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."
When he had gone to ring up the family doctor, who lived close by in
Curzon Street, Sheila again knelt down beside the prostrate form.
Presently the man's lips began to move and faint sounds issued from
them. He seemed trying to utter a name, and stumbling over the first
syllable.
They strained their ears, and thought they caught the word "Moly"
repeated three times.
There was silence for a few seconds, and then the muttering grew louder
and they thought they heard the name "Molyneux."
"Oh, if only he could wake from his sleep or lethargy!" Sheila
exclaimed impatiently. "If he could only throw some light upon this
awful mystery?"
He relapsed into silence again, and then presently recommenced his
mutterings. This time, he pronounced the syllables even less clearly
than before. And now they fancied the name was more like "Mulliner."
Would he come back to consciousness and be able to answer questions, or
would those be his last words on earth? They could not tell. His form
had relapsed into its previous rigidity and his face had grown more
waxen in its hue.
What was the explanation of his being dressed in her father's clothes?
Sheila was sure they were the same Reginald Monkton had won on setting
out that evening.
A sudden thought struck her. She inserted her hand gently in his
waistcoat pocket, and drew out a gold watch. It was her father's; she
had given it to him on his last birthday. She felt in the breast pocket
of his coat, but it was empty. That told her little, for she did not
know if he had taken any papers with him.
She felt in his pockets one by one, but only discovered a little loose
silver. It was her father's habit always to carry a few banknotes in a
leather case. If he had done so to-night these had been abstracted.
But if the money had been taken, why not the watch? And then she
recollected it was inscribed with his name.
While she was pondering these disturbing queries. Doctor Macalister
entered the room with Austin, who had imparted to him the startling news
in a few words.
He bent over the quiet form, murmuring as he did so: "He is dressed in
Mr Monkton's clothes, certainly. I might have been deceived at the
first glance myself."
He unbuttoned the waistcoat and shirt, and laid his stethoscope on the
chest of the inanimate body.
"Dead!" he said briefly, when he had made his examination. "One cannot,
of course, at present tell the cause of death, although the appearances
point to heart-failure."
Sheila looked up at him, her lovely eyes heavy with grief and
foreboding.
"He spoke a little before you came in," she said. "He seemed to utter
two names, Molyneux and Mulliner. He repeated them three times."
The kindly old doctor who had brought her into the world looked at her
with compassionate eyes. "The part he bore in this mystery, whether he
was a victim or accomplice, will never be revealed by him. He must have
been near death when he was put into that taxi. I suppose you did not
notice the number?"
No, neither Grant nor Austin had thought of it. They had been too much
perturbed at the time.
"Well, I have no doubt the driver can be found. Now I must telephone
for the police, and have the body removed."
He drew young Wingate aside for a moment. "You say you have inquired at
the House of Commons. Have you rung up Monkton's clubs? He has only
two. No; well, better do so. It is a forlorn hope; I knew the man so
well. He would never keep Sheila waiting like this if he were with
means of communication. There has been foul play--we can draw no other
conclusion."
It was the one Wingate had drawn himself, and he quite agreed it was a
forlorn hope. Still, he would make sure. He rang up the Travellers'
and the Carlton. The answer was the same from both places. Mr Monkton
had not been at either club since the previous day.
The police arrived in due course, and bore away the body of the man who
wore the clothes of the well-known and popular Cabinet Minister.
And, at their heels, came the inspector of the division, accompanied by
Mr Smeaton, the famous detective, one of the pillars of Scotland Yard,
and the terror of every criminal.
Smeaton was a self-made man, risen from the ranks, but he had the
manners of a gentleman and a diplomatist. He bowed gravely to the
pale-faced girl, who was so bravely keeping back her tears. With Austin
he had a slight acquaintance.
"I am more than grieved to distress you at such a time. Miss Monkton,
but the sooner we get on the track of this mystery the better. Will you
tell me, as briefly as you like, and in your own time, what you know of
your father's habits?"
In tones that broke now and then from her deep emotion, Sheila imparted
the information he asked for. She laid especial emphasis on the fact
that, before leaving home in the evening, he outlined to her the
programme of his movements. If anything happened that altered his plans
he invariably telephoned to her, or sent a letter by special messenger.
The keen-eyed detective listened attentively to her recital.
"Can you recall any occasion on which he failed to notify you?" he asked
when she had finished.
"No," she answered firmly. Then she recollected. "Stay! There was one
occasion. He was walking home from the House on a foggy night, and was
knocked down by a taxi, and slightly injured. They took him to a
hospital, and I was telephoned from there, and went to him."
A gleam of hope shone in Austin's eyes.
"We never thought of that."
The great detective shook his head.
"But _we_ thought of it, Mr Wingate. My friend here has had every
hospital in the radius rung up. No solution there."
There was silence for a long time. It seemed that the last hope had
vanished. Smeaton stood for a long time lost in thought. Then he
roused himself from his reverie.
"It's no use blinking the fact that we are confronted with a more than
usually difficult case," he said, at length. "Still, it is our business
to solve problems, and we shall put our keenest wits to work. I wish it
were possible, for Miss Monkton's sake, to keep it from the Press."
"But would that be impossible?" cried Wingate.
"I fear so. If a little servant-maid disappears from her native
village, the newspaper-men get hold of it in twenty-four hours. Here,
instead of an obscure little domestic, you have a man, popular,
well-known to half the population of England, whose portrait has been in
every illustrated paper in the three Kingdoms. I fear it would be
impossible. But I will do my best. The Home Secretary may give certain
instructions in this case."
Then turning to Sheila he said:
"Good-night, Miss Monkton. Rely upon it, we will leave no stone
unturned to find your father, and bring him back to you."
He was gone with those comforting words. But with his departure, hope
seemed to die away, and Sheila was left to confront the misery of the
present.
The faithful Grant, who had been hovering in the background, came
forward, and spoke to her in the coaxing tone he had used when she was a
child.
"Now, Miss Sheila, you must go and rest."
"Oh, no!" she cried wildly. "What is the use of resting? I could not
sleep. I can never rest until father comes back to me." She broke into
a low wail of despair.
Grant looked at Wingate, with a glance that implored him to use his
influence. The faithful old man feared for her reason.
"Sheila, Grant is right," said Austin gravely. "You must rest, even if
you cannot sleep. You will need all your strength for to-morrow,
perhaps for many days yet, before we get to the heart of this mystery.
Let the servants go back to bed. Grant and I will wait through the
night, in case good news may come to us."
There were times when, as the old butler remembered, she had been a very
wilful Sheila, but she showed no signs of wilfulness now. The grave
tones and words of Austin moved her to obedience.
"I will do as you tell me," she said in a hushed and broken voice. "I
will go and rest--not to sleep, till I have news of my darling father."
Through the weary hours of the night, the two men watched and dozed by
turns, waiting in the vain hope of word or sign of Reginald Monkton.
None came, and in the early morning Sheila stole down and joined them.
Her bearing was more composed, and she had washed away the traces of her
tears.
"I intend to be very brave," she told them. "I have roused the maids,
and I am going to give you breakfast directly, after your long vigil."
Impulsively she stretched out a hand to each, the youthful lover and the
aged servitor. "You are both dear, good friends, and my father will
thank you for your care when he comes back to me."
Moved by a common impulse the two men, the young and the old, bent and
imprinted a reverent kiss on the slender hands she extended to them.
It was a moment of exquisite pathos, the fair, slim girl, resplendent
yesterday in the full promise of her youth and beauty; to-day stricken
with grief and consumed with the direst forebodings of the fate of a
beloved father.