The Evil Shepherd Part 25

"A convenient eccentricity," he remarked, a little drily. "I have heard the same thing myself. You spent the night at his country cottage, did you not, Mr. Ledsam? Did he offer to show you over The Walled House?"

"How the d.i.c.kens did you know I was down there?" Francis demanded, with some surprise. "I was just thinking as I drove up that I hadn't left my address either here or at Clarges Street."

"Next time you visit Sir Timothy," the detective observed, "I should advise you to do so. I knew you were there, Mr. Ledsam, because I was in the neighbourhood myself. I have been doing a little fis.h.i.+ng, and keeping my eye on that wonderful estate of Sir Timothy's."

Francis was interested.

"Shopland," he said, "I believe that our intelligences, such as they are, are akin."

"What do you suspect Sir Timothy of?" the detective asked bluntly.

"I suspect him of nothing," Francis replied. "He is simply, to my mind, an incomprehensible, somewhat sinister figure, who might be capable of anything. He may have very excellent qualities which he contrives to conceal, or he may be an arch-criminal. His personality absolutely puzzles me."

There was a knock at the door and Angrave appeared. Apparently he had forgotten Shopland's presence, for he ushered in another visitor.

"Sir Timothy Brast to see you, sir," he announced.

The moment was one of trial to every one, admirably borne. Shopland remained in his chair, with only a casual glance at the newcomer.

Francis rose to his feet with a half-stifled expression of anger at the clumsiness of his clerk. Sir Timothy, well-shaven and groomed, attired in a perfectly-fitting suit of grey flannel, nodded to Francis in friendly fas.h.i.+on and laid his Homburg hat upon the table with the air of a familiar.

"My dear Ledsam," he said, "I do hope that you will excuse this early call. I could only have been an hour behind you on the road. I dare say you can guess what I have come to see you about. Can we have a word together?"

"Certainly," was the ready reply. "You remember my friend Shopland, Sir Timothy? It was Mr. Shopland who arrested young Fairfax that night at Soto's."

"I remember him perfectly," Sir Timothy declared. "I fancied, directly I entered, that your face was familiar," he added, turning to Shopland.

"I am rather ashamed of myself about that night. My little outburst must have sounded almost ridiculous to you two. To tell you the truth, I quite failed at that time to give Mr. Ledsam credit for gifts which I have since discovered him to possess."

"Mr. Shopland and I are now discussing another matter," Francis went on, pus.h.i.+ng a box of cigarettes towards Sir Timothy, who was leaning against the table in an easy att.i.tude. "Don't go, Shopland, for a minute. We were consulting together about the disappearance of a young man, Reggie Wilmore, the brother of a friend of mine--Andrew Wilmore, the novelist."

"Disappearance?" Sir Timothy repeated, as he lit a cigarette. "That is rather a vague term."

"The young man has been missing from home for over a week," Francis said, "and left no trace whatever of his whereabouts. He was not in financial trouble, he does not seem to have been entangled with any young woman, he had not quarrelled with his people, and he seems to have been on the best of terms with the princ.i.p.al at the house of business where he was employed. His disappearance, therefore, is, to say the least of it, mysterious."

Sir Timothy a.s.sented gravely.

"The lack of motive to which you allude," he pointed out, "makes the case interesting. Still, one must remember that London is certainly the city of modern mysteries. If a new 'Arabian Nights' were written, it might well be about London. I dare say Mr. Shopland will agree with me," he continued, turning courteously towards the detective, "that disappearances of this sort are not nearly so uncommon as the uninitiated would believe. For one that is reported in the papers, there are half-a-dozen which are not. Your late Chief Commissioner, by-the-bye," he added meditatively, "once a very intimate friend of mine, was my informant."

"Where do you suppose they disappear to?" Francis enquired.

"Who can tell?" was the speculative reply. "For an adventurous youth there are a thousand doors which lead to romance. Besides, the lives of none of us are quite so simple as they seem. Even youth has its secret chapters. This young man, for instance, might be on his way to Australia, happy in the knowledge that he has escaped from some murky chapter of life which will now never be known. He may write to his friends, giving them a hint. The whole thing will blow over."

"There may be cases such as you suggest, Sir Timothy," the detective said quietly. "Our investigations, so far as regards the young man in question, however, do not point that way."

Sir Timothy turned over his cigarette to look at the name of the maker.

"Excellent tobacco," he murmured. "By-the-bye, what did you say the young man's name was?"

"Reginald Wilmore," Francis told him.

"A good name," Sir Timothy murmured. "I am sure I wish you both every good fortune in your quest. Would it be too much to ask you now, Mr.

Ledsam, for that single minute alone?"

"By no means," Francis answered.

"I'll wait in the office, if I may," Shopland suggested, rising to his feet. "I want to have another word with you before I go."

"My business with Mr. Ledsam is of a family nature," Sir Timothy said apologetically, as Shopland pa.s.sed out. "I will not keep him for more than a moment."

Shopland closed the door behind him. Sir Timothy waited until he heard his departing footsteps. Then he turned back to Francis.

"Mr. Ledsam," he said, "I have come to ask you if you know anything of my daughter's whereabouts?"

"Nothing whatever," Francis replied. "I was on the point of ringing you up to ask you the same question."

"Did she tell you that she was leaving The Sanctuary?"

"She gave me not the slightest intimation of it," Francis a.s.sured his questioner, "in fact she invited me to meet her in the rose garden last night. When I arrived there, she was gone. I have heard nothing from her since."

"You spent the evening with her?"

"To my great content."

"What happened between you?"

"Nothing happened. I took the opportunity, however, of letting your daughter understand the nature of my feelings for her."

"Dear me! May I ask what they are?"

"I will translate them into facts," Francis replied. "I wish your daughter to become my wife."

"You amaze me!" Sir Timothy exclaimed, with the old mocking smile at his lips. "How can you possibly contemplate a.s.sociation with the daughter of a man whom you suspect and distrust as you do me?"

"If I suspect and distrust you, it is your own fault," Francis reminded him. "You have declared yourself to be a criminal and a friend of criminals. I am inclined to believe that you have spoken the truth. I care for that fact just as little as I care for the fact that you are a millionaire, or that Margaret has been married to a murderer. I intend her to become my wife."

"Did you encourage her to leave me?"

"I did not. I had not the slightest idea that she had left The Sanctuary until Lady Cynthia told me, halfway to London this morning."

Sir Timothy was silent for several moments.

"Have you any idea in your own mind," he persisted, "as to where she has gone and for what purpose?"

"Not the slightest in the world," Francis declared. "I am just as anxious to hear from her; and to know where she is, as you seem to be."

Sir Timothy sighed.

"I am disappointed," he admitted. "I had hoped to obtain some information from you. I must try in another direction."

"Since you are here, Sir Timothy," Francis said, as his visitor prepared to depart, "may I ask whether you have any objection to my marrying your daughter?"