Mr Smeaton was not a man to waste time. Within ten minutes of his
arrival at Scotland Yard he had sent two sergeants of the C.I.
Department to keep Mrs Saxton under close surveillance, and to note the
coming and going of all visitors. As her flat was on the ground floor,
observation would be rendered comparatively easy.
The evening's report was barren of incident. Mrs Saxton had remained
at home. The only visitor had been a young man, answering to the
description of James Farloe, her brother. He had called about
dinner-time, and left a couple of hours later.
For the moment Smeaton did not take Farloe very seriously into his
calculations. Mrs Saxton would tell her brother all about his visit,
and to interrogate him would be a waste of time. He would tell him
nothing more about Stent than he had already learned.
He had noticed, with his trained powers of observation which took in
every detail at a glance, that there was a telephone in a corner of the
small hall.
If her connection with the mysterious Stent were less innocent than she
had led him to believe, she would have plenty of time to communicate
with this gentleman by means of that useful little instrument.
Later, he instructed a third skilled subordinate to proceed the next
morning in a car to St Albans, and institute discreet inquiries on the
way. Afterwards, he thought of the two amateur detectives in
Chesterfield Street, and smiled. Sheila was a charming girl,
pathetically beautiful in her distress, and Wingate was a pleasant young
fellow. So he would give them some encouragement.
He wrote a charming little note, explaining what he had done with regard
to Mrs Saxton. He suggested they should establish their headquarters
at a small restaurant close by, lunch and dine there as often as they
could. If occasion arose, they could co-operate with his own men, who
would recognise them from his description. He concluded his letter with
a brief resume of his conversation with Mrs Saxton.
Poor souls, he thought, nothing was likely to come out of their zeal.
But it would please them to think they were at least doing something
towards the unravelling of the mystery.
In this supposition he was destined to be agreeably disappointed in the
next few hours.
Wingate, after reading the letter, escorted Sheila on a small shopping
expedition in the West End. They were going to lunch afterwards at the
restaurant in close proximity to Hyde Park Mansions.
The shopping finished, Wingate suddenly recollected he must send a wire
to the works at Hendon, and they proceeded to the nearest post-office in
Edgware Road.
It was now a quarter to one, and they had settled to lunch at one
o'clock, so they walked along quickly. When within a few yards of the
post-office, Sheila laid her hand upon his arm.
"Stop a second!" she said in an excited voice. "You see that woman
getting out of a taxi. It is Mrs Saxton. Let her get in before we go
on."
He obeyed. The elegant, fashionably-attired young woman paid the
driver, and disappeared within the door. The pair of amateur detectives
followed on her heels.
Sheila's quick eyes picked her out at once, although the office was full
of people. Mrs Saxton was already in one of the little pens, writing a
telegram.
Unobserved by the woman so busily engaged, Sheila stepped softly behind
her, and waited till she had finished. She had splendid eyesight, and
she read the words distinctly. They ran as follows:
"Herbert. Poste Restante, Brighton. Exercise discretion. Maude."
Then she glided away, and, with Wingate, hid herself behind a group of
people. She had only met the woman once, but it was just possible she
might remember her if their glances met.
Mrs Saxton took the telegram to the counter, and they heard her ask how
long it would take to get to Brighton. Then, having received an answer
to the query, which they could not catch, she went out.
They looked at each other eagerly. They had made a discovery, but what
were they to do with it?
"Ring up Smeaton at once, and tell him," suggested Sheila. "He will
know what to do."
After a moment's reflection, Wingate agreed that this was the proper
course. While they were discussing the point, the man himself hurried
in. His quick eye detected them at once, and he joined them.
"I've just missed Mrs Saxton--eh?" he queried.
Sheila explained to him how they had arrived there by accident, and had
seen her stepping out of the taxi. Smeaton went on to explain.
"I looked round this morning to see how my men were getting on, and
found a taxi waiting before the door. I had to hide when she came out,
but one of my men heard her give the address of this office. I picked
up another taxi, and drove as hard as I could. My fellow kept the other
well in sight, but just as we were gaining on her, I was blocked, and
lost three minutes. She came here, of course, to send a wire. But it
is only a little delay. I can get hold of that wire very shortly."
"But there is no need," cried Sheila triumphantly. "At any rate, for
the present. I looked over her shoulder, and read every word of it. I
will tell it you."
She repeated the words. He had showed obvious signs of vexation at
having just missed the woman he was hunting, and now his brow cleared.
"Very clever of you. Miss Monkton--very clever," he said in
appreciative tones. "Now, who is Herbert, that's the question?"
"Stent, no doubt," suggested Wingate, with a certain amount of rashness.
The detective regarded him with his kindly but somewhat quizzical smile.
"I very much doubt if it is Stent, Mr Wingate. I sent a man down
early this morning to St Albans, where I believe he lives. I should
say Herbert is another man altogether." The young people readily
accepted the professional's theory. They recognised that they were only
amateurs.
There was a long pause. They stood humbly waiting for the great man to
speak, this man of lightning intuition and strategic resource.
It seemed an interminable time to the expectant listeners before he
again opened his lips. Before he did speak, he pulled out his watch and
noted the time.
"This may be important, and we cannot afford to lose a moment," he said
at length. "How do you stand, Mr Wingate, as regards time? Can you
spare me the whole of the day?"
"The whole of to-day, to-morrow, and the next day, if it will help,"
cried the young man fervently.
"There is a fairly fast train from Victoria in forty minutes from now.
You have plenty of time to catch it. I want you to go to the
post-office in Brighton, and get hold of that telegram."
"But it is addressed to the name of Herbert."
"No matter," said Smeaton, a little impatiently. "If the real Herbert
has not been before you--and I should guess it is an unexpected
message--they will hand it to you; they are too busy to be particular.
If he has already been, trump up a tale that he is a friend of yours,
and not being sure that he would be able to call himself, had asked you
to look in for it, so as to make sure."
"I see," said Wingate. He felt an increased admiration for the
professional detective. He was not quite sure that he would have been
ready with this glib explanation.
"I should love to go too," said Sheila, looking wistfully at the
ever-resourceful Smeaton, whom she now frankly accepted as the disposer
of their destinies.
"Forgive me if I oppose you this once, my dear Miss Monkton," he said in
his kindest and most diplomatic manner. "Two are not always company in
detective business, unless they've been trained to work together.
Besides, I shall want Mr Wingate to keep in close touch with me on the
'phone, and he will have no time to look after a lady."
Having settled that matter, he turned to Wingate. "First of all, here
are a couple of my cards; one to show the post-office if there is
anything awkward--this for the chief constable of Brighton if you have
need of his assistance. I will scribble an introduction on it." He
suited the action to the word. "Now, the sooner you are off the better.
I will put Miss Monkton into a taxi. You be off, and try to get hold
of that wire."
There was no resisting his powerful personality. He controlled the
situation like an autocrat.
"Stay, just one thing more. I shall be at Scotland Yard till seven, and
at home about eight. Here is my private 'phone number, if unseen
developments arise."
He thought of everything, he foresaw the improbable. They were lost in
admiration. At the moment of departing, he rather damped their
enthusiasm by muttering, almost to himself:
"If I could put my hand on one of my own men, I wouldn't trouble you,
but there is no time, and delay is dangerous."
A hasty hand-shake to Sheila, a fond lover's look into her eyes, and
Wingate was out of the post-office, and into a taxi, en route for
Victoria.
He thought of her all the time he was travelling to Brighton. In these
last few days her great sorrow had brought her very near to him. He had
read her disappointment when Smeaton had forbidden her to accompany him.
But she would not resent that on him; she knew he was working in her
interests, that his one thought was to help in solving the tragic
mystery that was clouding her young life.
The train arrived at Brighton punctual to the minute, and mindful of
Smeaton's remark that delay was dangerous, he drove straight to the
post-office.
He was, in a certain sense, elated with the mission that had been
entrusted him, through the mere accident of Smeaton not having had time
to put his hand on an experienced man. But he felt some trepidation as
he walked through the swing-doors. Surely people who set forth on
detective work must have nerves of steel and foreheads of triple brass.
He bought some stamps first, not because he wanted them, but in order to
screw up his courage to sticking-point.
A sharp-featured, not too amiable-looking young woman served him. When
he had completed his purchase, he asked in as cordial a voice as he
could assume:
"Are there any letters or telegrams for the name of Herbert?"
The young woman regarded him with a suspicious glance.
"Is your name Herbert, may I ask?"
At that moment, he blessed Smeaton for the lie which he had made him a
present of at starting. He proceeded to retail it for the young woman's
benefit.
She smiled a sour smile, and he felt his face flush. Decidedly he
wanted more experience.
"Nothing doing this time," she said insolently, in a rasping cockney
voice. "You'd better hurry up next time. The real owner of the
telegram took it away half-an-hour ago!"