Sheila Monkton spent a restless night; truth to tell, her nights were
never very peaceful. Even when she snatched her fitful sleep, the
sinister figures of Stent, Farloe, and all the others who had become
part of that haunting tragedy, flitted through her dreams, and made her
welcome the daylight.
And now she had still more perturbing food for thought. Why had Mrs
Saxton, object of suspicion as she knew herself to be, ventured so near
her? What did that surreptitious excursion portend?
And who was that strange female who had called, and who would leave
neither name nor message and had fled precipitately at sight of Smeaton
in the hall?
She made up her mind, when she wakened in the morning, to remain at home
all day. It might turn out to be nothing, but she felt sure that this
woman had some object in calling upon her. The air had been thick with
mystery for many weeks; she was convinced there was still more in store,
and it would be brought by this strange visitor.
Yet she waited in vain; the young woman dressed in the navy blue
costume, as described by the old manservant, did not make a second call.
And poor Sheila spent still another night as wakeful as the preceding
one. She came down to breakfast languid and heavy-eyed.
She opened her letters listlessly, till she came to one larger than the
rest, out of which dropped a photograph. At sight of it she exclaimed
warmly to herself: "What a charming likeness. It is the image of dear
Gladys. How sweet of her to send it to me!"
She threw away the envelopes, and took the photo to the window to
examine it more closely. It was a picture of her greatest friend, a
girl a year older than herself, the Lady Gladys Rainham, only daughter
of the Earl of Marshlands.
Her father had been intimate with the Earl since boyhood, and the
passing years had intensified their friendship, which had extended to
their families. Until this great sorrow had fallen upon Sheila, hardly
a day passed without the two girls getting a glimpse of each other.
The Rainhams were amongst the few friends who knew the true facts of
Monkton's disappearance. And, in almost morbid sensitiveness, Sheila
had withdrawn a little from them. Even sympathy hurt her at such a
time.
But the sudden arrival of this photo of the young Society beauty brought
old memories of friendship and affection. They had played together as
children; they had told their girlish secrets to each other, and it
struck her that she had been wrong, and a little unkind, in withdrawing
herself from the sympathy of those who were so interested in her
welfare.
Gladys, no doubt, had been hurt by this attitude. She had written no
note, she had not even signed the photograph. She had just sent it to
recall herself to her old friend and companion. It had been sent as
signal that if Sheila chose to make the smallest advance, the old
relations would be at once re-established.
On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, begging
Gladys to come and lunch with her that day.
"Forgive me for my long silence and absorption," she concluded. "But I
know you will understand what I have lately suffered."
She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructions
to wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila's face flushed with pleasure
as she read it.
"I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive," wrote the
warm-hearted girl. "But it will be heavenly to see you again and talk
together as we used."
She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited,
kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner of
women. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, she
declared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was.
Gladys looked puzzled. "But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila!
Which one is it? Let me see it."
Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: "It
is the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it is
quite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I should
have written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange--very
strange! What does it mean?"
Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered:
"Yes, I did think it strange that you did not write. I thought it so
far as I am capable of thinking. But I know I have been very difficult
lately, and I fancied perhaps you didn't want to make advances, and that
you just sent that as a reminder of old times, trusting to me to
respond."
Lady Gladys kissed her warmly. "Ah! you poor darling, I quite see," she
said. "But who could have sent it? That is the puzzle."
They both discussed it, at intervals, at table, and could arrive at no
solution. When Lady Gladys had left, Sheila puzzled over it all by
herself, with no better result. Then, at last, weary of thinking, she
telephoned to Wingate.
Austin, who was in his office, agreed that the thing was very
mysterious, and that he was as much mystified as she was. He ended the
brief conversation by advising her to go to Smeaton.
"Our brains are no good at this sort of thing," he said candidly. "The
atmosphere of mystery seems to suit them at Scotland Yard--they breathe
it every day."
She drove at once to Scotland Yard, where they knew her well by now.
Smeaton was disengaged, and she was taken to his room at once.
"Any news. Miss Monkton?" he asked eagerly. "Has that young woman
called?"
The girl shook her head. "No, I waited in all day yesterday, but to no
purpose. Now another strange thing has happened," and she told him
briefly of the receipt of the photograph from some unknown person.
"You didn't look at the envelope, I suppose?"
"No, Mr Smeaton. I hardly ever do look at envelopes. I threw it away
with the rest. It would have given you a clue, of course."
"It might," returned Smeaton, who was nothing if not cautious. He
ruminated for a few moments, and then said, abruptly, "You have brought
it with you?"
Sheila, who had taken that precaution, handed it to him. He turned it
over, peering at it in that slow, deliberate fashion of a man who
examines with the microscopic detail everything submitted to him.
"Taken, I see, by the well-known firm of Kester and Treeton in Dover
Street. Well, somebody ordered it, so we've got to find out who that
somebody was. I will go to them at once, and let you know the result in
due course."
Sheila looked at him eagerly. She had great faith in him, although so
far he had had nothing but failure to report.
"Have you formed any opinion about it?" she asked timidly.
Smeaton smiled grimly, but he answered her very kindly.
"My dear Miss Monkton, I have formed many theories about your father's
disappearance, and, alas! they have all been wrong. I am leaning to
distrust my own judgment. I will say no more than this. This curious
incident may end as everything else has done, but I think it is worth
following up. I will put you into your car, and go on to the
photographers."
"Let me drive you there, and wait," urged Sheila eagerly. "I shall know
the result so much quicker."
The photographers in Dover Street had palatial premises. Smeaton was
ushered from one apartment to another, till he reached the private
sanctum of the head of the firm, where he produced his card, and
explained his errand.
Mr Kester was very obliging; he would do all he could to help, and it
would only be a matter of a few moments. They kept a record of every
transaction, and in all probability this was quite a recent one.
He returned very shortly. It seemed that a young lady had called a
couple of days ago, and asked for half-a-dozen portraits of Lady Gladys.
On account of the Grandcourt House Bazaar, there had been a great run
on the photos of the various stallholders, he explained. They happened
to have a few copies of this particular picture in stock. The lady
purchased six and took them away with her, saying that "they were for
reproduction in the illustrated newspapers and the usual copyright fee
would be paid."
"Can you give me a description of the person who bought them?" was
Smeaton's first question, when Mr Kester had concluded his story.
"My assistant who served her is a very intelligent girl. Let us have
her in."
Kester 'phoned and requested Miss Jerningham to be sent to him. The
fluffy-haired young lady remembered the incident perfectly, and
described the dress and appearance of the young woman who had bought the
photographs.
If her description was to be trusted, it was the same person who had
asked to see Miss Monkton and refused to leave her name.
Smeaton, who had grown so utterly tired of theories and clues, began to
believe he was on something tangible at last.
He rejoined Sheila, but he did not say much.
"I shall follow this clue," he told her. "The photo was sent for a
purpose, and that woman knows why it was sent. I believe you will hear
from her again, unless I scared her away."
"Mr Smeaton, do tell me what you really think. I am sure there is
something curious in your mind," implored the agitated Sheila.
But the detective was not to be charmed from his reserve.
"I must think over it a lot more yet. Miss Monkton, before I can hazard
any opinion," he told her in his grave, deliberate way. "If I were to
reveal any half-formed idea that is running through my brain, it is one
I should have to dismiss as inapplicable to the circumstances as I see
them at present."
From that he would not budge. Sheila drove away with a heavy heart.
Wingate came round to dinner that night, and they talked about nothing
else. The only thing they could arrive at with any certainty was that
the mysterious visitor, the young woman dressed in navy blue serge
costume, was the sender of the photo. But that did not help them to
discover the reason she had sent it.
That night Sheila lay awake, very depressed and anxious, still puzzling
over this latest mystery. Presently she dozed, and then, after a few
moments of fitful sleep, woke with a start. Was it in that brief dream
that some chords of memory had been suddenly stirred of a conversation
held long ago between her father and a young man named Jack Wendover, a
second secretary in the diplomatic service at Madrid?
Jack Wendover had told him of an ingenious method of communication
invented by a married couple, who were spies in the pay of a foreign
Government. She could hear him explaining it to Reginald Monkton, as
she sat up in the dark, in that semiconscious state between dreaming and
waking.
"They were clever. They wouldn't trust to ciphers or anything of that
sort, when they were separated; it was much too commonplace. They sent
each other photographs. The receiver cut the photograph down, and found
between the two thicknesses of cardboard a piece of tissue paper, upon
which was written the message that the sender wished to convey."
She could hear her father's hearty laughter, as he said: "Truly, a most
ingenious method. Has that really been done?"
She had not been reminded of that for nothing, she felt sure. Why had
this sudden recollection of an old conversation come to her in the dead
of the night, if not for some purpose?
The photo was still lying upon her desk in the morning-room. The house
was quite quiet. Grant slept in the basement and the maids and the
footman were at the top of the house.
She rose, slipped on a dressing-gown, and lighted a candle. Then
noiselessly she descended the stairs and reached the morning-room. She
took a small penknife from the drawer of her desk, and carefully split
the mount of the photograph.
When she had finished, a piece of tissue paper fluttered to the floor,
and upon that paper was a message.
As she read it she held her breath. Her beautiful eyes grew soft and
misty, while a lovely flush crept over her fair features. Tenderly,
almost reverently, she raised the flimsy paper to her lips.
"Not even to Austin," she murmured, in a voice that was half a sob.
"Not even to Austin--dear as he is to me--not even to him."