The Stolen Statesman Part 32

"Astounding news--infernal news!" he cried, das.h.i.+ng 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 ap.r.o.n 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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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. n.o.body 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 pa.s.s, 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 pa.s.sing 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

STILL MORE MYSTERY.

Grant answered the 'phone in Chesterfield Street. To Smeaton's inquiry, he replied that Miss Monkton had just left the house with Mr Wingate.

They were lunching out somewhere, but she had left word that she would be back about three o'clock.

"Any message, sir?" he concluded.

"No, thank you. Grant. I want to see her rather particularly. I'll look round about three o'clock. I suppose she's likely to be pretty punctual?"

Grant replied that, as a rule, she kept her time. He added, with the privileged freedom of an old servant: "But you know, sir, when young folk get together, they are not in a great hurry to part. And poor Miss Sheila hasn't much brightness in her life now. I don't know what she would do if it wasn't for Mr Wingate."

About two o'clock Varney walked into Smeaton's room at Scotland Yard.

He had taken an early morning train to Forest View, to find out what he could concerning the mysterious flitting. He had interviewed the house-agent at Horsham, and had learned a few facts which he communicated to the detective.

There had been mystery about the man who called himself Strange from the beginning. When he proposed to take the house, he had been asked for references, according to the usual custom. He had demurred to this, explained that he did not care to trouble his friends on such a matter, and made a counter-proposition. He would pay a quarter's rent at once, and every three months pay in advance.

The landlord and the house-agent both thought this a queer proceeding, and were half inclined to insist upon references. But the house had been to let for some time, and the loss of rent was a consideration.

The man Strange might be an eccentric sort of person, who disliked putting himself under an obligation, even of such a trifling kind. They gave him the benefit of the doubt, feeling so far as the money was concerned that they were on the safe side.

Another peculiar thing about Mr Strange was that, during the whole of his residence at Forest View, he had never been known to give a cheque.

The landlord's rent was paid in banknotes, the tradesmen's accounts in gold and silver.

Smeaton put an obvious question: "Have they heard anything from Stent?"