Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty One.Shades of Soho.Wingate smiled as he read the flamboyant note from Caleb Boyle, accepting his invitation to dinner. It concluded with a characteristic flourish. “Trusting that our meeting may prove as agreeable to you, as it is in anticipation to myself. Yours sincerely, C. Boyle.”It was a beautiful summer morning. His thoughts flew to his well-beloved. What was she doing at this particular moment? He could guess too well. Sitting, with that far-away look in her dear eyes, brooding and lonely amid the ruins of her once happy home.He did not usually call so early, but to-day must be an exception. A brilliant idea had occurred to the fond young lover; he hastened to put it into execution.She sprang up when he entered, and the light in her beautiful eyes, the faint flush on her cheek, told him that he was welcome. The soft lips returned his fervent kiss.“We are going to take a holiday, darling,” he cried gaily. “This is a perfect day; it’s a shame to be stifled in London. We will run down by train to Shepperton. I’ll get a boat and pull you to Hampton Court. We’ll lunch there, and afterwards stroll round the gardens. Then I will bring you back home, I wonder if you remember that day—it seems such a little while ago—when we first met?”“Shall I ever forget it?” she whispered softly. “I think, perhaps, I fell a little bit in love with you then. And afterwards we met at Hendon, and you came to call on us at Chesterfield Street. And my dear father took a great fancy to you. And now—” she looked at him shyly, and did not finish the sentence.He took her in his arms and kissed her. “And now, my darling, we are sweethearts for ever and ever.”A couple of hours later they were on the river. The beauty of the warm summer day, the pleasurable excitement of the journey, the change of scene, had momentarily lifted the shadows and induced forgetfulness. For that brief space she was her old joyous self, a girl in the glorious fulness of her youth, living and beloved.Her thoughts were such as come to pure girls in such moments.As they glided down the placid stream, the golden afternoon warm and odorous with the mingled scents of the summer air, so would they journey through life together. She remembered how her father had adored her mother. Austin would be such another true lover to the end of his days.They returned to Chesterfield Street. She was loth to part with him and pressed him to stay to dinner. He pleaded a business engagement. He could not break faith with Boyle, although he was sorely tempted to do so.“You will be sure to come to-morrow?” she said, as she kissed him good-night. It cut him to the quick to leave her alone in that sad house, but he had no choice. At all costs, he must keep Boyle away from her.“Quite sure, my darling. You love me a little?” he whispered as they parted.“Oh! so much,” she answered with a sweet smile. “Didn’t I tell you this morning that I fell in love with you a long time ago? You have been so kind, so patient, so good. I fear I am a very sad sweetheart, but I know you understand. The ties between my dear father and myself were so close. We were all the world to each other.”He hastened away, more firmly resolved than ever that Caleb Boyle should never put his foot in Chesterfield Street. That trusting heart must never be pierced by doubts of her father’s rectitude.Wingate was a few minutes late at the club that evening. He found Mr Boyle awaiting him, in the full glory of evening attire. His host could not help observing that the suit had seen good service, and that the shirt was frayed and dingy as to colour. But Boyle’s ready assurance was not in the least dashed by these circumstances. He advanced with outstretched hand, and greeted Wingate in his usual fulsome manner.“I am sorry you troubled to dress, Mr Boyle. This is quite a Bohemian club. I ought to have told you.”Boyle waved a deprecatory hand. And his self-satisfied manner seemed to imply that, at this hour, evening attire was natural to him, and that he would have assumed it in any case.They went in to dinner. Boyle began talking at once. He admired the dining-room, the service, the club and its arrangements generally.“It is some years since I entered these portals,” he remarked in his pompous, affected manner. “I used to know some good fellows in the old days.”He named Jimmy this, Dicky that, and Tommy the other. Wingate noted that all the members with whom he boasted acquaintance had joined the majority.“I belonged to a lot of Bohemian clubs when I first started my London career,” he explained. “I was a member of the Garrick, and at the Savage I believe I am still remembered. Ah! that those good old days could come again.”He heaved a deep sigh, and for a few minutes applied himself to the very excellent meal that was set before him. He ate heartily, consuming big portions of each dish. His host had a shrewd notion that he had economised in the matter of lunch.When dinner was over, they passed to the smoking-room, where Mr Boyle very speedily disposed of a few whiskies, taking two to the other’s one.It was here that Wingate touched lightly and delicately upon the visit to Smeaton.“I would like to impress upon you, Mr Boyle, that, under ordinary circumstances. Miss Monkton would be delighted to receive any old friend of her father’s; but I fear such a visit at present would pain her very much.”Boyle rose to the occasion. “It is I who am in fault. It was a thoughtless suggestion on my part, made on the spur of the moment, and prompted, I assure you, by the sincerest feelings of sympathy for her, and esteem for my dear old friend.”If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainly taking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda. The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers of absorption appeared to be unbounded.Wingate proposed a change of scene. “What do you say to an hour or two at the Empire? We’ll stroll round and get a couple of stalls.”Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. “Excellent,” he cried, with the glee of a schoolboy. “Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire, what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again the merry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back the light-heartedness of youth.”He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o’clock before Wingate could get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity for enjoyment.“Let us make a night of it,” he cried cheerfully. “You don’t know what a delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, like yourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do a little supper together.”Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle might be offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him in good humour.“Good man,” cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. “The night is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant, presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be my guest.”Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho where Monkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of his disappearance.The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. They were very well acquainted.They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside the waiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words: “Put it down. I’ll call and pay to-morrow.”The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidently short of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton had taken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature had told him might be of service.“Pardon me, Boyle,” he said, dropping the formal prefix, “but I could not help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let me be your banker for the time being.”There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-soda that stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few seconds he seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usual flamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and ordered more refreshment.Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other’s shoulder, and spoke in his deep, rolling tones.“Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself, Wingate. I’m as poor as a church-rat—you can guess that from my clothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment with eighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would give me credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Next week I may not have that. But I don’t moan and whine; I set my teeth and smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, they shall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather.”He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst. Wingate felt in his pockets.“I haven’t much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you can square the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall be delighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name a sum.”“Would ten pounds be too much?” asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitating voice. For the moment, his assurance seemed to have forsaken him; he seemed to realise to what he had fallen.“Not at all.” The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict, together with the two pounds in cash.For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet and subdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill.“I cannot find words to thank you,” he told his benefactor, “I can only say, God bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself, in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. I should like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history.”Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-down creature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompous front.“I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took the place. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. He was a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was young and gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he had stripped me of every penny.”Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggerating when he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin. There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards his own downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit as much?“But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, and was beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of a company he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our old friend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tell you. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country for fear of arrest.”Wingate pricked up his ears.“You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting, if you saw it?”“Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession. If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you them to-night.”Wingate rose quickly. “Is it far?”Boyle answered without a shade of embarrassment, “Shepherd’s Bush. Not, I regret to say, what you would call a fashionable suburb.”In another two minutes they were in a taxi speeding towards Boyle’s residence.

Wingate smiled as he read the flamboyant note from Caleb Boyle, accepting his invitation to dinner. It concluded with a characteristic flourish. “Trusting that our meeting may prove as agreeable to you, as it is in anticipation to myself. Yours sincerely, C. Boyle.”

It was a beautiful summer morning. His thoughts flew to his well-beloved. What was she doing at this particular moment? He could guess too well. Sitting, with that far-away look in her dear eyes, brooding and lonely amid the ruins of her once happy home.

He did not usually call so early, but to-day must be an exception. A brilliant idea had occurred to the fond young lover; he hastened to put it into execution.

She sprang up when he entered, and the light in her beautiful eyes, the faint flush on her cheek, told him that he was welcome. The soft lips returned his fervent kiss.

“We are going to take a holiday, darling,” he cried gaily. “This is a perfect day; it’s a shame to be stifled in London. We will run down by train to Shepperton. I’ll get a boat and pull you to Hampton Court. We’ll lunch there, and afterwards stroll round the gardens. Then I will bring you back home, I wonder if you remember that day—it seems such a little while ago—when we first met?”

“Shall I ever forget it?” she whispered softly. “I think, perhaps, I fell a little bit in love with you then. And afterwards we met at Hendon, and you came to call on us at Chesterfield Street. And my dear father took a great fancy to you. And now—” she looked at him shyly, and did not finish the sentence.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. “And now, my darling, we are sweethearts for ever and ever.”

A couple of hours later they were on the river. The beauty of the warm summer day, the pleasurable excitement of the journey, the change of scene, had momentarily lifted the shadows and induced forgetfulness. For that brief space she was her old joyous self, a girl in the glorious fulness of her youth, living and beloved.

Her thoughts were such as come to pure girls in such moments.

As they glided down the placid stream, the golden afternoon warm and odorous with the mingled scents of the summer air, so would they journey through life together. She remembered how her father had adored her mother. Austin would be such another true lover to the end of his days.

They returned to Chesterfield Street. She was loth to part with him and pressed him to stay to dinner. He pleaded a business engagement. He could not break faith with Boyle, although he was sorely tempted to do so.

“You will be sure to come to-morrow?” she said, as she kissed him good-night. It cut him to the quick to leave her alone in that sad house, but he had no choice. At all costs, he must keep Boyle away from her.

“Quite sure, my darling. You love me a little?” he whispered as they parted.

“Oh! so much,” she answered with a sweet smile. “Didn’t I tell you this morning that I fell in love with you a long time ago? You have been so kind, so patient, so good. I fear I am a very sad sweetheart, but I know you understand. The ties between my dear father and myself were so close. We were all the world to each other.”

He hastened away, more firmly resolved than ever that Caleb Boyle should never put his foot in Chesterfield Street. That trusting heart must never be pierced by doubts of her father’s rectitude.

Wingate was a few minutes late at the club that evening. He found Mr Boyle awaiting him, in the full glory of evening attire. His host could not help observing that the suit had seen good service, and that the shirt was frayed and dingy as to colour. But Boyle’s ready assurance was not in the least dashed by these circumstances. He advanced with outstretched hand, and greeted Wingate in his usual fulsome manner.

“I am sorry you troubled to dress, Mr Boyle. This is quite a Bohemian club. I ought to have told you.”

Boyle waved a deprecatory hand. And his self-satisfied manner seemed to imply that, at this hour, evening attire was natural to him, and that he would have assumed it in any case.

They went in to dinner. Boyle began talking at once. He admired the dining-room, the service, the club and its arrangements generally.

“It is some years since I entered these portals,” he remarked in his pompous, affected manner. “I used to know some good fellows in the old days.”

He named Jimmy this, Dicky that, and Tommy the other. Wingate noted that all the members with whom he boasted acquaintance had joined the majority.

“I belonged to a lot of Bohemian clubs when I first started my London career,” he explained. “I was a member of the Garrick, and at the Savage I believe I am still remembered. Ah! that those good old days could come again.”

He heaved a deep sigh, and for a few minutes applied himself to the very excellent meal that was set before him. He ate heartily, consuming big portions of each dish. His host had a shrewd notion that he had economised in the matter of lunch.

When dinner was over, they passed to the smoking-room, where Mr Boyle very speedily disposed of a few whiskies, taking two to the other’s one.

It was here that Wingate touched lightly and delicately upon the visit to Smeaton.

“I would like to impress upon you, Mr Boyle, that, under ordinary circumstances. Miss Monkton would be delighted to receive any old friend of her father’s; but I fear such a visit at present would pain her very much.”

Boyle rose to the occasion. “It is I who am in fault. It was a thoughtless suggestion on my part, made on the spur of the moment, and prompted, I assure you, by the sincerest feelings of sympathy for her, and esteem for my dear old friend.”

If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainly taking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda. The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers of absorption appeared to be unbounded.

Wingate proposed a change of scene. “What do you say to an hour or two at the Empire? We’ll stroll round and get a couple of stalls.”

Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. “Excellent,” he cried, with the glee of a schoolboy. “Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire, what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again the merry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back the light-heartedness of youth.”

He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o’clock before Wingate could get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity for enjoyment.

“Let us make a night of it,” he cried cheerfully. “You don’t know what a delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, like yourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do a little supper together.”

Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle might be offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him in good humour.

“Good man,” cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. “The night is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant, presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be my guest.”

Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho where Monkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of his disappearance.

The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. They were very well acquainted.

They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside the waiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words: “Put it down. I’ll call and pay to-morrow.”

The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidently short of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton had taken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature had told him might be of service.

“Pardon me, Boyle,” he said, dropping the formal prefix, “but I could not help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let me be your banker for the time being.”

There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-soda that stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few seconds he seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usual flamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and ordered more refreshment.

Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other’s shoulder, and spoke in his deep, rolling tones.

“Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself, Wingate. I’m as poor as a church-rat—you can guess that from my clothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment with eighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would give me credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Next week I may not have that. But I don’t moan and whine; I set my teeth and smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, they shall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather.”

He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst. Wingate felt in his pockets.

“I haven’t much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you can square the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall be delighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name a sum.”

“Would ten pounds be too much?” asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitating voice. For the moment, his assurance seemed to have forsaken him; he seemed to realise to what he had fallen.

“Not at all.” The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict, together with the two pounds in cash.

For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet and subdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill.

“I cannot find words to thank you,” he told his benefactor, “I can only say, God bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself, in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. I should like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history.”

Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-down creature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompous front.

“I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took the place. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. He was a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was young and gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he had stripped me of every penny.”

Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggerating when he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin. There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards his own downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit as much?

“But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, and was beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of a company he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our old friend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tell you. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country for fear of arrest.”

Wingate pricked up his ears.

“You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting, if you saw it?”

“Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession. If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you them to-night.”

Wingate rose quickly. “Is it far?”

Boyle answered without a shade of embarrassment, “Shepherd’s Bush. Not, I regret to say, what you would call a fashionable suburb.”

In another two minutes they were in a taxi speeding towards Boyle’s residence.

Chapter Twenty Two.One Fact is Established.Boyle had directed the driver to stop at Uxbridge Road Station, where the two roads branch off, the one on the left leading into Chiswick, that on the right passing through Hanwell and Uxbridge.He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquired wealth.“We are now at the beginning of Shepherd’s Bush. The Carthorne road, where I live—I should rather say exist—is a few minutes’ walk from here. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It would require the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track me to my lair,” he laughed.He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rows of narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most of them bore cards in their windows with the words “Furnished apartments.” Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features.Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, and applied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by a strip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear. An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble light that was little removed from darkness.Boyle led him to the end of the passage, and took him into a chamber that extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, and lit a lamp.Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by the unexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, had recovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the faded apartment with a theatrical air.“Welcome to my poor abode, the presentpied-à-terreof Caleb Boyle, once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in London society.”Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A horsehair sofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full of holes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape, a cheap chest of drawers, with half the knobs missing. And at the side of the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedstead covered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by a yellow deal washstand.Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw a breath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courage and power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate’s admiration.Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed to a small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a black bottle, which he held up to the lamp.“There is corn in Egypt,” he cried gaily; he seemed in the highest spirits amid these depressing surroundings. “We will carouse while the night is still young. I am sorry I have no soda, and I fear all the houses are shut. But the whisky is good.”He poured out two liberal portions, added some water, and drained his off at a draught. Then he stooped, and lifted the lid of a dilapidated tin box.“Now for the letters,” he said.In a few moments he had found them, tied together in a packet with a thin piece of twine. On a strip of paper within was: “Letters from Charles Bellamy to Caleb Boyle.”Wingate took them, and rapidly scanned the contents of the first two. There were about a dozen in all. They related to purely business matters, dwelling upon the magnificent prospects of a certain company in which Boyle had taken shares, and exhorting him to patience under the present non-payment of dividends.Read by the light of subsequent events, they were obviously the letters of a swindler to the victim he had entrapped in his financial meshes.But, of course, to Wingate the supreme matter of interest was the handwriting. And here, he could not be positive. He had read the threatening letter, and he knew the contents of it by heart. But that was some time ago, and he could not form a mental picture of it.“Can you trust me with one of those, Mr Boyle, to show to our friend Smeaton, so that he may compare it with a letter in his possession. I think, so far as my memory serves me, they were written by the same man, but I want to see the two together. If you would rather not part with it, bring it down yourself to-morrow to Scotland Yard, and I will meet you there.”Boyle was hurt at the suggestion. “My dear Wingate, take the whole packet, if you wish. After the noble way in which you have behaved to-night, is it likely I should refuse such a trifling thing?”“Thanks, they shall be returned to you directly Smeaton has done with them. A thousand thanks, and now I will say good-night. I have to be up betimes to-morrow morning.”He left, after refusing Boyle’s earnest request to join him in a final whisky. He fancied there would not be much left in that bottle when the poor broken-down gentleman stumbled into his uninviting bed.Wingate took the precious packet round to Smeaton next morning. And the detective, after a minute and lengthy examination, declared there could be no doubt that Charles Bellamy was the writer of the threatening letter.“I will put all the documents in the hands of an expert for confirmation,” he said, “but I am quite certain in my own mind, and I shall follow up the clue at once.”“You have also another clue, that concerning Lady Wrenwyck,” observed Austin. “Strange that we should be indebted to this peculiar creature, Boyle, for both!”“He seems to grow more useful as we cultivate his further acquaintance,” said the detective, a humorous smile softening for a moment his rather harsh features.“To which of the two do you attach the greater importance?” was Wingate’s next question.“It is hard to say. But by following both we may arrive at a solution. They must be pursued simultaneously and that requires two men. Personally I think the Bellamy track may produce the better result, and naturally I should like to choose that for myself. On the other hand, the Wrenwyck one requires some experience andfinesse, both of which qualities I flatter myself I possess. Anyway, I must trust one of the two to a subordinate.”He passed, and remained silent for a few moments, then made up his mind. He rang the bell, and requested that Johnson should come to him at once.“I have resolved to take the Bellamy clue,” he explained to Wingate. “It will require some research, possibly lengthy communications with the police of other countries. Here I shall be better equipped than a comparatively new man. Johnson has so far acted with great promptitude in the Wrenwyck matter.”Detective-sergeant Johnson appeared almost immediately, and to him Smeaton issued brief instructions.“About Lady Wrenwyck. You have lost no time over this, and I want you to follow it up. This is Mr Wingate, before whom we can speak quite freely. Find out where the lady is and, equally important, if she is alone, or with a companion. I exclude, of course, her maid.”Mr Johnson bowed. “I quite understand, sir. I know, as a fact, her maid left with her. She was with her ladyship before her marriage, and is, no doubt, entirely in her mistress’s confidence.”The detective paused a second, and then added a little touch of his own which, he was sure, would not be lost on his chief. Besides, it showed his knowledge of high society, and of the ways of ladies who were a trifle unconventional.“Of course, sir, in circumstances of a delicate nature, ladies have been known to give their maids a holiday.”“I quite appreciate that point, Johnson. Well, get on to the job at once, and confer with me when necessary.”Johnson withdrew, well pleased that his chief had entrusted him with so important a mission. Smeaton turned to his visitor.“Well, Mr Wingate, we ought to find out something in the next few days. I will get on to the track of Bellamy at once. Kindly drop a note to Boyle that I will keep his letters for a little time. Good-bye for the present. I will communicate with you the moment there is anything worth telling.”He set to work at once on the Bellamydossier. Up to a certain point the task was comparatively easy. The man was of Polish origin, his real name being Ivan Bolinski. A little further investigation revealed the fact that he was the elder brother of the Bolinski who lived in the Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood, the man who had dined with Monkton at the Soho restaurant, and according to the evidence of Davies, the taxi-driver, one of the pair who had hailed his vehicle for the conveyance of the dying man to Chesterfield Street.So far, the scent seemed a warm one. Bellamy, to give him his assumed name, was born of an English mother, and, in marked contrast to his brother, betrayed very little of the foreigner in his appearance. He spoke English with a perfect accent.He had started his career as a money-lender, his operations, which were on a small scale, being confined chiefly to his compatriots. He next blossomed out, in conjunction with a couple of scoundrels of the same kidney, into a promoter of small and shady concerns. Success attended his efforts, and he then flew at higher game. But although he amassed money he was never connected with a single flourishing company. He made thousands out of his victims, but they never saw a penny of their money back until just at the end.And at this point Smeaton came to the trial at which Monkton had appeared and obtained a verdict for the restitution of the sums acquired by fraudulent misrepresentation. Although only a civil action, the evidence against Bellamy was so damaging that a criminal prosecution was bound to follow.This he himself recognised, with the result that within twenty-four hours after the verdict had been given he escaped from England under an assumed name.Five years later he was convicted in America, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, under this assumed name. At the trial it was conclusively proved that he was the same man, Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, who had previously figured in the English Courts, and been driven from the pursuit of his nefarious occupation by the skill and eloquence of Monkton.He was tracked through a series of wanderings in different countries, where no doubt he still pursued his profession ofchevalier d’industrie, although he seemed during that period to have escaped the active interference of justice till about five years ago.At that date he was living at a small village in Cornwall, either on his private means, or perhaps on money allowed him by his brother. Against this brother, so far as his commercial career was concerned, nothing of a suspicious nature was known.Here Smeaton came to acul-de-sac. At that date Ivan Bolinski was living in this remote Cornish village, under the name of Charlton. Twenty years or so had elapsed since, in a moment of burning hatred, he had penned that threatening letter to the man who had brought to an abrupt close his nefarious career in this country.To that remote fishing hamlet went Smeaton. He found the quaint little house which had sheltered Bellamy; which he hoped still sheltered him. The door was opened by an elderly woman.“I have come to inquire about a man named Charlton who came to live here five years ago,” he said, going to the point at once.She was evidently an honest creature who knew nothing of what was going on in the big world outside her little corner of earth.“Please come in, sir. A gentleman of that name came to lodge here about that time.”She led him into the tiny parlour, and asked him to be seated. At Smeaton’s request she told him all about her lodger.“He was in very poor health, sir, when he came here, and he seemed to gradually get worse. He was a very quiet gentleman; spent most of his time reading. When he first came he took long walks, but latterly he had to give these up. He lived a most solitary life, hardly ever wrote or received a letter, and had only one visitor, who came from London to see him occasionally.”“Can you describe this visitor to me?” asked Smeaton.“A tall, bearded man, who walked with a limp, and looked like a foreigner. He told me he was his brother. I remarked once how unlike they were, and he smiled and said he took after his mother, and the other after his father. Once he told me that Charlton was not his proper name, that he had taken it for the sake of property.”A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all those years there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and this simple woman could do him no harm.The landlady went on with her narrative.“As I told you, sir, he got worse and worse, and Doctor Mayhew, who lives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It must have cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, just before the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother—it was a long foreign name, and I can’t remember it.”“Bolinski,” suggested Smeaton.The woman looked puzzled. “Very likely, sir; I know it began with a B. Next day the brother came down, and stayed with him till he died, a matter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give the certificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember his words: ‘The name of Charlton was assumed, doctor. On the certificate we will have the real one. It doesn’t matter now. It was assumed for reasons I do not wish to explain, and they would not interest you.’”“When did he die?” asked Smeaton eagerly.“A little over two years ago, sir, this very month.”Then, as the detective rose, she added: “If you would like to step round to Doctor Mayhew’s he is sure to be in at this time. He could give you full particulars of the end.”“Thanks,” said Smeaton absently, as he bade her good-day.There was no need to visit the doctor. The woman’s tale had been simple and convincing.What he knew for a certainty was that Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, alias Charlton, the writer of the threatening letter, had died more than two years before Reginald Monkton’s disappearance.Was Reginald Monkton dead, or still alive?

Boyle had directed the driver to stop at Uxbridge Road Station, where the two roads branch off, the one on the left leading into Chiswick, that on the right passing through Hanwell and Uxbridge.

He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquired wealth.

“We are now at the beginning of Shepherd’s Bush. The Carthorne road, where I live—I should rather say exist—is a few minutes’ walk from here. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It would require the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track me to my lair,” he laughed.

He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rows of narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most of them bore cards in their windows with the words “Furnished apartments.” Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features.

Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, and applied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by a strip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear. An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble light that was little removed from darkness.

Boyle led him to the end of the passage, and took him into a chamber that extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, and lit a lamp.

Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by the unexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, had recovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the faded apartment with a theatrical air.

“Welcome to my poor abode, the presentpied-à-terreof Caleb Boyle, once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in London society.”

Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A horsehair sofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full of holes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape, a cheap chest of drawers, with half the knobs missing. And at the side of the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedstead covered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by a yellow deal washstand.

Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw a breath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courage and power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate’s admiration.

Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed to a small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a black bottle, which he held up to the lamp.

“There is corn in Egypt,” he cried gaily; he seemed in the highest spirits amid these depressing surroundings. “We will carouse while the night is still young. I am sorry I have no soda, and I fear all the houses are shut. But the whisky is good.”

He poured out two liberal portions, added some water, and drained his off at a draught. Then he stooped, and lifted the lid of a dilapidated tin box.

“Now for the letters,” he said.

In a few moments he had found them, tied together in a packet with a thin piece of twine. On a strip of paper within was: “Letters from Charles Bellamy to Caleb Boyle.”

Wingate took them, and rapidly scanned the contents of the first two. There were about a dozen in all. They related to purely business matters, dwelling upon the magnificent prospects of a certain company in which Boyle had taken shares, and exhorting him to patience under the present non-payment of dividends.

Read by the light of subsequent events, they were obviously the letters of a swindler to the victim he had entrapped in his financial meshes.

But, of course, to Wingate the supreme matter of interest was the handwriting. And here, he could not be positive. He had read the threatening letter, and he knew the contents of it by heart. But that was some time ago, and he could not form a mental picture of it.

“Can you trust me with one of those, Mr Boyle, to show to our friend Smeaton, so that he may compare it with a letter in his possession. I think, so far as my memory serves me, they were written by the same man, but I want to see the two together. If you would rather not part with it, bring it down yourself to-morrow to Scotland Yard, and I will meet you there.”

Boyle was hurt at the suggestion. “My dear Wingate, take the whole packet, if you wish. After the noble way in which you have behaved to-night, is it likely I should refuse such a trifling thing?”

“Thanks, they shall be returned to you directly Smeaton has done with them. A thousand thanks, and now I will say good-night. I have to be up betimes to-morrow morning.”

He left, after refusing Boyle’s earnest request to join him in a final whisky. He fancied there would not be much left in that bottle when the poor broken-down gentleman stumbled into his uninviting bed.

Wingate took the precious packet round to Smeaton next morning. And the detective, after a minute and lengthy examination, declared there could be no doubt that Charles Bellamy was the writer of the threatening letter.

“I will put all the documents in the hands of an expert for confirmation,” he said, “but I am quite certain in my own mind, and I shall follow up the clue at once.”

“You have also another clue, that concerning Lady Wrenwyck,” observed Austin. “Strange that we should be indebted to this peculiar creature, Boyle, for both!”

“He seems to grow more useful as we cultivate his further acquaintance,” said the detective, a humorous smile softening for a moment his rather harsh features.

“To which of the two do you attach the greater importance?” was Wingate’s next question.

“It is hard to say. But by following both we may arrive at a solution. They must be pursued simultaneously and that requires two men. Personally I think the Bellamy track may produce the better result, and naturally I should like to choose that for myself. On the other hand, the Wrenwyck one requires some experience andfinesse, both of which qualities I flatter myself I possess. Anyway, I must trust one of the two to a subordinate.”

He passed, and remained silent for a few moments, then made up his mind. He rang the bell, and requested that Johnson should come to him at once.

“I have resolved to take the Bellamy clue,” he explained to Wingate. “It will require some research, possibly lengthy communications with the police of other countries. Here I shall be better equipped than a comparatively new man. Johnson has so far acted with great promptitude in the Wrenwyck matter.”

Detective-sergeant Johnson appeared almost immediately, and to him Smeaton issued brief instructions.

“About Lady Wrenwyck. You have lost no time over this, and I want you to follow it up. This is Mr Wingate, before whom we can speak quite freely. Find out where the lady is and, equally important, if she is alone, or with a companion. I exclude, of course, her maid.”

Mr Johnson bowed. “I quite understand, sir. I know, as a fact, her maid left with her. She was with her ladyship before her marriage, and is, no doubt, entirely in her mistress’s confidence.”

The detective paused a second, and then added a little touch of his own which, he was sure, would not be lost on his chief. Besides, it showed his knowledge of high society, and of the ways of ladies who were a trifle unconventional.

“Of course, sir, in circumstances of a delicate nature, ladies have been known to give their maids a holiday.”

“I quite appreciate that point, Johnson. Well, get on to the job at once, and confer with me when necessary.”

Johnson withdrew, well pleased that his chief had entrusted him with so important a mission. Smeaton turned to his visitor.

“Well, Mr Wingate, we ought to find out something in the next few days. I will get on to the track of Bellamy at once. Kindly drop a note to Boyle that I will keep his letters for a little time. Good-bye for the present. I will communicate with you the moment there is anything worth telling.”

He set to work at once on the Bellamydossier. Up to a certain point the task was comparatively easy. The man was of Polish origin, his real name being Ivan Bolinski. A little further investigation revealed the fact that he was the elder brother of the Bolinski who lived in the Boundary Road, St. John’s Wood, the man who had dined with Monkton at the Soho restaurant, and according to the evidence of Davies, the taxi-driver, one of the pair who had hailed his vehicle for the conveyance of the dying man to Chesterfield Street.

So far, the scent seemed a warm one. Bellamy, to give him his assumed name, was born of an English mother, and, in marked contrast to his brother, betrayed very little of the foreigner in his appearance. He spoke English with a perfect accent.

He had started his career as a money-lender, his operations, which were on a small scale, being confined chiefly to his compatriots. He next blossomed out, in conjunction with a couple of scoundrels of the same kidney, into a promoter of small and shady concerns. Success attended his efforts, and he then flew at higher game. But although he amassed money he was never connected with a single flourishing company. He made thousands out of his victims, but they never saw a penny of their money back until just at the end.

And at this point Smeaton came to the trial at which Monkton had appeared and obtained a verdict for the restitution of the sums acquired by fraudulent misrepresentation. Although only a civil action, the evidence against Bellamy was so damaging that a criminal prosecution was bound to follow.

This he himself recognised, with the result that within twenty-four hours after the verdict had been given he escaped from England under an assumed name.

Five years later he was convicted in America, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, under this assumed name. At the trial it was conclusively proved that he was the same man, Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, who had previously figured in the English Courts, and been driven from the pursuit of his nefarious occupation by the skill and eloquence of Monkton.

He was tracked through a series of wanderings in different countries, where no doubt he still pursued his profession ofchevalier d’industrie, although he seemed during that period to have escaped the active interference of justice till about five years ago.

At that date he was living at a small village in Cornwall, either on his private means, or perhaps on money allowed him by his brother. Against this brother, so far as his commercial career was concerned, nothing of a suspicious nature was known.

Here Smeaton came to acul-de-sac. At that date Ivan Bolinski was living in this remote Cornish village, under the name of Charlton. Twenty years or so had elapsed since, in a moment of burning hatred, he had penned that threatening letter to the man who had brought to an abrupt close his nefarious career in this country.

To that remote fishing hamlet went Smeaton. He found the quaint little house which had sheltered Bellamy; which he hoped still sheltered him. The door was opened by an elderly woman.

“I have come to inquire about a man named Charlton who came to live here five years ago,” he said, going to the point at once.

She was evidently an honest creature who knew nothing of what was going on in the big world outside her little corner of earth.

“Please come in, sir. A gentleman of that name came to lodge here about that time.”

She led him into the tiny parlour, and asked him to be seated. At Smeaton’s request she told him all about her lodger.

“He was in very poor health, sir, when he came here, and he seemed to gradually get worse. He was a very quiet gentleman; spent most of his time reading. When he first came he took long walks, but latterly he had to give these up. He lived a most solitary life, hardly ever wrote or received a letter, and had only one visitor, who came from London to see him occasionally.”

“Can you describe this visitor to me?” asked Smeaton.

“A tall, bearded man, who walked with a limp, and looked like a foreigner. He told me he was his brother. I remarked once how unlike they were, and he smiled and said he took after his mother, and the other after his father. Once he told me that Charlton was not his proper name, that he had taken it for the sake of property.”

A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all those years there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and this simple woman could do him no harm.

The landlady went on with her narrative.

“As I told you, sir, he got worse and worse, and Doctor Mayhew, who lives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It must have cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, just before the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother—it was a long foreign name, and I can’t remember it.”

“Bolinski,” suggested Smeaton.

The woman looked puzzled. “Very likely, sir; I know it began with a B. Next day the brother came down, and stayed with him till he died, a matter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give the certificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember his words: ‘The name of Charlton was assumed, doctor. On the certificate we will have the real one. It doesn’t matter now. It was assumed for reasons I do not wish to explain, and they would not interest you.’”

“When did he die?” asked Smeaton eagerly.

“A little over two years ago, sir, this very month.”

Then, as the detective rose, she added: “If you would like to step round to Doctor Mayhew’s he is sure to be in at this time. He could give you full particulars of the end.”

“Thanks,” said Smeaton absently, as he bade her good-day.

There was no need to visit the doctor. The woman’s tale had been simple and convincing.

What he knew for a certainty was that Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, alias Charlton, the writer of the threatening letter, had died more than two years before Reginald Monkton’s disappearance.

Was Reginald Monkton dead, or still alive?

Chapter Twenty Three.Which Makes One Fact Plain.Mr Johnson felt a pleasurable sense of elation when he embarked on the mission assigned him by his chief. If he could discover anything that would help to elucidate or solve what was known amongst the select few as “the Monkton Mystery,” rapid promotion was assured.Smeaton was not a jealous man, and besides, if Johnson did score a success, it was his senior who had given him the materials to work upon.Still, although pleasantly elated, he did not disguise from himself the difficulties of his task. He had to find out where Lady Wrenwyck was hiding—she was hiding, of course, or her whereabouts would have been known to her household. And he did not know the woman by sight.He grappled with the smaller difficulty first, when he met his cousin the footman, at their usual meeting-place.“Any chance of getting a peep at a photograph of her ladyship?” he asked. He had told Willet, such was his name, as much as it was good for him to know, and no more.“I’m very friendly with several of the Wrenwyck lot,” was Willet’s reply. “I daresay I could smuggle one out for you for half-an-hour, but it’s exciting suspicion, isn’t it? And I suppose you don’t want to take too many people into your confidence?”Johnson agreed with this sentiment emphatically. He could swallow any amount of confidence himself, but he hated reciprocity. Hear everything, and tell nothing, or, at the worst, as little as you can. That was his motto.“It would lead to gossip, and we should have to fudge up some tale or other, Dick. We’ll let it alone for the present, and only use it as a last resource.”Mr Willet reflected, and then he remembered. “Look here. I’ve just thought of the very thing! I’ve a lot of old illustrated newspapers by me. Not very long ago there was a full-page portrait of her, in fancy dress at the Devonshire House ball—Queen of Sheba or something. It’s a splendid likeness. If you once see it, you’d pick her out from a thousand. Stay here for ten minutes, and I’ll hunt it out and bring it round.”Willet was as good as his word. In a little over the time he had stated, the portrait was in Johnson’s hands, and carefully scrutinised. In the words of his cousin, wherever he met Lady Wrenwyck he would “pick her out of a thousand.”That little difficulty was solved without any loss of time. The important one remained: where was she at the present moment?On this point Willet could give no information. Her maid had packed her boxes, and they had started off one afternoon when her husband was absent, without a hint of their destination from either of them.“Doesn’t Lord Wrenwyck know? Surely she must have given him some information, even if it was misleading.”“I doubt if Wrenwyck knows any more than we do,” replied Willet, alluding to this highly-descended peer with the easy familiarity of his class. “She’s disappeared half-a-dozen times since her marriage in this way, and come back when it suited her, just as if nothing had happened.”“A rum household,” observed Johnson, who was not so used to high-class ways as his cousin. “But you told me that she had no money when she married him. You can’t travel about for weeks on nothing. What does she do for cash on these jaunts?”Mr Willet shrugged his shoulders. “Not so difficult as you think. The old man made a handsome settlement on her, and I suppose she times her journeys when she’s got plenty in hand, and comes back when she’s broke. Besides, her bank would let her overdraw, if she wrote to them.”“You’re right, I didn’t think of that. Her bankers have got her address right enough, and, of course, they wouldn’t give it. They would forward a letter though, if one could write one that would draw her.”There was a pause after this. Johnson was pondering as to how it was possible to utilise her bankers—somebody in the household would be sure to know who they were. Willet was pondering too, and, as it appeared, to some purpose.“Look here, you haven’t told me too much, and I don’t blame you either, under the circumstances, but I see you want to get on her track. I’ve an idea I’ll tell you.”“You’re full of ’em,” said Johnson appreciatively.“You may take my word for it, nobody at the Wrenwyck house knows; anyway, nobody I can get hold of. Now, she’s got a bosom friend, a Mrs Adair, rather rapid like herself, and married to just such another grumpy, half-cracked old chap as Wrenwyck himself.”“I didn’t know he was half-cracked,” interposed Johnson, who never missed the smallest piece of information.“They all say he is. Wheeler, his valet, tells me he has frightful fits of rage, and after they are over, sits growling and gnashing his teeth—most of ’em false, by the way.”Mr Willet paused for a moment to accept his cousin’s offer of another drink, and then resumed.“I don’t want to raise your hopes too high, old man. If she’s on the strict q.t. it’s long odds she won’t let a soul know where she is. But if she has told anybody, it’s Mrs Adair, who, if necessary, would help her with money if she’s short. They’ve been bosom friends for years; when in town they see each other every day.”Johnson nodded his head judiciously. “It’s an even chance that Mrs Adair knows, if everybody else is in the dark. But how the devil are we to get at Mrs Adair? If we could, she wouldn’t give her away.”Mr Willet grinned triumphantly. “Of course not, I see that as well as you do; I’m not a juggins. Now this is just where I come in to help the great London detective.”“You are priceless, Dick,” murmured Mr Johnson in a voice of unfeigned admiration.“Mrs Adair’s maid is a girl I’ve long had a sneaking regard for. But I had to lie low because she was keeping company with an infernal rotter, who she thought was everything her fancy painted. Two months ago, she found him out, and gave him the chuck. Then I stepped in. We’re not formally engaged as yet, but I think she’s made up her mind she might do worse. It’s a little early yet. I’m taking her out to-morrow night. I’ll pump her and see if Mrs Adair receives any letters from Lady Wrenwyck. My young woman knows the handwriting, and the postmark will tell you what you want—eh?”Johnson again expressed his admiration of his cousin’s resource, suggested a littledouceurfor his trouble, and gallantly invited him and his sweetheart to take a bit of dinner with him.But Willet, who was of a jealous disposition, waved him sternly away. “After marriage, if you like, my lad, not before. You’re too good-looking, and not old enough. Never introduce your young lady to a pal. No offence, of course. You’d do the same in my place, or you haven’t got the headpiece I give you credit for.”Johnson admitted meekly that in the case of an attractive young woman it was wise to take precautions. They parted on the understanding that they would meet at the same place two nights later.They met at the time appointed, and there was an almost offensive air of triumph about Mr Willet’s demeanour that argued good things. He started by ordering refreshment.“Now to business,” he said, in his sharp, slangy way. “I’ve pumped Lily all right, and this job seems as easy as falling off a house. No letters have come from the lady, or gone to her, since she left, but—” he made a long pause here. “Every week a letter comes to Mrs Adair with the Weymouth postmark on it and every week Mrs Adair writes to a Mrs Marsh, whom Lily never heard of, and the letter is addressed to the Weymouth post-office. The writing on the envelope that comes to Mrs Adair is not Lady W.’s. Do you tumble?”“It’s a hundred chances to one that her ladyship is at Weymouth, and her maid addresses the envelope,” was Johnson’s answer.“I say ditto. Mrs Adair’s letter is posted every Thursday. To-day is Wednesday. Put yourself in the Weymouth train to-morrow, keep a watch on the post-office next morning, and the odds are that letter will be fetched by Lady Wrenwyck, or her maid.”“Thanks to the portrait I know the mistress, but I don’t know the maid. Describe her to me.”Mr Willet produced a piece of paper and pencil. “I’m a bit of an artist in my spare time. I’ll draw her for you so exactly that you can’t mistake her.”He completed the sketch and handed it to his cousin. Later, they parted with mutual expressions of good will.Friday morning saw Johnson prowling round the Weymouth post-office. He had to wait some time, but his patience was rewarded—he saw both Lady Wrenwyck and her maid.After issuing from the post-office, they went together to several shops, strolled for a few minutes up and down the sea front, and then returned home.He had not expected to find them at a hotel, for obvious reasons. He was not therefore surprised when they entered one of the bigger houses facing the sea. They wanted privacy, and their only chance of getting that was in lodgings.He snatched a hasty lunch, and kept observation on the house till about six o’clock, in the hope that her ladyship would come out again with a companion. But he was disappointed in this expectation.He made up his mind to force matters a little. He went up boldly to the door and knocked.“Is Mrs Marsh at home?” he asked the servant who answered the summons.The girl answered in the affirmative. “Who shall I say, please?” she added.“Wait a moment. Is she alone?”It was a random shot, but it had the effect he intended.“Quite alone. Mr Williams is very bad again to-day. He’s in bed.”Mr Williams! Just the sort of ordinary name a man would assume under the circumstances.“She won’t know my name. Just say a Mr Johnson from London wishes to see her on urgent private business.”As he waited in the hall, he wondered whether she would refuse to see him? Well, if she did, it only meant delay. He would stay on at Weymouth till his business was done.The maid interrupted his reflections by calling over the banisters, “Will you come up, please?”The next moment, he was bowing to Lady Wrenwyck, who was seated in an easy-chair, a book, which she had just laid down, on her lap. She was a very beautiful woman still, and although she sat in a strong light, did not look over thirty-five.She received him a little haughtily. “I do not remember to have seen you before. What is your business with me?”Johnson fired his first shot boldly. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Lady Wrenwyck?”Her face went a shade paler. “I do not deny it. Please explain your object in seeking me out. Will you sit down?”The detective took a chair. “You have no doubt, madam, heard of the mysterious disappearance of an old friend of yours, Mr Monkton.”He had expected to see her start, or show some signs of embarrassment. She did nothing of the kind. Her voice, as she answered him, was quite calm.“I have heard something of it—some wild rumour. I am sorry for his daughter and his friends, for himself, if anything terrible has happened. But why do you come to me about this?”It was Johnson’s turn to feel embarrassment now. Her fine eyes looked at him unwaveringly, and there was just the suspicion of a contemptuous smile on her beautiful face.“I knew you were close friends once,” he stammered. “It struck me you might know something—he might have confided something to you.”He broke down, and there was a long pause. For a space Lady Wrenwyck turned her face away, and looked out on the sea front. Suddenly she divined his errand, and a low ripple of laughter escaped her.“I think I see the meaning of it all now. You have picked up some ancient rumours of my friendship with Mr Monkton, and you think he is with me here; that I am responsible for his disappearance.”The detective was too embarrassed to answer her. He was thankful that she had seen things so quickly.“I don’t know why I should admit anything to you,” she went on, in a contemptuous voice, “but I will admit this much. There was a time when I was passionately in love with him. At that time, if he had lifted up his little finger I would have followed him to the end of the world. He never asked me—he had water in his veins, not blood. That was in the long ago. To-day he is nothing to me—barely a memory. Go back to London, my good man. You will not find Reginald Monkton here.”Her scornful tone braced the detective, and dispelled his momentary embarrassment.“Who then is Mr Williams?” he asked doggedly.“Oh, you know that, do you?—you seem full of useless knowledge. Mr Williams, an assumed name like my own, is my youngest and favourite brother. There is a tragic family history which I shall not tell you. It suffices to say I am the only member of his family who has not severed relations with him. He is very ill. I am here to nurse him back to health and strength.”Johnson looked dubious. She spoke with the ring of truth, but these women of the world could be consummate actresses when they chose.She rose from her chair, a smile half contemptuous half amused upon her charming face.“You don’t believe me. Wait a moment, and I will convince you.”She left the room, returning after a moment’s absence.“Follow me and see for yourself,” she said coldly, and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the room in which they had been talking.“Look here,” she pointed to the bed. “He is asleep; I gave him a composing draught an hour ago.”Johnson looked. A man of about thirty-five, bearing a remarkable likeness to herself, was lying on his side, his hand supporting his head. The worn, drawn features spoke of pain and suffering from which, for the moment, he was relieved.The detective stole from the room on tiptoe, followed by Lady Wrenwyck. “You know Mr Monkton by sight, I presume? Have you seen enough? If so, I beg you to relieve me of your presence and your insulting suspicions.” She pointed to the stairs with an imperious hand.Johnson had never felt a bigger fool in his life—he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him.“I humbly apologise,” he faltered, and sneaked down the stairs, feeling like a whipped mongrel.

Mr Johnson felt a pleasurable sense of elation when he embarked on the mission assigned him by his chief. If he could discover anything that would help to elucidate or solve what was known amongst the select few as “the Monkton Mystery,” rapid promotion was assured.

Smeaton was not a jealous man, and besides, if Johnson did score a success, it was his senior who had given him the materials to work upon.

Still, although pleasantly elated, he did not disguise from himself the difficulties of his task. He had to find out where Lady Wrenwyck was hiding—she was hiding, of course, or her whereabouts would have been known to her household. And he did not know the woman by sight.

He grappled with the smaller difficulty first, when he met his cousin the footman, at their usual meeting-place.

“Any chance of getting a peep at a photograph of her ladyship?” he asked. He had told Willet, such was his name, as much as it was good for him to know, and no more.

“I’m very friendly with several of the Wrenwyck lot,” was Willet’s reply. “I daresay I could smuggle one out for you for half-an-hour, but it’s exciting suspicion, isn’t it? And I suppose you don’t want to take too many people into your confidence?”

Johnson agreed with this sentiment emphatically. He could swallow any amount of confidence himself, but he hated reciprocity. Hear everything, and tell nothing, or, at the worst, as little as you can. That was his motto.

“It would lead to gossip, and we should have to fudge up some tale or other, Dick. We’ll let it alone for the present, and only use it as a last resource.”

Mr Willet reflected, and then he remembered. “Look here. I’ve just thought of the very thing! I’ve a lot of old illustrated newspapers by me. Not very long ago there was a full-page portrait of her, in fancy dress at the Devonshire House ball—Queen of Sheba or something. It’s a splendid likeness. If you once see it, you’d pick her out from a thousand. Stay here for ten minutes, and I’ll hunt it out and bring it round.”

Willet was as good as his word. In a little over the time he had stated, the portrait was in Johnson’s hands, and carefully scrutinised. In the words of his cousin, wherever he met Lady Wrenwyck he would “pick her out of a thousand.”

That little difficulty was solved without any loss of time. The important one remained: where was she at the present moment?

On this point Willet could give no information. Her maid had packed her boxes, and they had started off one afternoon when her husband was absent, without a hint of their destination from either of them.

“Doesn’t Lord Wrenwyck know? Surely she must have given him some information, even if it was misleading.”

“I doubt if Wrenwyck knows any more than we do,” replied Willet, alluding to this highly-descended peer with the easy familiarity of his class. “She’s disappeared half-a-dozen times since her marriage in this way, and come back when it suited her, just as if nothing had happened.”

“A rum household,” observed Johnson, who was not so used to high-class ways as his cousin. “But you told me that she had no money when she married him. You can’t travel about for weeks on nothing. What does she do for cash on these jaunts?”

Mr Willet shrugged his shoulders. “Not so difficult as you think. The old man made a handsome settlement on her, and I suppose she times her journeys when she’s got plenty in hand, and comes back when she’s broke. Besides, her bank would let her overdraw, if she wrote to them.”

“You’re right, I didn’t think of that. Her bankers have got her address right enough, and, of course, they wouldn’t give it. They would forward a letter though, if one could write one that would draw her.”

There was a pause after this. Johnson was pondering as to how it was possible to utilise her bankers—somebody in the household would be sure to know who they were. Willet was pondering too, and, as it appeared, to some purpose.

“Look here, you haven’t told me too much, and I don’t blame you either, under the circumstances, but I see you want to get on her track. I’ve an idea I’ll tell you.”

“You’re full of ’em,” said Johnson appreciatively.

“You may take my word for it, nobody at the Wrenwyck house knows; anyway, nobody I can get hold of. Now, she’s got a bosom friend, a Mrs Adair, rather rapid like herself, and married to just such another grumpy, half-cracked old chap as Wrenwyck himself.”

“I didn’t know he was half-cracked,” interposed Johnson, who never missed the smallest piece of information.

“They all say he is. Wheeler, his valet, tells me he has frightful fits of rage, and after they are over, sits growling and gnashing his teeth—most of ’em false, by the way.”

Mr Willet paused for a moment to accept his cousin’s offer of another drink, and then resumed.

“I don’t want to raise your hopes too high, old man. If she’s on the strict q.t. it’s long odds she won’t let a soul know where she is. But if she has told anybody, it’s Mrs Adair, who, if necessary, would help her with money if she’s short. They’ve been bosom friends for years; when in town they see each other every day.”

Johnson nodded his head judiciously. “It’s an even chance that Mrs Adair knows, if everybody else is in the dark. But how the devil are we to get at Mrs Adair? If we could, she wouldn’t give her away.”

Mr Willet grinned triumphantly. “Of course not, I see that as well as you do; I’m not a juggins. Now this is just where I come in to help the great London detective.”

“You are priceless, Dick,” murmured Mr Johnson in a voice of unfeigned admiration.

“Mrs Adair’s maid is a girl I’ve long had a sneaking regard for. But I had to lie low because she was keeping company with an infernal rotter, who she thought was everything her fancy painted. Two months ago, she found him out, and gave him the chuck. Then I stepped in. We’re not formally engaged as yet, but I think she’s made up her mind she might do worse. It’s a little early yet. I’m taking her out to-morrow night. I’ll pump her and see if Mrs Adair receives any letters from Lady Wrenwyck. My young woman knows the handwriting, and the postmark will tell you what you want—eh?”

Johnson again expressed his admiration of his cousin’s resource, suggested a littledouceurfor his trouble, and gallantly invited him and his sweetheart to take a bit of dinner with him.

But Willet, who was of a jealous disposition, waved him sternly away. “After marriage, if you like, my lad, not before. You’re too good-looking, and not old enough. Never introduce your young lady to a pal. No offence, of course. You’d do the same in my place, or you haven’t got the headpiece I give you credit for.”

Johnson admitted meekly that in the case of an attractive young woman it was wise to take precautions. They parted on the understanding that they would meet at the same place two nights later.

They met at the time appointed, and there was an almost offensive air of triumph about Mr Willet’s demeanour that argued good things. He started by ordering refreshment.

“Now to business,” he said, in his sharp, slangy way. “I’ve pumped Lily all right, and this job seems as easy as falling off a house. No letters have come from the lady, or gone to her, since she left, but—” he made a long pause here. “Every week a letter comes to Mrs Adair with the Weymouth postmark on it and every week Mrs Adair writes to a Mrs Marsh, whom Lily never heard of, and the letter is addressed to the Weymouth post-office. The writing on the envelope that comes to Mrs Adair is not Lady W.’s. Do you tumble?”

“It’s a hundred chances to one that her ladyship is at Weymouth, and her maid addresses the envelope,” was Johnson’s answer.

“I say ditto. Mrs Adair’s letter is posted every Thursday. To-day is Wednesday. Put yourself in the Weymouth train to-morrow, keep a watch on the post-office next morning, and the odds are that letter will be fetched by Lady Wrenwyck, or her maid.”

“Thanks to the portrait I know the mistress, but I don’t know the maid. Describe her to me.”

Mr Willet produced a piece of paper and pencil. “I’m a bit of an artist in my spare time. I’ll draw her for you so exactly that you can’t mistake her.”

He completed the sketch and handed it to his cousin. Later, they parted with mutual expressions of good will.

Friday morning saw Johnson prowling round the Weymouth post-office. He had to wait some time, but his patience was rewarded—he saw both Lady Wrenwyck and her maid.

After issuing from the post-office, they went together to several shops, strolled for a few minutes up and down the sea front, and then returned home.

He had not expected to find them at a hotel, for obvious reasons. He was not therefore surprised when they entered one of the bigger houses facing the sea. They wanted privacy, and their only chance of getting that was in lodgings.

He snatched a hasty lunch, and kept observation on the house till about six o’clock, in the hope that her ladyship would come out again with a companion. But he was disappointed in this expectation.

He made up his mind to force matters a little. He went up boldly to the door and knocked.

“Is Mrs Marsh at home?” he asked the servant who answered the summons.

The girl answered in the affirmative. “Who shall I say, please?” she added.

“Wait a moment. Is she alone?”

It was a random shot, but it had the effect he intended.

“Quite alone. Mr Williams is very bad again to-day. He’s in bed.”

Mr Williams! Just the sort of ordinary name a man would assume under the circumstances.

“She won’t know my name. Just say a Mr Johnson from London wishes to see her on urgent private business.”

As he waited in the hall, he wondered whether she would refuse to see him? Well, if she did, it only meant delay. He would stay on at Weymouth till his business was done.

The maid interrupted his reflections by calling over the banisters, “Will you come up, please?”

The next moment, he was bowing to Lady Wrenwyck, who was seated in an easy-chair, a book, which she had just laid down, on her lap. She was a very beautiful woman still, and although she sat in a strong light, did not look over thirty-five.

She received him a little haughtily. “I do not remember to have seen you before. What is your business with me?”

Johnson fired his first shot boldly. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Lady Wrenwyck?”

Her face went a shade paler. “I do not deny it. Please explain your object in seeking me out. Will you sit down?”

The detective took a chair. “You have no doubt, madam, heard of the mysterious disappearance of an old friend of yours, Mr Monkton.”

He had expected to see her start, or show some signs of embarrassment. She did nothing of the kind. Her voice, as she answered him, was quite calm.

“I have heard something of it—some wild rumour. I am sorry for his daughter and his friends, for himself, if anything terrible has happened. But why do you come to me about this?”

It was Johnson’s turn to feel embarrassment now. Her fine eyes looked at him unwaveringly, and there was just the suspicion of a contemptuous smile on her beautiful face.

“I knew you were close friends once,” he stammered. “It struck me you might know something—he might have confided something to you.”

He broke down, and there was a long pause. For a space Lady Wrenwyck turned her face away, and looked out on the sea front. Suddenly she divined his errand, and a low ripple of laughter escaped her.

“I think I see the meaning of it all now. You have picked up some ancient rumours of my friendship with Mr Monkton, and you think he is with me here; that I am responsible for his disappearance.”

The detective was too embarrassed to answer her. He was thankful that she had seen things so quickly.

“I don’t know why I should admit anything to you,” she went on, in a contemptuous voice, “but I will admit this much. There was a time when I was passionately in love with him. At that time, if he had lifted up his little finger I would have followed him to the end of the world. He never asked me—he had water in his veins, not blood. That was in the long ago. To-day he is nothing to me—barely a memory. Go back to London, my good man. You will not find Reginald Monkton here.”

Her scornful tone braced the detective, and dispelled his momentary embarrassment.

“Who then is Mr Williams?” he asked doggedly.

“Oh, you know that, do you?—you seem full of useless knowledge. Mr Williams, an assumed name like my own, is my youngest and favourite brother. There is a tragic family history which I shall not tell you. It suffices to say I am the only member of his family who has not severed relations with him. He is very ill. I am here to nurse him back to health and strength.”

Johnson looked dubious. She spoke with the ring of truth, but these women of the world could be consummate actresses when they chose.

She rose from her chair, a smile half contemptuous half amused upon her charming face.

“You don’t believe me. Wait a moment, and I will convince you.”

She left the room, returning after a moment’s absence.

“Follow me and see for yourself,” she said coldly, and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the room in which they had been talking.

“Look here,” she pointed to the bed. “He is asleep; I gave him a composing draught an hour ago.”

Johnson looked. A man of about thirty-five, bearing a remarkable likeness to herself, was lying on his side, his hand supporting his head. The worn, drawn features spoke of pain and suffering from which, for the moment, he was relieved.

The detective stole from the room on tiptoe, followed by Lady Wrenwyck. “You know Mr Monkton by sight, I presume? Have you seen enough? If so, I beg you to relieve me of your presence and your insulting suspicions.” She pointed to the stairs with an imperious hand.

Johnson had never felt a bigger fool in his life—he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him.

“I humbly apologise,” he faltered, and sneaked down the stairs, feeling like a whipped mongrel.

Chapter Twenty Four.The Mystery of the Maid-Servant.When Johnson reported himself to his chief at Scotland Yard he had in a great measure recovered his self-possession. He had only failure to his credit, but that was not his fault. He had followed up the clue given to him with exemplary speed. The weakness lay in the unsubstantial nature of the clue.Smeaton listened to his recital, and made no caustic or petulant comment. He was a kindly man, and seldom reproached his subordinates, except for instances of sheer stupidity. He never inquired into their methods. Whether they obtained their results by luck or judgment was no concern of his, so long as the results were obtained.“Sit down. Let us talk this over,” he said genially. “It was a clue worth following, wasn’t it?”“Undoubtedly, sir,” replied Johnson. “It was one of the few alternatives possible in such a case. I assure you, sir, I set out with high hopes.”“It’s a failure, Johnson, but that’s no fault of yours; you did all that could be expected. I have had my rebuff, too. I have tracked the writer of the threatening letter, only to find he died two years before Monkton’s disappearance. That was a nasty knock also. And yet that was a good clue too—of the two, a trifle better perhaps than yours.”Detective-sergeant Johnson made no answer. Smeaton looked at him sharply. “You would say that was something to work on, wouldn’t you?”Johnson reflected a moment. When you are going to exalt your own intelligence at the expense of your superior’s intellect, it demands diplomacy.He spoke deferentially. “May I speak my mind plainly?” he asked.“I desire perfect frankness.” Smeaton was not a little man. He knew that elderly men, in spite of their experience, grow stale, and often lose their swiftness of thought. It was well to incline their ears to the rising generation.“It was a clue worth following, sir, but personally I don’t attach great importance to it.”“Give me your reasons, Johnson. I know you have an analytical turn of mind. I shall be delighted to hear them.”And Johnson gave his reasons. “This was a threatening letter. I daresay every big counsel receives them by the dozen. Now, let us construct for a moment the mentality of the writer; we will call him by his real name, Bolinski. A man of keen business instincts, or he would not have been the successful rogue he was. Naturally, therefore, a man of equable temperament.”“It was not the letter of a man of equable temperament,” interposed Smeaton grimly.“A temporary aberration,” rejoined the scientific detective. “Even men of calm temperament get into uncontrollable rages occasionally. He wrote it at white heat, strung to momentary madness by the ruin that confronted him. That is understandable. What isnotunderstandable is that a man of that well-balanced mind should cherish rancour for a period of twenty-odd years.”“There is something in what you say, Johnson. I confess that you are more subtle than I am.”Johnson pursued his advantage. “After the lapse of twelve months, by which time he had probably found his feet again, he would recognise it, to use a phrase we both know well, sir, as ‘a fair cop.’ He had defied the law; the law had got the better of him. He would take off his hat, and say to the law: ‘I give you best. You are the better man, and you won.’”Smeaton regarded his subordinate with genuine admiration.“I am not too old to learn, Johnson; you have taught me something to-night.” He paused a moment, and added slowly: “You have taught me to distinguish the probable from the possible.”Johnson rose, feeling he had done well and impressed his sagacity upon his chief.“I believe, sir, when you think it over you will admit that such a delayed scheme of vengeance would not be carried out, after the lapse of so many years, by a man of ordinary sanity. I admit it might be carried out by a lunatic, or a person half-demented, on the borderland—a man who had brooded over an ancient wrong till he became obsessed.”Smeaton nodded, in comprehension. His subordinate was developing unsuspected powers.“Wait a moment, Johnson. We know certain things. We know Bolinski—who wrote the threatening letter—is out of it, so far as active participation is concerned. Lady Wrenwyck is out of it. We know the two who put the dying man in the cab. We know about Farloe and Saxton. We know about the Italian who died at Forest View. We know about the man Whyman, who invited me to stay the night, and disappeared before I was up next morning. You know all these things, everything that has taken place since I took up the case. You have thought it all over.”“I have thought it all over,” replied Johnson, always deferential and always imperturbable.“Don’t go yet,” said Smeaton. “Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead end. Haveyouanything to suggest?”Johnson’s triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way, was a thing unprecedented.But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head. He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference.“The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View. Keep a watch on that house, day and night.” He emphasised the last word, and looked squarely at his chief.Smeaton gave a sudden start. “You know Varney is watching it.”“A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day—well, no doubt—but he doesn’t watch it by night. Many strange things happen when the sun has gone down.”Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. “You are relying on intuition now yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought. I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in a report to that effect.”Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly advanced himself in his chief’s estimation and he had skilfully avoided wounding Smeaton’samour propre.The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement.“Astounding news—infernal news!” he cried, dashing his hat down on the table. “But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original.”He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully. Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art.“The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first,” he said at length. “But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the parlourmaid at Forest View.”“Just what I suspected,” cried Varney. “I was thinking about the woman, firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to bring it to you for identification.”“Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery,” said Smeaton slowly. “Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is something more to come.”And Varney blurted out the astonishing tale. “Forest View is empty. They made tracks in the night—while we were all sound asleep.”Smeaton thought of Johnson’s recommendation to watch the house by night as well as day. He reproached himself for his own carelessness when dealing with such wary adversaries.“Tell me all about it,” he said sharply.Varney went on with his story.“It has been my custom to stroll round there every night about eleven o’clock, when the lights are put out, generally to the minute,” he said. “I did the same thing last evening; they were extinguished a few minutes later than usual, but I did not attach any importance to that.”“They were packing up, I suppose, and got a little over their time,” observed Smeaton.“No doubt. I am usually a light sleeper, but I had taken a long cycle ride in the afternoon, and slept heavily till late in the morning. I took my usual stroll after breakfast. The gate was closed, but there were marks of heavy wheels on the gravel, and all the blinds were down. I went up to the door, and rang the bell. Nobody answered.”“Did they take all the furniture?” queried Smeaton. “No, they could not have moved it in the time.”“I am certain, from the marks, only one van had gone in and come out. They only removed what was valuable and important. I questioned the local constable. He saw a van pass, going in the direction of London, but had no idea of where it had come from. Some of them, I expect, got into the van, and the others took a circuitous route in the motor.”Smeaton listened to all this with profound chagrin. He rose and paced the room.“I am fed up with the whole thing, Varney,” he said, in a despondent voice. “I have followed two clues already that seemed promising, and they turn into will-o’-the-wisps. And now we’ve got to begin all over again with this Forest View lot.”Varney agreed. As a relief from the strain and tension of this most baffling case, he suggested that Smeaton should dine with him at the Savage Club that night, to talk things over.After an excellent dinner, they recovered somewhat from the depression caused by the recent untoward events. They went into the Alhambra for an hour, and then strolled up Coventry Street.They waited at the corner of the Haymarket to cross the street. The traffic from the theatres was very congested, and the vehicles were crawling slowly westward.Suddenly Smeaton clutched at his companion’s arm, and pointed to a taxi that was slowly passing them beneath the glare of the street lamps.“Look inside,” he cried excitedly.Varney took a few quick paces forward, and peered through the closed window. He returned to Smeaton, his face aglow.“The parlourmaid at Forest View, otherwise Mrs Saxton, by all that’s wonderful!”“Did you notice the man?”“No, I hadn’t time. The driver started on at proper speed before I could focus him.”“Do you know, the face in that gleam of light looked wonderfully like that of Reginald Monkton!” he said. “I committed the number of the taxi to memory. To-morrow, we shall know where it took them.”Next morning, the taxi-driver was found, and told his tale simply and straightforwardly.“I picked them up in the Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngish lady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. They had stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till it drove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bit peculiar.”“Where did you put them down?”“At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if I should wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailing like; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm.”Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room.If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to Chesterfield Street? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner, instead of driving up to the house?In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the number of Mr Monkton’s house.

When Johnson reported himself to his chief at Scotland Yard he had in a great measure recovered his self-possession. He had only failure to his credit, but that was not his fault. He had followed up the clue given to him with exemplary speed. The weakness lay in the unsubstantial nature of the clue.

Smeaton listened to his recital, and made no caustic or petulant comment. He was a kindly man, and seldom reproached his subordinates, except for instances of sheer stupidity. He never inquired into their methods. Whether they obtained their results by luck or judgment was no concern of his, so long as the results were obtained.

“Sit down. Let us talk this over,” he said genially. “It was a clue worth following, wasn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly, sir,” replied Johnson. “It was one of the few alternatives possible in such a case. I assure you, sir, I set out with high hopes.”

“It’s a failure, Johnson, but that’s no fault of yours; you did all that could be expected. I have had my rebuff, too. I have tracked the writer of the threatening letter, only to find he died two years before Monkton’s disappearance. That was a nasty knock also. And yet that was a good clue too—of the two, a trifle better perhaps than yours.”

Detective-sergeant Johnson made no answer. Smeaton looked at him sharply. “You would say that was something to work on, wouldn’t you?”

Johnson reflected a moment. When you are going to exalt your own intelligence at the expense of your superior’s intellect, it demands diplomacy.

He spoke deferentially. “May I speak my mind plainly?” he asked.

“I desire perfect frankness.” Smeaton was not a little man. He knew that elderly men, in spite of their experience, grow stale, and often lose their swiftness of thought. It was well to incline their ears to the rising generation.

“It was a clue worth following, sir, but personally I don’t attach great importance to it.”

“Give me your reasons, Johnson. I know you have an analytical turn of mind. I shall be delighted to hear them.”

And Johnson gave his reasons. “This was a threatening letter. I daresay every big counsel receives them by the dozen. Now, let us construct for a moment the mentality of the writer; we will call him by his real name, Bolinski. A man of keen business instincts, or he would not have been the successful rogue he was. Naturally, therefore, a man of equable temperament.”

“It was not the letter of a man of equable temperament,” interposed Smeaton grimly.

“A temporary aberration,” rejoined the scientific detective. “Even men of calm temperament get into uncontrollable rages occasionally. He wrote it at white heat, strung to momentary madness by the ruin that confronted him. That is understandable. What isnotunderstandable is that a man of that well-balanced mind should cherish rancour for a period of twenty-odd years.”

“There is something in what you say, Johnson. I confess that you are more subtle than I am.”

Johnson pursued his advantage. “After the lapse of twelve months, by which time he had probably found his feet again, he would recognise it, to use a phrase we both know well, sir, as ‘a fair cop.’ He had defied the law; the law had got the better of him. He would take off his hat, and say to the law: ‘I give you best. You are the better man, and you won.’”

Smeaton regarded his subordinate with genuine admiration.

“I am not too old to learn, Johnson; you have taught me something to-night.” He paused a moment, and added slowly: “You have taught me to distinguish the probable from the possible.”

Johnson rose, feeling he had done well and impressed his sagacity upon his chief.

“I believe, sir, when you think it over you will admit that such a delayed scheme of vengeance would not be carried out, after the lapse of so many years, by a man of ordinary sanity. I admit it might be carried out by a lunatic, or a person half-demented, on the borderland—a man who had brooded over an ancient wrong till he became obsessed.”

Smeaton nodded, in comprehension. His subordinate was developing unsuspected powers.

“Wait a moment, Johnson. We know certain things. We know Bolinski—who wrote the threatening letter—is out of it, so far as active participation is concerned. Lady Wrenwyck is out of it. We know the two who put the dying man in the cab. We know about Farloe and Saxton. We know about the Italian who died at Forest View. We know about the man Whyman, who invited me to stay the night, and disappeared before I was up next morning. You know all these things, everything that has taken place since I took up the case. You have thought it all over.”

“I have thought it all over,” replied Johnson, always deferential and always imperturbable.

“Don’t go yet,” said Smeaton. “Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead end. Haveyouanything to suggest?”

Johnson’s triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way, was a thing unprecedented.

But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head. He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference.

“The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View. Keep a watch on that house, day and night.” He emphasised the last word, and looked squarely at his chief.

Smeaton gave a sudden start. “You know Varney is watching it.”

“A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day—well, no doubt—but he doesn’t watch it by night. Many strange things happen when the sun has gone down.”

Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. “You are relying on intuition now yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought. I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in a report to that effect.”

Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly advanced himself in his chief’s estimation and he had skilfully avoided wounding Smeaton’samour propre.

The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement.

“Astounding news—infernal news!” he cried, dashing his hat down on the table. “But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original.”

He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully. Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art.

“The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first,” he said at length. “But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the parlourmaid at Forest View.”

“Just what I suspected,” cried Varney. “I was thinking about the woman, firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to bring it to you for identification.”

“Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery,” said Smeaton slowly. “Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is something more to come.”

And Varney blurted out the astonishing tale. “Forest View is empty. They made tracks in the night—while we were all sound asleep.”

Smeaton thought of Johnson’s recommendation to watch the house by night as well as day. He reproached himself for his own carelessness when dealing with such wary adversaries.

“Tell me all about it,” he said sharply.

Varney went on with his story.

“It has been my custom to stroll round there every night about eleven o’clock, when the lights are put out, generally to the minute,” he said. “I did the same thing last evening; they were extinguished a few minutes later than usual, but I did not attach any importance to that.”

“They were packing up, I suppose, and got a little over their time,” observed Smeaton.

“No doubt. I am usually a light sleeper, but I had taken a long cycle ride in the afternoon, and slept heavily till late in the morning. I took my usual stroll after breakfast. The gate was closed, but there were marks of heavy wheels on the gravel, and all the blinds were down. I went up to the door, and rang the bell. Nobody answered.”

“Did they take all the furniture?” queried Smeaton. “No, they could not have moved it in the time.”

“I am certain, from the marks, only one van had gone in and come out. They only removed what was valuable and important. I questioned the local constable. He saw a van pass, going in the direction of London, but had no idea of where it had come from. Some of them, I expect, got into the van, and the others took a circuitous route in the motor.”

Smeaton listened to all this with profound chagrin. He rose and paced the room.

“I am fed up with the whole thing, Varney,” he said, in a despondent voice. “I have followed two clues already that seemed promising, and they turn into will-o’-the-wisps. And now we’ve got to begin all over again with this Forest View lot.”

Varney agreed. As a relief from the strain and tension of this most baffling case, he suggested that Smeaton should dine with him at the Savage Club that night, to talk things over.

After an excellent dinner, they recovered somewhat from the depression caused by the recent untoward events. They went into the Alhambra for an hour, and then strolled up Coventry Street.

They waited at the corner of the Haymarket to cross the street. The traffic from the theatres was very congested, and the vehicles were crawling slowly westward.

Suddenly Smeaton clutched at his companion’s arm, and pointed to a taxi that was slowly passing them beneath the glare of the street lamps.

“Look inside,” he cried excitedly.

Varney took a few quick paces forward, and peered through the closed window. He returned to Smeaton, his face aglow.

“The parlourmaid at Forest View, otherwise Mrs Saxton, by all that’s wonderful!”

“Did you notice the man?”

“No, I hadn’t time. The driver started on at proper speed before I could focus him.”

“Do you know, the face in that gleam of light looked wonderfully like that of Reginald Monkton!” he said. “I committed the number of the taxi to memory. To-morrow, we shall know where it took them.”

Next morning, the taxi-driver was found, and told his tale simply and straightforwardly.

“I picked them up in the Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngish lady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. They had stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till it drove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bit peculiar.”

“Where did you put them down?”

“At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if I should wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailing like; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm.”

Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room.

If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to Chesterfield Street? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner, instead of driving up to the house?

In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the number of Mr Monkton’s house.

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