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

“I must think over it a lot more yet. Miss Monkton, before I can hazard any opinion,” he told her in his grave, deliberate way. “If I were to reveal any half-formed idea that is running through my brain, it is one I should have to dismiss as inapplicable to the circumstances as I see them at present.”

From that he would not budge. Sheila drove away with a heavy heart. Wingate came round to dinner that night, and they talked about nothing else. The only thing they could arrive at with any certainty was that the mysterious visitor, the young woman dressed in navy blue serge costume, was the sender of the photo. But that did not help them to discover the reason she had sent it.

That night Sheila lay awake, very depressed and anxious, still puzzling over this latest mystery. Presently she dozed, and then, after a few moments of fitful sleep, woke with a start. Was it in that brief dream that some chords of memory had been suddenly stirred of a conversation held long ago between her father and a young man named Jack Wendover, a second secretary in the diplomatic service at Madrid?

Jack Wendover had told him of an ingenious method of communication invented by a married couple, who were spies in the pay of a foreign Government. She could hear him explaining it to Reginald Monkton, as she sat up in the dark, in that semiconscious state between dreaming and waking.

“They were clever. They wouldn’t trust to ciphers or anything of that sort, when they were separated; it was much too commonplace. They sent each other photographs. The receiver cut the photograph down, and found between the two thicknesses of cardboard a piece of tissue paper, upon which was written the message that the sender wished to convey.”

She could hear her father’s hearty laughter, as he said: “Truly, a most ingenious method. Has that really been done?”

She had not been reminded of that for nothing, she felt sure. Why had this sudden recollection of an old conversation come to her in the dead of the night, if not for some purpose?

The photo was still lying upon her desk in the morning-room. The house was quite quiet. Grant slept in the basement and the maids and the footman were at the top of the house.

She rose, slipped on a dressing-gown, and lighted a candle. Then noiselessly she descended the stairs and reached the morning-room. She took a small penknife from the drawer of her desk, and carefully split the mount of the photograph.

When she had finished, a piece of tissue paper fluttered to the floor, and upon that paper was a message.

As she read it she held her breath. Her beautiful eyes grew soft and misty, while a lovely flush crept over her fair features. Tenderly, almost reverently, she raised the flimsy paper to her lips.

“Not even to Austin,” she murmured, in a voice that was half a sob. “Not even to Austin – dear as he is to me – not even to him.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Story of the Portraits

Austin Wingate was sitting in his office the next morning. The post had been unusually heavy, and he had a busy day in front of him. In view of the pressure of business which he saw was impending, he was about to ring up Sheila to tell her that he would not come to Chesterfield Street to dinner, as had been arranged, but would see her later in the evening. She, however, rang him up first.

“I want to see you as soon as you can possibly get away,” she told him. “Something very wonderful has happened; I can’t tell you over the ’phone. Can you come to lunch – or before, if possible?”

No true lover puts his business before his sweetheart. He replied unhesitatingly that he would be with her inside a couple of hours. That would give him time to attend to his most pressing correspondence. The rest, or that portion of it which could not be delegated to his subordinate, must wait till to-morrow.

Sheila had changed her mind. Overnight she had resolved not to communicate that wonderful message even to him. Had it not enjoined her to the strictest secrecy?

But on calmer reflection other thoughts had prevailed. The sender of that message did not know of the relations between them. Austin was a part of her life, her second self. How could she keep such an important thing from him, from the lover who had encompassed her with such tender devotion through this terrible time?

“Dear, kind Austin,” she murmured, as she thought of the readiness with which he had acceded to her request. “He never fails me in the slightest thing. No girl could ever have a truer lover.”

In two hours he would be here, and she could show him the paper on which was written that mysterious message. How should she get through the interval? The minutes seemed as if they would never pass.

She was sitting in the cosy library where her father had spent most of his time when at home. What long chats they had enjoyed together in that dear old room. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled those happy days, which, alas! seemed so far away. She was aroused from her reveries by the entrance of Grant.

“The young person who called the other day, and refused to leave her name, is here. Miss,” he told her. “She won’t give any name now; merely says she would like to see you for a few minutes. I have shown her into the drawing-room.”

Sheila’s face flushed with excitement. Hurriedly she went upstairs to her mysterious visitor.

The dark-haired young woman rose at Sheila’s entrance. It was easy to see she was terribly nervous.

“I am speaking to Miss Monkton, am I not? I must apologise for intruding upon you, but I shall not keep you more than a few seconds. I came just to ask you, to know if – if – ” she stammered so that she could hardly get her words out.

“You wanted to know if – ?” repeated Sheila encouragingly. She was terribly excited herself, but the calmer of the two.

“Did you receive a portrait of a friend of yours, Lady Gladys Rainham, the envelope containing it directed in a strange handwriting?”

“I did receive that portrait. At the time I did not notice the handwriting. I concluded it had been sent me by Lady Gladys herself.” A sudden light dawned upon Sheila, as she spoke. “It was you who sent it, was it not?”

“Yes, it was I, acting upon instructions.”

“By whom were those instructions given?” asked Sheila eagerly.

The young woman’s manner was more embarrassed than ever. “I am very sorry, but that I must not tell you. Later on, I daresay you will know all.”

“But you have something more to tell me, surely?”

“Yes. That photograph was sent for a purpose. I called the other day, but you were out. It contains a message. Cut it in two, and you will find a letter inside.”

“I have already done so,” was Sheila’s reply. “When my friend Lady Gladys denied having sent it to me, I puzzled and puzzled over it. And then, I think it must have been in a dream, I recalled something that had happened long ago which set me on the right track. I went downstairs in the night, cut the photograph as you suggested, and found the message inside.”

The mysterious visitor looked towards the door, and made a movement of departure.

“My task is done then, and I will detain you no longer.”

But Sheila stayed her impetuously. “But you will not leave me so abruptly. You can understand my terrible anxiety. You will relieve it by telling me what you know.”

In her agitation, she laid her hand upon the arm of her strange visitor, but the young woman freed herself, and advanced towards the door.

“I can understand and sympathise with you,” she said in a faltering voice. “But please do not press me, it is useless. I am under the most solemn promise to say no more. You must wait and be patient.” In another moment she had left the room, leaving poor Sheila bewildered and tearful.

Austin Wingate came later, was told of the strange visitor, and shown the message which had been contained in the photograph.

He took her in his aims and kissed her fondly. “My darling, you must still be brave and patient,” he said tenderly.

She looked up at him with her sweet smile. “I have waited so long, Austin, I can wait a little longer, always providing that you are here to comfort me.”

Wingate did not leave her till late in the afternoon. The day was too far advanced for him to return to his office. He strolled to the Wellington Club.

Just as he was going in, he caught sight of Farloe. He took a sudden resolve, and went up to the secretary, who did not seem too pleased to see him.

“Good-day, Mr Farloe. May I walk with you a little way? There is something I should like to ask you.”

The young man assented, but by no means with a good grace. They had taken an instinctive dislike to each other from the first. They walked together in silence for a few paces, and then Wingate suddenly blurted out:

“What has become of Reginald Monkton? I know you could tell us, if you chose.”

The secretary’s face blanched to the lips. He tried to smile, but the smile was a very forced one.

“Your question, and your manner of putting it, Mr Wingate, are both very offensive. I know no more of Monkton’s whereabouts than you do. It is generally reported that he is abroad.”