dismissedthe cab.
"But surely she was not alone," cried Sheila.
"A man was with her, but the cab passed too rapidly for us to get a lookat him," replied Smeaton evasively. After all, it was only a suspicion,he could not be positive.
He paused a second, and went on hesitatingly.
"I can't imagine what her motive could be in coming so near. I cameround to-day because I had an idea that she might have called here onsome pretext."
"But, if she had done so, of course I should have rung you up," saidSheila quickly.
"Well, I could have been sure of that too, if I had thought it out."Smeaton's manner was strangely hesitating, it seemed to them, notknowing that he was only revealing half of what was in his mind. "Ihardly know why I came at all. I think the case is getting on mynerves. Well, I won't keep you any longer. Let me know if that youngwoman calls again, and if her visit concerns me in any way."
He left, and when he had gone Sheila turned to her lover. "Mr Smeatonwas very peculiar to-day, wasn't he, Austin? He gave me the impressionof keeping something back--something that he wanted to tell and wasafraid."
Austin agreed with his well-beloved. There was certainly somethingmysterious about the great detective that afternoon.
Meanwhile Smeaton walked back to his office, more puzzled and baffledthan ever. Why on earth had Mrs Saxton and her companion driven toChesterfield Street? And what had become of the other inmates of ForestView?
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
THE SECRET PICTURE.
Sheila Monkton spent a restless night; truth to tell, her nights werenever very peaceful. Even when she snatched her fitful sleep, thesinister figures of Stent, Farloe, and all the others who had becomepart of that haunting tragedy, flitted through her dreams, and made herwelcome the daylight.
And now she had still more perturbing food for thought. Why had MrsSaxton, object of suspicion as she knew herself to be, ventured so nearher? What did that surreptitious excursion portend?
And who was that strange female who had called, and who would leaveneither name nor message and had fled precipitately at sight of Smeatonin the hall?
She made up her mind, when she wakened in the morning, to remain at homeall day. It might turn out to be nothing, but she felt sure that thiswoman had some object in calling upon her. The air had been thick withmystery for many weeks; she was convinced there was still more in store,and it would be brought by this strange visitor.
Yet she waited in vain; the young woman dressed in the navy bluecostume, as described by the old manservant, did not make a second call.And poor Sheila spent still another night as wakeful as the precedingone. She came down to breakfast languid and heavy-eyed.
She opened her letters listlessly, till she came to one larger than therest, out of which dropped a photograph. At sight of it she exclaimedwarmly to herself: "What a charming likeness. It is the image of dearGladys. How sweet of her to send it to me!"
She threw away the envelopes, and took the photo to the window toexamine it more closely. It was a picture of her greatest friend, agirl a year older than herself, the Lady Gladys Rainham, only daughterof the Earl of Marshlands.
Her father had been intimate with the Earl since boyhood, and thepassing years had intensified their friendship, which had extended totheir families. Until this great sorrow had fallen upon Sheila, hardlya day passed without the two girls getting a glimpse of each other.
The Rainhams were amongst the few friends who knew the true facts ofMonkton's disappearance. And, in almost morbid sensitiveness, Sheilahad withdrawn a little from them. Even sympathy hurt her at such atime.
But the sudden arrival of this photo of the young Society beauty broughtold memories of friendship and affection. They had played together aschildren; they had told their girlish secrets to each other, and itstruck her that she had been wrong, and a little unkind, in withdrawingherself from the sympathy of those who were so interested in herwelfare.
Gladys, no doubt, had been hurt by this attitude. She had written nonote, she had not even signed the photograph. She had just sent it torecall herself to her old friend and companion. It had been sent assignal that if Sheila chose to make the smallest advance, the oldrelations would be at once re-established.
On the spur of the moment, she wrote a warm and impulsive note, beggingGladys to come and lunch with her that day.
"Forgive me for my long silence and absorption," she concluded. "But Iknow you will understand what I have lately suffered."
She sent the note round to Eaton Square by her maid, with instructionsto wait for an answer. It came, and Sheila's face flushed with pleasureas she read it.
"I quite understand, and I have nothing to forgive," wrote thewarm-hearted girl. "But it will be heavenly to see you again and talktogether as we used."
She came round half-an-hour before lunch-time, and the pair reunited,kissed, and clung together, and cried a little, after the manner ofwomen. Then Sheila thanked her for the present of the photo, which, shedeclared, did not make her look half as beautiful as she was.
Gladys looked puzzled. "But I never sent any photo to you, Sheila!Which one is it? Let me see it."
Sheila handed it to her friend, who exclaimed, after examining it: "Itis the one they took of me at the Grandcourt House Bazaar; I think it isquite a good one. But, Sheila darling, if I had sent it to you I shouldhave written a note, at least have signed it. All this is strange--verystrange! What does it mean?"
Miss Monkton coloured a little as she answered:
"Yes, I did think it strange that you did not write. I thought it sofar as I am capable of thinking. But I know I have been very difficultlately, and I fancied perhaps you didn't want to make advances, and thatyou just sent that as a reminder of old times, trusting to me torespond."
Lady Gladys kissed her warmly. "Ah! you poor darling, I quite see," shesaid. "But who could have sent it? That is the puzzle."
They both discussed it, at intervals, at table, and could arrive at nosolution. When Lady Gladys had left, Sheila puzzled over it all byherself, with no better result. Then, at last, weary of thinking, shetelephoned to Wingate.
Austin, who was in his office, agreed that the thing was verymysterious, and that he was as much mystified as she was. He ended thebrief conversation by advising her to go to Smeaton.
"Our brains are no good at this sort of thing," he said candidly. "Theatmosphere of mystery seems to suit them at Scotland Yard--they breatheit every day."
She drove at once to Scotland Yard, where they knew her well by now.Smeaton was disengaged, and she was taken to his room at once.
"Any news. Miss Monkton?" he asked eagerly. "Has that young womancalled?"
The girl shook her head. "No, I waited in all day yesterday, but to nopurpose. Now another strange thing has happened," and she told himbriefly of the receipt of the photograph from some unknown person.
"You didn't look at the envelope, I suppose?"
"No, Mr Smeaton. I hardly ever do look at envelopes. I threw it awaywith the rest. It would have given you a clue, of course."
"It might," returned Smeaton, who was nothing if not cautious. Heruminated for a few moments, and then said, abruptly, "You have broughtit with you?"
Sheila, who had taken that precaution, handed it to him. He turned itover, peering at it in that slow, deliberate fashion of a man whoexamines with the microscopic detail everything submitted to him.
"Taken, I see, by the well-known firm of Kester and Treeton in DoverStreet. Well, somebody ordered it, so we've got to find out who thatsomebody was. I will go to them at once, and let you know the result indue course."
Sheila looked at him eagerly. She had great faith in him, although sofar he had had nothing but failure to report.
"Have you formed any opinion about it?" she asked timidly.
Smeaton smiled grimly, but he answered her very kindly.
"My dear Miss Monkton, I have formed many theories about your
father'sdisappearance, and, alas! they have all been wrong. I am leaning todistrust my own judgment. I will say no more than this. This curiousincident may end as everything else has done, but I think it is worthfollowing up. I will put you into your car, and go on to thephotographers."
"Let me drive you there, and wait," urged Sheila eagerly. "I shall knowthe result so much quicker."
The photographers in Dover Street had palatial premises. Smeaton wasushered from one apartment to another, till he reached the privatesanctum of the head of the firm, where he produced his card, andexplained his errand.
Mr Kester was very obliging; he would do all he could to help, and itwould only be a matter of a few moments. They kept a record of everytransaction, and in all probability this was quite a recent one.
He returned very shortly. It seemed that a young
The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery Page 35