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

”‘Tiny Tentoes, the Cabinet Minister’s daughter’ would certainly be a good draw!” declared Cicely.

“Oh! well, I know you all like French songs, so I sang it. That’s all,” answered their sprightly young hostess. “But look! it’s past eleven, and father said he would be back before ten to see you before you left. I’ll telephone to the House.”

And she descended to the small library on the ground floor, where she quickly “got on” to the House of Commons.

When she re-entered the drawing-room she exclaimed:

“He left the House more than an hour ago. I wonder where he is? He ought to have been back long before this.”

Then at her guests’ request she sang another French chanson – which, through the half-open window, could have been heard out in Curzon Street – greatly to the delight of the little party.

At last, just before midnight. Cicely, pleading that they had to leave by the Continental mail early next morning, excused herself and her husband, and left in a taxi, for which Grant had whistled, after which Sheila and Austin found themselves alone.

When two people of the opposite sex, and kindred spirits as they were, find themselves alone the usual thing happens. It did in their case. While Sheila looked over her music, in response to Austin’s request to sing another song while awaiting the return of her father, their hands touched. He grasped hers and gazed straight into her face.

In those hazel eyes he saw that love-look – that one expression which no woman can ever disguise, or make pretence; that look which most men know. It is seldom in their lives they see it, and when once it is observed it is never forgotten, even though the man may live to be a grandfather.

At that instant of the unconscious contact of the hands, so well-remembered afterwards by both of them, Sheila flushed, withdrew her hand forcibly, and rose, exclaiming with pretended resentment:

“Don’t, Austin – please.”

Meanwhile there had been what the newspapers term a “scene” in the House of Commons that evening. An important debate had taken place upon the policy of the Imperial Government towards Canada, a policy which the Opposition had severely criticised in an attempt to belittle the splendid statesmanship of the Colonial Secretary, who, having been absent during greater part of the debate, entered and took his seat just as it was concluding.

At last, before a crowded House, Reginald Monkton, who, his friends noticed, was looking unusually pale and worn, rose and replied in one of those brief, well-modulated, but caustic speeches of his in which he turned the arguments of the Opposition against themselves. He heaped coals of fire upon their heads, and denounced them as “enemies of Imperialism and destroyers of Empire.” The House listened enthralled.

He spoke for no more than a quarter of an hour, but it was one of the most brilliant oratorical efforts ever heard in the Lower Chamber, and when he reseated himself, amid a roar of applause from the Government benches, it was felt that the tide had been turned and the Opposition had once more been defeated.

Hardly had Monkton sat down when, remembering that he had guests at home, he rose and walked out.

He passed out into Palace Yard just before ten o’clock and turned his steps homeward, the night being bright and starlit and the air refreshing. So he decided to walk.

Half-an-hour after Cicely and her husband had left Chesterfield Street Sheila again rang up the House and made further inquiry, with the same result, namely, that the Colonial Minister had left Westminster just before ten o’clock. Monkton had been seen in St. Stephen’s Hall chatting for a moment with Horace Powell, the fiery Member for East Islington, whom he had wished “good-night” and then left.

So for still a further half-hour Sheila, though growing very uneasy, sat chatting with Austin, who, be it said, had made no further advances. He longed to grasp her slim white hand and press it to his lips. But he dared not.

“I can’t think where father can be!” exclaimed the girl presently, rising and handing her companion the glass box of cigarettes. “Look! it is already one o’clock, and he promised most faithfully he would be back to wish the Wheelers farewell.”

“Oh! he may have been delayed – met somebody and gone to the club perhaps,” Austin suggested. “You know how terribly busy he is.”

“I know, of course – but he always rings me up if he is delayed, so that I need not sit up for him, and Grant goes to bed.”

“Well, I don’t see any necessity for uneasiness,” declared the young man. “He’ll be here in a moment, no doubt. But if he is not here very soon I’ll have to be getting along to Half Moon Street.”

Through the next ten minutes the eyes of both were constantly upon the clock until, at a quarter-past one, Wingate rose, excusing himself, and saying:

“If I were you I shouldn’t wait up any longer. You’ve had a long day. Grant will wait up for your father.”

“The good old fellow is just as tired as I am – perhaps more so,” remarked the girl sympathetically. And then the pair descended to the hall, where Sheila helped him on with his coat.

“Well – good-night – and don’t worry,” Austin urged cheerfully as their hands met. The contact sent a thrill through him. Yes. No woman had ever stirred his soul in that manner before. He loved her – yes, loved her honestly, truly, devotedly, and at that instant he knew, by some strange intuition, that their lives were linked by some mysterious inexplicable bond. He could not account for it, but it was so. He knew it.

By this time Grant had arrived in the hall to let out Miss Sheila’s visitor, and indeed he had opened the door for him, when at that same moment a taxi, turning in from Curzon Street, slowly drew up at the kerb before the house.

The driver alighted quickly and, crossing hurriedly to Austin, said:

“I’ve got a gentleman inside what lives ’ere, sir. ’E ain’t very well, I think.”

Startled by the news Austin and Grant rushed to the cab, and with the assistance of the driver succeeded in getting out the unconscious form of the Colonial Secretary.

“I’d send the lady away, sir – if I were you,” whispered the taxi-driver to Wingate. “I fancy the gentleman ’as ’ad just a drop too much wine at dinner. ’E seems as if ’e ’as!”

Amazed at such a circumstance Sheila, overhearing the man’s words, stood horrified. Her father was one of the most temperate of men. Such a home-coming as that was astounding! The three men carried the prostrate statesman inside into the small sitting-room on the right, after which Austin, completely upset, handed the taxi-man five shillings, and with a brief word of thanks dismissed him.

Meanwhile Sheila had rushed into the dining-room to obtain a glass of water, hoping to revive her father. Old Grant, faithful servant that he was, had thrown himself upon his knees by the couch whereon his master had been placed.

He peered into his pale face, which was turned away from the silk-shaded electric light, and then suddenly gasped to Wingate: “Why! It isn’t Mr Reginald at all, sir! He’s wearing his clothes, his watch and chain – and everything! But he’s a stranger – it isn’t Mr Reginald! Look for yourself!”

Chapter Three.

The Whispered Name

Austin Wingate approached the unconscious man, and scrutinised the white, drawn features closely. When Grant had uttered those words, he could hardly believe his ears. Had the shock been too much for the old man’s reason?

But as he gazed intently, the conviction grew upon him that Grant was right. There was a little resemblance between the Cabinet Minister and the insensible man lying there. Their figures were much the same, and in the half-light a mere cursory glance could not have detected them apart.

But to those who, like Grant and Austin, knew Reginald Monkton intimately, there were striking points of difference at once apparent.

Wingate drew a deep sigh of relief.

“You are right. Grant, it is not your master! He looks ghastly, doesn’t he? The driver said that he was drunk, but I don’t believe it. The man, whoever he is, seems to me as if he were dying.”

At that moment, Sheila, her cheeks pale, her hand trembling so that she spilled the glass of water she was carrying, came into the sitting-room.

Austin rushed towards her and, taking the glass from her, pressed her trembling hand. At a moment of acute tension like that, he knew she would not resent the action.

“Sheila, for God’s sake keep calm. It is not what we thought. The man we carried in here is not your father. He is a stranger, wearing your father’s clothes. Look for yourself, and you will see where the likeness ends.”

“Not my father?” she repeated mechanically, and flung herself down beside Grant. A moment’s inspection was enough to convince her. She rose from her knees.

“Thank God!” she cried, fervently. It had cut her to the heart to think that the father whom she so loved and revered should be brought home in such a condition. She was grateful that none but those three had been present.

But to her gratitude succeeded a sudden wave of fear, and her face went paler than before.

“But, Austin, there must be some terrible mystery behind this. Why is this man wearing father’s clothes? And why – ” she broke suddenly into a low wail – “is father not home?”

Austin could make no answer; the same thought had occurred to him.

“My poor child, there is a mystery, but you must summon all your courage till we can discover more,” he murmured soothingly. “Now I must go and ’phone for the doctor. In my opinion, this man is not suffering from excess, as that driver led us to believe. He appears to be in a dying state.”