Chapter Twenty Seven. The Story of the Portraits.

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.”

Varney, for a moment, looked incredulous. “But on what charge?”

The detective grinned. “One that we only knew of yesterday. A charge of fraud in connection with certain rubber property. Another man of the name of Whyman is in it, but he seems to have got clear away.”

Varney, his brain in a whirl, took his way back to Scotland Yard, still in his costume of a working-man.

“Well, what does it all mean?” he gasped, when he got into Smeaton’s room.

The great detective smiled genially. “It means, my dear Varney, that we are nearing the end of the Monkton mystery which has baffled us so long.”

“And the solution?” queried the other eagerly.

“That I cannot tell you yet. But when it does come, I am afraid neither you nor I will reap much glory out of it.”

And Varney could get nothing out of him except those few cryptic words.

“Something has happened quite recently?” he hazarded.

The detective answered with that same slow, wise smile of his. “Perhaps. I can tell you nothing more now. Wait a moment, till I answer that telephone.”

A few words passed, and then he turned to Varney. “My men report they have laid Stent and Bolinski by the heels on the charge of fraud.”