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

“And you know as well as I do that it is not the fact,” answered Wingate sternly. “Have a care, Mr Farloe. We know a good deal about you.”

The secretary assumed an air of extreme hauteur, but his face was whiter than ever.

“It is extremely kind of you to interest yourself in my affairs, but I am afraid they will hardly repay the trouble of investigation. Perhaps you will allow me to bid you good-day.”

“Please give me another moment or two, Mr Farloe. We know this much about you, that you are in close communication with Stent and Bolinski, the two men who sent that dying man in the taxi to Chesterfield Street.”

For a moment the two men glared at each other, Wingate’s face aflame with anger, the other with an expression half of fear, half of defiance, stealing over his white mask.

“You refuse to tell me anything?” asked Wingate at length.

“I have nothing to tell you,” answered the other, in a voice that he could not keep quite steady. “Once again, good-day.” He turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away.

For fully five minutes he walked quickly in an easterly direction. Then he turned round, and cast stealthy glances backwards. Apparently he could not get it out of his mind that Wingate might be pursuing him.

But he scanned the faces of the hurrying foot-passengers, and he could discern no hostile countenance. Well-dressed loungers, women intent on shopping and bargains, a man dressed in working costume, walking with a slouching gait. These were all he saw.

He hailed a taxi, and shouted in a loud voice: “Broad Street Station.” He had to shout loudly, for the roar of the traffic was deafening.

The working-man with the slouching gait caught the words. A second taxi was just behind. He opened the door and jumped in, after having whispered in the ear of the driver, “Follow that fellow.”

At Broad Street Station Farloe alighted, needless to say the man who had pursued him close on his heels. Two tickets were taken for Hackney Station, one first-class, the other third-class.

The disguised working-man, otherwise Varney, had been considerably chagrined at the disappearance of the Forest View household, and had sworn to be even with them. He had watched Farloe ever since, knowing that through him he would get at the whereabouts of Stent and Bolinski.

Farloe alighted at Hackney Station, and after walking for about a quarter of a mile, turned up one of the many mean streets that abound in that neighbourhood. The secretary knocked at the door of one of the dingiest houses in the row, and disappeared inside.

Varney kept his watch. At the end of an hour or so three men emerged from the shabby dwelling. As he expected, the two others were Stent and Bolinski.

The three men made their way into Mare Street, and turned into the saloon bar of a big public-house. Something of importance was evidently in progress.

Varney reflected. They would be some minutes before they had finished their drinks and their conversation. In the meantime, he had taken the name of the street and the number of the house. He could allow himself five minutes to ring up Scotland Yard.

Smeaton was fortunately in. In a few brief words he told the detective of his discovery. Smeaton’s reply come back.

“Things are happening. I will send at once a couple of sergeants to help you. Hold on till my men arrive and then come straight on to me.”

It is a far cry from Scotland Yard to Mare Street, Hackney. But, occupied with his own thoughts, it seemed only a few minutes to Varney when the two detectives drove up, and alighted at the door of the public-house. A swift taxi can do wonders in annihilating space.

The elder of the two men, whom Varney knew slightly, advanced towards him.

“Good-day, Mr Varney. We struck here first, as being the nearest. They’re still inside, eh?”

“I should have left, if not. Well, I suppose you will take up my job.”

“That’s about it, sir. Mr Smeaton told me he would like to see you as soon as possible. I think he has got something important to communicate. We’ll wait for these two gentlemen. Stent and the Russian, to come out – Farloe we have nothing against at present – and then we’ll clap the darbies on them in a twinkling.”

Varney, for a moment, looked incredulous. “But on what charge?”

The detective grinned. “One that we only knew of yesterday. A charge of fraud in connection with certain rubber property. Another man of the name of Whyman is in it, but he seems to have got clear away.”

Varney, his brain in a whirl, took his way back to Scotland Yard, still in his costume of a working-man.

“Well, what does it all mean?” he gasped, when he got into Smeaton’s room.

The great detective smiled genially. “It means, my dear Varney, that we are nearing the end of the Monkton mystery which has baffled us so long.”

“And the solution?” queried the other eagerly.

“That I cannot tell you yet. But when it does come, I am afraid neither you nor I will reap much glory out of it.”

And Varney could get nothing out of him except those few cryptic words.

“Something has happened quite recently?” he hazarded.

The detective answered with that same slow, wise smile of his. “Perhaps. I can tell you nothing more now. Wait a moment, till I answer that telephone.”

A few words passed, and then he turned to Varney. “My men report they have laid Stent and Bolinski by the heels on the charge of fraud.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

In the Mists

Detective-sergeant Johnson stood in Smeaton’s room, listening to the final instructions of his chief with his usual respectful air.

“Be as diplomatic as possible, Johnson. Let him suspect that we know everything, without committing yourself to any actual statement. Above all, impress upon him the fact that he must come. We would prefer he did so voluntarily. If he should prove obstinate, give him clearly to understand that we have other means at our disposal.”

Johnson spoke with quiet confidence. “I think you may safely leave it to me. After what you have told me, I am sure I can persuade the gentleman to accompany me. But, of course, I shall say nothing openly, simply confine myself to broad hints that ran only bear one meaning.”

Smeaton regarded Johnson approvingly. For some time past he had discerned in this comparatively young man qualities that bade fair to secure him a high position in his profession. He was level-headed, quick at instructions, possessed of considerable initiative, cautious, yet daring on occasion, confident without being boastful.

“One last word before you leave. You will make quite sure he is in the house before you enter it; in other words, that he has returned to London.”

“I heard yesterday from my cousin, who had met his valet, that his lordship arrived late the previous evening. But to make sure, I have appointed to meet Willet this afternoon, so as to get the latest news.”

“Quite right, Johnson, quite right,” said the great detective in his most cordial tones. “Never leave anything to chance.”

The subordinate bowed himself out, well pleased that he was advancing himself so steadily in his chief’s favour.

An hour later he was in the saloon bar of the exclusive establishment which was patronised by the upper servants of Mayfair. Here he found his cousin awaiting him, who greeted him heartily. The two men had corresponded a few times, but they had not met since the day when Willet had produced the portrait of Lady Wrenwyck.

“Glad to see you, old chap,” cried the footman heartily. “I’ve been longing to hear how you got on with that little job at Weymouth. No difficulty in finding her ladyship, I suppose?”

“Tumbled to her at once,” answered Johnson, who adapted his tone and language to those of the company in which he found himself for the time being. “Took a walk down to the post-office, and she and the maid fell into my arms in a manner o’ speaking.”

Johnson paused, not quite knowing what to say next. Willet looked at him inquiringly, but meeting with no response exhibited signs of injured dignity.

“Look here, old man, it ain’t my business to pry into secrets that don’t concern me. But I helped you a goodish bit in that quarter, and I don’t think you need be so devilish close.”