over the efforts of people to draw him. But,in every other respect he seemed as frank and open as the day."
"He gave me that impression certainly," assented Wingate. "During mymother's lifetime I don't know that I counted greatly in his life. Hewas so wrapped up in her that he seemed to have no room for anybodyelse," went on the girl, in a musing voice. "Then, after her death, andwhen his first passionate grief died down, he listened to me. I couldnot hope to fill her place, but I became very necessary to him. He hastold me many times that but for me he would have been the most miserableman on earth. I gave him new interests, and weaned him away from hissad thoughts."
Wingate leaned forward, and kissed her tenderly upon the brow. "Youwere born for the _role_ of ministering angel, my darling," he declared.
She thanked him with a grateful glance for the pretty compliment. "Youask me if I ever had cause to suspect that there was some hidden mysteryin his life. I can only answer, none. His life seemed to me like anopen book, that all who ran might read."
Wingate was silent for a little time. This was the impression made uponhis daughter, an only child, who would have the most intimateopportunity of judging him. It was the impression he had made uponclose friends and casual acquaintances alike.
And yet who could be sure? A man trained to the law, versed in publicaffairs, was he likely to wear his heart upon his sleeve?
When he spoke, it was in a hesitating voice: "I agree that intuition isa very safe guide in many instances. And I believe with you that yourfather's life was a blameless one. Still, there is one little thing wemust not overlook."
"And that little thing?" she questioned in a low voice.
"What was the connection between him and the man whom they haveidentified as Bolinski? Why does a man in his position make anappointment with a person so evidently not of his own world, unless todiscuss something of a secret and mysterious nature? Remember wherethey met, in a little hole-and-corner restaurant in Soho."
"It has puzzled me, I admit," replied Sheila. "It is strange, too, thathe told me nothing of the appointment, for he used to inform me of hismost trivial movements. Thinking over it, as I have over every otherincident, I believe it was connected with politics--there are plenty ofunder-currents in them, as we know. He would not say anything to meabout this meeting for fear I might drop an incautious word to some ofour friends."
"It is evident that he apprehended no treachery from this man," wasWingate's next remark, "or he would have taken some means to safeguardhimself. I mean, for one thing, he would not have left the House ofCommons alone. It may be, as you suggest, that this curious meeting, inan out-of-the-way and obscure restaurant, may have had some politicalmotive. But I can hardly bring myself to believe it. I am sure thatwhat brought such a strangely assorted couple together was a private andpersonal matter."
"And that we have no means of knowing," said Sheila sadly.
He was glad that she had not resented his question, and the suggestionsthat arose from it. It emboldened him to proceed.
"As I have said, it is our duty to leave no stone unturned, to look evenin unlikely places for any fresh evidence which might afford a clue.There must be a mass of papers in this house I think you ought to gothrough them, darling."
She gave a little cry. "Oh!" she said in a tearful voice. "It seemsalmost like sacrilege."
"If such a search were conducted by other hands, it might be so, butassuredly not in your case."
She thought a little, and her common-sense came to her aid.
"You are quite right, Austin, as you always are. It will be a terribletask, but, as you say, we must leave no stone unturned. I will beginto-morrow, and keep on till I have finished."
He called late next day, and found that she had got about half-waythrough the various piles. But so far she had found nothing ofimportance.
"I came across a few diaries. He seems to have kept them for the bestpart of five years, and then dropped the practice. They contain recordsof appointments, whom he met, and political events, but there's not asingle entry that throws any light upon this affair."
"I wonder if Farloe has any of his papers, or, more likely still, hasabstracted any?" said Wingate in a musing voice.
Sheila shuddered at the name. "No wonder that I always hated him," shecried vehemently. "Shall we ever learn the part he played in thismystery?"
It took her a few days to go through her task, for she was fearful ofmissing a line in those carefully docketed piles of papers. But it wasall to no purpose.
If there had been a secret in Reginald Monkton's life, no evidence hadbeen preserved in these documents.
"Newsom-Perry is pretty sure to have some papers in his possession,"said Wingate, when she had finished her futile task. "I want to spareyou everything I can, dear. Will you give me a note to him, and I willask him to hand them over to you?"
Mr Newsom-Perry was Monkton's solicitor, the head of the firm which hadacted for the missing statesman, and his father before him.
Wingate presented himself at Lincoln's Inn Fields, and sent in hissweetheart's note.
The solicitor, a genial, kindly-looking man of fifty or thereabouts,welcomed the young man cordially.
"Pleased to see you, Mr Wingate," he said, as they shook hands. "PoorMonkton has spoken to me several times of you, in warm terms. Iunderstand that you were a frequent visitor at the house before the sadevent."
Wingate explained that he was with Sheila awaiting her father, on thenight when the dying man was brought to Chesterfield Street.
The shrewd, kindly eyes watched him as he made the explanation. MrNewsom-Perry had his own ideas as to how matters stood between the youngcouple.
"And what can I do for you, Mr Wingate?"
"We thought it pretty certain that you would have some papers of MrMonkton's here. If that is the case, would you let his daughter lookthrough them, in the hope of finding something that might throw a lightupon the case?"
"Under the circumstances, by all means, Mr Wingate. Of course, we havegot all his business documents, leases, and that kind of thing. Thosewould be useless for your purpose?"
"I should say, quite useless."
"But I have a couple of boxes of private papers which he brought abouttwo years ago. He had been sorting out, he said, and his own house wasas full as it could hold. Knowing we had plenty of room, he thought wewould not mind storing them. I will send them round some time to-day.When she has gone through them perhaps Miss Monkton will let me havethem back until, until--" He laughed, and did not finish the sentence.
"I quite understand. Now I will take up as little time as possible, butthere are one or two questions I should like to ask you, if I may."
The solicitor nodded genially. "Go on, sir."
"I take it that, having known Mr Monkton all your life, and your firmhaving acted for his father, you were entirely in your client'sconfidence."
"That is so. Monkton and I were personal friends, as well as solicitorand client. We were at Cambridge together, before either of uscommenced our respective careers."
"Has he, to your knowledge, ever made any active enemies?"
"Not that I know of. Political enemies, no doubt, he has by the score--myself included. But you know what English politics are. It's a fairstand-up fight, and the loser grumbles a bit, but bears no rancour. Menabuse each other across the floor of the House, and are good friendsagain in the smoking-room."
"One other question, a somewhat delicate one, and I have done. Had heever an entanglement of any kind, the effects of which might pursue himin later life?"
The solicitor rubbed his chin, and quite frankly replied:
"Not to my knowledge. That does not, however, conclusively prove anegative."
"But you were close personal friends, in addition to your businessrelation. Would it not be natural that, under such circumstances, hewould come to you for advice?"
There seemed an extra gleam of shrewdness in the solicitor's eyes a
s heanswered:
"In such circumstances as you suggest it is by no means easy to predictwhat course a man would take. If Monkton had got into some entanglementthat, to put it bluntly--although, mind you, I don't believe such athing occurred--reflected some doubt either on his character or on hisintelligence, it is just as likely as not that his old friend would bethe last person to whom he would care to expose himself. He would beequally likely to go to a stranger."
Wingate was fain to admit the force of the argument.
"One can never be sure of any man, even if you have known him all yourlife," he added, as they shook hands. "Nobody knows that better thanour profession. But I would stake my existence that there were noskeletons
The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery Page 19