London branch: an elderly man, and two juniors. I should recognisethe writing of any one of those if it were put before me."
Was he speaking the truth or not? Was he honestly puzzled as heappeared, or shielding the writer of that threatening epistle with hisassumption of ignorance? Smeaton could not be sure. The only evidencehe possessed as to character was that furnished by the deathbedrevelations of Roselli, and that was unfavourable.
He resolved to try a random shot. "I think at one time you wereacquainted with a man of the name of Giovanni Roselli, an Italian."
The shot went home. There was a flicker in the steady blue eyes, thevoice had lost its bluff and genial ring. He spoke hesitatingly,picking his words.
"Ah, yes. Many years ago I knew a fellow named Roselli, in Turin--notvery intimately; we did a little deal in marble together on oneoccasion. What do you know about him?"
Smeaton shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Not much. In our businesswe come across many little things that we have not set out to find, butwhich emerge from greater issues. However, I did not come here to talkabout this foreigner, but in the hope that you might be able to help mewith that letter."
When Whyman spoke again all traces of his momentary embarrassment hadpassed.
"I am only too sorry that I cannot. I should say that envelope musthave been stolen from my office."
"Very likely," said Smeaton quietly. Then he rose to go.
Whyman at once became effusively hospitable. "I wish you would dine andstay the night with me. I should be most delighted to have a good longchat with you, especially if you could tell me some of your experienceswhich are no longer secrets. To-morrow, perhaps, I could take you for aspin in the country in my car."
Smeaton hesitated. Why did this man, whom he suspected of being a rogueunder all this genial veneer, suddenly develop such a partiality for thesociety of an utter stranger? Did he want to pump him as to what heknew concerning Roselli, whom of course, he did not know was dead?
He decided he would stay. If it came to pumping, Smeaton flatteredhimself he would prove the better of the two at that particular game.He might even make Whyman betray himself in an unguarded moment.
They spent quite a pleasant time together. Smeaton was shown over thehouse and grounds. The dinner was good, the wines and cigars excellent.The detective entertained his host with reminiscences of work at "theYard" that involved no indiscretion. They sat up chatting till pastmidnight. But the name of Roselli was not mentioned again on eitherside.
"Good-night, Mr Smeaton, good-night. I have enjoyed your companyimmensely. Breakfast at half-past nine--eh?"
He might be a rogue at bottom, and his wealth might not have beenacquired honestly, but he was a very pleasant one. And as a host he wasbeyond reproach.
When Smeaton entered the dining-room the next morning, the butler waswaiting for him with a letter in his hand.
"Mr Whyman was called away early this morning, sir. He has left thisnote for you."
"Dear Mr Smeaton," ran the brief epistle. "A thousand apologies fortreating you in this discourteous fashion. I received a letter just nowcalling me abroad on urgent business that brooks no delay. I may beabsent some few weeks. Trusting we shall meet again--Yours sincerely,James Whyman."
Smeaton was too accustomed to surprises to exhibit any emotion. He satdown and ate an ample breakfast, and cogitated over the sudden departureof his host.
The one obvious fact was that Whyman had flown. He need not waste timeover that. The important thing remained: what was the reason of hishurried flight?
Before he left the room Smeaton crossed over to a writing-desk in thewindow, and peered into the waste-paper basket at the side. A forlornhope--it was empty. A torn-up envelope might have revealed thepostmark.
But Mr Whyman was evidently too old a bird to leave anything behind himthat would enlighten one of the keenest detectives in England.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
STILL ANOTHER CLUB.
"Now that we are alone, sir, permit me to present myself in proper form.My name is Caleb Boyle, profession gentleman, educated at that gloriousold school, Winchester, and graduate of Trinity College. Cambridge."
Mr Boyle made a low bow as he completed his self-introduction, whichtook place in Smeaton's room at Scotland Yard. He was full of gesture,employing a pantomime of arms, hands and face to accentuate his remarks.
Smeaton bowed, pointed to a chair, and examined him with minuteattention. He was a tall, angular man, thin almost to emaciation.Judging by his figure, you might have put him at forty, but the lines onhis face suggested another ten or fifteen years.
"I intended no discourtesy to you personally when I declined to give mycard to your satellites or subordinates, or whatever name you give tothe hangers-on of a great man."
Here the fluent Mr Boyle made another of his grotesque bows to lendpoint to the compliment, and again Smeaton inclined his head politely.He had not as yet quite taken his bearings with regard to thisextraordinary creature.
"To such persons, Mr Smeaton, I do not take the trouble to reveal myidentity; it would be a waste of time. It is my invariable practice togo straight to the fountain-head when I have anything of importance tocommunicate." Here Mr Boyle swelled out his chest, and said in a voiceof intense conviction: "I have no toleration for whipper-snappers, andthose, sir, are what one finds, spreading like a fungus, in everydepartment of our public life."
It seemed to the police official's well-balanced mind that his visitorwas a pompous ass, with a slight suspicion of insanity thrown in. Hewas not a man to suffer fools gladly, but this particular fool hadcalled on him for some purpose, and he must exercise patience till thepurpose was revealed.
He must bear with him and coax him. For he felt intuitively that Boylewas one of those men who take a long time in coming to the point.
"We are always happy to receive information here," he said courteously."You will understand that I am a very busy man."
If he thought such a direct hint would arrest the flow of his visitor'sfatal fluency, he was grievously mistaken. Boyle raised an arrestinghand, and indulged in some more contortions of arms and hands.
"I recognise the fact, sir, I fully recognise it. A man in yourresponsible position must find the working hours all too short for whatyou have to do. You bear upon your shoulders, capable as they are, theweight of Atlas, if I may say so."
Smeaton had to smile, in spite of himself, at the fanciful imagery."Not quite so bad as that, Mr Boyle. But a lot has to be got into alimited time, and therefore--"
But his sentence was not allowed to finish. "Say no more, sir, on thathead. I can understand that the time of a valuable official is not tobe wasted; in short, that you wish me to come to the point."
Smeaton nodded his head vigorously. Perhaps there was some remnant ofcommon-sense in the creature after all.
Mr Boyle gracefully threw one leg over the other, bestowed upon thedetective an affable but somewhat mechanical smile, and resumed hisdiscourse.
"Before coming to the reason of my visit, I must trouble you with a fewdetails of my family history, in order that you may know something ofthe person you are dealing with. I promise you I shall not be prolix."
Smeaton groaned inwardly, but he knew he was helpless. As well try tostop a cataract in full flood as arrest the resistless flow of MrBoyle's glib fluency.
"I may tell you I am something of an athlete. I played two years in theWinchester Eleven. I rowed in my College boat. If I had stopped on ayear longer I should have rowed for the `Varsity.'"
He paused, probably to ascertain the effect produced upon his listenerby these deeds of prowess. Smeaton exhorted him to proceed, in a faintvoice.
"Enough of those early days, when the youthful blood ran in one's veinslike some potent wine. Manhood succeeded the school and college days.I am telling you all this because, as you will perceive presently, ithas some bearing upon my visit to you."
He paused again, to ma
rk the effect of his glowing periods. And againSmeaton, in a voice grown fainter, bade him get on with his story.
Suddenly the weird visitor rose, stretched himself to his full height,and with a dramatic gesture pointed a long, lean finger at the harasseddetective. His voice rose and fell with the fervour of his pent-upfeelings.
"The man you look upon to-day is only the shadow of what he was in hisearly prime. The name of Caleb Boyle was well-known about town, in thebusy haunts of men. I have sat at great men's tables, I have partakenof delicate fare, I have quaffed rare wines, fair ladies have favouredme with their smiles."
He paused for a moment, dropped the pointing hand, and sat down again onhis chair, seemingly overcome with his own rhetoric. Smeaton regardedhim steadily, uncertain as to what new form his eccentricity would take,but spoke no word.
In a few seconds he had recovered himself, and smiled wanly at
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