Austin Wingate was sitting in his office the next morning. The post had
been unusually heavy, and he had a busy day in front of him. In view of
the pressure of business which he saw was impending, he was about to
ring up Sheila to tell her that he would not come to Chesterfield Street
to dinner, as had been arranged, but would see her later in the evening.
She, however, rang him up first.
"I want to see you as soon as you can possibly get away," she told him.
"Something very wonderful has happened; I can't tell you over the
'phone. Can you come to lunch--or before, if possible?"
No true lover puts his business before his sweetheart. He replied
unhesitatingly that he would be with her inside a couple of hours. That
would give him time to attend to his most pressing correspondence. The
rest, or that portion of it which could not be delegated to his
subordinate, must wait till to-morrow.
Sheila had changed her mind. Overnight she had resolved not to
communicate that wonderful message even to him. Had it not enjoined her
to the strictest secrecy?
But on calmer reflection other thoughts had prevailed. The sender of
that message did not know of the relations between them. Austin was a
part of her life, her second self. How could she keep such an important
thing from him, from the lover who had encompassed her with such tender
devotion through this terrible time?
"Dear, kind Austin," she murmured, as she thought of the readiness with
which he had acceded to her request. "He never fails me in the
slightest thing. No girl could ever have a truer lover."
In two hours he would be here, and she could show him the paper on which
was written that mysterious message. How should she get through the
interval? The minutes seemed as if they would never pass.
She was sitting in the cosy library where her father had spent most of
his time when at home. What long chats they had enjoyed together in
that dear old room. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled those
happy days, which, alas! seemed so far away. She was aroused from her
reveries by the entrance of Grant.
"The young person who called the other day, and refused to leave her
name, is here. Miss," he told her. "She won't give any name now;
merely says she would like to see you for a few minutes. I have shown
her into the drawing-room."
Sheila's face flushed with excitement. Hurriedly she went upstairs to
her mysterious visitor.
The dark-haired young woman rose at Sheila's entrance. It was easy to
see she was terribly nervous.
"I am speaking to Miss Monkton, am I not? I must apologise for
intruding upon you, but I shall not keep you more than a few seconds. I
came just to ask you, to know if--if--" she stammered so that she could
hardly get her words out.
"You wanted to know if--?" repeated Sheila encouragingly. She was
terribly excited herself, but the calmer of the two.
"Did you receive a portrait of a friend of yours, Lady Gladys Rainham,
the envelope containing it directed in a strange handwriting?"
"I did receive that portrait. At the time I did not notice the
handwriting. I concluded it had been sent me by Lady Gladys herself."
A sudden light dawned upon Sheila, as she spoke. "It was you who sent
it, was it not?"
"Yes, it was I, acting upon instructions."
"By whom were those instructions given?" asked Sheila eagerly.
The young woman's manner was more embarrassed than ever. "I am very
sorry, but that I must not tell you. Later on, I daresay you will know
all."
"But you have something more to tell me, surely?"
"Yes. That photograph was sent for a purpose. I called the other day,
but you were out. It contains a message. Cut it in two, and you will
find a letter inside."
"I have already done so," was Sheila's reply. "When my friend Lady
Gladys denied having sent it to me, I puzzled and puzzled over it. And
then, I think it must have been in a dream, I recalled something that
had happened long ago which set me on the right track. I went
downstairs in the night, cut the photograph as you suggested, and found
the message inside."
The mysterious visitor looked towards the door, and made a movement of
departure.
"My task is done then, and I will detain you no longer."
But Sheila stayed her impetuously. "But you will not leave me so
abruptly. You can understand my terrible anxiety. You will relieve it
by telling me what you know."
In her agitation, she laid her hand upon the arm of her strange visitor,
but the young woman freed herself, and advanced towards the door.
"I can understand and sympathise with you," she said in a faltering
voice. "But please do not press me, it is useless. I am under the most
solemn promise to say no more. You must wait and be patient." In
another moment she had left the room, leaving poor Sheila bewildered and
tearful.
Austin Wingate came later, was told of the strange visitor, and shown
the message which had been contained in the photograph.
He took her in his aims and kissed her fondly. "My darling, you must
still be brave and patient," he said tenderly.
She looked up at him with her sweet smile. "I have waited so long,
Austin, I can wait a little longer, always providing that you are here
to comfort me."
Wingate did not leave her till late in the afternoon. The day was too
far advanced for him to return to his office. He strolled to the
Wellington Club.
Just as he was going in, he caught sight of Farloe. He took a sudden
resolve, and went up to the secretary, who did not seem too pleased to
see him.
"Good-day, Mr Farloe. May I walk with you a little way? There is
something I should like to ask you."
The young man assented, but by no means with a good grace. They had
taken an instinctive dislike to each other from the first. They walked
together in silence for a few paces, and then Wingate suddenly blurted
out:
"What has become of Reginald Monkton? I know you could tell us, if you
chose."
The secretary's face blanched to the lips. He tried to smile, but the
smile was a very forced one.
"Your question, and your manner of putting it, Mr Wingate, are both
very offensive. I know no more of Monkton's whereabouts than you do.
It is generally reported that he is abroad."
"And you know as well as I do that it is not the fact," answered Wingate
sternly. "Have a care, Mr Farloe. We know a good deal about you."
The secretary assumed an air of extreme _hauteur_, but his face was
whiter than ever.
"It is extremely kind of you to interest yourself in my affairs, but I
am afraid they will hardly repay the trouble of investigation. Perhaps
you will allow me to bid you good-day."
"Please give me another moment or two, Mr Farloe. We know this much
about you, that you are in close communication with Stent and Bolinski,
the two men who sent that dying man in the taxi to Chesterfield Street."
For a moment the two men glared at each other, Wingate's face aflame
with anger, the other with an expression half of fear, half of defiance,
stealing over his white mask.
"You refuse to tell me anything?" asked Wingate at length.
"I have nothing to tell you," answered the other, in a voice that he
could not keep quite steady. "Once again, good-day." He turned on his
heel, and walked rapidly away.
For fully five minutes he walked quickly in an easterly direction. Then
he turned round, and cast stealthy glances backwards. Apparently he
could not get it out of his mind that Wingate might be pursuing him.
But he scanned the faces of the hurrying foot-passengers, and he could
discern no hostile countenance. Well-dressed loungers, women intent on
shopping and bargains, a man dressed in working costume, walking with a
slouching gait. These were all he saw.
He hailed a taxi, and shouted in a loud voice: "Broad Street Station."
He had to shout loudly, for the roar of the traffic was deafening.
The working-man with the slouching gait caught the words. A second taxi
was just behind. He opened the door and jumped in, after having
whispered in the ear of the driver, "Follow that fellow."
At Broad Street Station Farloe alighted, needless to say the man who had
pursued him close on his heels. Two tickets were taken for Hackney
Station, one first-class, the other third-class.
The disguised working-man, otherwise Varney, had been considerably
chagrined at the disappearance of the Forest View household, and had
sworn to be even with them. He had watched Farloe ever since, knowing
that through him he would get at the whereabouts of Stent and Bolinski.
Farloe alighted at Hackney Station, and after walking for about a
quarter of a mile, turned up one of the many mean streets that abound in
that neighbourhood. The secretary knocked at the door of one of the
dingiest houses in the row, and disappeared inside.
Varney kept his watch. At the end of an hour or so three men emerged
from the shabby dwelling. As he expected, the two others were Stent and
Bolinski.
The three men made their way into Mare Street, and turned into the
saloon bar of a big public-house. Something of importance was evidently
in progress.
Varney reflected. They would be some minutes before they had finished
their drinks and their conversation. In the meantime, he had taken the
name of the street and the number of the house. He could allow himself
five minutes to ring up Scotland Yard.
Smeaton was fortunately in. In a few brief words he told the detective
of his discovery. Smeaton's reply come back.
"Things are happening. I will send at once a couple of sergeants to
help you. Hold on till my men arrive and then come straight on to me."
It is a far cry from Scotland Yard to Mare Street, Hackney. But,
occupied with his own thoughts, it seemed only a few minutes to Varney
when the two detectives drove up, and alighted at the door of the
public-house. A swift taxi can do wonders in annihilating space.
The elder of the two men, whom Varney knew slightly, advanced towards
him.
"Good-day, Mr Varney. We struck here first, as being the nearest.
They're still inside, eh?"
"I should have left, if not. Well, I suppose you will take up my job."
"That's about it, sir. Mr Smeaton told me he would like to see you as
soon as possible. I think he has got something important to
communicate. We'll wait for these two gentlemen. Stent and the
Russian, to come out--Farloe we have nothing against at present--and
then we'll clap the darbies on them in a twinkling."