would be useless for me to look for footprints on your hard gravel,
especially of so small a child. Let us come back to the room. Is the
French window fastened as you found it?”
“Yes; nothing has been changed.”
The French window was, as is usual, one of two casements joining in
the centre and fastened by bolts top and bottom. “It is not your
habit, I see,” Hewitt observed, “to open both halves of the window.”
“No; one side is always fastened, the other we secure by the bottom
bolt because the catch of the handle doesn’t always act properly.”
“And you found that bolt fastened as I see it now?”
“Yes.”
Hewitt lifted the bolt and opened the door. Four or five steps led
parallel with the face of the wall to a sort of path which ran the
whole length of the house on this side, and was only separated from a
quiet public lane by a low fence and a thin hedge. Almost opposite a
small, light gate stood in the fence, firmly padlocked.
“I see,” Hewitt remarked, “your house is placed close against one
side of the grounds. Is that the side gate which you always keep
locked?”
Mrs. Seton replied in the affirmative, and Hewitt laid his hand on
the gate in question. “Still,” he said, “if security is the object I
should recommend hinges a little less rural in pattern; see here,”
and he gave the gate a jerk upward, lifting the hinge-pins from their
sockets and opening the gate from that side, the padlock acting as
hinge. “Those hinges,” he added, “were meant for a heavier gate than
that;” and he replaced the gate.
[Illustration: “‘THOSE HINGES WERE MEANT FOR A HEAVIER GATE THAN
THAT.’”]
“Yes,” Mrs. Seton replied; “I am obliged to you; but that doesn’t
concern us now. The French window was bolted on the inside. Would you
like to see the servants?”
The servants were produced, and Hewitt questioned each in turn, but
not one would admit having seen anything of Master Charles Seton
after he had been left in the small morning-room. A rather stupid
groom fancied he had seen Master Charles on the side lawn, but then
remembered that that must have been the day before. The cook, an
uncommonly thin, sharp-featured woman for one of her trade, was
especially positive that she had not seen him all that day. “And she
would be sure to have remembered if she had seen him leaving the
house,” she said, “because she was the more particular since he was
lost the last time.”
This was news to Hewitt. “Lost the last time?” he asked; “why, what
is this, Mrs. Seton? Was he lost once before?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Seton answered, “six or seven weeks ago. But that
was quite different. He strayed out at the front gate, and was
brought back from the police station in the evening.”
“But this may be most important,” Hewitt said. “You should certainly
have told me. Tell me now exactly what happened on this first
occasion.”
“But it was really quite an ordinary sort of accident. He was left
alone and got out through an open gate. Of course we were very
anxious; but we had him back the same evening. Need we waste time in
talking about that?”
“But it will be no waste of time, I assure you. What was it that
happened, exactly?”
“Nurse was about to take him for a short walk just before lunch. On
the front lawn he suddenly remembered a whip which had been left in
the nursery, and insisted on taking it with him. She left him and
went back for it, taking, however, some little time to find it. When
she returned he was nowhere to be seen; but one of the gates was a
couple of feet or more open--it had caught on a loose stone in
swinging to--and no doubt he had wandered off that way. A lady found
him some distance away, and, not knowing to whom he belonged, took
him that evening to a police station, and as messages had been sent
to the police stations, we had him back soon after he was left there.”
“Do you know who the lady was?”
“Her name was Mrs. Clark. She left her name and address at the
police station, and of course I wrote to thank her. But there was
some mistake in taking it down, I suppose, for the letter was
returned marked ‘not known.’”
“Then you never saw this lady yourself?”
“No.”
“I think I will make a note of the exact description of the child
and then visit the police station to which this lady took him six
weeks ago. Fair, curly hair, I think, and blue eyes? Age two years
and three months; walks and runs well, and speaks fairly plainly.
Dress?”
“Pale blue llama frock with lace, white under-linen, linen overall,
pale blue silk socks and tan shoes. Everything good as new except the
shoes, which were badly worn at the backs, through a habit he has of
kicking back and downward with his heels when sitting. They were
rather old shoes, and only used indoors.”
“If I remember aright nothing was said of those shoes in the printed
bill?”
“Was that so? No, I believe not. I have been so worried.”
“Yes, Mrs. Seton, of course. It is most creditable in you to have
kept up so well while I have been making my inquiries. Go now and
take a good rest while I do what is possible. By the way, where was
Mr. Seton yesterday morning when you missed the boy?”
“In the City. He has some important business in hand just now.”
“And to-day?”
“He has gone to the City again. Of course he is sadly worried; but
he saw that everything possible was done, and his business was very
important.”
“Just so. Mr. Seton was not married before, I presume--if I may?”
“No, certainly not; why do you ask?”
“I beg your pardon, but I have a habit of asking almost every
question I can think of; I can’t know too much of a case, you know,
and most unlikely pieces of information sometimes turn out useful.
Thank you for your patience; I will try another plan now.”
Mrs. Seton had kept up remarkably well during Hewitt’s examination,
but she was plainly by no means a strong woman, and her maid came
again to her assistance as Hewitt left. Hewitt himself made for the
police station. Few inspectors indeed of the Metropolitan Police
force did not know Hewitt by sight, and the one here in charge knew
him well. He remembered very well the occasion, six weeks or so
before, when Mrs. Clark brought Mrs. Seton’s child to the station. He
was on duty himself at the time, and he turned up the book containing
an entry on the subject. From this it appeared that the lady gave the
address No. 89, Sedgby Road, Belsize Park.
“I suppose you didn’t happen to know the lady,” Hewitt asked--“by
sight or otherwise?”
“No, I didn’t, and I’m not sure I could swear to her again,” the
inspector answered. “She wore a heavy veil, and I didn’t see much of
her face. One rum thing I noticed, though: she seemed rather taken
with the baby, and as she stooped down to kiss him before she went
away I could see an old scar on her throat. It was just the sort of
scar I’ve seen on a man that’s had his throat cut and got over it.
She wore a high collar to hide it, but stooping shifted the collar,
and so I saw it.”
“Did she seem an educated woman?”
“Oh yes; perfect lady; spoke very nice. I told her a baby had been
inquired after by Mrs. Seton, and from the description I’d no doubt
this was the one. And so it was.”
“At what time was this?”
“7.10 p.m., exactly. Here it is, all entered properly.”
“Now as to Sedgby Road, Belsize Park. Do you happen to know it?”
“Oh, yes, very well. Very quiet, respectable road indeed. I only
know it through walking through.”
“I see a suburban directory on the shelf behind you. Do you mind
pulling it down? Thanks. Let us find Sedgby Road. Here it is. See,
there _is_ no No. 89; the highest number is 67.”
“No more there is,” the inspector answered, running his finger down
the column; “and there’s no Clark in the road, that’s more. False
address, that’s plain. And so they’ve lost him again, have they? We
had notice yesterday, of course, and I’ve just got some bills. This
last seems a queer sort of affair, don’t it? Child sitting inside the
house disappeared like a ghost, and all the doors and windows
fastened inside.”
Hewitt agreed that the affair had very uncommon features, and
presently left the station and sought a cab. All the way back to his
office he considered the matter deeply. As a matter of fact he was at
a loss. Certain evidence he had seen in the house, but it went a very
little way, and beyond that there was merely no clue whatever. There
were features of the child’s first estrayal also that attracted him,
though it might very easily be the case that nothing connected the
two events. There was an unknown woman--apparently a lady--who had
once had her throat cut, bringing the child back after several hours,
and giving a false name and address, for since the address was false,
the same was probably the case with the name. Why was this? This time
the child was still absent, and nothing whatever was there to suggest
in what direction he might be followed, neither was there anything to
indicate why he should be detained anywhere, if detained he was.
Hewitt determined, while awaiting any result that the bills might
bring, to cause certain inquiries to be made into the antecedents of
the Setons. Moreover, other work was waiting, and the Seton business
must be put aside for a few hours at least.
Hewitt sat late in his office that evening, and at about nine
o’clock Mrs. Seton returned. The poor woman seemed on the verge of
serious illness. She had received two anonymous letters, which she
brought with her, and with scarcely a word placed before Hewitt’s
eyes.
The first he opened and read as follows:--
“The writer observes that you are offering a reward for the recovery
of your child. There is no necessity for this; Charley is quite safe,
happy, and in good hands. Pray do not instruct detectives or take any
such steps just yet. The child is well and shall be returned to you.
This I swear solemnly. His errand is one of mercy; pray have
patience.”
Hewitt turned the letter and envelope in his hand. “Good paper, of
the same sort as the envelope,” he remarked, “but only a half sheet,
freshly torn off, probably because the other side bore an address
heading; therefore most likely from a respectable sort of house. The
writing is a woman’s, and good, though the writer was agitated when
she did it. Posted this afternoon, at Willesden.”
“You see,” Mrs. Seton said anxiously, “she knows his name. She calls
him ‘Charley.’”
“Yes,” Hewitt answered; “there may be something in that, or there
may not. The name Charles Seton is on the bills, isn’t it? And they
have been visible publicly all day to-day. So that the name may be
more easily explained than some other parts of the letter. For
instance, the writer says that the child’s ‘errand’ is one of mercy.
The little fellow may be very intelligent--no doubt is--but children
of two years old as a rule do not practise errands of mercy--nor
indeed errands of any sort. Can you think of anything whatever, Mrs.
Seton, in connection with your family history, or indeed anything
else, that may throw light on that phrase?”
He looked keenly at her as he asked, but her expression was one of
blank doubt merely, as she shook her head slowly and answered in the
negative. Hewitt turned to the other letter and read this:--
“MADAM,--
“If you want your child you had better make an arrangement with me.
You fancy he has strayed, but as a matter of fact he has been stolen,
and you little know by whom. You will never get him back except
through me, you may rest assured of that. Are you prepared to pay me
one hundred pounds (£100) if I hand him to you, and no questions
asked? Your present reward, £20, is paltry; and you may finally bid
good-bye to your child if you will not accept my terms. If you do,
say as much in an advertisement to the _Standard,_ addressed to
“VERITAS.”
“A man’s handwriting,” Hewitt commented; “fairly well formed, but
shaky. The writer is not in first-rate health--each line totters away
in a downward slope at the end. I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that
the gentleman drank. Postmark, Hampstead; posted this afternoon also.
But the striking thing is the paper and envelope. They are each of
exactly the same kind and size as those of the other letter. The
paper also is a half sheet, and torn off on the same side as the
other; confirmation of my suspicion that the object is to get rid of
the printed address. I shall be surprised if both these were not
written in the same house. That looks like a traitor in the enemy’s
camp; the question is, which is the traitor?” Hewitt regarded the
letters intently for a few seconds and then proceeded. “Plainly,” he
said, “if these letters are written by people who know anything about
the matter, one writer is lying. The woman promises that the child
shall be returned without reward or search, and talks generally as if
the taking away of the child, or the estrayal, or whatever it was,
were a very virtuous sort of proceeding. The man says plainly that
the child has been stolen, with no attempt to gloss the matter, and
asserts that nothing will get the child back but heavy blackmail--a
very different story. On the other hand, can there be any concerted
design in these two letters? Are they intended, each from its own
side, to play up to a certain result?” Hewitt paused and thought.
Then he asked suddenly: “Do you recognise anything familiar either in
the handwriting or the stationery of these letters?”
“No, nothing.”
“Very well,” Hewitt said, “we will come to closer quarters with the
blackmailer, I think. You needn’t commit yourself to paying anything,
of course.”
“But, Mr. Hewitt, I will gladly pay or do anything. The hundred
pounds is nothing. I will pay it gladly if I can only get my child.”
“Well, well, we shall see. The man may not be able to do what he
offers, after all, but that we will test. It is too late now for an
advertisement in to-morrow morning’s _Standard,_ but there is the
_Evening Standard_--he may even mean that--and the next morning’s. I
will have an advertisement inserted in both, inviting this man to
make an appointment, and prove the genuineness of his offer; that
will fetch him if he wants the money, and can do anything for it.
Have you nothing else to tell me?”
“Nothing. But have you ascertained nothing yourself? Don’t say I’ve
to pass another night in such dreadful suspense!”
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Seton, I must ask you to be patient a little
longer. I have ascertained something, but it has not carried me far
as yet. Remember that if there is anything at all in these anonymous
letters (and I think there is) the child is at any rate safe, and to
be found one way or another. Both agree in that.” This he said mainly
to comfort his client, for in fact he had learned very little. His
news from the City as to Mr. Seton’s early history had been but
meagre. He was known as a successful speculator, and that was almost
all. There was an indefinite notion that he had been married once
before, but nothing more.
All the next day Hewitt did nothing in the case. Another affair, a
previous engagement, kept him hard at work in his office all day, and
indeed had this not been the case he could have done little. His City
inquiries were still in progress, and he awaited, moreover, a reply
to the advertisement. But at about half-past seven in the evening
this telegram arrived--
_Child returned. Come at once.--Seton._
In five minutes Hewitt was making north-west in a hansom, and in
half an hour he was ringing the bell at the Setons’ house. Within,
Mrs. Seton was still semi-hysterical, clasping the child--an
intelligent-looking little fellow--in her arms, and refusing to
release her hold of him for a moment. Mr. Seton stood before the fire
in the same room. He was a smart-looking, scrupulously dressed man of
thirty-five or thereabouts, and he began explaining his telegram as
soon as he had wished Hewitt good-evening.
“The child’s back,” he said, “and of course that’s the great thing.
But I’m not satisfied, Mr. Hewitt. I want to know why it was taken
away, and I want to punish somebody. It’s really very extraordinary.
My poor wife has been driving about all day--she called on you, by
the bye, but you were out” (Hewitt credited this to Kerrett, who had
been told he must not be disturbed), “and she has been all over the
place uselessly, unable to rest, of course. Well, I have been at home
since half-past four, and at about six I was smoking in the small
morning-room--I often use it as a smoking-room--and looking out at
the French window. I came away from there, and half an hour or more
later, as it was getting dusk, I remembered I had left the French
window open, and sent a servant to shut it. She went straight to the
room, and there on the floor, where he was seen last, she found the
child playing with his toys as though nothing had happened!”
“And how was he dressed--as he is now?”
“Yes, just as he was when we missed him.”
Hewitt stepped up to the child as he sat on his mother’s lap, and
rubbed his cheek, speaking pleasantly to him. The little fellow
looked up and smiled, and Hewitt observed: “One thing is noticeable:
this linen overall is almost clean. Little boys like this don’t keep
one white overall clean for three days, do they? And see--those
shoes--aren’t they new? Those he had were old, I think you said, and
tan-coloured.”
The shoes now on the child’s feet were of white leather, with a
noticeable sewn ornamentation in silk. His mother had not noticed
them before, and as she looked he lifted his little foot higher and
said. “Look, mummy, more new shoes!”
“Ask him,” suggested Hewitt hurriedly, “who gave them to him.”
His father asked him, and the little fellow looked puzzled. After a
pause, he said, “Mummy.”
“No,” his mother answered, “_I_ didn’t.”
He thought a moment and then said, “No, no, not _vis_ mummy--course
not.” And for some little while after that the only answer procurable
from him was, “Course not,” which seemed to be a favourite phrase of
his.
“Have you asked him where he has been?”
“Yes,” his mother answered, “but he only says ‘Ta-ta.’”
“Ask him again.”
She did. This time, after a little reflection, he pointed his chubby
arm toward the door and said. “Been dere.”
“Who took you?” asked Mrs. Seton.
Again Charley seemed puzzled. Then, looking doubtfully at his
mother, he said “Mummy.”
“No, not mummy,” she answered; and his reply was “Course not,” after
which he attempted to climb on her shoulder.
Then, at Hewitt’s suggestion, he was asked whom he went to see. This
time the reply was prompt.
“Poor daddy,” he said.
“What, _this_ daddy?”
“No, not _vis_ daddy--course not.” And that was all that could be
got from him.
“He will probably say things in the next day or two which may be
useful,” Hewitt said, “if you listen pretty sharply. Now I should
like to go to the small morning-room.”
In time room in question the door was still open. Outside the moon
had risen and made the evening almost as clear as day. Hewitt
examined the steps and the path at their foot, but all was dry and
hard, and showed no footmark. Then, as his eye rested on the small
gate, “See here,” he exclaimed suddenly, “somebody has been in,
lifting the gate, as I showed Mrs. Seton when I was last here. The
gate has been replaced in a hurry, and only the top hinge has dropped
in its place; the bottom one is disjointed.” He lifted the gate once
more and set it back. The ground just along its foot was softer than
in the parts surrounding, and here Hewitt perceived the print of a
heel. It was the heel-mark of a woman’s boot, small and sharp and of
the usual curved D-shape. Nowhere else within or without was there
the slightest mark. Hewitt went some distance either way in the outer
lane, but without discovering anything more.
“I think I will borrow those new shoes,” Hewitt said on his return.
“I think I should be disposed to investigate further in any case, for
my own satisfaction. The thing interests me. By the way, Mrs. Seton,
tell me, would these shoes be more likely to have been bought at a
regular shoemaker’s or at a baby-linen shop?”
“Certainly I should say at a baby-linen shop,” Mrs. Seton answered;
“they are of excellent quality, and for babies’ shoes of this fancy
description one would never go to an ordinary shoemaker’s.”
“So much the better, because the baby-linen shops are fewer than the
shoemakers’. I may take these, then? Perhaps before I go you had
better make quite certain that there is nothing else about the child
which is not your own.”
There was nothing, and with the shoes in his pocket Hewitt regained
his cab and travelled back to his office. The case, from its very
bareness and simplicity, puzzled him. Why was the child taken?
Plainly not to keep, for it had been returned almost as it went.
Plainly also not for the sake of reward or blackmail, for here was
the child safely back, before the anonymous blackmailer had had a
chance of earning his money. More, the advertised reward had not been
claimed. Also it could not be a matter of malice or revenge, for the
child was quite unharmed, and indeed seemed to have been quite happy.
No conceivable family complication, previous to the marriage of Mr.
and Mrs. Seton, could induce anybody to take away and return the
child, which was undoubtedly Mrs. Seton’s. Then who could be the
“poor daddy” and “mummy”--not _“vis_ daddy” and not _“vis_ mummy”--that
the child had been with? The Setons knew nothing of them. It was
difficult to see what it could all mean.
Arrived at his office, Hewitt took a map, and, setting the leg of a
pair of compasses on the site of the Setons’ house, described a
circle, including in its radius all Willesden and Hampstead. Then,
with the Suburban Directory to help him, he began searching out and
noting all the baby-linen shops in the area. After all, there were
not many--about a dozen. This done, Hewitt went home.
In the morning he began his hunt. His design was to call at each of
the shops until he had found in which a pair of shoes of that
particular pattern had been sold on the day of little Charley Seton’s
disappearance. The first two shops he tried did not keep shoes of the
pattern, and had never had them, and the young ladies behind the
counter seemed vastly amused at Hewitt’s inquiries. Nothing
perturbed, he tried the next shop on his list in the Hampstead
district. There they kept such shoes as a rule, but were “out of them
at present.” Hewitt immediately sent his card to the proprietress,
requesting a few minutes’ interview.
The lady--a very dignified lady indeed--in black silk, gray
corkscrew curls and spectacles, came out with Hewitt’s card between
her fingers. He apologised for troubling her, and, stepping out of
hearing from the counter, explained that his business was urgent. “A
child has been taken away by some unauthorised person, whom I am
endeavouring to trace. This person bought this pair of shoes on
Monday. You keep such shoes, I find, though they are not in stock at
present, and, as they appear to be of an uncommon sort, possibly they
were bought here.”
The lady looked at them. “Yes,” she said, “this pattern of shoe is
made especially for me. I do not think you can buy them at other
places.”
[Illustration: “‘THIS PATTERN OF SHOE IS MADE ESPECIALLY FOR ME.’”]
“Then may I ask you to inquire from your assistants if any were sold
on Monday, and to whom?”
“Certainly.” Then there were consultations behind counters and
desks, and examinations of carbon-papered books. In the end the
proprietress came to Hewitt, followed by a young lady of rather pert
and self-confident aspect. “We find,” she said, “that two pairs of
these shoes were sold on Monday. But one pair was afterwards brought
back and exchanged for others less expensive. This young lady sold
both.”
“Ah, then possibly she may remember something of the person who
bought the pair which was _not_ exchanged.”
“Yes,” the assistant answered at once, addressing herself to the
lady, “it was Mrs. Butcher’s servant.”
The proprietress frowned slightly. “Oh, indeed,” she said, “Mrs.
Butcher’s servant, was it? There have been inquiries about Mrs.
Butcher before, I believe, though not _here_. Mrs. Butcher is a woman
who takes babies to mind, and is said to make a trade of adopting
them, or finding people anxious to adopt them. I know nothing of her,
nor do I want to. She lives somewhere not far off, and you can get
her address, I believe, from the greengrocer’s round the corner.”
“Does she keep more than one servant?”