The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

by William Le Queux

entered a big drapery shop, whereMason was compelled to follow her for reasons.

  Had it been an ordinary kind of shop, he would have waited outside, tillshe came out. This particular establishment, however, had twoentrances, one in Regent Street and one in Piccadilly. She knew this,of course, and would slip out of the one he was not watching. So hefollowed her in.

  Having bought a pair of long cream gloves she glanced furtively around,and then left the shop, passing into Regent Street. Afterwards shespent some time looking into the shop windows up and down that busythoroughfare, ultimately returning to the Piccadilly Tube Station, whereshe took a ticket for Knightsbridge, Mason following all the while.

  Her face was wan and haggard with the relentless chase, but her eyesexpressed indomitable resolution. They seemed to flash across at him asthey sat in the same car the unspoken message: "I will outwit you yet."

  At Knightsbridge both watcher and watched ascended in the same lift,with its clanging lattice gate, and it was quite plain that Mrs Saxtonwas now in a quandary how to escape. In a careless attitude she passedfrom the street back into the booking-hall, where she pretended to idleup and down, as though awaiting someone. Now and then she looked up atthe clock as though anxious and impatient.

  Mason believed her anxiety to be merely a ruse, but was both surprisedand interested when a small ragged urchin entering the place suddenlyrecognised her, and handed her a note.

  She took it eagerly, and without examining it crushed it hurriedly intoher little black silk bag, giving the little fellow a shilling,whereupon he thanked her and ran merrily out.

  Next instant Mason slipped forth after the lad in order to question him,leaving the woman safely in the booking-hall. In a few seconds hestopped the boy and asked good-humouredly who had given him the letter.

  "A gentleman in Notting 'Ill," was the urchin's prompt reply. "I don'tknow 'im. 'E only said that a lady in a big black 'at, and dressed allin black and carryin' a bag, would be waitin' for me, and that I were togive the note to 'er."

  "Is that all you know, my good lad?" Mason inquired quickly, giving himanother shilling.

  "Yus. That's all I knows, sir," he replied.

  While speaking, the detective had kept his eye upon the booking-hall,and swiftly returned to it, only, however, to find that the woman wasnot there.

  The descending lift was full, the lattice gates were closed and it hadjust started down when he peered within.

  In the lift was Mrs Saxton, who, with a smile of triumph, disappearedfrom his view.

  Mason, in a sorry and chastened frame of mind, took the next lift,which, as always happens under such circumstances, was unusually long inarriving. To him, it seemed an eternity.

  He got down to the platform, in time to see the tail of a departingtrain. Mrs Saxton had not waited in the booking-hall in vain. She hadtwo minutes' start of him, and he might hunt London over before he wouldagain find her.

  Only one thing was certain: Mrs Saxton was certainly a very cleverwoman, who, no doubt, had prepared that very clever ruse of the arrivalof the letter, well-knowing that the messenger must draw off thedetective's attention, and thus give her time to slip away.

  That same evening James Farloe, who had been chatting in the Lobby ofthe House of Commons with a couple of Members of the Opposition, wassuddenly called aside by Sir Archibald Turtrell, Member for NorthCanterbury, who, in a low, mysterious whisper, asked:

  "Look here, Farloe, is this rumour true?"

  "What rumour?" inquired the private secretary, who was a well-knownfigure about the House, as are those of all secretaries to Ministers ofthe Crown.

  "Why, that Mr Monkton is missing, and that he is not at Cannes as thepapers say. Everyone is discussing it."

  The sleek, well-dressed young man in a morning suit with a white slipwithin his waistcoat, laughed sarcastically, as he replied:

  "I wonder. Sir Archibald, who it is who spreads such ridiculousrumours. I had a letter from Mr Monkton only this morning from Cannes.That's all I know."

  "And yet a telegram that I sent to the Beau Site yesterday has beenreturned to-night undelivered!"

  For a second Farloe held his breath. Serious inquiry was apparentlybeing made by Members of the House, in spite of all the precautions ofthe Home Secretary.

  "Oh," he replied, with well-feigned carelessness. "The ColonialSecretary left the Beau Site over a fortnight ago. People were worryinghim, so his doctor sent him to a furnished villa."

  "What is his address?"

  "I'm very sorry. Sir Archibald, but I am unable to give it. I haveinstructions to that effect," was the secretary's cautious reply. "Ifyou give me your note, or write to his club, I will see that it isattended to. Doctor Monier wrote me three days ago asking me not tosend his patient any matters concerning public affairs that might worryhim."

  "But his daughter still remains in Chesterfield Street," observed theBaronet. "It is strange she is not with him. The rumour is growingthat Monkton has disappeared, and that the police are searching forhim."

  "I know," laughed the other. "I have heard so. It is all tooridiculous. The truth has already been published in the Press. MrMonkton has had a very serious nervous breakdown, and is on theRiviera--even though it is summer."

  "You are quite certain of that--eh, Farloe?"

  "Why should I tell you an untruth?" asked the secretary blandly.

  They were standing near the Members' post-office, and the Baronet,having exchanged a nod with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, whowas just passing into the House itself, gazed full into the secretary'seyes.

  "Tell me, Farloe--tell me in strict confidence," he urged. "I'll notwhisper a word, but--well, do you happen to know anyone of the name ofStent?"

  The young man hesitated, though he preserved the most complete andremarkable control.

  "Stent? Stent?" he repeated. "No. The name is quite unfamiliar tome."

  "Are you quite certain? Think."

  "I have already thought. I have never heard that name," was the reply.

  "You are quite positive that he is not acquainted with Mr Monkton insome peculiar and mysterious way?"

  "How should I possibly know? All the Colonial Minister's friends arenot known to me. Mr Monkton is a very popular man, remember. Butwhy," he added, "do you ask about this man Stent?"

  "Because it is told to me that he is a mysterious friend of Monkton's."

  "Not as far as I am aware," declared Farloe. "I certainly have noknowledge of their friendship, and the name is so unusual that one wouldcertainly recollect it."

  The Baronet smiled. Farloe, seeing that he was unconvinced, was eagerto escape from any further awkward cross-examination.

  "I really wish that you would be frank with me," said Sir Archibald, whowas one of Britain's business magnates and a great friend of Monkton's."I am informed that this person Stent is in possession of the true andactual facts concerning the Minister's curious disappearance."

  Farloe realised that something was leaking out, yet he maintained a firmattitude of pretended resentment.

  "Well, Sir Archibald," he protested. "I cannot well see how I can bemore frank with you. I've never heard of this mysterious person."

  "H'm!" grunted the Baronet, unconvinced. "Perhaps one day, my dearFarloe, you will regret this attempt to wriggle out of a very awkwardsituation." Then, after a pause, he added: "You know quite as well asI, with others, know, that my friend Monkton is missing!" and theBaronet turned abruptly, leaving Farloe standing in the Lobby. Hepassed the two police constables and the idling detective, and enteredthe House itself.

  Farloe, utterly aghast at Sir Archibald's remarks and the knowledge heevidently possessed, walked blindly out of St Stephen's full of gravethoughts.

  Not only were the police hot upon the trail which might lead them to theastounding truth concerning the death of the man who, dressed in theColonial Minister's clothes, had expired in the house in ChesterfieldStreet, but the facts were being rumo
ured that night in the world ofpolitics, and to-morrow the chattering little world which revolves inthe square mile around Piccadilly and calls itself Society, would alsobe agog with the sinister story.

  At the corner of Dean's Yard, not a hundred yards from where thetaxi-man Davies had been hailed and the unidentified stranger had beenput into his cab, Farloe found a passing taxi and in it drove to hisrooms, a cosy little first-floor flat in Ryder Street, St James's.

  So eager was he that, without taking off his hat, he went at once to thetelephone on his writing-table and asked for "trunk." Ten minutes laterhe spoke to somebody.

  "Get in your car, and come here at once!"