The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Story of the Portraits

Austin Wingate was sitting in his office the next morning. The post had been unusually heavy, and he had a busy day in front of him. In view of the pressure of business which he saw was impending, he was about to ring up Sheila to tell her that he would not come to Chesterfield Street to dinner, as had been arranged, but would see her later in the evening. She, however, rang him up first.

“I want to see you as soon as you can possibly get away,” she told him. “Something very wonderful has happened; I can’t tell you over the ’phone. Can you come to lunch – or before, if possible?”

No true lover puts his business before his sweetheart. He replied unhesitatingly that he would be with her inside a couple of hours. That would give him time to attend to his most pressing correspondence. The rest, or that portion of it which could not be delegated to his subordinate, must wait till to-morrow.

Sheila had changed her mind. Overnight she had resolved not to communicate that wonderful message even to him. Had it not enjoined her to the strictest secrecy?

But on calmer reflection other thoughts had prevailed. The sender of that message did not know of the relations between them. Austin was a part of her life, her second self. How could she keep such an important thing from him, from the lover who had encompassed her with such tender devotion through this terrible time?

“Dear, kind Austin,” she murmured, as she thought of the readiness with which he had acceded to her request. “He never fails me in the slightest thing. No girl could ever have a truer lover.”

In two hours he would be here, and she could show him the paper on which was written that mysterious message. How should she get through the interval? The minutes seemed as if they would never pass.

She was sitting in the cosy library where her father had spent most of his time when at home. What long chats they had enjoyed together in that dear old room. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled those happy days, which, alas! seemed so far away. She was aroused from her reveries by the entrance of Grant.

“The young person who called the other day, and refused to leave her name, is here. Miss,” he told her. “She won’t give any name now; merely says she would like to see you for a few minutes. I have shown her into the drawing-room.”

Sheila’s face flushed with excitement. Hurriedly she went upstairs to her mysterious visitor.

The dark-haired young woman rose at Sheila’s entrance. It was easy to see she was terribly nervous.

“I am speaking to Miss Monkton, am I not? I must apologise for intruding upon you, but I shall not keep you more than a few seconds. I came just to ask you, to know if – if – ” she stammered so that she could hardly get her words out.

“You wanted to know if – ?” repeated Sheila encouragingly. She was terribly excited herself, but the calmer of the two.

“Did you receive a portrait of a friend of yours, Lady Gladys Rainham, the envelope containing it directed in a strange handwriting?”

“I did receive that portrait. At the time I did not notice the handwriting. I concluded it had been sent me by Lady Gladys herself.” A sudden light dawned upon Sheila, as she spoke. “It was you who sent it, was it not?”

“Yes, it was I, acting upon instructions.”

“By whom were those instructions given?” asked Sheila eagerly.

The young woman’s manner was more embarrassed than ever. “I am very sorry, but that I must not tell you. Later on, I daresay you will know all.”

“But you have something more to tell me, surely?”

“Yes. That photograph was sent for a purpose. I called the other day, but you were out. It contains a message. Cut it in two, and you will find a letter inside.”

“I have already done so,” was Sheila’s reply. “When my friend Lady Gladys denied having sent it to me, I puzzled and puzzled over it. And then, I think it must have been in a dream, I recalled something that had happened long ago which set me on the right track. I went downstairs in the night, cut the photograph as you suggested, and found the message inside.”

The mysterious visitor looked towards the door, and made a movement of departure.

“My task is done then, and I will detain you no longer.”

But Sheila stayed her impetuously. “But you will not leave me so abruptly. You can understand my terrible anxiety. You will relieve it by telling me what you know.”

In her agitation, she laid her hand upon the arm of her strange visitor, but the young woman freed herself, and advanced towards the door.

“I can understand and sympathise with you,” she said in a faltering voice. “But please do not press me, it is useless. I am under the most solemn promise to say no more. You must wait and be patient.” In another moment she had left the room, leaving poor Sheila bewildered and tearful.

Austin Wingate came later, was told of the strange visitor, and shown the message which had been contained in the photograph.

He took her in his aims and kissed her fondly. “My darling, you must still be brave and patient,” he said tenderly.

She looked up at him with her sweet smile. “I have waited so long, Austin, I can wait a little longer, always providing that you are here to comfort me.”

Wingate did not leave her till late in the afternoon. The day was too far advanced for him to return to his office. He strolled to the Wellington Club.

Just as he was going in, he caught sight of Farloe. He took a sudden resolve, and went up to the secretary, who did not seem too pleased to see him.

“Good-day, Mr Farloe. May I walk with you a little way? There is something I should like to ask you.”

The young man assented, but by no means with a good grace. They had taken an instinctive dislike to each other from the first. They walked together in silence for a few paces, and then Wingate suddenly blurted out:

“What has become of Reginald Monkton? I know you could tell us, if you chose.”

The secretary’s face blanched to the lips. He tried to smile, but the smile was a very forced one.

“Your question, and your manner of putting it, Mr Wingate, are both very offensive. I know no more of Monkton’s whereabouts than you do. It is generally reported that he is abroad.”

“And you know as well as I do that it is not the fact,” answered Wingate sternly. “Have a care, Mr Farloe. We know a good deal about you.”

The secretary assumed an air of extreme hauteur, but his face was whiter than ever.

“It is extremely kind of you to interest yourself in my affairs, but I am afraid they will hardly repay the trouble of investigation. Perhaps you will allow me to bid you good-day.”

“Please give me another moment or two, Mr Farloe. We know this much about you, that you are in close communication with Stent and Bolinski, the two men who sent that dying man in the taxi to Chesterfield Street.”

For a moment the two men glared at each other, Wingate’s face aflame with anger, the other with an expression half of fear, half of defiance, stealing over his white mask.

“You refuse to tell me anything?” asked Wingate at length.

“I have nothing to tell you,” answered the other, in a voice that he could not keep quite steady. “Once again, good-day.” He turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away.

For fully five minutes he walked quickly in an easterly direction. Then he turned round, and cast stealthy glances backwards. Apparently he could not get it out of his mind that Wingate might be pursuing him.

But he scanned the faces of the hurrying foot-passengers, and he could discern no hostile countenance. Well-dressed loungers, women intent on shopping and bargains, a man dressed in working costume, walking with a slouching gait. These were all he saw.

He hailed a taxi, and shouted in a loud voice: “Broad Street Station.” He had to shout loudly, for the roar of the traffic was deafening.

The working-man with the slouching gait caught the words. A second taxi was just behind. He opened the door and jumped in, after having whispered in the ear of the driver, “Follow that fellow.”

At Broad Street Station Farloe alighted, needless to say the man who had pursued him close on his heels. Two tickets were taken for Hackney Station, one first-class, the other third-class.

The disguised working-man, otherwise Varney, had been considerably chagrined at the disappearance of the Forest View household, and had sworn to be even with them. He had watched Farloe ever since, knowing that through him he would get at the whereabouts of Stent and Bolinski.

Farloe alighted at Hackney Station, and after walking for about a quarter of a mile, turned up one of the many mean streets that abound in that neighbourhood. The secretary knocked at the door of one of the dingiest houses in the row, and disappeared inside.

Varney kept his watch. At the end of an hour or so three men emerged from the shabby dwelling. As he expected, the two others were Stent and Bolinski.

The three men made their way into Mare Street, and turned into the saloon bar of a big public-house. Something of importance was evidently in progress.

Varney reflected. They would be some minutes before they had finished their drinks and their conversation. In the meantime, he had taken the name of the street and the number of the house. He could allow himself five minutes to ring up Scotland Yard.

Smeaton was fortunately in. In a few brief words he told the detective of his discovery. Smeaton’s reply come back.

“Things are happening. I will send at once a couple of sergeants to help you. Hold on till my men arrive and then come straight on to me.”

It is a far cry from Scotland Yard to Mare Street, Hackney. But, occupied with his own thoughts, it seemed only a few minutes to Varney when the two detectives drove up, and alighted at the door of the public-house. A swift taxi can do wonders in annihilating space.

The elder of the two men, whom Varney knew slightly, advanced towards him.

“Good-day, Mr Varney. We struck here first, as being the nearest. They’re still inside, eh?”

“I should have left, if not. Well, I suppose you will take up my job.”

“That’s about it, sir. Mr Smeaton told me he would like to see you as soon as possible. I think he has got something important to communicate. We’ll wait for these two gentlemen. Stent and the Russian, to come out – Farloe we have nothing against at present – and then we’ll clap the darbies on them in a twinkling.”

Varney, for a moment, looked incredulous. “But on what charge?”

The detective grinned. “One that we only knew of yesterday. A charge of fraud in connection with certain rubber property. Another man of the name of Whyman is in it, but he seems to have got clear away.”

Varney, his brain in a whirl, took his way back to Scotland Yard, still in his costume of a working-man.

“Well, what does it all mean?” he gasped, when he got into Smeaton’s room.

The great detective smiled genially. “It means, my dear Varney, that we are nearing the end of the Monkton mystery which has baffled us so long.”

“And the solution?” queried the other eagerly.

“That I cannot tell you yet. But when it does come, I am afraid neither you nor I will reap much glory out of it.”

And Varney could get nothing out of him except those few cryptic words.

“Something has happened quite recently?” he hazarded.

The detective answered with that same slow, wise smile of his. “Perhaps. I can tell you nothing more now. Wait a moment, till I answer that telephone.”

A few words passed, and then he turned to Varney. “My men report they have laid Stent and Bolinski by the heels on the charge of fraud.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.
In the Mists

Detective-sergeant Johnson stood in Smeaton’s room, listening to the final instructions of his chief with his usual respectful air.

“Be as diplomatic as possible, Johnson. Let him suspect that we know everything, without committing yourself to any actual statement. Above all, impress upon him the fact that he must come. We would prefer he did so voluntarily. If he should prove obstinate, give him clearly to understand that we have other means at our disposal.”

Johnson spoke with quiet confidence. “I think you may safely leave it to me. After what you have told me, I am sure I can persuade the gentleman to accompany me. But, of course, I shall say nothing openly, simply confine myself to broad hints that ran only bear one meaning.”

Smeaton regarded Johnson approvingly. For some time past he had discerned in this comparatively young man qualities that bade fair to secure him a high position in his profession. He was level-headed, quick at instructions, possessed of considerable initiative, cautious, yet daring on occasion, confident without being boastful.

“One last word before you leave. You will make quite sure he is in the house before you enter it; in other words, that he has returned to London.”

“I heard yesterday from my cousin, who had met his valet, that his lordship arrived late the previous evening. But to make sure, I have appointed to meet Willet this afternoon, so as to get the latest news.”

“Quite right, Johnson, quite right,” said the great detective in his most cordial tones. “Never leave anything to chance.”

The subordinate bowed himself out, well pleased that he was advancing himself so steadily in his chief’s favour.

An hour later he was in the saloon bar of the exclusive establishment which was patronised by the upper servants of Mayfair. Here he found his cousin awaiting him, who greeted him heartily. The two men had corresponded a few times, but they had not met since the day when Willet had produced the portrait of Lady Wrenwyck.

“Glad to see you, old chap,” cried the footman heartily. “I’ve been longing to hear how you got on with that little job at Weymouth. No difficulty in finding her ladyship, I suppose?”

“Tumbled to her at once,” answered Johnson, who adapted his tone and language to those of the company in which he found himself for the time being. “Took a walk down to the post-office, and she and the maid fell into my arms in a manner o’ speaking.”

Johnson paused, not quite knowing what to say next. Willet looked at him inquiringly, but meeting with no response exhibited signs of injured dignity.

“Look here, old man, it ain’t my business to pry into secrets that don’t concern me. But I helped you a goodish bit in that quarter, and I don’t think you need be so devilish close.”

Johnson goaded himself to speech; if he was to retain his cousin’s friendship he must say something. And the man spoke the truth; he had helped him to the extent of making the preliminaries very easy.

“Now, look here, laddie, I should like to tell you everything. You helped me a lot, but on my honour I can’t do it. Large interests and great people are affected in the matter. But I will tell you this much, and you must believe me or not, as you please: I found her ladyship right enough, only to discover that I was on the wrong scent. Now and again, you know, we do make bloomers at the Yard.”

Mr Willet’s affability was at once restored by this frank and manly statement. “Say no more, old man; mum’s the word. Fill up, to show there’s no ill-feeling.”

Johnson filled up, and drank his relative’s health with becoming cordiality. He wanted something more out of him yet.

“So far as Lady Wrenwyck is concerned. I’ve no further use for her. But I haven’t quite done with all the people in the Wrenwyck house itself. Only this time I’m on another track altogether.”

Willet’s eyes bulged out of his head with curiosity, but he knew from experience that wild horses would not drag out of Johnson anything that astute detective had made up his mind to conceal.

“I suppose it’s the old man you’re after, this time?” he hazarded.

“Guessed right the first time, old chap. I want to have a few minutes’ conversation with his lordship. That’s why I wrote asking you if you knew anything of his movements.”

“By gad! you are a deep ’un,” cried Willet admiringly.

“Thanks,” said Johnson easily, but it was plain to see the compliment had not fallen on deaf ears. “Well, now, you say he’s back in town. If I knock at the door in the course of half-an-hour or so, do you think I’m likely to find him in?”

“It’s a pretty safe find. He hardly ever goes out when in London, drives down to the Carlton once or twice a week, and stays a couple of hours. But anyway. I’m pretty sure you’ll find him in to-day, and I’ll tell you for why.”

“Yes?” interrupted Johnson eagerly. Willet was certainly invaluable in the way of giving information.

“Her ladyship is giving a big party this afternoon – I think it’s a philanthropic sort of hustle, in aid of some charity. On these occasions he usually shuts himself up in his own den till the last carriage has driven away. Then he comes out growling and cursing because his house has been turned upside down, and everybody gives him as wide a berth as possible.”

“He seems an amiable sort of person,” observed Johnson.

“Touched, my dear boy, touched,” replied Willet, tapping his somewhat retreating forehead. “And getting worse, so I’m told. Triggs, his valet, told me yesterday it can’t be long before they’ll have to put him under restraint.”

“You’ve no idea where he’s been the last few weeks, I suppose,” was Johnson’s next question.

“Nobody has. He seems to have done the same sort of disappearance as his wife, with this difference, that she did take her maid, and he left Triggs behind. But he came back in the devil’s own rage; been carrying on like a madman ever since. Triggs is going to give him notice; says flesh and blood can’t stand it.”

Johnson parted from his cousin with mutual expressions of esteem and good-will. A few minutes later he was standing outside the open portals of Wrenwyck House, one of the finest mansions in Park Lane.

A big party was evidently in progress. Carriages were driving up every moment to take up and set down the guests. Johnson could picture the beautiful hostess, standing at the top of the stairs, a regal and smiling figure.

A humorous smile crossed his countenance as he recalled the one and only occasion on which they had met in the unpretentious lodgings on the Weymouth front. Well, that was one of the things that never would be revealed to her circle, unless she chose to confide it to her bosom friend, Mrs Adair.

He took advantage of a momentary lull in the restless tide of traffic, to accost a tall footman.

“I want particularly to see Lord Wrenwyck, if he is at home,” he said boldly. “I daresay he will be at leisure, as I understand he shuts himself up when this sort of function is going on.”

The footman’s manner showed that he was half contemptuous, half impressed. With the unerring eye of his class he saw at once that Johnson was not of the class from which the guests of Wrenwyck House were recruited. On the other hand, he seemed to possess an intimate knowledge of the private habits of its owner.

“His lordship is in, but I should very much doubt if he will see you,” he said with just a touch of insolence. “If you tell me your name and business, I will inquire.”

Johnson slipped a card into an envelope and handed it to this tall and important person.

“I’m afraid my business is of too private a nature to communicate to a third party,” he said quietly. “If you’ll have the goodness to hand that envelope to his lordship, and tell him my card is inside, I think it’s very probable he will see me.”

Five minutes later the astonished menial returned, and the contempt of his bearing was somewhat abated.

“Please follow me,” he said, in a voice that was almost civil. A moment later the detective was in the presence of the wealthy and eccentric peer.

His immediate thought was that he had never met a more forbidding personality. Hard, angry eyes, that shot forth their baleful fire at the slightest provocation, a long hawk nose, a cruel, sensual mouth, were the salient features of a face that instinctively gave you the impression of evil.

His greeting was in accord with his appearance.

“Explain at once, if you please, the reason of this extraordinary intrusion. I see you come from Scotland Yard. What the devil have I to do with such a place?”

Johnson did not allow himself to be disturbed by the other’s rough and insolent manner.

“I have brought you a message from my chief, Mr Smeaton,” he said, in his most urbane manner. “I have no doubt you have heard of him.”

Lord Wrenwyck looked on the point of indulging in another angry explosion, but something in the steady gaze of the self-possessed young man seemed to momentarily disconcert him. He only growled, and muttered something too low for Johnson to catch.

“My chief, Mr Smeaton, occupies a very special position,” resumed the imperturbable detective. “In virtue of that position, he becomes acquainted with many curious facts, some of them connected with persons in high positions. Some of these facts he has to make known, in accordance with his sense of public duty. There are others which never go beyond his own cognisance and that of a few of his trusted subordinates. I trust your lordship gathers my meaning, which I am trying to convey as pleasantly as possible.”

Lord Wrenwyck stirred his crippled limbs, and shook his fist vindictively at the other.

“Come to the point, curse you, and spare me all this rigmarole.”

“To come to the point, my lord, Mr Smeaton requests your attendance at Scotland Yard, where he proposes to give himself the pleasure of a short conversation with you.”

The hard, angry eyes were now sullen and overcast, but they were no longer defiant.

“Suppose I tell you and your precious Mr Smeaton to go to the devil! What then?”

“I don’t think either of us will hasten our journey in that direction on account of your lordship’s intervention,” replied Johnson with ready humour.

He paused a moment, and then added with a gravity that could not be mistaken: “The arm of the law is very long, and can reach a great nobleman like yourself. Take my advice. Lord Wrenwyck. Let me convey you in a taxi to Scotland Yard, to interview my chief. Come voluntarily while you can,” he paused and added in significant terms: “Believe me, you won’t have the option after to-day.”

Cursing and growling, the crippled peer stood up, and announced his readiness to accompany this imperturbable young man. A few minutes later, he and Smeaton were face to face.

On the evening of that day, Sheila and Wingate dined together at a small restaurant far removed from the haunts of the fashionable world.

Thanks to the strange and unexampled circumstances, their courtship had been conducted on very unconventional lines. But to-night an unobtrusive maiden aunt of Wingate’s played propriety.

At an early hour, they left the restaurant. The maiden aunt was first dropped at her modest house in Kensington, and then the car took them to Chesterfield Street.

When Grant had opened the door, Wingate had put out his hand in farewell. He was always punctilious and solicitous about the conventions, in Sheila’s unprotected position.

But she demurred to this early parting. “It is only a little after nine,” she told him. “You must come in for five minutes’ chat before you go.”

What lover could refuse such an invitation, proffered by such sweet lips? As they were going up the staircase to the drawing-room. Grant handed her a letter.

“It was left about an hour ago by that young person. Miss; the one who wouldn’t leave her name.”

She opened it, and, after perusal, handed it to her betrothed. “Oh, Austin, what can this mean?”

Austin Wingate read the brief words: “There is a great surprise in store. It may come at any moment.”

They sat down in silence, not trusting themselves to speak, to hazard a conjecture as to this mysterious message. At such a moment, so tense with possibilities, they almost forgot they were lovers. And while trying to read in their mutual glances the inmost thoughts of each other, there came the faint tinkle of the door-bell.

Sheila started up as her ears caught the sound. “Listen, Austin! Who’s that?” she asked breathlessly.

A few moments later they heard old Grant open the door. Next second a loud cry of alarm rang through the house. The voice was Grant’s.

Austin, hearing it, dashed from the room and down the stairs.