"I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturally
be expected," was Varney's answer. "A young man called at the
house-agent's late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as a
youngish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it,
we know nothing of him in connection with this case?"
Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head.
"No; you have been told of everybody I know."
"Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story," Varney went on. "He
explained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two or
three days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, which
admitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold of
a furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture to
him. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had given
this fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealer
have the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-five
pounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agent
was to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in four
months' time--and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gave
instructions for it to be sent to him!"
"And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent," interrupted
Smeaton. "The balance will lie in the agent's hands unclaimed."
"It looks like it," said Varney. "The agent thought it all sounded very
fishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty natural
manner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address that
he showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment's hesitation,
it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road,
Brixton, by profession an insurance agent."
"A false name and address, of course?" queried Smeaton.
"Yes and no," replied Varney. "I got up to Victoria about twelve
o'clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a
plate on the door, `James Blake, Insurance Agent.' I rang the bell and
asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there.
Fortunately he was in."
"And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to
Horsham?"
"Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard.
In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife and
two daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant in
a West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the name
out of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhood
and its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him again
for a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent went
round the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople."
"No want of money," observed Smeaton. "They evidently didn't `shoot the
moon' on account of poverty. There's no doubt they spotted you, and
guessed they were under observation."
"It looks like it," admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered no
word of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man's pride to know
that he had allowed his quarry to escape.
"Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on further
steps," said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. "I am off
to Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anything
fresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the street
last night, if we are not positive about her companion."
Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alighted
from a taxi.
Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance.
Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for he
hated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose and
hastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door.
He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standing
there. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice
as she asked if Miss Monkton was at home.
Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute.
Would she come in and wait?
Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight of
Smeaton standing in the background.
Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and her
nervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep her
voice steady. "No--no, thank you," she stammered, as she edged back.
"It is of really no importance. I will call another day--to-morrow
perhaps."
"What name shall I say?" asked Grant, surprised at her agitation.
She grew more confused than ever. "I won't trouble you; it doesn't
matter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if I
told it you."
With a swift gesture, she turned and fled. She had been nervous to
start with, but Smeaton's steady and penetrating gaze seemed to have
scared her out of her wits.
The detective chatted for a moment or two with Grant, but made no
comment upon the strange visitor. Still, it struck him as a curious
thing, as one more of the many mysteries of which this house was so
full. Would the young woman come back to-morrow, he wondered?
Five minutes later Sheila and her lover arrived. They had spent the
best part of the morning in each other's company, and had lingered long
over their lunch. But Wingate was loth to part from her, and insisted
upon seeing her home.
She was puzzled, too, at the advent of this dark-haired young woman.
"Oh, how I wish I had been a few minutes earlier," she cried. "I shall
worry about it all night."
"Strange things seem to happen every day," grumbled Smeaton. "A very
mysterious thing happened at the corner of this street last night."
Then he told them briefly of the midnight move from Forest View, of his
dinner with Varney, and how they had seen Mrs Saxton in the taxi-cab in
Coventry Street; of the taxi-driver's story that he had driven her to
the corner of Chesterfield Street, where she had got out, and dismissed
the cab.
"But surely she was not alone," cried Sheila.
"A man was with her, but the cab passed too rapidly for us to get a look
at him," replied Smeaton evasively. After all, it was only a suspicion,
he could not be positive.
He paused a second, and went on hesitatingly.
"I can't imagine what her motive could be in coming so near. I came
round to-day because I had an idea that she might have called here on
some pretext."
"But, if she had done so, of course I should have rung you up," said
Sheila quickly.
"Well, I could have been sure of that too, if I had thought it out."
Smeaton's manner was strangely hesitating, it seemed to them, not
knowing that he was only revealing half of what was in his mind. "I
hardly know why I came at all. I think the case is getting on my
nerves. Well, I won't keep you any longer. Let me know if that young
woman calls again, and if her visit concerns me in any way."
He left, and when he had gone Sheila turned to her lover. "Mr Smeaton
was very peculiar to-day, wasn't he, Austin? He gave me the impression
of keeping something back--something that he wanted to tell and was
afraid."
Austin agreed with his well-beloved. There was certainly something
mysterious about the great detective that afternoon.
Meanwhile Smeaton walked back to his office, more puzzled and baffled
than ever. Why on earth had Mrs Saxton and her companion driven to
Chesterfield Street? And what had become of the other inmates of Forest
View?