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

by William Le Queux

describe this visitor to me?" asked Smeaton.

  "A tall, bearded man, who walked with a limp, and looked like aforeigner. He told me he was his brother. I remarked once how unlikethey were, and he smiled and said he took after his mother, and theother after his father. Once he told me that Charlton was not hisproper name, that he had taken it for the sake of property."

  A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all thoseyears there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and thissimple woman could do him no harm.

  The landlady went on with her narrative.

  "As I told you, sir, he got worse and worse, and Doctor Mayhew, wholives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It musthave cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, justbefore the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother--it was a longforeign name, and I can't remember it."

  "Bolinski," suggested Smeaton.

  The woman looked puzzled. "Very likely, sir; I know it began with a B.Next day the brother came down, and stayed with him till he died, amatter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give thecertificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember hiswords: `The name of Charlton was assumed, doctor. On the certificate wewill have the real one. It doesn't matter now. It was assumed forreasons I do not wish to explain, and they would not interest you.'"

  "When did he die?" asked Smeaton eagerly.

  "A little over two years ago, sir, this very month."

  Then, as the detective rose, she added: "If you would like to step roundto Doctor Mayhew's he is sure to be in at this time. He could give youfull particulars of the end."

  "Thanks," said Smeaton absently, as he bade her good-day.

  There was no need to visit the doctor. The woman's tale had been simpleand convincing.

  What he knew for a certainty was that Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy,alias Charlton, the writer of the threatening letter, had died more thantwo years before Reginald Monkton's disappearance.

  Was Reginald Monkton dead, or still alive?

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

  WHICH MAKES ONE FACT PLAIN.

  Mr Johnson felt a pleasurable sense of elation when he embarked on themission assigned him by his chief. If he could discover anything thatwould help to elucidate or solve what was known amongst the select fewas "the Monkton Mystery," rapid promotion was assured.

  Smeaton was not a jealous man, and besides, if Johnson did score asuccess, it was his senior who had given him the materials to work upon.

  Still, although pleasantly elated, he did not disguise from himself thedifficulties of his task. He had to find out where Lady Wrenwyck washiding--she was hiding, of course, or her whereabouts would have beenknown to her household. And he did not know the woman by sight.

  He grappled with the smaller difficulty first, when he met his cousinthe footman, at their usual meeting-place.

  "Any chance of getting a peep at a photograph of her ladyship?" heasked. He had told Willet, such was his name, as much as it was goodfor him to know, and no more.

  "I'm very friendly with several of the Wrenwyck lot," was Willet'sreply. "I daresay I could smuggle one out for you for half-an-hour, butit's exciting suspicion, isn't it? And I suppose you don't want to taketoo many people into your confidence?"

  Johnson agreed with this sentiment emphatically. He could swallow anyamount of confidence himself, but he hated reciprocity. Heareverything, and tell nothing, or, at the worst, as little as you can.That was his motto.

  "It would lead to gossip, and we should have to fudge up some tale orother, Dick. We'll let it alone for the present, and only use it as alast resource."

  Mr Willet reflected, and then he remembered. "Look here. I've justthought of the very thing! I've a lot of old illustrated newspapers byme. Not very long ago there was a full-page portrait of her, in fancydress at the Devonshire House ball--Queen of Sheba or something. It's asplendid likeness. If you once see it, you'd pick her out from athousand. Stay here for ten minutes, and I'll hunt it out and bring itround."

  Willet was as good as his word. In a little over the time he hadstated, the portrait was in Johnson's hands, and carefully scrutinised.In the words of his cousin, wherever he met Lady Wrenwyck he would "pickher out of a thousand."

  That little difficulty was solved without any loss of time. Theimportant one remained: where was she at the present moment?

  On this point Willet could give no information. Her maid had packed herboxes, and they had started off one afternoon when her husband wasabsent, without a hint of their destination from either of them.

  "Doesn't Lord Wrenwyck know? Surely she must have given him someinformation, even if it was misleading."

  "I doubt if Wrenwyck knows any more than we do," replied Willet,alluding to this highly-descended peer with the easy familiarity of hisclass. "She's disappeared half-a-dozen times since her marriage in thisway, and come back when it suited her, just as if nothing had happened."

  "A rum household," observed Johnson, who was not so used to high-classways as his cousin. "But you told me that she had no money when shemarried him. You can't travel about for weeks on nothing. What doesshe do for cash on these jaunts?"

  Mr Willet shrugged his shoulders. "Not so difficult as you think. Theold man made a handsome settlement on her, and I suppose she times herjourneys when she's got plenty in hand, and comes back when she's broke.Besides, her bank would let her overdraw, if she wrote to them."

  "You're right, I didn't think of that. Her bankers have got her addressright enough, and, of course, they wouldn't give it. They would forwarda letter though, if one could write one that would draw her."

  There was a pause after this. Johnson was pondering as to how it waspossible to utilise her bankers--somebody in the household would be sureto know who they were. Willet was pondering too, and, as it appeared,to some purpose.

  "Look here, you haven't told me too much, and I don't blame you either,under the circumstances, but I see you want to get on her track. I'vean idea I'll tell you."

  "You're full of 'em," said Johnson appreciatively.

  "You may take my word for it, nobody at the Wrenwyck house knows;anyway, nobody I can get hold of. Now, she's got a bosom friend, a MrsAdair, rather rapid like herself, and married to just such anothergrumpy, half-cracked old chap as Wrenwyck himself."

  "I didn't know he was half-cracked," interposed Johnson, who nevermissed the smallest piece of information.

  "They all say he is. Wheeler, his valet, tells me he has frightful fitsof rage, and after they are over, sits growling and gnashing his teeth--most of 'em false, by the way."

  Mr Willet paused for a moment to accept his cousin's offer of anotherdrink, and then resumed.

  "I don't want to raise your hopes too high, old man. If she's on thestrict q.t. it's long odds she won't let a soul know where she is. Butif she has told anybody, it's Mrs Adair, who, if necessary, would helpher with money if she's short. They've been bosom friends for years;when in town they see each other every day."

  Johnson nodded his head judiciously. "It's an even chance that MrsAdair knows, if everybody else is in the dark. But how the devil are weto get at Mrs Adair? If we could, she wouldn't give her away."

  Mr Willet grinned triumphantly. "Of course not, I see that as well asyou do; I'm not a juggins. Now this is just where I come in to help thegreat London detective."

  "You are priceless, Dick," murmured Mr Johnson in a voice of unfeignedadmiration.

  "Mrs Adair's maid is a girl I've long had a sneaking regard for. But Ihad to lie low because she was keeping company with an infernal rotter,who she thought was everything her fancy painted. Two months ago, shefound him out, and gave him the chuck. Then I stepped in. We're notformally engaged as yet, but I think she's made up her mind she might doworse. It's a little early yet. I'm taking her out to-morrow night.I'll pump her and see if Mrs Adair receives any letters from LadyWrenwyck. My young woman knows the
handwriting, and the postmark willtell you what you want--eh?"

  Johnson again expressed his admiration of his cousin's resource,suggested a little _douceur_ for his trouble, and gallantly invited himand his sweetheart to take a bit of dinner with him.

  But Willet, who was of a jealous disposition, waved him sternly away."After marriage, if you like, my lad, not before. You're toogood-looking, and not old enough. Never introduce your young lady to apal. No offence, of course. You'd do the same in my place, or youhaven't got the headpiece I give you credit for."

  Johnson admitted meekly that in the