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

by William Le Queux

That is quite true." Sheila laughed, instantly grasping hismeaning. "Mr Wingate did not happen to be here. When father has apolitical dinner no ladies are invited. Some of those dinners arehorribly boring, I can assure you," declared the girl.

  "Their eternal discussion of this measure and the other measure, and--oh! how they all intrigue, one Party against the other! Do you knowthat I've sat here and heard some most remarkable schemes."

  "Secrets, I suppose?" remarked Austin, twisting the stem of his windlassbetween his fingers.

  "Yes--I've heard them discuss what they call matters of policy which, tome, appear merely to be the most ingenious methods of gulling thepublic."

  "Ah! my dear Miss Monkton, few politicians are so straight and open asyour father. That is why the Opposition are so deadly in fear of him.His speech last week regarding the recent trouble in the Malay Stateswas an eye-opener. He lifted the veil from a very disconcerting stateof affairs, much to the chagrin and annoyance of those to whoseadvantage it was to hush-up the matter."

  "That is what father is always saying," declared Sheila. "He oftensighs when going through despatches which the messengers bring, andexclaims aloud `Ah! if the public only knew!--if they only knew! Whatwould they think--what would they say?'"

  "Then something is being concealed from the nation?" Austin remarked.

  "Something!" echoed the girl. "Why, a very great deal. Of that I amquite certain."

  "You know nothing of its nature?" asked her friend Cicely, with herwoman's eagerness to inquire.

  "Of course not, dear. Father never confides any secrets to me," shereplied. "He always says that women gossip too much, and that it isthrough the chattering wives of Members of the House, whom he calls thejays, that much mischief is done."

  "The jays!" laughed Sir Pemberton. "Very good! I suppose he has giventhem that name because of their fine feathers. Personally I shall beglad to get to Dinard out of it all for a while."

  "We always enjoy Dinard, Sheila," declared his wife. "You really mustget your father to bring you to the Royal this summer. We shall bethere all the season. We sent the car over a week ago."

  Cicely, or Lady Wheeler to give her her title, was a giddy little womanwho, after being a confirmed flirt and known in Mayfair as one of itsprettiest butterflies, had married a man more than double her age, forWheeler was fifty, interested in spinning-mills in Yorkshire, and sat inParliament for the constituency in which his mills were situated. Atthe last moment she had jilted young Stenhouse, of the Grenadier Guards,for the more alluring prospect of Wheeler's title and his money. Hencethe _Morning Post_ had one day announced to the world that her marriagewith the good-looking young Captain would "not take place," and a weeklater her photograph had appeared as the future Lady Wheeler.

  She had joined that large circle of London society who are what is knownin their own particular jargon as "spooky." She attended seances,consulted mediums, and believed in the statements of those who pretendedto have made psychic discoveries. Yet Sheila, who was far toolevel-headed to follow London's latest craze, was devoted to her, andhad been ever since they studied together at that fashionable schoolnear Beachy Head.

  "I spoke to father to-day about a little trip across to you," Sheilareplied, "and he thinks he may be able to do it when the House is up."

  "That's good," declared Sir Pemberton in his plethoric voice. "Get himto bring his car over too, and we'll have a tour together throughBrittany and down to Nantes and the Touraine."

  "I'd love to see the old chateaux there," Sheila declared. "There's abig illustrated book about them in the library--Blois, Chenonceaux,Chinon, Loches, and the rest."

  "Well, your father certainly requires a rest after all the stress ofthis session."

  "Certainly he does," declared Cicely. "Get round dear old Macalister,the doctor, to order him a rest and suggest a motor-tour as relaxation."

  "Besides, it always delights the public to know that a Cabinet Ministerhas gone away on holiday. It shows that he is overworked in theinterests of the nation," laughed Austin, who was nothing if notmatter-of-fact.

  At last, the dinner having ended, Sheila and Cicely rose and left themen, after which Grant sedately served them with coffee, two glasses oftriple-sec, and cigarettes.

  For ten minutes or so they gossiped, after which they rejoined theladies in the long, old-fashioned drawing-room upstairs.

  At Wheeler's suggestion Sheila went to the piano and sang one of thosegay chansons of the Paris cafes which she had so often sung at charityconcerts. She had begun to learn French at eight years of age, andafter her school at Eastbourne had been at Neuilly for three yearsbefore coming out.

  She chose "Mon p'tit Poylt," that gay song to which Lasaigues hadwritten the music and which was at the moment being sung at half thecafe concerts in France. Playing her own accompaniment in almost theprofessional style of the entertainer, she began to sing the merrytuneful song, with its catchy refrain:

  "On s'aimait, on n'etait pas rosse. On s'frolait gentiment l'museau; On rigolait comme des gosses. On s'becotait comm' des moineaux."

  The trio listening laughed merrily, for she played and sang with all theverve of a Parisian chanteuse. Besides, both music and words were fullof a gay abandon which was quite unexpected, and which charmed youngWingate, who knew that, though the Cabinet Minister held him in highesteem as a friend, yet to marry Sheila was entirely out of thequestion. He realised always that he was a mere designer of aeroplanes,"a glorified motor-mechanic" some jealous enemies had declared him tobe. How could he ever aspire to the hand of "Monkton's daughter?"

  Level-headed and calm as he always was, he had from the first realisedhis position and retained it. Mr Monkton had admitted him to hisfriendship, and though always extremely polite and courteous to Sheila,he remained just a friend of her father.

  At last she concluded, and, rising, made a mock bow to her threelisteners, all of whom congratulated her, the mill-owner declaring:

  "You really ought to give a turn at the Palace Theatre, Sheila! I'veheard lots of worse songs there!"

  "`Tiny Tentoes, the Cabinet Minister's daughter' would certainly be agood draw!" declared Cicely.

  "Oh! well, I know you all like French songs, so I sang it. That's all,"answered their sprightly young hostess. "But look! it's past eleven,and father said he would be back before ten to see you before you left.I'll telephone to the House."

  And she descended to the small library on the ground floor, where shequickly "got on" to the House of Commons.

  When she re-entered the drawing-room she exclaimed:

  "He left the House more than an hour ago. I wonder where he is? Heought to have been back long before this."

  Then at her guests' request she sang another French chanson--which,through the half-open window, could have been heard out in CurzonStreet--greatly to the delight of the little party.

  At last, just before midnight. Cicely, pleading that they had to leaveby the Continental mail early next morning, excused herself and herhusband, and left in a taxi, for which Grant had whistled, after whichSheila and Austin found themselves alone.

  When two people of the opposite sex, and kindred spirits as they were,find themselves alone the usual thing happens. It did in their case.While Sheila looked over her music, in response to Austin's request tosing another song while awaiting the return of her father, their handstouched. He grasped hers and gazed straight into her face.

  In those hazel eyes he saw that love-look--that one expression which nowoman can ever disguise, or make pretence; that look which most menknow. It is seldom in their lives they see it, and when once it isobserved it is never forgotten, even though the man may live to be agrandfather.

  At that instant of the unconscious contact of the hands, sowell-remembered afterwards by both of them, Sheila flushed, withdrew herhand forcibly, and rose, exclaiming with pretended resentment:

  "Don't, Austin--please."

  Meanwhile there had been what the newspa
pers term a "scene" in the Houseof Commons that evening. An important debate had taken place upon thepolicy of the Imperial Government towards Canada, a policy which theOpposition had severely criticised in an attempt to belittle thesplendid statesmanship of the Colonial Secretary, who, having beenabsent during greater part of the debate, entered and took his seat justas it was concluding.

  At last, before a crowded House, Reginald Monkton, who, his friendsnoticed, was looking unusually pale and worn, rose and replied in one ofthose brief, well-modulated, but caustic speeches of his in which heturned the arguments of the Opposition against themselves. He