"I am going to ask you a question, dearest; I fear it is a painful one,
but I think it ought to be put."
It was Austin Wingate who spoke. He had dined with Sheila at
Chesterfield Street, and after dinner the lovers had gone to her own
sitting-room, which was on the first floor.
She looked at him steadfastly. "Painful or not, Austin, please put it.
You would not hurt me, I know, unless you felt it was absolutely
necessary."
"Of course not, Sheila," answered the young man fervently. "In our
anxiety to solve this mystery concerning your father we must shrink from
nothing. The question I am going to ask you, dear, is this: Have you
ever had any cause to suspect there was some hidden mystery in your
father's life? Do not be offended--will you?"
She smiled faintly. "What is called a skeleton in the cupboard, you
mean--eh? It seems impossible when one comes to consider the kind of
man he was. In political matters he was reserved; that was natural. I
have heard him laugh often over the efforts of people to draw him. But,
in every other respect he seemed as frank and open as the day."
"He gave me that impression certainly," assented Wingate. "During my
mother's lifetime I don't know that I counted greatly in his life. He
was so wrapped up in her that he seemed to have no room for anybody
else," went on the girl, in a musing voice. "Then, after her death, and
when his first passionate grief died down, he listened to me. I could
not hope to fill her place, but I became very necessary to him. He has
told me many times that but for me he would have been the most miserable
man on earth. I gave him new interests, and weaned him away from his
sad thoughts."
Wingate leaned forward, and kissed her tenderly upon the brow. "You
were born for the _role_ of ministering angel, my darling," he declared.
She thanked him with a grateful glance for the pretty compliment. "You
ask me if I ever had cause to suspect that there was some hidden mystery
in his life. I can only answer, none. His life seemed to me like an
open book, that all who ran might read."
Wingate was silent for a little time. This was the impression made upon
his daughter, an only child, who would have the most intimate
opportunity of judging him. It was the impression he had made upon
close friends and casual acquaintances alike.
And yet who could be sure? A man trained to the law, versed in public
affairs, was he likely to wear his heart upon his sleeve?
When he spoke, it was in a hesitating voice: "I agree that intuition is
a very safe guide in many instances. And I believe with you that your
father's life was a blameless one. Still, there is one little thing we
must not overlook."
"And that little thing?" she questioned in a low voice.
"What was the connection between him and the man whom they have
identified as Bolinski? Why does a man in his position make an
appointment with a person so evidently not of his own world, unless to
discuss something of a secret and mysterious nature? Remember where
they met, in a little hole-and-corner restaurant in Soho."
"It has puzzled me, I admit," replied Sheila. "It is strange, too, that
he told me nothing of the appointment, for he used to inform me of his
most trivial movements. Thinking over it, as I have over every other
incident, I believe it was connected with politics--there are plenty of
under-currents in them, as we know. He would not say anything to me
about this meeting for fear I might drop an incautious word to some of
our friends."
"It is evident that he apprehended no treachery from this man," was
Wingate's next remark, "or he would have taken some means to safeguard
himself. I mean, for one thing, he would not have left the House of
Commons alone. It may be, as you suggest, that this curious meeting, in
an out-of-the-way and obscure restaurant, may have had some political
motive. But I can hardly bring myself to believe it. I am sure that
what brought such a strangely assorted couple together was a private and
personal matter."
"And that we have no means of knowing," said Sheila sadly.
He was glad that she had not resented his question, and the suggestions
that arose from it. It emboldened him to proceed.
"As I have said, it is our duty to leave no stone unturned, to look even
in unlikely places for any fresh evidence which might afford a clue.
There must be a mass of papers in this house I think you ought to go
through them, darling."
She gave a little cry. "Oh!" she said in a tearful voice. "It seems
almost like sacrilege."
"If such a search were conducted by other hands, it might be so, but
assuredly not in your case."
She thought a little, and her common-sense came to her aid.
"You are quite right, Austin, as you always are. It will be a terrible
task, but, as you say, we must leave no stone unturned. I will begin
to-morrow, and keep on till I have finished."
He called late next day, and found that she had got about half-way
through the various piles. But so far she had found nothing of
importance.
"I came across a few diaries. He seems to have kept them for the best
part of five years, and then dropped the practice. They contain records
of appointments, whom he met, and political events, but there's not a
single entry that throws any light upon this affair."
"I wonder if Farloe has any of his papers, or, more likely still, has
abstracted any?" said Wingate in a musing voice.
Sheila shuddered at the name. "No wonder that I always hated him," she
cried vehemently. "Shall we ever learn the part he played in this
mystery?"
It took her a few days to go through her task, for she was fearful of
missing a line in those carefully docketed piles of papers. But it was
all to no purpose.
If there had been a secret in Reginald Monkton's life, no evidence had
been preserved in these documents.
"Newsom-Perry is pretty sure to have some papers in his possession,"
said Wingate, when she had finished her futile task. "I want to spare
you everything I can, dear. Will you give me a note to him, and I will
ask him to hand them over to you?"
Mr Newsom-Perry was Monkton's solicitor, the head of the firm which had
acted for the missing statesman, and his father before him.
Wingate presented himself at Lincoln's Inn Fields, and sent in his
sweetheart's note.
The solicitor, a genial, kindly-looking man of fifty or thereabouts,
welcomed the young man cordially.
"Pleased to see you, Mr Wingate," he said, as they shook hands. "Poor
Monkton has spoken to me several times of you, in warm terms. I
understand that you were a frequent visitor at the house before the sad
event."
Wingate explained that he was with Sheila awaiting her father, on the
night when the dying man was brought to Chesterfield Street.
The shrewd, kindly eyes watched him as he made the explanation. Mr
Newsom-Perry had his own ideas as to how matters stood between the young
couple.
"And what can I do for you, Mr Wingate?"
"We thought it pretty certain that you would have some papers of Mr
Monkton's here. If that is the case, would you let his daughter look
through them, in the hope of finding something that might throw a light
upon the case?"
"Under the circumstances, by all means, Mr Wingate. Of course, we have
got all his business documents, leases, and that kind of thing. Those
would be useless for your purpose?"
"I should say, quite useless."
"But I have a couple of boxes of private papers which he brought about
two years ago. He had been sorting out, he said, and his own house was
as full as it could hold. Knowing we had plenty of room, he thought we
would not mind storing them. I will send them round some time to-day.
When she has gone through them perhaps Miss Monkton will let me have
them back until, until--" He laughed, and did not finish the sentence.
"I quite understand. Now I will take up as little time as possible, but
there are one or two questions I should like to ask you, if I may."