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

by William Le Queux

two to the other's one.

  It was here that Wingate touched lightly and delicately upon the visitto Smeaton.

  "I would like to impress upon you, Mr Boyle, that, under ordinarycircumstances. Miss Monkton would be delighted to receive any oldfriend of her father's; but I fear such a visit at present would painher very much."

  Boyle rose to the occasion. "It is I who am in fault. It was athoughtless suggestion on my part, made on the spur of the moment, andprompted, I assure you, by the sincerest feelings of sympathy for her,and esteem for my dear old friend."

  If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainlytaking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda.The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers ofabsorption appeared to be unbounded.

  Wingate proposed a change of scene. "What do you say to an hour or twoat the Empire? We'll stroll round and get a couple of stalls."

  Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. "Excellent," he cried, withthe glee of a schoolboy. "Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire,what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again themerry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back thelight-heartedness of youth."

  He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o'clock before Wingatecould get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity forenjoyment.

  "Let us make a night of it," he cried cheerfully. "You don't know whata delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, likeyourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do alittle supper together."

  Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle mightbe offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him ingood humour.

  "Good man," cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. "Thenight is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant,presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be myguest."

  Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho whereMonkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of hisdisappearance.

  The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. Theywere very well acquainted.

  They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside thewaiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words:"Put it down. I'll call and pay to-morrow."

  The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidentlyshort of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton hadtaken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature hadtold him might be of service.

  "Pardon me, Boyle," he said, dropping the formal prefix, "but I couldnot help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let mebe your banker for the time being."

  There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-sodathat stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few secondshe seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usualflamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and orderedmore refreshment.

  Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other's shoulder, and spoke inhis deep, rolling tones.

  "Why should I play the hypocrite to a good fellow like yourself,Wingate. I'm as poor as a church-rat--you can guess that from myclothes. I asked you to supper on the spur of the moment witheighteenpence in my pocket, knowing that my old friend Luigi would giveme credit. I have a roof over my head for the rest of the week. Nextweek I may not have that. But I don't moan and whine; I set my teethand smile, as I am smiling now. Whatever men may think of me, theyshall never say that Caleb Boyle showed the white feather."

  He took another deep draught as he finished the pathetic outburst.Wingate felt in his pockets.

  "I haven't much with me, only a couple of sovereigns. But you cansquare the bill with that. I have a cheque-book with me, and I shall bedelighted to tide you over immediate difficulties, if you will name asum."

  "Would ten pounds be too much?" asked Boyle, in a strangely hesitatingvoice. For the moment, his assurance seemed to have forsaken him; heseemed to realise to what he had fallen.

  "Not at all." The cheque was written and handed to the poor derelict,together with the two pounds in cash.

  For once, the usual flow of words did not come. It was a quiet andsubdued Boyle who called the waiter, and bade him bring the bill.

  "I cannot find words to thank you," he told his benefactor, "I can onlysay, God bless you. I have done the same to many a poor devil myself,in olden days, but never in a more kindly and generous fashion. Ishould like, if I may, to tell you a little bit of history."

  Wingate nodded. He could not but feel sorry for the poor broken-downcreature, who tried to hide his sorrows under this brave and pompousfront.

  "I was ruined by a devil whom I first met here, before Luigi took theplace. He called himself Bellamy, but that was not his real name. Hewas a foreign fraudulent company promoter by profession. I was youngand gullible. He dazzled me with his swindling schemes, until he hadstripped me of every penny."

  Wingate murmured his sympathy. He surmised that Boyle was exaggeratingwhen he accused the foreigner of having been the sole cause of his ruin.There was no doubt he had contributed pretty considerably towards hisown downfall. But was there ever a spendthrift yet who would admit asmuch?

  "But thank Heaven, he was trapped at last. He went a step too far, andwas beggared by a lawsuit brought against him by the shareholders of acompany he had promoted, and which never paid a dividend. Our oldfriend Monkton led against him, and trounced him thoroughly, I can tellyou. Every penny he possessed was seized, and he fled the country forfear of arrest."

  Wingate pricked up his ears.

  "You say this man was a foreigner. Would you recognise his handwriting,if you saw it?"

  "Certainly. I have more than a dozen of his letters in my possession.If you would care to come round to my rooms, I will show you themto-night."

  Wingate rose quickly. "Is it far?"

  Boyle answered without a shade of embarrassment, "Shepherd's Bush. Not,I regret to say, what you would call a fashionable suburb."

  In another two minutes they were in a taxi speeding towards Boyle'sresidence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

  ONE FACT IS ESTABLISHED.

  Boyle had directed the driver to stop at Uxbridge Road Station, wherethe two roads branch off, the one on the left leading into Chiswick,that on the right passing through Hanwell and Uxbridge.

  He got out, and insisted on paying the fare, out of his newly-acquiredwealth.

  "We are now at the beginning of Shepherd's Bush. The Carthorne road,where I live--I should rather say exist--is a few minutes' walk fromhere. It would have been impossible to direct the driver. It wouldrequire the exploring instinct of a Stanley or a Livingstone to track meto my lair," he laughed.

  He led Wingate through various mean streets, consisting of two long rowsof narrow three-storied houses. Several of them were to let. Most ofthem bore cards in their windows with the words "Furnished apartments."Poverty everywhere betrayed its ugly features.

  Boyle paused before the door of one of these ill-favoured tenements, andapplied a latchkey. Wingate stepped into a narrow hall, covered by astrip of oil-cloth, full of holes, the pattern worn away with hard wear.An evil-smelling lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a feeble lightthat was little removed from darkness.

  Boyle led him to the end of the passage, and took him into a chamberthat extended the width of the house. Quickly he struck a match, andlit a lamp.

  Wingate felt terribly depressed. But Boyle, fortified, no doubt, by theunexpected possession of those few providential sovereigns, hadrecovered his accustomed buoyancy. He waved his hand round the fadedapartment with a theatrical air.

  "Welcome to my poor abode, the present _pied-a-terre_ of Caleb Boyle,once a member of exclusive clubs, and not an unknown figure in Londonsociety."

  Wingate looked round and shuddered inwardly at what he saw. A ho
rsehairsofa, black and stained with age, a carpet, worn threadbare and full ofholes, three cane chairs, one easy-chair, worn and bulged out of shape,a cheap chest of drawers, with half the knobs missing. And at the sideof the wall opposite the fire-place, a low, narrow single bedsteadcovered with a darned and patched counterpane. This was flanked by ayellow deal washstand.

  Was it possible that anybody who had once lived decently, could draw abreath in this musty and abominable hole? Certainly there was a courageand power of endurance in the man that compelled Wingate's admiration.

  Boyle pushed one of the rickety chairs towards his guest, and crossed toa small hanging cupboard, from the recesses of which he produced a blackbottle, which he held up to the lamp.

  "There is corn in Egypt," he cried gaily; he seemed in the highestspirits amid these depressing