
In the case of such a man, with so stainless a record, it was unthinkable that anything could leap to light from the past which could shame him to such an extent that he would, of his own act, abandon his office, and isolate himself from his child.
Even granting such an hypothesis for a moment, and brushing aside all the evidences of his past life and all the knowledge of him gained through years by his relatives and intimate friends, how did such a theory fit in with the appearance on the scene of the stranger now dead?
“You fear the worst?” queried Wingate one day, as Smeaton sat with him in his cosy rooms in Half Moon Street.
“It is too early yet to give a decided opinion, if, in a case of such complexity, one could ever give a decided opinion at all,” was the detective’s answer. “But at present things point that way. What was the motive underlying the scheme? You can give the answer quickly—that all inquiries as to the real man are being stifled.”
“In other words, that Mr Monkton has been done away with, for motives we do not know, by the person or persons who put the man into the taxi?”
Smeaton nodded. “That’s what it seems to be at the moment, Mr Wingate. But we should be poor detectives if we pinned ourselves to any one theory, especially on such evidence—or rather want of evidence—as we have got at present. Cases as mysterious as this—and there was never one more mysterious—have been solved by unexpected means. If we can get hold of that driver who brought the dying man to Chesterfield Street, we may light upon something useful.”
“If he was an accomplice, as seems possible, he will never turn up,” said Wingate gloomily.
“Accomplice or not, I think the reward will tempt him,” replied Smeaton, “even if he has to make up his tale before he comes. I expected he would come forward before now. But one of two things may have happened. Either he may be cogitating over what he shall say when he does come, or he may be an ignorant sort of fellow, who hardly ever reads the newspapers.”
“Anyway,” resumed Smeaton, after a thoughtful pause, “if and when he does turn up, we shall know, with our long experience, what sort of a customer he is. You may rely upon it that if there is anything to be got out of him, we shall get it, whether it proves valuable or not.”
It was not a very cheering interview, certainly, but how could there be any chance of hopefulness at present?
During the few days, however, the police had not been idle. They had made a few discoveries, although they were of a nature to intensify rather than tend to a solution of the mystery.
They had established one most important fact.
Monkton had excused himself from dining at home on the plea that he must be down at the House, the inference being that he would snatch a hasty meal there, in the pause of his Ministerial work.
Instead of that, he had dined about seven o’clock in an obscure little Italian restaurant in Soho. Luigi, the proprietor, had at once recognised him from his portraits in the illustrated papers, and from having seen him at the Ritz, where he had been a waiter.
He had entered the café a few minutes before seven, and had looked round, as if expecting to find somebody waiting for him. Luigi had taken him the menu, and he had said he would wait a few minutes before giving his order, as a guest would arrive.
On the stroke of seven a tall, bearded man, evidently a foreigner, who walked with a limp, joined him. Questioned by Smeaton as to the nationality of the man, the proprietor replied that he could not be sure. He would take him for a Russian. He was quite certain that he was neither French nor Italian. And he was equally certain that he was not a German.
The new arrival joined Mr Monkton, who at once ordered the dinner. Neither of the men ate much, but consumed a bottle of wine between them.
They talked earnestly, and in low tones, during the progress of the meal, which was finished in about half-an-hour. Cigars, coffee, and liqueurs were then ordered, and over these they sat till half-past eight, conversing in the same low tones all the time.
Luigi added that the Russian—if he was of that nationality, as he suspected—seemed to bear the chief burden of the conversation. Mr Monkton played the part of listener most of the time, interjecting remarks now and again.
Asked if he overheard any of the talk between them, he replied that he did not catch a syllable. When he approached the table they remained silent, and did not speak again until he was well out of earshot.
“And you are quite positive it was Mr Monkton?” Smeaton had questioned, when Luigi had finished his recital. It had struck him that Luigi might have been mistaken after all.
Luigi was quite sure. He reminded Smeaton that before taking on the little restaurant in Soho he had been a waiter at the Ritz, where he had often seen the Cabinet Minister. It was impossible he could be mistaken.
He added in his excellent English, for he was one of those foreigners who are very clever linguists. “Besides, there is one other thing that proves it, even supposing I was misled by a chance likeness—though Mr Monkton’s is not a face you would easily forget—as I helped him on with his light overcoat he remarked to his friend, ‘I must hurry on as fast as I can. I am overdue at the House.’”
That seemed to settle the point. There might be a dozen men walking about London with sufficient superficial resemblance to deceive an ordinary observer, but there was no Member of the House of Commons who could pass for Monkton.
It was evident, then, that he had gone to that little, out-of-the-way restaurant to keep an appointment. The man he met was his guest, as Monkton paid for the dinner. The excuse he made for not dining at home was a subterfuge. The appointment was therefore one that he wished to conceal from his daughter, unless he did not deem it a matter of sufficient importance to warrant an explanation.
Monkton’s secretary was also interrogated by the detective. He was a fat-faced, rather pompous young man, with a somewhat plausible and ingratiating manner. He had been with Monkton three years. Sheila had seen very little of him, but what little she had seen did not impress her in his favour. And her father had owned that he liked him least of any one of the numerous secretaries who had served him.
This young man, James Farloe by name, had very little to tell. He was at the House at eight o’clock, according to Monkton’s instructions, and expected, him at that hour. He did not come in till after half-past, and he noticed that his manner was strange and abrupt, as if he had been disturbed by something. At a few minutes before ten he left, presumably for home. When he bade Farloe good-night he still seemed preoccupied.
In these terrible days Austin Wingate’s business occupied but second place in his thoughts. He was prepared to devote every moment he could snatch to cheer and sustain the sorrowing Sheila.
A week had gone by, but thanks to certain instructions given by the authorities, at the instance of the Prime Minister, who deplored the loss of his valuable colleague, the matter was being carefully hushed-up.
Late one afternoon, while Smeaton was seated in his bare official room on the second floor at Scotland Yard, the window of which overlooked Westminster Bridge, a constable ushered in a taxi-driver, saying:
“This man has come to see you, sir, regarding a fare he drove to Chesterfield Street the other night.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having been busy writing reports. “Sit down. What is your name?”
“Davies, sir—George Davies,” replied the man, twisting his cap awkwardly in his hands as he seated himself.
Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonesty about him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the idea of absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in his expression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is an awe-inspiring place to the humbler classes, and nervousness is quite as often a symptom of innocence as of guilt.
“I only ’eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I never reads the papers,” the taxi-driver said.
“Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That gentleman died, you know!”
The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice:
“I’ve come ’ere, sir, to tell you the truth. I’ll tell you all I know,” he added, “providing I’m not going to get into any trouble.”
“Not if you are not an accomplice,” Smeaton said, his keen eyes fixed upon his visitor.
The man paused and then with considerable apprehension said:
“Well—I don’t know ’ow I can be really an accomplice. All I know about it is that I was passin’ into Victoria Street goin’ towards the station, when three gentlemen standin’ under a lamp just opposite the entrance to Dean’s Yard hailed me. I pulls up when I sees that two of ’em ’ad got another gentleman by the arms. ‘Look ’ere, driver,’ says one of ’em, ‘this friend of ours ’as ’ad a drop too much wine, and we don’t want to go ’ome with ’im because of ’is wife. Will you take ’im? ’E lives in Chesterfield Street, just off Curzon Street,’ and ’e gives me the number.”
“Yes,” said Smeaton anxiously. “And what then?”
“Well, sir, ’e gives me five bob and puts the gentleman into my cab, and I drove ’im to the address, where ’is servant took charge of ’im. Did ’e really die afterwards?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes—unfortunately he did,” was the police official’s reply. “But tell me, Davies. Did you get a good look at the faces of the two men?”
“Yes, sir. They were all three under the lamp.”
“Do you think you could recognise both of them again—eh?”
“Of course I could. Why, one of ’em I’ve seen about lots o’ times. Indeed, only yesterday, about three o’clock, while I was waitin’ on the rank in the Strand, opposite the Savoy, I saw ’im come out with a lady, and drive away in a big grey car. If I’d a known then, sir, I could ’ave stopped ’im!”
At the beginning of the interview, the demeanour of the taxi-driver had betrayed signs of nervousness and trepidation. He had hesitated and stumbled in his speech, so much so that Smeaton, the detective, was still in doubt as to his honesty.
Smeaton, however, was a past-master in the art of dealing with a difficult witness. So reassuring was his manner that at the end of five minutes he had succeeded in inspiring the taxi-driver with confidence. His nervousness and hesitation were succeeded by loquacity.
Urged to give a description of the two men, he explained, with amplitude of detail, that the man who had come out of the Savoy was of medium height and clean-shaven, with angular features and piercing dark eyes. He was of striking appearance, the kind of man you would be sure to recognise anywhere. The lady with him was smartly dressed and appeared to be about thirty or under.
“Seems to me I’ve known ’im about London for years, although I can’t remember as I ever drove ’im,” he added.
The other man was, Davies said, tall and bearded, and certainly a foreigner, although he could not pretend to fix his nationality.
A tall, bearded man, and a foreigner! Smeaton pricked up his ears. The description tallied somewhat with that of the person who had dined with Monkton in the little restaurant in Soho.
Davies was dismissed with encouraging words and a liberal douceur. Given Smeaton the semblance of a clue, and he was on the track like a bloodhound.
Within twenty minutes of the taxi-driver’s departure, he was interviewing one of the hall-porters at the Savoy, an imposing functionary, and an old friend.
Smeaton had a large and extensive acquaintance among people who could be useful. He knew the hall-porters of all the big hotels. They were men of quick intelligence, keen powers of observation, and gathered much important information. He had unravelled many a mystery with their assistance.
The detective, standing aside in the hall, described the man as he had been featured by Davies. Did the hall-porter recognise him?
The answer was in the affirmative.
“He’s not a man you would be likely to forget, Mr Smeaton,” he said. “He is a pretty frequent visitor here. He lunches two or three times a week, and is popular with the waiters, through being pretty free with his tips. Most times he comes alone. Now and again he brings a guest, but nobody we know.”
“And his name?” questioned Smeaton eagerly.
“Well, that’s the funny part of it,” explained the other man. “We get to know the names of the habitués sooner or later, but none of us have ever heard his. He never seems to meet anybody here that he knows, and none of the waiters have ever heard one of his guests address him by name. The maître d’hôtel and I have often talked him over, and wondered who and what he was.”
Smeaton showed his disappointment. “That is unfortunate. Let us see if we can be more successful in another direction. Yesterday afternoon, about three o’clock, this man, whose name we don’t know, drove away from this place in a taxi, accompanied by a lady. My informant tells me she was smartly dressed, and he puts her age at about thirty, or perhaps less.”
The hall-porter indulged in a smile of satisfaction.
“I think I can help you there, Mr Smeaton. I was passing through the palm-court at the time, and saw them go out together. We all know the lady very well. She is here pretty often. Sometimes she comes with a big party, sometimes with a lady friend, sometimes with a gentleman. Her name is Saxton, and she has a flat in Hyde Park Mansions. One of her friends told me she is a widow.”
“What sort of a person is she? How would you class her? She seems to dress well, and is, I suppose, attractive.”
The hall-porter mused a moment before he replied. Like most of his class, he was an expert at social classification.
“Not one of the ‘nobs,’ certainly,” he answered at length, with a smile. “Semi-fashionable, I should say; moves in society with a small ‘s.’ Her friends seem of two sorts, high-class Bohemians—you know the sort I mean,—and rich middle-class who spend money like water.”
“I see,” said Smeaton. “And she lives in Hyde Park Mansions off the Edgware Road, or, to be more correct, Lisson Grove. She is evidently not rich.”
They bade each other a cordial good-day, Smeaton having first expressed his gratitude for the information, and left in the hall-porter’s capacious palm a more substantial proof of his satisfaction.
The next thing to be done was to interview the attractive widow. Before doing so, he looked in at Chesterfield Street, and, as he expected, found Wingate and Sheila together.
He told them of the visit of Davies, and his subsequent conversation with the hall-porter at the Savoy.
When he mentioned the name of Saxton, Sheila uttered an exclamation. “Why, Mr Farloe has a sister of the name of Saxton, a widow! He brought her once to one of our parties, and I remember she was very gushing. She begged me to go and see her at her flat, and I am pretty certain Hyde Park Mansions was the place she named, although I can’t be positive.”
“Did you go. Miss Monkton?”
“No. As I have told you, I never liked Mr Farloe, and I liked his sister less. She was pretty, and I think men would find her attractive. But there seemed to me an under-current of slyness and insincerity about her.”
It was rather a weakness of Wingate’s that he credited himself with great analytical powers, and believed he was eminently suited to detective work. So he broke in:
“Perhaps Miss Monkton and I could help you a bit, by keeping a watch on this woman. I have time to spare, and it would take her out of herself.”
Smeaton repressed a smile. Like most professionals, he had little faith in the amateur. But it would not be polite to say so.
“By all means, Mr Wingate. We can do with assistance. ’Phone me up or call at Scotland Yard whenever you have anything to communicate. Now, I think I will be off to Hyde Park Mansions and see what sort of a customer Mrs Saxton is.” A taxi bore him to his destination, and in a few moments he was ringing at the door of the flat.
A neat maid admitted him, and in answer to his inquiries said her mistress was at home.
“What name shall I say, please?” she asked in a hesitating voice. He produced his case and handed the girl a card.
“Of course, you know I am a stranger,” he explained. “Will you kindly take this to Mrs Saxton, and tell her that I will take up as little of her time as possible.”
After the delay of a few moments, he was shown into a pretty drawing-room, tastefully furnished. The lady was sitting at a tea-table, and alone.
“Please sit down,” she said; her tones were quite affable. She did not in the least appear to resent this sudden intrusion into her domestic life. “Lily, bring another cup. You will let me offer you some tea?”
She was certainly a most agreeable person—on the right side of thirty, he judged. Smeaton was somewhat susceptible to female influence, although, to do him justice, he never allowed this weakness to interfere with business.
He explained that tea was a meal of which he never partook. Mrs Saxton, it appeared, was a most hospitable person, and promptly suggested a whisky-and-soda. He must take something, she protested, or she would feel embarrassed.
The detective accepted, and felt that things had begun very smoothly. The velvet glove was very obvious, even if, later, he should catch a glimpse of the iron hand encased within.
“I must apologise for intruding upon you, Mrs Saxton, in this fashion. But I am in want of a little information, and I believe you can furnish me with it, if you are disposed to.”
Mrs Saxton smiled at him very sweetly, and regarded him with eyes of mild surprise. Very fine eyes they were, he thought. It was a pity that she had taken the trouble to enhance their brilliancy by the aid of art. She was quite good-looking enough to rely upon her attractions, without surreptitious assistance.
“How very interesting,” she said in a prettily modulated, but rather affected voice. “I am all curiosity.”
She was purring perhaps a little bit too much for absolute sincerity, but it was pleasant to be met with such apparent cordiality.
Smeaton came to the point at once. “I am at the present moment considerably interested in the gentleman with whom you left the Savoy yesterday afternoon in a taxi-cab.”
There was just a moment’s pause before she replied. But there were no signs of confusion about her. Her eyes never left his face, and there was no change in her voice when she spoke. She was either perfectly straightforward, or as cool a hand as he had ever met.
“You are interested in Mr Stent? How strange! Gentlemen of your profession do not generally interest themselves in other persons without some strong motive, I presume?”
“The motive is a pretty strong one. At present, other interests require that I do not divulge it,” replied Smeaton gravely. He was pleased with one thing, he had already got the name of the man; he preferred not to confess that he did not know it. And her frank allusion to him as Mr Stent seemed to show that she had nothing to hide. Unless, of course, it was a slip.
“I know I am asking something that you may consider an impertinence,” he went on. “But, if you are at liberty to do so, I should like you to tell me all you know of this gentleman; in short, who and what he is.”
She laughed quite naturally. “But I really fear I can tell you very little. I suppose going away together in a taxi appears to argue a certain amount of intimacy. But in this case it is not so. I know next to nothing of Mr Stent. He is not even a friend, only a man whose acquaintance I made in the most casual manner. And, apart from two occasions about which I will tell you presently, I don’t suppose I have been in his company a dozen times.”
It was a disappointment, certainly, and this time Smeaton did not believe she was speaking the truth. In spite of the silvery laugh and the apparently frank manner. But he must put up with what she chose to give him.
“Do you mind telling me how you first made his acquaintance, Mrs Saxton?”
“Not in the least,” she replied graciously. “Two years ago I was staying in the Hotel Royal at Dinard. Mr Stent was there too. He seemed a very reserved, silent sort of man, and kept himself very much aloof from the others, myself included, although, as I daresay you have guessed, I am of a gregarious and unconventional disposition.”
She gave him a flashing smile, and Smeaton bowed gallantly. “I should say you were immensely popular,” he observed judiciously.
“Thanks for the compliment; without vanity, I think I may say most people take to me. Well, one day Mr Stent and I found ourselves alone in the drawing-room, and the ice was broken. After that we talked together a good deal, and occasionally went to the Casino, and took walks together. He left before I did, and I did not meet him again till next year at Monte Carlo.”
“Did you learn anything about his private affairs, his profession or occupation?”
“Not a word. The conversation was always general. He was the last man in the world to talk about himself. He was at Monte Carlo about a week. I did not see very much of him then, as I was staying with a party in Mentone; he was by himself, as before.”
“Did he give you the impression of a man of means?”
“On the whole, I should say, yes. One night he lost a big sum in the Rooms, but appeared quite unconcerned. Since then I have met him about a dozen times, or perhaps less, at different places, mostly restaurants. Yesterday he came through the palm-court, as I was sitting there after lunch, and we exchanged a few words.”
“Did you not see him at lunch; you were both there?” questioned Smeaton quickly.
“I saw him at a table some distance from mine, but he did not see me. I mentioned that I was going back to Hyde Park Mansions. He said he was driving in the direction of St. John’s Wood, and would drop me on his way. He left me at the entrance to the flats.”
Smeaton rose. He knew that if he stopped there for another hour he would get nothing more out of her.
“Thanks very much, Mrs Saxton, for what you have told me. One last question, and I have done. Do you know where he lives?”
There was just a moment’s hesitation. Did she once know, and had she forgotten? Or was she debating whether she would feign ignorance? He fancied the latter was the correct reason.
“I don’t remember, if I ever knew, the exact address, but it is somewhere in the direction of St. Albans.”
Smeaton bowed himself out, and meditated deeply. “She’s an artful customer, for all her innocent air, and knows more than she will tell, till she’s forced,” was his inward comment. “Now for two things—one, to find out what there is to be found at St. Albans; two, to get on the track of the bearded man.”
Mr Smeaton was not a man to waste time. Within ten minutes of his arrival at Scotland Yard he had sent two sergeants of the C.I. Department to keep Mrs Saxton under close surveillance, and to note the coming and going of all visitors. As her flat was on the ground floor, observation would be rendered comparatively easy.
The evening’s report was barren of incident. Mrs Saxton had remained at home. The only visitor had been a young man, answering to the description of James Farloe, her brother. He had called about dinner-time, and left a couple of hours later.
For the moment Smeaton did not take Farloe very seriously into his calculations. Mrs Saxton would tell her brother all about his visit, and to interrogate him would be a waste of time. He would tell him nothing more about Stent than he had already learned.
He had noticed, with his trained powers of observation which took in every detail at a glance, that there was a telephone in a corner of the small hall.
If her connection with the mysterious Stent were less innocent than she had led him to believe, she would have plenty of time to communicate with this gentleman by means of that useful little instrument.
Later, he instructed a third skilled subordinate to proceed the next morning in a car to St. Albans, and institute discreet inquiries on the way. Afterwards, he thought of the two amateur detectives in Chesterfield Street, and smiled. Sheila was a charming girl, pathetically beautiful in her distress, and Wingate was a pleasant young fellow. So he would give them some encouragement.
He wrote a charming little note, explaining what he had done with regard to Mrs Saxton. He suggested they should establish their headquarters at a small restaurant close by, lunch and dine there as often as they could. If occasion arose, they could co-operate with his own men, who would recognise them from his description. He concluded his letter with a brief résumé of his conversation with Mrs Saxton.
Poor souls, he thought, nothing was likely to come out of their zeal. But it would please them to think they were at least doing something towards the unravelling of the mystery.
In this supposition he was destined to be agreeably disappointed in the next few hours.
Wingate, after reading the letter, escorted Sheila on a small shopping expedition in the West End. They were going to lunch afterwards at the restaurant in close proximity to Hyde Park Mansions.
The shopping finished, Wingate suddenly recollected he must send a wire to the works at Hendon, and they proceeded to the nearest post-office in Edgware Road.
It was now a quarter to one, and they had settled to lunch at one o’clock, so they walked along quickly. When within a few yards of the post-office, Sheila laid her hand upon his arm.
“Stop a second!” she said in an excited voice. “You see that woman getting out of a taxi. It is Mrs Saxton. Let her get in before we go on.”
He obeyed. The elegant, fashionably-attired young woman paid the driver, and disappeared within the door. The pair of amateur detectives followed on her heels.
Sheila’s quick eyes picked her out at once, although the office was full of people. Mrs Saxton was already in one of the little pens, writing a telegram.
Unobserved by the woman so busily engaged, Sheila stepped softly behind her, and waited till she had finished. She had splendid eyesight, and she read the words distinctly. They ran as follows:
“Herbert. Poste Restante, Brighton. Exercise discretion. Maude.”
Then she glided away, and, with Wingate, hid herself behind a group of people. She had only met the woman once, but it was just possible she might remember her if their glances met.
Mrs Saxton took the telegram to the counter, and they heard her ask how long it would take to get to Brighton. Then, having received an answer to the query, which they could not catch, she went out.
They looked at each other eagerly. They had made a discovery, but what were they to do with it?
“Ring up Smeaton at once, and tell him,” suggested Sheila. “He will know what to do.”
After a moment’s reflection, Wingate agreed that this was the proper course. While they were discussing the point, the man himself hurried in. His quick eye detected them at once, and he joined them.
“I’ve just missed Mrs Saxton—eh?” he queried.
Sheila explained to him how they had arrived there by accident, and had seen her stepping out of the taxi. Smeaton went on to explain.
“I looked round this morning to see how my men were getting on, and found a taxi waiting before the door. I had to hide when she came out, but one of my men heard her give the address of this office. I picked up another taxi, and drove as hard as I could. My fellow kept the other well in sight, but just as we were gaining on her, I was blocked, and lost three minutes. She came here, of course, to send a wire. But it is only a little delay. I can get hold of that wire very shortly.”
“But there is no need,” cried Sheila triumphantly. “At any rate, for the present. I looked over her shoulder, and read every word of it. I will tell it you.”
She repeated the words. He had showed obvious signs of vexation at having just missed the woman he was hunting, and now his brow cleared.
“Very clever of you. Miss Monkton—very clever,” he said in appreciative tones. “Now, who is Herbert, that’s the question?”
“Stent, no doubt,” suggested Wingate, with a certain amount of rashness.
The detective regarded him with his kindly but somewhat quizzical smile. “I very much doubt if it is Stent, Mr Wingate. I sent a man down early this morning to St. Albans, where I believe he lives. I should say Herbert is another man altogether.” The young people readily accepted the professional’s theory. They recognised that they were only amateurs.
There was a long pause. They stood humbly waiting for the great man to speak, this man of lightning intuition and strategic resource.
It seemed an interminable time to the expectant listeners before he again opened his lips. Before he did speak, he pulled out his watch and noted the time.
“This may be important, and we cannot afford to lose a moment,” he said at length. “How do you stand, Mr Wingate, as regards time? Can you spare me the whole of the day?”
“The whole of to-day, to-morrow, and the next day, if it will help,” cried the young man fervently.
“There is a fairly fast train from Victoria in forty minutes from now. You have plenty of time to catch it. I want you to go to the post-office in Brighton, and get hold of that telegram.”
“But it is addressed to the name of Herbert.”
“No matter,” said Smeaton, a little impatiently. “If the real Herbert has not been before you—and I should guess it is an unexpected message—they will hand it to you; they are too busy to be particular. If he has already been, trump up a tale that he is a friend of yours, and not being sure that he would be able to call himself, had asked you to look in for it, so as to make sure.”
“I see,” said Wingate. He felt an increased admiration for the professional detective. He was not quite sure that he would have been ready with this glib explanation.
“I should love to go too,” said Sheila, looking wistfully at the ever-resourceful Smeaton, whom she now frankly accepted as the disposer of their destinies.
“Forgive me if I oppose you this once, my dear Miss Monkton,” he said in his kindest and most diplomatic manner. “Two are not always company in detective business, unless they’ve been trained to work together. Besides, I shall want Mr Wingate to keep in close touch with me on the ’phone, and he will have no time to look after a lady.”
Having settled that matter, he turned to Wingate. “First of all, here are a couple of my cards; one to show the post-office if there is anything awkward—this for the chief constable of Brighton if you have need of his assistance. I will scribble an introduction on it.” He suited the action to the word. “Now, the sooner you are off the better. I will put Miss Monkton into a taxi. You be off, and try to get hold of that wire.”
There was no resisting his powerful personality. He controlled the situation like an autocrat.
“Stay, just one thing more. I shall be at Scotland Yard till seven, and at home about eight. Here is my private ’phone number, if unseen developments arise.”
He thought of everything, he foresaw the improbable. They were lost in admiration. At the moment of departing, he rather damped their enthusiasm by muttering, almost to himself:
“If I could put my hand on one of my own men, I wouldn’t trouble you, but there is no time, and delay is dangerous.”
A hasty hand-shake to Sheila, a fond lover’s look into her eyes, and Wingate was out of the post-office, and into a taxi, en route for Victoria.
He thought of her all the time he was travelling to Brighton. In these last few days her great sorrow had brought her very near to him. He had read her disappointment when Smeaton had forbidden her to accompany him. But she would not resent that on him; she knew he was working in her interests, that his one thought was to help in solving the tragic mystery that was clouding her young life.
The train arrived at Brighton punctual to the minute, and mindful of Smeaton’s remark that delay was dangerous, he drove straight to the post-office.
He was, in a certain sense, elated with the mission that had been entrusted him, through the mere accident of Smeaton not having had time to put his hand on an experienced man. But he felt some trepidation as he walked through the swing-doors. Surely people who set forth on detective work must have nerves of steel and foreheads of triple brass.
He bought some stamps first, not because he wanted them, but in order to screw up his courage to sticking-point.
A sharp-featured, not too amiable-looking young woman served him. When he had completed his purchase, he asked in as cordial a voice as he could assume:
“Are there any letters or telegrams for the name of Herbert?”
The young woman regarded him with a suspicious glance.
“Is your name Herbert, may I ask?”
At that moment, he blessed Smeaton for the lie which he had made him a present of at starting. He proceeded to retail it for the young woman’s benefit.
She smiled a sour smile, and he felt his face flush. Decidedly he wanted more experience.
“Nothing doing this time,” she said insolently, in a rasping cockney voice. “You’d better hurry up next time. The real owner of the telegram took it away half-an-hour ago!”
After Wingate’s hurried departure, Smeaton put Sheila into a taxi, and quickly took his way back to Scotland Yard. Here he found a note awaiting him from the Home Secretary, requesting him to step round to the Home Office.
They knew each other well, these two men, and had been brought together several times on affairs of public importance. Before he had thrown all his energies into politics Mr Carlingford had been one of the most successful barristers of the day. His intellect was of the keen and subtle order.
He was, of course, profoundly interested in the mysterious disappearance of his colleague, the Colonial Secretary, and had sent for the detective to talk over the matter.
“Sit down, Smeaton. Have you any news? I know you are not a man to let the grass grow under your feet.”
Smeaton explained the situation as it stood at present.
“We have partly identified one, and in my opinion the more important, of the two men who put him in the taxi. His name is given to me as Stent, and he is supposed to have a house somewhere in the neighbourhood of St. Albans. One of my best sergeants is down there to-day, making inquiries. I fancy we are also on the track of the second man.”
He added that it was to Farloe’s sister, Mrs Saxton, that he was indebted for the somewhat scanty information he possessed.
“I met that lady last winter at Mentone,” remarked the Home Secretary. “She was an attractive young woman, with ingratiating manners. I remember she introduced herself to me, telling me that her brother was Monkton’s secretary. My impression at the time, although I don’t know that I had any particular evidence to go on, was that there was just a little touch of the adventuress about her.”
“Precisely my impression,” agreed the man from “over the way.”
“I never took to that fellow, Farloe, either,” continued the statesman. “I don’t think Monkton was particularly attached to him, although he admitted he was the best secretary he ever had. I always thought there was something shifty and underhand about him.”
They talked for a few moments longer, exchanging probable and possible theories, and then Smeaton rose to take his leave.
“Well, Mr Carlingford, thanks to your kind help we have been able to keep it out of the Press so far. I hope our inquiries will soon bear some fruit,” he said, and then left the room.
Sheila had gone home feeling very sad and lonely. All her plans for the day had been upset by Wingate’s sudden journey to Brighton.
She had looked forward to spending some hours in the society of her lover. The excitement of the detective business in which they proposed to engage for the rest of the day would have taken her out of herself, and kept alive the courage which flagged sorely now and again, as she confronted the apparently insoluble problem of her beloved father’s disappearance.
Her luncheon finished, she went into her own dainty little sitting-room and tried to read. But she could not focus her attention. Her thoughts strayed away from the printed page, and at last she flung down the book impatiently.
“I wish that I had insisted on going down to Brighton with Austin,” she said to herself. “I think I must get out. I shall go mad if I stop within these four walls.”
As she was making up her mind, the door opened, and old Grant entered.
“A lady would like to see you. Miss,” he said. “She says her name is Saxton and that you know her, as she is Mr Farloe’s sister. She says she has been here once, but I don’t seem to remember her.”
Sheila was immediately interested. Their acquaintance was of the slightest. She recalled the incident at the post-office, and wondered what was the object of the visit.
“Yes, she came once to a big party. Grant. You have shown her into the drawing-room, I suppose? I will see her.”
She went at once to the drawing-room. Mrs Saxton rose as she entered, and advanced towards her with outstretched hand, her pretty, rather hard features subdued to an expression of deep sympathy.
“My dear Miss Monkton, I do hope you will not regard my visit as an intrusion,” she exclaimed fussily. “But, owing to my brother’s connection with your family, I was bound to know something of what has happened. And I feel so deeply for you.”
Sheila replied with some conventional phrase, but her manner was constrained and cold. Mrs Saxton was acting, no doubt to the best of her capacity, but there was an absence of sincerity in voice and glance.
She had come, not out of sympathy, but for her own ends. Sheila remembered what Smeaton had said, namely, that she knew a good deal more than she chose to tell. She also remembered the telegram which had been despatched a few hours ago. Was it possible Mrs Saxton had caught sight of her at the post-office in Edgware Road after all, and had come with the intention of pumping her?
Whatever the motives might be, Sheila made up her mind to one thing—that she would say as little as possible, and ask questions rather than answer them.
“What has Mr Farloe told you?”
“Oh, as little as he possibly could. But although it has been very cleverly kept from the Press, rumours are flying about at the clubs, in the House of Commons, everywhere. Your father has not been seen for several days, and he is much too important a man not to be missed.”
Sheila made no answer. She was resolved to take a very passive röle in this interview which had been thrust upon her. She looked steadily at Mrs Saxton, who bore the scrutiny of those candid young eyes with absolute composure, and waited for her to resume the conversation.
“A rather strange thing happened the other day,” went on her visitor, after a somewhat lengthy pause. “I had a visit from a Scotland Yard official, of the name of Smeaton. He told me he was very much interested in a Mr Stent, whose acquaintance I happened to make abroad a couple of years ago. I wonder if this Mr Stent happens to be a friend of yours, or your father’s?” This time Sheila felt she could make a direct answer without committing herself. “I certainly do not know the man myself. For my father I cannot, of course, speak positively. In his position he must have known heaps of people, more or less intimately. But, as I have never seen him in this house, he could not have been a friend.”
Mrs Saxton spoke again in her well-bred, but somewhat artificial voice:
“I hope you will excuse me for having put the question. But it struck me after he had left that his visit might have been connected with the sad events that have happened here, and that he believed Mr Stent to have been mixed up with them.”
“Were you able to give him any information?” asked Sheila quickly. She thought it was her turn to question now.
“Nothing, I am afraid, of any value. I had simply met him abroad at an hotel, in the first place, and came across him about a dozen times afterwards. You know what a lot of people one picks up in that casual sort of way, people you know absolutely nothing about.”
Sheila agreed that this was a common experience, and after the interchange of a few commonplaces, Mrs Saxton took leave. She renewed her expressions of sympathy, and begged Miss Monkton to make use of her in any way, if she thought she could render assistance.
What had been the motive of her visit? To reiterate the slenderness of her knowledge of the man Stent, so that the fact would be communicated to Smeaton? Or had she hoped to find an artless and impressionable girl, who would confide to her all that had been done, up to the present, to unravel the mystery of Monkton’s disappearance?
If so, she had signally failed. She had gone away, having learned nothing. And Sheila had put no questions herself, although she was burning to ask her: “Who is that man at Brighton to whom you sent the telegram of warning?”
It had been a day of surprises, and events proceeded very rapidly, mostly in the direction of disappointments.
In the first place, Smeaton was rung up from Brighton by Wingate, who reported the failure of his attempt to get hold of the telegram, and asked for further instructions.
The detective mused a few moments before replying. He placed little or no reliance on the efforts of amateurs, however full of zeal. Still, the young man was there, and he might as well make use of him.
“Would it be inconveniencing you to spend a few more hours down there?” he asked at length over the wire from his room at Scotland Yard.
The reply was what might be expected. Wingate would be only too happy to place himself entirely at Smeaton’s disposal.
“Thanks. In that case, I would ask you to keep a watch on the post-office for as long as you think worth while. This fellow will be pretty certain to call again in an hour or two for another wire. You may depend their correspondence has not finished with that first telegram.”
So that was settled; it was a toss-up whether or not anything would result from Wingate’s observations.
A little later one of the two men who were watching Hyde Park Mansions reported that Mrs Saxton had driven to Chesterfield Street, and remained in Monkton’s house for some twenty minutes.
Smeaton at once rang up Sheila Monkton, and obtained particulars of the brief interview, which confirmed his opinion that Farloe’s attractive sister was engaged in some deep game.
This opinion was further corroborated by the arrival of the detective he had sent down to St. Albans at an early hour that morning.
This man had scoured the neighbourhood on his motor-cycle within a radius of twelve miles from the city of St. Albans. Nobody of the name of Stent was known, and so far as his information went, which he had picked up at various shops and local inns, nobody of that name had ever been a resident, at any rate within the last four or five or six years.
Smeaton cursed Mrs Saxton heartily. A really innocent woman might have made a mistake. But he was sure in his own mind that this innocent-looking young person with the charming manners and the well-bred voice had deliberately put him on a wrong scent.
And for what motive? Perhaps in order to gain time. Well, he had lost a few hours, but he intended to run Mr Stent to earth yet, without her assistance.