"A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little
patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day--well, no
doubt--but he doesn't watch it by night. Many strange things happen
when the sun has gone down."
Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. "You are relying on intuition now
yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought.
I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in
this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in
a report to that effect."
Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly
advanced himself in his chief's estimation and he had skilfully avoided
wounding Smeaton's _amour propre_.
The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later
Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement.
"Astounding news--infernal news!" he cried, dashing his hat down on the
table. "But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original."
He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully.
Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art.
"The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first," he said at length.
"But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the
parlourmaid at Forest View."
"Just what I suspected," cried Varney. "I was thinking about the woman,
firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she
pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at
her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to
bring it to you for identification."
"Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery," said Smeaton
slowly. "Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is
something more to come."
And Varney blurted out the astonishing tale. "Forest View is empty.
They made tracks in the night--while we were all sound asleep."
Smeaton thought of Johnson's recommendation to watch the house by night
as well as day. He reproached himself for his own carelessness when
dealing with such wary adversaries.
"Tell me all about it," he said sharply.
Varney went on with his story.
"It has been my custom to stroll round there every night about eleven
o'clock, when the lights are put out, generally to the minute," he said.
"I did the same thing last evening; they were extinguished a few
minutes later than usual, but I did not attach any importance to that."
"They were packing up, I suppose, and got a little over their time,"
observed Smeaton.
"No doubt. I am usually a light sleeper, but I had taken a long cycle
ride in the afternoon, and slept heavily till late in the morning. I
took my usual stroll after breakfast. The gate was closed, but there
were marks of heavy wheels on the gravel, and all the blinds were down.
I went up to the door, and rang the bell. Nobody answered."
"Did they take all the furniture?" queried Smeaton. "No, they could not
have moved it in the time."
"I am certain, from the marks, only one van had gone in and come out.
They only removed what was valuable and important. I questioned the
local constable. He saw a van pass, going in the direction of London,
but had no idea of where it had come from. Some of them, I expect, got
into the van, and the others took a circuitous route in the motor."
Smeaton listened to all this with profound chagrin. He rose and paced
the room.
"I am fed up with the whole thing, Varney," he said, in a despondent
voice. "I have followed two clues already that seemed promising, and
they turn into will-o'-the-wisps. And now we've got to begin all over
again with this Forest View lot."
Varney agreed. As a relief from the strain and tension of this most
baffling case, he suggested that Smeaton should dine with him at the
Savage Club that night, to talk things over.
After an excellent dinner, they recovered somewhat from the depression
caused by the recent untoward events. They went into the Alhambra for
an hour, and then strolled up Coventry Street.
They waited at the corner of the Haymarket to cross the street. The
traffic from the theatres was very congested, and the vehicles were
crawling slowly westward.
Suddenly Smeaton clutched at his companion's arm, and pointed to a taxi
that was slowly passing them beneath the glare of the street lamps.
"Look inside," he cried excitedly.
Varney took a few quick paces forward, and peered through the closed
window. He returned to Smeaton, his face aglow.
"The parlourmaid at Forest View, otherwise Mrs Saxton, by all that's
wonderful!"
"Did you notice the man?"
"No, I hadn't time. The driver started on at proper speed before I
could focus him."
"Do you know, the face in that gleam of light looked wonderfully like
that of Reginald Monkton!" he said. "I committed the number of the taxi
to memory. To-morrow, we shall know where it took them."
Next morning, the taxi-driver was found, and told his tale simply and
straightforwardly.
"I picked them up in the Strand, sir, an elderly gent and a youngish
lady. I was standing by the kerb, having just put down a fare. They
had stepped out of another taxi a few yards below, they waited till it
drove away, and then they came up and got into mine. I thought it a bit
peculiar."
"Where did you put them down?"
"At the corner of Chesterfield Street, Mayfair. I asked them if I
should wait, but the lady shook her head. The gentleman seemed ailing
like; he walked very slow, and leaned heavily on her arm."
Smeaton tipped the man, who in a few moments left his room.
If it was Monkton, as he believed, why had he gone to Chesterfield
Street? And having gone there, why had he alighted at the corner,
instead of driving up to the house?
In a few moments he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the
number of Mr Monkton's house.