Chapter Twenty Eight. In the Mists.

Detective-sergeant Johnson stood in Smeaton’s room, listening to the final instructions of his chief with his usual respectful air.

“Be as diplomatic as possible, Johnson. Let him suspect that we know everything, without committing yourself to any actual statement. Above all, impress upon him the fact that he must come. We would prefer he did so voluntarily. If he should prove obstinate, give him clearly to understand that we have other means at our disposal.”

Johnson spoke with quiet confidence. “I think you may safely leave it to me. After what you have told me, I am sure I can persuade the gentleman to accompany me. But, of course, I shall say nothing openly, simply confine myself to broad hints that ran only bear one meaning.”

Smeaton regarded Johnson approvingly. For some time past he had discerned in this comparatively young man qualities that bade fair to secure him a high position in his profession. He was level-headed, quick at instructions, possessed of considerable initiative, cautious, yet daring on occasion, confident without being boastful.

“One last word before you leave. You will make quite sure he is in the house before you enter it; in other words, that he has returned to London.”

“I heard yesterday from my cousin, who had met his valet, that his lordship arrived late the previous evening. But to make sure, I have appointed to meet Willet this afternoon, so as to get the latest news.”

“Quite right, Johnson, quite right,” said the great detective in his most cordial tones. “Never leave anything to chance.”

The subordinate bowed himself out, well pleased that he was advancing himself so steadily in his chief’s favour.

An hour later he was in the saloon bar of the exclusive establishment which was patronised by the upper servants of Mayfair. Here he found his cousin awaiting him, who greeted him heartily. The two men had corresponded a few times, but they had not met since the day when Willet had produced the portrait of Lady Wrenwyck.

“Glad to see you, old chap,” cried the footman heartily. “I’ve been longing to hear how you got on with that little job at Weymouth. No difficulty in finding her ladyship, I suppose?”

“Tumbled to her at once,” answered Johnson, who adapted his tone and language to those of the company in which he found himself for the time being. “Took a walk down to the post-office, and she and the maid fell into my arms in a manner o’ speaking.”

Johnson paused, not quite knowing what to say next. Willet looked at him inquiringly, but meeting with no response exhibited signs of injured dignity.

“Look here, old man, it ain’t my business to pry into secrets that don’t concern me. But I helped you a goodish bit in that quarter, and I don’t think you need be so devilish close.”

Johnson goaded himself to speech; if he was to retain his cousin’s friendship he must say something. And the man spoke the truth; he had helped him to the extent of making the preliminaries very easy.

“Now, look here, laddie, I should like to tell you everything. You helped me a lot, but on my honour I can’t do it. Large interests and great people are affected in the matter. But I will tell you this much, and you must believe me or not, as you please: I found her ladyship right enough, only to discover that I was on the wrong scent. Now and again, you know, we do make bloomers at the Yard.”

Mr Willet’s affability was at once restored by this frank and manly statement. “Say no more, old man; mum’s the word. Fill up, to show there’s no ill-feeling.”

Johnson filled up, and drank his relative’s health with becoming cordiality. He wanted something more out of him yet.

“So far as Lady Wrenwyck is concerned. I’ve no further use for her. But I haven’t quite done with all the people in the Wrenwyck house itself. Only this time I’m on another track altogether.”

Willet’s eyes bulged out of his head with curiosity, but he knew from experience that wild horses would not drag out of Johnson anything that astute detective had made up his mind to conceal.

“I suppose it’s the old man you’re after, this time?” he hazarded.

“Guessed right the first time, old chap. I want to have a few minutes’ conversation with his lordship. That’s why I wrote asking you if you knew anything of his movements.”

“By gad! you are a deep ’un,” cried Willet admiringly.

“Thanks,” said Johnson easily, but it was plain to see the compliment had not fallen on deaf ears. “Well, now, you say he’s back in town. If I knock at the door in the course of half-an-hour or so, do you think I’m likely to find him in?”

“It’s a pretty safe find. He hardly ever goes out when in London, drives down to the Carlton once or twice a week, and stays a couple of hours. But anyway. I’m pretty sure you’ll find him in to-day, and I’ll tell you for why.”

“Yes?” interrupted Johnson eagerly. Willet was certainly invaluable in the way of giving information.

“Her ladyship is giving a big party this afternoon—I think it’s a philanthropic sort of hustle, in aid of some charity. On these occasions he usually shuts himself up in his own den till the last carriage has driven away. Then he comes out growling and cursing because his house has been turned upside down, and everybody gives him as wide a berth as possible.”

“He seems an amiable sort of person,” observed Johnson.

“Touched, my dear boy, touched,” replied Willet, tapping his somewhat retreating forehead. “And getting worse, so I’m told. Triggs, his valet, told me yesterday it can’t be long before they’ll have to put him under restraint.”

“You’ve no idea where he’s been the last few weeks, I suppose,” was Johnson’s next question.

“Nobody has. He seems to have done the same sort of disappearance as his wife, with this difference, that she did take her maid, and he left Triggs behind. But he came back in the devil’s own rage; been carrying on like a madman ever since. Triggs is going to give him notice; says flesh and blood can’t stand it.”

Johnson parted from his cousin with mutual expressions of esteem and good-will. A few minutes later he was standing outside the open portals of Wrenwyck House, one of the finest mansions in Park Lane.

A big party was evidently in progress. Carriages were driving up every moment to take up and set down the guests. Johnson could picture the beautiful hostess, standing at the top of the stairs, a regal and smiling figure.

A humorous smile crossed his countenance as he recalled the one and only occasion on which they had met in the unpretentious lodgings on the Weymouth front. Well, that was one of the things that never would be revealed to her circle, unless she chose to confide it to her bosom friend, Mrs Adair.

He took advantage of a momentary lull in the restless tide of traffic, to accost a tall footman.

“I want particularly to see Lord Wrenwyck, if he is at home,” he said boldly. “I daresay he will be at leisure, as I understand he shuts himself up when this sort of function is going on.”

The footman’s manner showed that he was half contemptuous, half impressed. With the unerring eye of his class he saw at once that Johnson was not of the class from which the guests of Wrenwyck House were recruited. On the other hand, he seemed to possess an intimate knowledge of the private habits of its owner.

“His lordship is in, but I should very much doubt if he will see you,” he said with just a touch of insolence. “If you tell me your name and business, I will inquire.”

Johnson slipped a card into an envelope and handed it to this tall and important person.

“I’m afraid my business is of too private a nature to communicate to a third party,” he said quietly. “If you’ll have the goodness to hand that envelope to his lordship, and tell him my card is inside, I think it’s very probable he will see me.”

Five minutes later the astonished menial returned, and the contempt of his bearing was somewhat abated.

“Please follow me,” he said, in a voice that was almost civil. A moment later the detective was in the presence of the wealthy and eccentric peer.

His immediate thought was that he had never met a more forbidding personality. Hard, angry eyes, that shot forth their baleful fire at the slightest provocation, a long hawk nose, a cruel, sensual mouth, were the salient features of a face that instinctively gave you the impression of evil.

His greeting was in accord with his appearance.

“Explain at once, if you please, the reason of this extraordinary intrusion. I see you come from Scotland Yard. What the devil have I to do with such a place?”

Johnson did not allow himself to be disturbed by the other’s rough and insolent manner.

“I have brought you a message from my chief, Mr Smeaton,” he said, in his most urbane manner. “I have no doubt you have heard of him.”

Lord Wrenwyck looked on the point of indulging in another angry explosion, but something in the steady gaze of the self-possessed young man seemed to momentarily disconcert him. He only growled, and muttered something too low for Johnson to catch.

“My chief, Mr Smeaton, occupies a very special position,” resumed the imperturbable detective. “In virtue of that position, he becomes acquainted with many curious facts, some of them connected with persons in high positions. Some of these facts he has to make known, in accordance with his sense of public duty. There are others which never go beyond his own cognisance and that of a few of his trusted subordinates. I trust your lordship gathers my meaning, which I am trying to convey as pleasantly as possible.”

Lord Wrenwyck stirred his crippled limbs, and shook his fist vindictively at the other.

“Come to the point, curse you, and spare me all this rigmarole.”

“To come to the point, my lord, Mr Smeaton requests your attendance at Scotland Yard, where he proposes to give himself the pleasure of a short conversation with you.”

The hard, angry eyes were now sullen and overcast, but they were no longer defiant.

“Suppose I tell you and your precious Mr Smeaton to go to the devil! What then?”

“I don’t think either of us will hasten our journey in that direction on account of your lordship’s intervention,” replied Johnson with ready humour.

He paused a moment, and then added with a gravity that could not be mistaken: “The arm of the law is very long, and can reach a great nobleman like yourself. Take my advice. Lord Wrenwyck. Let me convey you in a taxi to Scotland Yard, to interview my chief. Come voluntarily while you can,” he paused and added in significant terms: “Believe me, you won’t have the option after to-day.”

Cursing and growling, the crippled peer stood up, and announced his readiness to accompany this imperturbable young man. A few minutes later, he and Smeaton were face to face.

On the evening of that day, Sheila and Wingate dined together at a small restaurant far removed from the haunts of the fashionable world.

Thanks to the strange and unexampled circumstances, their courtship had been conducted on very unconventional lines. But to-night an unobtrusive maiden aunt of Wingate’s played propriety.

At an early hour, they left the restaurant. The maiden aunt was first dropped at her modest house in Kensington, and then the car took them to Chesterfield Street.

When Grant had opened the door, Wingate had put out his hand in farewell. He was always punctilious and solicitous about the conventions, in Sheila’s unprotected position.

But she demurred to this early parting. “It is only a little after nine,” she told him. “You must come in for five minutes’ chat before you go.”

What lover could refuse such an invitation, proffered by such sweet lips? As they were going up the staircase to the drawing-room. Grant handed her a letter.

“It was left about an hour ago by that young person. Miss; the one who wouldn’t leave her name.”

She opened it, and, after perusal, handed it to her betrothed. “Oh, Austin, what can this mean?”

Austin Wingate read the brief words: “There is a great surprise in store. It may come at any moment.”

They sat down in silence, not trusting themselves to speak, to hazard a conjecture as to this mysterious message. At such a moment, so tense with possibilities, they almost forgot they were lovers. And while trying to read in their mutual glances the inmost thoughts of each other, there came the faint tinkle of the door-bell.

Sheila started up as her ears caught the sound. “Listen, Austin! Who’s that?” she asked breathlessly.

A few moments later they heard old Grant open the door. Next second a loud cry of alarm rang through the house. The voice was Grant’s.

Austin, hearing it, dashed from the room and down the stairs.