Chapter Five.Contains some Curious Facts.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 liberaldouceur. 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.”
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 liberaldouceur. 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.”
Chapter Six.Just Too Late.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!”
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!”
Chapter Seven.The Mysterious Mrs Saxton.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 passiverölein 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.
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 passiverölein 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.
Chapter Eight.The Man from Boundary Road.Austin Wingate’s feelings as he left the post-office in Brighton can easily be imagined. He had failed ignominiously in his mission, and the sarcastic young woman who had spoken so insolently to him was laughing at his discomfiture.It was some moments before he could sufficiently recover his composure to go to the nearest telephone—he did not dare to re-enter the post-office so soon—and communicate with Smeaton.He was fortified by the detective’s request to remain at his post for some time longer, in the hope of turning a failure into something of a partial success. He lit a big cigar and prepared for a long vigil.He began to think there were certain discomforts attached to detective work. He found himself commiserating the two unfortunate creatures who had been appointed to keep watch at Hyde Park Mansions.He was better off than they in one important particular. They only worked for pay, not, probably, of a very munificent description. If he succeeded, he would not only earn the praises of Smeaton, but he would be rewarded with the tender light of gratitude in the beautiful eyes of his beloved Sheila.So he kept resolutely at his post, lounging up and down the street, with his glance ever alert for any likely stranger who should come along.An hour passed, and then the minutes went very slowly. He kept looking at his watch. Smeaton was sure the strange man would come back for a further communication. Putting himself in the man’s place, he reasoned that he had wired a reply to Mrs Saxton, and that he would allow himself a certain time for his wire to reach London, and the return wire to get to Brighton.Calculating on this basis—and he felt rather proud of the process—Austin reckoned that the man would be back in a couple of hours from when he left the post-office. The insolent young woman had told him that the wire had been fetched away half-an-hour before Wingate’s arrival.If this reasoning was correct, the man he was in search of would make his appearance in about another ten minutes from the last time Austin had looked at his watch.He felt his nerves quivering as the moment drew near and then passed. The street was very busy, many people entering and leaving the post-office.Another ten minutes had elapsed, and then a tall, bearded man came along. There was something peculiar in his gait: he seemed to walk stiffly with one leg.He proceeded slowly in the direction of the post-office, and entered the swing-doors. A chill came over the ardent Wingate as he recognised that the man might be merely going in to buy stamps, or send a wire—not to receive one.He stole across from the opposite side of the street, where he had been marching up and down for such an interminable time, and peered through the glass door.A thrill of exultation swept through him as he saw the young woman hand the stranger a telegram, which he opened, read rapidly, and then thrust in his breast pocket. Wingate at once darted back to his previous post.At a respectful distance he followed the stranger with the peculiar limping walk. They came on to the sea front, and his quarry finally disappeared into that well-known hostelry, “The Old Ship.”It was now much more than an even chance, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that this was the man who was in communication with Mrs Saxton, and that the telegram he had seen him read was from her.The man, further, answered to the description given by Davies of one of the two men who had hailed his taxi at Dean’s Yard. The taxi-driver had said nothing about the peculiarity in his walk, which had impressed Wingate at once, probably for the obvious reason that Davies had not had an opportunity of observing it. He had only seen him for a couple of minutes, during which time he was occupied in taking instructions for the disposal of his fare.“The Old Ship” had been a favourite resort of Wingate’s for some years. In fact, until within the last few months, when his business occupations had permitted less leisure, there was hardly a week in which he had not motored down there.The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of his subordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would be the easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere he again ’phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into the hall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself.“Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were saying only the other day that you had quite deserted us.”“Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn’t get away. But it was such a lovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath of fresh air.”“Quite right, sir,” cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice. “It will do you good. All work and no play—you know the old proverb, sir—eh? You are staying the night, I hope?”Wingate hesitated. “I didn’t intend to when I started from town. Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you many people stopping here?”“Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don’t expect to have many this time of year. A lot of people come in to thetable d’hôte, but at the moment, in the house itself, we’ve only an elderly couple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been a visitor, on and off, for the last few months.”It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon the subject of the “foreign” gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfield was a chatty, old-fashioned creature nearly seventy, and could be trusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to a customer whom he had known for some years.But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He would prospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself of the head-waiter’s loquacity.A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, and prepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance there was nobody else in the apartment. A few seconds later the bearded stranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himself before a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulled from his breast pocket a bundle of papers.He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemed to be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, making notes meanwhile.Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegram which he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top of the little pile, and went on with what remained.It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram within six feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An idea occurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failed to emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, through carelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty.Noiselessly he stole across the few feet of space that divided him from the stranger, and stood on his right hand. Another document had been laid upon the pile, and only the corner of the telegram was peeping forth. A second or two sooner, and he could have read it. He was full of chagrin.“Excuse me, sir, but can you oblige me with a match? They don’t seem to provide them in this establishment.”The visitor turned, and for a moment regarded him keenly. What he saw seemed to impress him favourably: an open, honest English face, perfectly candid eyes that looked into his own, without a suspicion of guile in their direct gaze.“With pleasure, sir. They seem very remiss.”He spoke with a slight foreign accent, but his tones were cultivated, and his manner was courtesy itself. He held out his match-box. Wingate fancied his glance travelled uneasily to the pile of papers upon the table.The young man turned half round to strike the match. There was hardly anything of the telegram to read, so obscured was it by the letter lying on the top of it, in which he was not interested.But what he could see, with his abnormally quick vision, was sufficient. The signature showed distinctly, the same that had appeared on the previous wire—the name MAUDE!He bowed and withdrew. The foreigner finished his examination of the pile of correspondence he had produced, gathered it up, and transferred it to his breast pocket. Then, with a courteous smile to Wingate, he quitted the room.The young man breathed a sigh of relief. He was both astonished and delighted at his own resource, at the extent of his discovery. The contents of the telegram could be obtained by Smeaton at his leisure.What he, Austin Wingate, amateur detective, had proved was that the mysterious man who was staying there was the same person who was in communication with Maude, otherwise Mrs Saxton, of Hyde Park Mansions.He had done good spade work. Of that he was sure. It was now half-past seven. Plenty of time to ’phone Smeaton, tell him what he had discovered, and inquire how he was to proceed.The detective decided on his campaign without a moment’s hesitation.“Well done, Mr Wingate, an excellent result,” he said over the wire. “Stay the night and keep the fellow under observation. We must have him identified. I will send Davies down by the first train to-morrow morning. I will ’phone you full instructions, say, in a couple of hours. Meet him at the station in the morning, smuggle him into the hotel as quickly as you can; I leave the details to you. Let him see our foreign friend, and say if he is the man we think him to be.” He paused a moment, then added:“You say the manager and Bayfield are well-known to you. They are also old friends of mine. I have unearthed more than one mystery with their help. Mention my name, show them my card, if you think it will ease matters. They will give you any assistance you want. Once again, bravo, and well-done. I’ll ring you up as soon as I have fixed Davies.”Wingate felt he was walking on air as he returned to the hotel. With his new-born cunning he had not ’phoned from “The Old Ship,” but from the post-office.The dining-room was not at all full. The elderly couple and the foreigner sat at their respective tables. A few other people were dotted about.At the end of an hour Wingate had the room to himself, with the head-waiter, his old friend, hovering around, ready for a prolonged chat.“I’m rather interested in that foreign chap, Bayfield,” he said carelessly. “What do you know about him? Is he a quiet sort of Anarchist, or what?”Bayfield was quite ready to communicate all he knew, in confidential whispers, for Wingate was always very popular with his inferiors. He gave himself no airs, and he was more than liberal with tips.“He’s a bit of a mystery, sir, but he’s a very quiet sort of a gentleman. He began coming here about three months ago. I should say, since he started, he has stayed two or three days out of every week. He has heaps of letters. Sometimes he goes off at a minute’s notice, and then we have to send his letters after him.”“Where does he live, and what’s his name?”“He lives in the Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood, and his name is Bolinski; a Russian, I suppose. All their names seem to end in ‘ski’ or ‘off.’”So his name was Bolinski, and he lived in Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood. Here was valuable information for Smeaton. Wingate chatted a little longer with Bayfield, and then went for a walk along the front, returning in time to receive the detective’s message ’phoned to the hotel.At this juncture he thought it was wise policy to take both the manager and Bayfield into his confidence. He showed them Smeaton’s card, and explained that for reasons he was not at liberty to disclose, he wanted to identify Bolinski. A man was coming down for that purpose by an early train to-morrow morning, and he wanted to smuggle him into the hotel as early as possible.The manager smiled. “That’s all right, Mr Wingate. Inspector Smeaton is an old friend of mine, and I have helped him a bit here, and more in London. Our friend breakfasts on the stroke of half-past nine. Get your man in here a little before nine, and Bayfield will take him in charge, and give him a glimpse of the distinguished foreigner.”Next morning the taxi-driver Davies arrived, attired in a brand new suit, and looking eminently respectable in mufti.Wingate met him at the station, piloted him to “The Old Ship,” and handed him over to the careful guardianship of the astute Bayfield.At nine-thirty, Bolinski, fresh and smart, came down to his breakfast, seating himself at his usual table. Davies crept in, and took a good look at him, unobserved by the object of his scrutiny.Wingate was waiting in the hall, with the manager. The face of Davies was purple with emotion and the pleasurable anticipation of further and substantial reward.“That’s the man, right enough, sir!” he said in an excited whisper. “I’d swear to him out of a thousand if they was all standin’ before me.”
Austin Wingate’s feelings as he left the post-office in Brighton can easily be imagined. He had failed ignominiously in his mission, and the sarcastic young woman who had spoken so insolently to him was laughing at his discomfiture.
It was some moments before he could sufficiently recover his composure to go to the nearest telephone—he did not dare to re-enter the post-office so soon—and communicate with Smeaton.
He was fortified by the detective’s request to remain at his post for some time longer, in the hope of turning a failure into something of a partial success. He lit a big cigar and prepared for a long vigil.
He began to think there were certain discomforts attached to detective work. He found himself commiserating the two unfortunate creatures who had been appointed to keep watch at Hyde Park Mansions.
He was better off than they in one important particular. They only worked for pay, not, probably, of a very munificent description. If he succeeded, he would not only earn the praises of Smeaton, but he would be rewarded with the tender light of gratitude in the beautiful eyes of his beloved Sheila.
So he kept resolutely at his post, lounging up and down the street, with his glance ever alert for any likely stranger who should come along.
An hour passed, and then the minutes went very slowly. He kept looking at his watch. Smeaton was sure the strange man would come back for a further communication. Putting himself in the man’s place, he reasoned that he had wired a reply to Mrs Saxton, and that he would allow himself a certain time for his wire to reach London, and the return wire to get to Brighton.
Calculating on this basis—and he felt rather proud of the process—Austin reckoned that the man would be back in a couple of hours from when he left the post-office. The insolent young woman had told him that the wire had been fetched away half-an-hour before Wingate’s arrival.
If this reasoning was correct, the man he was in search of would make his appearance in about another ten minutes from the last time Austin had looked at his watch.
He felt his nerves quivering as the moment drew near and then passed. The street was very busy, many people entering and leaving the post-office.
Another ten minutes had elapsed, and then a tall, bearded man came along. There was something peculiar in his gait: he seemed to walk stiffly with one leg.
He proceeded slowly in the direction of the post-office, and entered the swing-doors. A chill came over the ardent Wingate as he recognised that the man might be merely going in to buy stamps, or send a wire—not to receive one.
He stole across from the opposite side of the street, where he had been marching up and down for such an interminable time, and peered through the glass door.
A thrill of exultation swept through him as he saw the young woman hand the stranger a telegram, which he opened, read rapidly, and then thrust in his breast pocket. Wingate at once darted back to his previous post.
At a respectful distance he followed the stranger with the peculiar limping walk. They came on to the sea front, and his quarry finally disappeared into that well-known hostelry, “The Old Ship.”
It was now much more than an even chance, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that this was the man who was in communication with Mrs Saxton, and that the telegram he had seen him read was from her.
The man, further, answered to the description given by Davies of one of the two men who had hailed his taxi at Dean’s Yard. The taxi-driver had said nothing about the peculiarity in his walk, which had impressed Wingate at once, probably for the obvious reason that Davies had not had an opportunity of observing it. He had only seen him for a couple of minutes, during which time he was occupied in taking instructions for the disposal of his fare.
“The Old Ship” had been a favourite resort of Wingate’s for some years. In fact, until within the last few months, when his business occupations had permitted less leisure, there was hardly a week in which he had not motored down there.
The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of his subordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would be the easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere he again ’phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into the hall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself.
“Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were saying only the other day that you had quite deserted us.”
“Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn’t get away. But it was such a lovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath of fresh air.”
“Quite right, sir,” cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice. “It will do you good. All work and no play—you know the old proverb, sir—eh? You are staying the night, I hope?”
Wingate hesitated. “I didn’t intend to when I started from town. Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you many people stopping here?”
“Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don’t expect to have many this time of year. A lot of people come in to thetable d’hôte, but at the moment, in the house itself, we’ve only an elderly couple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been a visitor, on and off, for the last few months.”
It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon the subject of the “foreign” gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfield was a chatty, old-fashioned creature nearly seventy, and could be trusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to a customer whom he had known for some years.
But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He would prospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself of the head-waiter’s loquacity.
A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, and prepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance there was nobody else in the apartment. A few seconds later the bearded stranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himself before a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulled from his breast pocket a bundle of papers.
He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemed to be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, making notes meanwhile.
Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegram which he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top of the little pile, and went on with what remained.
It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram within six feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An idea occurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failed to emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, through carelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty.
Noiselessly he stole across the few feet of space that divided him from the stranger, and stood on his right hand. Another document had been laid upon the pile, and only the corner of the telegram was peeping forth. A second or two sooner, and he could have read it. He was full of chagrin.
“Excuse me, sir, but can you oblige me with a match? They don’t seem to provide them in this establishment.”
The visitor turned, and for a moment regarded him keenly. What he saw seemed to impress him favourably: an open, honest English face, perfectly candid eyes that looked into his own, without a suspicion of guile in their direct gaze.
“With pleasure, sir. They seem very remiss.”
He spoke with a slight foreign accent, but his tones were cultivated, and his manner was courtesy itself. He held out his match-box. Wingate fancied his glance travelled uneasily to the pile of papers upon the table.
The young man turned half round to strike the match. There was hardly anything of the telegram to read, so obscured was it by the letter lying on the top of it, in which he was not interested.
But what he could see, with his abnormally quick vision, was sufficient. The signature showed distinctly, the same that had appeared on the previous wire—the name MAUDE!
He bowed and withdrew. The foreigner finished his examination of the pile of correspondence he had produced, gathered it up, and transferred it to his breast pocket. Then, with a courteous smile to Wingate, he quitted the room.
The young man breathed a sigh of relief. He was both astonished and delighted at his own resource, at the extent of his discovery. The contents of the telegram could be obtained by Smeaton at his leisure.
What he, Austin Wingate, amateur detective, had proved was that the mysterious man who was staying there was the same person who was in communication with Maude, otherwise Mrs Saxton, of Hyde Park Mansions.
He had done good spade work. Of that he was sure. It was now half-past seven. Plenty of time to ’phone Smeaton, tell him what he had discovered, and inquire how he was to proceed.
The detective decided on his campaign without a moment’s hesitation.
“Well done, Mr Wingate, an excellent result,” he said over the wire. “Stay the night and keep the fellow under observation. We must have him identified. I will send Davies down by the first train to-morrow morning. I will ’phone you full instructions, say, in a couple of hours. Meet him at the station in the morning, smuggle him into the hotel as quickly as you can; I leave the details to you. Let him see our foreign friend, and say if he is the man we think him to be.” He paused a moment, then added:
“You say the manager and Bayfield are well-known to you. They are also old friends of mine. I have unearthed more than one mystery with their help. Mention my name, show them my card, if you think it will ease matters. They will give you any assistance you want. Once again, bravo, and well-done. I’ll ring you up as soon as I have fixed Davies.”
Wingate felt he was walking on air as he returned to the hotel. With his new-born cunning he had not ’phoned from “The Old Ship,” but from the post-office.
The dining-room was not at all full. The elderly couple and the foreigner sat at their respective tables. A few other people were dotted about.
At the end of an hour Wingate had the room to himself, with the head-waiter, his old friend, hovering around, ready for a prolonged chat.
“I’m rather interested in that foreign chap, Bayfield,” he said carelessly. “What do you know about him? Is he a quiet sort of Anarchist, or what?”
Bayfield was quite ready to communicate all he knew, in confidential whispers, for Wingate was always very popular with his inferiors. He gave himself no airs, and he was more than liberal with tips.
“He’s a bit of a mystery, sir, but he’s a very quiet sort of a gentleman. He began coming here about three months ago. I should say, since he started, he has stayed two or three days out of every week. He has heaps of letters. Sometimes he goes off at a minute’s notice, and then we have to send his letters after him.”
“Where does he live, and what’s his name?”
“He lives in the Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood, and his name is Bolinski; a Russian, I suppose. All their names seem to end in ‘ski’ or ‘off.’”
So his name was Bolinski, and he lived in Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood. Here was valuable information for Smeaton. Wingate chatted a little longer with Bayfield, and then went for a walk along the front, returning in time to receive the detective’s message ’phoned to the hotel.
At this juncture he thought it was wise policy to take both the manager and Bayfield into his confidence. He showed them Smeaton’s card, and explained that for reasons he was not at liberty to disclose, he wanted to identify Bolinski. A man was coming down for that purpose by an early train to-morrow morning, and he wanted to smuggle him into the hotel as early as possible.
The manager smiled. “That’s all right, Mr Wingate. Inspector Smeaton is an old friend of mine, and I have helped him a bit here, and more in London. Our friend breakfasts on the stroke of half-past nine. Get your man in here a little before nine, and Bayfield will take him in charge, and give him a glimpse of the distinguished foreigner.”
Next morning the taxi-driver Davies arrived, attired in a brand new suit, and looking eminently respectable in mufti.
Wingate met him at the station, piloted him to “The Old Ship,” and handed him over to the careful guardianship of the astute Bayfield.
At nine-thirty, Bolinski, fresh and smart, came down to his breakfast, seating himself at his usual table. Davies crept in, and took a good look at him, unobserved by the object of his scrutiny.
Wingate was waiting in the hall, with the manager. The face of Davies was purple with emotion and the pleasurable anticipation of further and substantial reward.
“That’s the man, right enough, sir!” he said in an excited whisper. “I’d swear to him out of a thousand if they was all standin’ before me.”