The Stolen Statesman Part 30

"Look here, you haven't told me too much, and I don't blame you either, under the circ.u.mstances, 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, n.o.body at the Wrenwyck house knows; anyway, n.o.body 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, d.i.c.k," 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 little _douceur_ for 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 a.s.sume under the circ.u.mstances.

"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 embarra.s.sment.

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 embarra.s.sment 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 s.p.a.ce 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 embarra.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionately 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."