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

by William Le Queux

you'd think each momentwould be his last. I made him sit down, and he's trying to recoverhimself and get his breath."

  Smeaton sprang up. It was with difficulty he could retain his officialcalm. This plucky old man had not made the journey up to town fornothing. He had remembered something, or discovered something.

  "That's right. Baker," he said. "Give him time, and when he is ready,show him in."

  It was a full five minutes before Millington was in a fit state topresent himself. At last he entered, still husky of voice, but with abeaming aspect.

  Smeaton greeted him cordially. "Mr Millington, this is indeed good ofyou. But why did you distress yourself with the journey? If you hadsent me a wire, I would have run down to you," he said.

  "I owe you some amends, sir, for my failure yesterday. And besides, alittle jaunt does me good."

  He smiled cheerfully, evidently wishing to convey that, at his time oflife, an excursion up to London was a tonic.

  "Again many thanks," cried the grateful Smeaton. "Well, you came to seeme, because you have remembered something--or found something fresh--eh?"

  The old man spoke earnestly.

  "All day after you left, sir, I was wild with myself to think what auseless old cumber-ground I was; me that used to have such a goodmemory, too. I thought and thought again, hoping that something wouldcome back from that twenty or twenty-five years ago."

  "There was no need to distress yourself," said Smeaton kindly.

  "And then in a flash I remembered another box in which I had stuffed alot of odd papers. Well, sir, I opened that box, went over those papersone by one, and this is what I found."

  He held out in his shaking hand an old letter. Smeaton took it fromhim.

  "Before you read it, Mr Smeaton, I must explain that this gentlemanalways treated me in a very friendly way. We were both very fond ofheraldry, and he used often to come to my shop and chat over our hobby.That accounts for the familiar way in which he addresses me."

  This is what Smeaton read:

  "Dear Mr Millington,--I enclose you a cheque for the last work you didfor me, which is as satisfactory as ever. It will be news to you thatmy company, the Compagnia Corezzo, is about to go into voluntaryliquidation. I have accepted the position of manager of a big firm inManchester, and shall take up my new post in the course of a few weeks.If I can possibly find time between now and then, I shall run in to saygood-bye.

  "I may have an opportunity of putting further work in your way. If thatopportunity arises, I shall have the greatest pleasure in availingmyself of it. I am afraid I shall not come across anybody who takessuch a keen interest in my favourite hobby.--Yours truly, James Whyman."

  Over Smeaton's face came a glow of satisfaction. He had got the name hewanted. Was he on the right track at last? He took the threateningletter out of his pocket, and compared the handwritings.

  But here disappointment awaited him. They were totally dissimilar.Whyman wrote a small and niggling hand, the hand of a mean man. Theother calligraphy was large, bold and free.

  One thing was clear: James Whyman was not the writer of the threateningletter. That letter had been put in an envelope which belonged to theCompagnia Corezzo. Mr Whyman was, at that period, connected with thatcompany, and the man who had given instructions for the cutting of thecipher. A visit to Manchester was the next item on the programme.

  "It all came back to me with that letter," remarked the old manpresently. "I can see him standing in my shop, as if it were yesterday,quite a young man, not a day over thirty, I should say; very fussy, veryprecise, and always beating you down to the last farthing. But verypleasant withal."

  He was thirty at that time; he would, then, be in the 'fifties now,reasoned Smeaton. The odds therefore were that Mr James Whyman wasstill in the land of the living.

  "Mr Millington, you have helped me very much," said the detective, asthe old gentleman rose to go. "Now, in your state of health I am notgoing to allow you to fatigue yourself by catching 'buses and trains. Ishall get a taxi here, and it will drive you straight to LowerHalliford, at my expense."

  Poor Millington's frugal soul cried out aloud at such wantonexpenditure, but he was overborne by Smeaton. He departed in thevehicle, beaming with the sense of his own importance, and consciousthat he was still of some use in the world.

  The evening of that same day found the detective at the Queen's Hotel,Manchester. It was pleasant to him to find that his investigationsproduced a speedy result. Mr Whyman was a well-known citizen, so thehead-waiter informed him. He had been first manager and then directorof one of the largest businesses there. Two years ago he had retiredfrom active participation in the concern, and had, he believed, taken abig house at Southport. He was a widower with two children. The sonhad a post in Hong-Kong. The daughter had married and was living inCheshire.

  The waiter added that he was popular, and highly respected by all whoknew him, perhaps a bit close-fisted, and hard at a bargain. Since hisretirement he was often a visitor at the Hotel.

  The next morning Smeaton, having found Mr Whyman's address in thetelephone directory, rang him up. He announced his name and profession,explaining that some documents had me into his possession which he wouldlike to submit for inspection. Might he take the liberty of coming overto Southport during the day at some hour convenient to himself?

  Mr Whyman's reply was given cordially and unhesitatingly. "Withpleasure, Mr Smeaton. Shall we say five o'clock? I am afraid I cannotmake it earlier, as I have got a very full day in front of me. I amretired from business in a sense, but I am still interested in a lot ofthings that require personal attention."

  At five o'clock to the minute Smeaton was at the fine house of MrWhyman, near the end of the Esplanade at Southport, commanding asplendid view of the Welsh and Cumberland hills. It was evident thatMr Whyman had prospered in a worldly sense. The house was an imposingone. A butler opened the door, and ushered him into the morning-room, asquare, lofty apartment, solidly and handsomely furnished.

  A moment later the owner entered. He was a tall, finely-built man, withregular, handsome features.

  Smeaton regarded him closely as they shook hands. There was an obviousfrankness and geniality about his manner that fully accounted, for hisgeneral popularity. The face was honest, its expression open. His eyesmet yours unwaveringly.

  And yet this was the man who, according to the dead man, GiovanniRoselli, had been the perpetrator of a great wrong to some person orpersons unknown. Well, Smeaton had too vast an experience to trustovermuch to outside appearances. Still, he had never seen anybody wholooked less like a rogue than Mr James Whyman, as he stood smiling athim with the most cordial expression in his clear blue eyes.

  If he was, or had been at some period of his career, a rogue. Naturehad taken the greatest pains to disarm the suspicions of those on whomhe practised his rascality.

  Whyman pointed to the table, on which were laid glasses, a decanter ofwhisky, soda-water, and cigars.

  "Let me offer you some refreshment after your journey. You smoke?Good. I think you will like those cigars. Let me help you. Now, sir,sit down, and we will get at once to the matter which brings you here."

  Smeaton produced the envelope, and handed it to his genial host. "Ithink you will recognise those entwined letters, Mr Whyman. I may tellyou that I traced the man who cut them--a man named Millington."

  Whyman interrupted him in his brisk, bluff way, and there was not ashade of embarrassment in voice or manner:

  "Ah, my dear old friend Millington! Why, he must be quite ancient bynow, for he wasn't a chicken when I knew him."

  "A very old man, and his memory is treacherous. At first he couldremember very little. But later on he found a letter from you whichbrought it all back to him. I was then able to establish the two thingsI wanted: your own name, and the name of the Italian company yourepresented."

  Whyman turned the envelope in his hand, after having cast a glance atthe cipher. The
candid blue eyes regarded the detective steadily as hespoke.

  "Yes, that die was cut by my instructions, certainly. Now, in what waycan I assist you, Mr Smeaton, beyond confirming that fact?"

  Smeaton passed him the threatening letter. "There is no question theenvelope came out of your office. Now, do you recognise thishandwriting?"

  The other man read it carefully, and then passed it back, without atrace of confusion.

  "I am certain that I have never seen that handwriting before. How theenvelope was obtained I cannot pretend to guess. Hundreds of people, ofcourse, were in and out of my office during the time I was with thecompany."

  "I presume you had several clerks in your employ?"

  Mr Whyman smiled. "Quite the opposite. It was a small and strugglingconcern, unprosperous from the start. I only had three assistants atthe