The Stolen Statesman Part 9

A little later one of the two men who were watching Hyde Park Mansions reported that Mrs Saxton had driven to Chesterfield Street, and remained in Monkton's house for some twenty minutes.

Smeaton at once rang up Sheila Monkton, and obtained particulars of the brief interview, which confirmed his opinion that Farloe's attractive sister was engaged in some deep game.

This opinion was further corroborated by the arrival of the detective he had sent down to St Albans at an early hour that morning.

This man had scoured the neighbourhood on his motor-cycle within a radius of twelve miles from the city of St Albans. n.o.body of the name of Stent was known, and so far as his information went, which he had picked up at various shops and local inns, n.o.body of that name had ever been a resident, at any rate within the last four or five or six years.

Smeaton cursed Mrs Saxton heartily. A really innocent woman might have made a mistake. But he was sure in his own mind that this innocent-looking young person with the charming manners and the well-bred voice had deliberately put him on a wrong scent.

And for what motive? Perhaps in order to gain time. Well, he had lost a few hours, but he intended to run Mr Stent to earth yet, without her a.s.sistance.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE MAN FROM BOUNDARY ROAD.

Austin Wingate's feelings as he left the post-office in Brighton can easily be imagined. He had failed ignominiously in his mission, and the sarcastic young woman who had spoken so insolently to him was laughing at his discomfiture.

It was some moments before he could sufficiently recover his composure to go to the nearest telephone--he did not dare to re-enter the post-office so soon--and communicate with Smeaton.

He was fortified by the detective's request to remain at his post for some time longer, in the hope of turning a failure into something of a partial success. He lit a big cigar and prepared for a long vigil.

He began to think there were certain discomforts attached to detective work. He found himself commiserating the two unfortunate creatures who had been appointed to keep watch at Hyde Park Mansions.

He was better off than they in one important particular. They only worked for pay, not, probably, of a very munificent description. If he succeeded, he would not only earn the praises of Smeaton, but he would be rewarded with the tender light of grat.i.tude in the beautiful eyes of his beloved Sheila.

So he kept resolutely at his post, lounging up and down the street, with his glance ever alert for any likely stranger who should come along.

An hour pa.s.sed, and then the minutes went very slowly. He kept looking at his watch. Smeaton was sure the strange man would come back for a further communication. Putting himself in the man's place, he reasoned that he had wired a reply to Mrs Saxton, and that he would allow himself a certain time for his wire to reach London, and the return wire to get to Brighton.

Calculating on this basis--and he felt rather proud of the process-- Austin reckoned that the man would be back in a couple of hours from when he left the post-office. The insolent young woman had told him that the wire had been fetched away half-an-hour before Wingate's arrival.

If this reasoning was correct, the man he was in search of would make his appearance in about another ten minutes from the last time Austin had looked at his watch.

He felt his nerves quivering as the moment drew near and then pa.s.sed.

The street was very busy, many people entering and leaving the post-office.

Another ten minutes had elapsed, and then a tall, bearded man came along. There was something peculiar in his gait: he seemed to walk stiffly with one leg.

He proceeded slowly in the direction of the post-office, and entered the swing-doors. A chill came over the ardent Wingate as he recognised that the man might be merely going in to buy stamps, or send a wire--not to receive one.

He stole across from the opposite side of the street, where he had been marching up and down for such an interminable time, and peered through the gla.s.s door.

A thrill of exultation swept through him as he saw the young woman hand the stranger a telegram, which he opened, read rapidly, and then thrust in his breast pocket. Wingate at once darted back to his previous post.

At a respectful distance he followed the stranger with the peculiar limping walk. They came on to the sea front, and his quarry finally disappeared into that well-known hostelry, "The Old s.h.i.+p."

It was now much more than an even chance, taking all the circ.u.mstances into consideration, that this was the man who was in communication with Mrs Saxton, and that the telegram he had seen him read was from her.

The man, further, answered to the description given by Davies of one of the two men who had hailed his taxi at Dean's Yard. The taxi-driver had said nothing about the peculiarity in his walk, which had impressed Wingate at once, probably for the obvious reason that Davies had not had an opportunity of observing it. He had only seen him for a couple of minutes, during which time he was occupied in taking instructions for the disposal of his fare.

"The Old s.h.i.+p" had been a favourite resort of Wingate's for some years.

In fact, until within the last few months, when his business occupations had permitted less leisure, there was hardly a week in which he had not motored down there.

The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of his subordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would be the easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere he again 'phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into the hall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself.

"Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were saying only the other day that you had quite deserted us."

"Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn't get away. But it was such a lovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath of fresh air."

"Quite right, sir," cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice.

"It will do you good. All work and no play--you know the old proverb, sir--eh? You are staying the night, I hope?"

Wingate hesitated. "I didn't intend to when I started from town.

Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you many people stopping here?"

"Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don't expect to have many this time of year. A lot of people come in to the _table d'hote_, but at the moment, in the house itself, we've only an elderly couple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been a visitor, on and off, for the last few months."

It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon the subject of the "foreign" gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfield was a chatty, old-fas.h.i.+oned creature nearly seventy, and could be trusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to a customer whom he had known for some years.

But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He would prospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself of the head-waiter's loquacity.

A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, and prepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance there was n.o.body else in the apartment. A few seconds later the bearded stranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himself before a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulled from his breast pocket a bundle of papers.

He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemed to be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, making notes meanwhile.

Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegram which he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top of the little pile, and went on with what remained.

It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram within six feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An idea occurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failed to emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, through carelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty.

Noiselessly he stole across the few feet of s.p.a.ce that divided him from the stranger, and stood on his right hand. Another doc.u.ment had been laid upon the pile, and only the corner of the telegram was peeping forth. A second or two sooner, and he could have read it. He was full of chagrin.

"Excuse me, sir, but can you oblige me with a match? They don't seem to provide them in this establishment."

The visitor turned, and for a moment regarded him keenly. What he saw seemed to impress him favourably: an open, honest English face, perfectly candid eyes that looked into his own, without a suspicion of guile in their direct gaze.

"With pleasure, sir. They seem very remiss."

He spoke with a slight foreign accent, but his tones were cultivated, and his manner was courtesy itself. He held out his match-box. Wingate fancied his glance travelled uneasily to the pile of papers upon the table.

The young man turned half round to strike the match. There was hardly anything of the telegram to read, so obscured was it by the letter lying on the top of it, in which he was not interested.

But what he could see, with his abnormally quick vision, was sufficient.

The signature showed distinctly, the same that had appeared on the previous wire--the name MAUDE!

He bowed and withdrew. The foreigner finished his examination of the pile of correspondence he had produced, gathered it up, and transferred it to his breast pocket. Then, with a courteous smile to Wingate, he quitted the room.

The young man breathed a sigh of relief. He was both astonished and delighted at his own resource, at the extent of his discovery. The contents of the telegram could be obtained by Smeaton at his leisure.