The Stolen Statesman Part 11

Plenty of rumours were flying about, he explained, many of them, no doubt, quite baseless; most, or all of them, exaggerated. He had a faculty for this kind of investigation, and had been successful in a very complicated and baffling case at Balham. If they would give him first-hand information he would be pleased to place his services at their disposal.

"You know, of course, that nothing will be allowed to appear in the Press," said Wingate, when the young journalist had finished. "The Home Secretary has given instructions to that effect."

Varney admitted he was under the impression something of the kind had occurred. Otherwise his chief would have sent for him at once.

"So you see I am not out for immediate kudos," he said, with a very frank smile. "Under different circ.u.mstances I daresay I should act very much like any other enterprising journalist anxious to establish a reputation."

There was a moment's pause. Wingate looked at Sheila, and she returned his glance of inquiry. Should they trust this singular young man, who spoke with such apparent frankness? Or should they refer him to the detective-inspector who had the case in hand?

Varney perceived their natural hesitation, and hastened to turn it in his favour.

"Let us make a bargain," he said, in a voice of real heartiness.

"Forget for the moment that I am a predatory journalist, on the prowl for sensational news. Just consider me as a man who has a bent for this particular form of investigation, and takes a delight in it. Treat me as a friend, and I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, and help you as far as my brains and resources will permit."

It was Sheila who spoke first, with her woman's impulse. "Austin," she said, "I think we may trust Mr Varney."

The journalist bowed. "Many thanks. Miss Monkton," He smiled a little as he added: "Ring up my old friend Smeaton, who, I know, has charge of the case, and get his permission if you like. You know, that was your first thought--was it not?"

Sheila blushed. "Yes, you are quite right, it was. How did you guess?"

"Very easily. By putting myself in your place, and imagining how I should think and act under similar circ.u.mstances."

Then Wingate followed his sweetheart's lead.

"Well, Mr Varney, I agree with Miss Monkton. We accept you as an ally, without reference to Smeaton. What do you want us to do?"

"I want you to tell me, as fully as you can, everything that has happened, in the minutest detail, from the night of Mr Monkton's strange disappearance until the present moment."

It was a long recital. Varney listened attentively and made notes from time to time, as some point struck him. But he did not make many. He seemed to possess a marvellous and retentive memory.

The narrative finished, Varney rose.

"Thanks, I have got it all clear. Now, all this will want thinking over, and it will take me some hours. As soon as I have established something to work upon I will communicate with you. We don't often see you at the Savage, Mr Wingate, or we might meet there."

"I have not much leisure," was Wingate's reply, "and all I have at my disposal is at Miss Monkton's service for the present."

"I quite understand." He could not fail to read in the slight glow on Sheila's cheek that the pair were lovers. "Well, good-night. Many thanks for the cordial reception you have given me. I shall do my best.

I shall hope to earn the compliments of my old friend Smeaton once again."

It was close upon ten o'clock when he left the house in Chesterfield Street. Though it was summer time, the night was a dark one. There was no moon, and heavy clouds obscured the stars.

A man stepped out from under the street lamp nearly opposite, and walked quickly in the direction of Curzon Street. Varney had seen him many times in the House of Commons, and recognised him at once. It was James Farloe, the secretary.

Varney followed him up Curzon Street, through the narrow pa.s.sage that runs past Lansdowne House. For a moment Farloe halted, as if undecided which direction to take. Then, his mind made up, he turned northward, and made his way into Oxford Street.

He walked along there for a little while, then crossed over to the north side, and, turning up one of the numerous side streets, took a devious route into Edgware Road.

It immediately struck Varney that he was going to visit Mrs Saxton at Hyde Park Mansions. In that case, he would have had his hunt for nothing. Smeaton had his men stationed there, and he was not wanted.

However, he would make sure, before he gave up the chase, and he was afterwards glad that he had not jumped too readily at conclusions.

It soon became apparent that this was not Farloe's destination, for he pa.s.sed Chapel Street, and continued straight along the Edgware Road till he came to where it joins on to Maida Vale. Here he turned to the right, and was immediately in the St John's Wood district.

Varney was now pretty certain in his own mind as to the secretary's goal, and a few moments more confirmed his conjectures. He halted at a house in the Boundary Road, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by a tall man, whom Varney at once recognised as Bolinski, from the description given of him by Wingate.

He waited about for an hour, but Farloe did not come out. Theirs was evidently a long conference. The secretary was apparently the channel of communication between the Russian and Mrs Saxton. This accounted for the sudden cessation of telegrams. The astute lady had found out she was being watched.

Varney walked back to Baker Street Station, where he took a ticket for Charing Cross, the nearest halting-place for the Savage Club in the Adelphi.

"I wonder if Smeaton has left Farloe altogether out of his calculations," was his inward comment on the night's proceedings. "But it can't be; he is too old a bird for that. Well, it's evident he is in with the gang, whoever they are--as well as his sister."

CHAPTER TEN.

IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE.

The weeks had slipped by. Smeaton was not at all satisfied with the progress he was making. His inquiries had led him into a _cul-de-sac_.

The absence of the man Stent from the Savoy worried him. It looked as though the man had received a hint from Mrs Saxton, and taken the alarm. In addition, he had constant inquiries from the Home Secretary as to what progress he was making.

He paid a visit to Chesterfield Street to talk over matters. Before he left, Sheila screwed up her courage to tell him of Varney's visit, and their acquiescence in his proposal to investigate on his own account.

She had expected that he would display resentment at their having taken such a step before consulting him. But, to her relief, he did nothing of the kind.

"Varney is a rather clever young chap," he admitted, "and if he devoted himself entirely to detective work, and acquired plenty of experience, I believe he would be as good as, if not better than, many of us. In the Caxley mystery he certainly got on the right track, while we went blundering on wrong lines altogether. And the revelations in the Balham affair were entirely due to him."

"He spoke very highly of you," said Sheila, with woman's _finesse_. "I am glad you don't think we did wrong."

"Not at all, my dear young lady. Tell him not to hesitate to come to me--if he is in need of any special facilities that I can give."

"No news of Mrs Saxton, I suppose?" asked Sheila, as Smeaton was on the point of leaving the drawing-room.

"None at all. She is at home, and n.o.body seems to go near her but her brother. I told you how she put me on the wrong scent about Stent.

Once or twice I have thought of going there again and taxing her with it. But what would be the good? She would still stick to her story that she knew next to nothing about him. In giving me the St Albans clue she would swear she had mixed him up with somebody else. My men seem cooling their heels to no purpose. She knows she is being watched, and she won't give us a chance. I expect she does all her necessary work on the telephone, and we must attend to that point at once."

Next morning Mrs Saxton aroused herself from her apparent inactivity, and gave her watchers a big surprise, which added to Smeaton's growing dissatisfaction with the state of affairs.

At about eleven o'clock her maid whistled up a taxi. Mason, the head detective on duty, immediately communicated with his own taxi-driver, waiting in readiness round the corner, and entered the cab, giving instructions to follow the other when it started.

She came out without any luggage, simply carrying a small vanity bag.

She might be going shopping, to pay a visit, to send a telegram, or a hundred-and-one things. His duty was to follow her.

The woman's cab drove down the Edgware Road, crossed the Park, and stopped at the Hyde Park Tube Station. Here Mrs Saxton paid the fare, and went into the booking-office. Mason at her heels. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus, and Mason did the same. They went down together in the same lift, Mrs Saxton near the door of exit, he at the other end of the lift.

He was puzzled as to her movements. If she wanted to get to Piccadilly Circus, why had she taken this roundabout route? The taxi would have taken her there direct.

The train was full. For a few seconds he was separated from her by a surging and struggling crowd blocking the entrances to the long cars.

By dint of hard fighting he managed to get in the same carriage.

So far, luck seemed in his favour. It was a non-stop train, and went past Down Street. At the next station, Dover Street, he saw her turn half round, and cast a furtive glance in his direction. She was evidently debating within herself if she would chance getting out there.