The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

“I’m very sorry. Sir Archibald, but I am unable to give it. I have instructions to that effect,” was the secretary’s cautious reply. “If you give me your note, or write to his club, I will see that it is attended to. Doctor Monier wrote me three days ago asking me not to send his patient any matters concerning public affairs that might worry him.”

“But his daughter still remains in Chesterfield Street,” observed the Baronet. “It is strange she is not with him. The rumour is growing that Monkton has disappeared, and that the police are searching for him.”

“I know,” laughed the other. “I have heard so. It is all too ridiculous. The truth has already been published in the Press. Mr Monkton has had a very serious nervous breakdown, and is on the Riviera – even though it is summer.”

“You are quite certain of that – eh, Farloe?”

“Why should I tell you an untruth?” asked the secretary blandly.

They were standing near the Members’ post-office, and the Baronet, having exchanged a nod with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, who was just passing into the House itself, gazed full into the secretary’s eyes.

“Tell me, Farloe – tell me in strict confidence,” he urged. “I’ll not whisper a word, but – well, do you happen to know anyone of the name of Stent?”

The young man hesitated, though he preserved the most complete and remarkable control.

“Stent? Stent?” he repeated. “No. The name is quite unfamiliar to me.”

“Are you quite certain? Think.”

“I have already thought. I have never heard that name,” was the reply.

“You are quite positive that he is not acquainted with Mr Monkton in some peculiar and mysterious way?”

“How should I possibly know? All the Colonial Minister’s friends are not known to me. Mr Monkton is a very popular man, remember. But why,” he added, “do you ask about this man Stent?”

“Because it is told to me that he is a mysterious friend of Monkton’s.”

“Not as far as I am aware,” declared Farloe. “I certainly have no knowledge of their friendship, and the name is so unusual that one would certainly recollect it.”

The Baronet smiled. Farloe, seeing that he was unconvinced, was eager to escape from any further awkward cross-examination.

“I really wish that you would be frank with me,” said Sir Archibald, who was one of Britain’s business magnates and a great friend of Monkton’s. “I am informed that this person Stent is in possession of the true and actual facts concerning the Minister’s curious disappearance.”

Farloe realised that something was leaking out, yet he maintained a firm attitude of pretended resentment.

“Well, Sir Archibald,” he protested. “I cannot well see how I can be more frank with you. I’ve never heard of this mysterious person.”

“H’m!” grunted the Baronet, unconvinced. “Perhaps one day, my dear Farloe, you will regret this attempt to wriggle out of a very awkward situation.” Then, after a pause, he added: “You know quite as well as I, with others, know, that my friend Monkton is missing!” and the Baronet turned abruptly, leaving Farloe standing in the Lobby. He passed the two police constables and the idling detective, and entered the House itself.

Farloe, utterly aghast at Sir Archibald’s remarks and the knowledge he evidently possessed, walked blindly out of St. Stephen’s full of grave thoughts.

Not only were the police hot upon the trail which might lead them to the astounding truth concerning the death of the man who, dressed in the Colonial Minister’s clothes, had expired in the house in Chesterfield Street, but the facts were being rumoured that night in the world of politics, and to-morrow the chattering little world which revolves in the square mile around Piccadilly and calls itself Society, would also be agog with the sinister story.

At the corner of Dean’s Yard, not a hundred yards from where the taxi-man Davies had been hailed and the unidentified stranger had been put into his cab, Farloe found a passing taxi and in it drove to his rooms, a cosy little first-floor flat in Ryder Street, St. James’s.

So eager was he that, without taking off his hat, he went at once to the telephone on his writing-table and asked for “trunk.” Ten minutes later he spoke to somebody.

“Get in your car, and come here at once!” he said. “There’s not an instant to be lost. I’ll wait up for you, but don’t delay a moment. I can’t talk over the ’phone, but the situation is very serious. Bring a suit-case. You may have to go to the Continent by the nine o’clock train in the morning.”

He listened attentively to the reply.

“Eh – what? Oh! – yes. I sent a boy with a letter to Knightsbridge station. She’s got away all right. Do get here as quickly as you can – won’t you? Leave your car in some garage, and walk here. Don’t stop the car outside. I’ll leave the hall-door ajar for you. No – I can’t tell you anything more over the ’phone – I really can’t.”

Chapter Eleven.

Mainly Concerns Mr Stent

James Farloe hung up the telephone receiver, and, lighting a cigar, sat down to think, while wailing for his visitor.

He was rather a good-looking young fellow, but, examined closely, his face was not prepossessing. There was a certain furtive expression about him, as of a man continually on the watch lest he should betray himself, and the eyes were shifty. His sister was probably as insincere as himself, but, on the whole, she made a better impression.

He was too perturbed to sit for long, for, truth to tell, his thoughts were not pleasant company. Two or three times he got up and paced the room, with a noiseless stealthy tread that was characteristic of him. Then, tired of the monotony of waiting, he selected a book from the limited store in a small revolving bookcase, and tried to read.

But the words danced before his unquiet eyes, and conveyed no meaning. Again and again he had to resort to his noiseless pacings of the thickly-carpeted room, to allay the tedium of waiting.

But the slow minutes passed at last. He drew out his watch, noted the time, and drew a sigh of relief. It was one-thirty a.m.

“He can’t be long now,” he muttered. “At this hour of the night he can put on any speed he likes. He’s an obstinate devil, but he would be pretty sure to start straight away, after my urgent summons.”

Even as he spoke, the figure of a man in a motor-cap and heavy overcoat was stealing quietly along Ryder Street. A moment more, and footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Farloe hastened to open the hall-door of his cosy little suite, and closed it noiselessly after the entrance of his visitor. They nodded to each other. The man advanced, and stood under the electric light suspended from the middle of the ceiling.

He was of medium height, well-dressed, and of gentlemanly appearance. He had aquiline features, and piercing dark eyes.

He was the man who had been identified by Davies the driver as one of the two who had put the dying man in his taxi at Dean’s Yard, with instructions to drive him to Chesterfield Street – the man known to the police, through the information given by Mrs Saxton, by the name of Stent.

They did not waste time in preliminary remarks or greetings; they were probably too old acquaintances to indulge in such trivial formalities, but proceeded to business at once.

“So she got clear away?” remarked the man known as Stent. “I always said she was one of the smartest women in England. How did she outwit the detective?”

Farloe smiled. “It was beautifully simple,” he replied. “She ’phoned me up in the morning to say she was starting in a few moments, and that she was sure this fellow would hang on to her as long as he could. She asked me if I could suggest any way of outwitting him. At the moment I couldn’t.”

Stent darted a glance at his companion which was not exactly one of appreciation. “Your sister is quicker at that sort of thing than you,” he said briefly.

Farloe did not appear to notice the slight conveyed in the words and tone, and went on in his smooth voice:

“I expect so. Anyway, she had it cut and dried. She was going to lead him a nice little dance till it was time to get rid of him. She would take him down to Piccadilly Circus, trot him about there for some little time, and then get back to the Knightsbridge Tube Station.”

“Yes – and then?”

“I was to send a boy with a note to the Tube station at a certain time. I picked up a boy, giving him a full description of her, and packed him off. All happened as she expected. The man was tempted away by the boy, out of whom he could get nothing that would be of any use to him, and for a few moments left her unwatched. Hers was a bold stroke. While he was interviewing the urchin, she slipped into a descending lift, and left Mr Detective glaring at her from outside.”

Stent laughed appreciatively. “Well done!” he remarked. “But I have no doubt she would have hit upon something else had that failed.”

Farloe assented briefly. He was very fond of his sister, but it had always been rather a sore point with him to know that she had impressed everybody with the fact that she was much the cleverer and subtler of the two.

There was a brief pause. Then Farloe pointed to the table, upon which stood glasses, a decanter of whisky, and a syphon of soda-water.