He had started his career as a money-lender, his operations, which were on a small scale, being confined chiefly to his compatriots. He next blossomed out, in conjunction with a couple of scoundrels of the same kidney, into a promoter of small and shady concerns. Success attended his efforts, and he then flew at higher game. But although he ama.s.sed money he was never connected with a single flourishing company. He made thousands out of his victims, but they never saw a penny of their money back until just at the end.

And at this point Smeaton came to the trial at which Monkton had appeared and obtained a verdict for the rest.i.tution of the sums acquired by fraudulent misrepresentation. Although only a civil action, the evidence against Bellamy was so damaging that a criminal prosecution was bound to follow.

This he himself recognised, with the result that within twenty-four hours after the verdict had been given he escaped from England under an a.s.sumed name.

Five years later he was convicted in America, and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment, under this a.s.sumed name. At the trial it was conclusively proved that he was the same man, Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, who had previously figured in the English Courts, and been driven from the pursuit of his nefarious occupation by the skill and eloquence of Monkton.

He was tracked through a series of wanderings in different countries, where no doubt he still pursued his profession of _chevalier d'industrie_, although he seemed during that period to have escaped the active interference of justice till about five years ago.

At that date he was living at a small village in Cornwall, either on his private means, or perhaps on money allowed him by his brother. Against this brother, so far as his commercial career was concerned, nothing of a suspicious nature was known.

Here Smeaton came to a _cul-de-sac_. At that date Ivan Bolinski was living in this remote Cornish village, under the name of Charlton.

Twenty years or so had elapsed since, in a moment of burning hatred, he had penned that threatening letter to the man who had brought to an abrupt close his nefarious career in this country.

To that remote fishing hamlet went Smeaton. He found the quaint little house which had sheltered Bellamy; which he hoped still sheltered him.

The door was opened by an elderly woman.

"I have come to inquire about a man named Charlton who came to live here five years ago," he said, going to the point at once.

She was evidently an honest creature who knew nothing of what was going on in the big world outside her little corner of earth.

"Please come in, sir. A gentleman of that name came to lodge here about that time."

She led him into the tiny parlour, and asked him to be seated. At Smeaton's request she told him all about her lodger.

"He was in very poor health, sir, when he came here, and he seemed to gradually get worse. He was a very quiet gentleman; spent most of his time reading. When he first came he took long walks, but latterly he had to give these up. He lived a most solitary life, hardly ever wrote or received a letter, and had only one visitor, who came from London to see him occasionally."

"Can you describe this visitor to me?" asked Smeaton.

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

A somewhat indiscreet admission, thought Smeaton. But after all those years there was little to fear. He had been forgotten by now, and this simple 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, who lives a little way beyond the village, was always in and out. It must have cost a small fortune, that long illness. Then one night, just before the end, he sent me with a telegram to his brother--it was a long foreign 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, a matter of a week. I remember when the doctor was going to give the certificate he told him the right name to put on it. I remember his words: `The name of Charlton was a.s.sumed, doctor. On the certificate we will have the real one. It doesn't matter now. It was a.s.sumed for reasons 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 round to Doctor Mayhew's he is sure to be in at this time. He could give you full 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 simple and convincing.

What he knew for a certainty was that Ivan Bolinski, alias Bellamy, alias Charlton, the writer of the threatening letter, had died more than two 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 the mission a.s.signed him by his chief. If he could discover anything that would help to elucidate or solve what was known amongst the select few as "the Monkton Mystery," rapid promotion was a.s.sured.

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

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

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

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

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

Johnson agreed with this sentiment emphatically. He could swallow any amount of confidence himself, but he hated reciprocity. Hear everything, 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 or other, d.i.c.k. We'll let it alone for the present, and only use it as a last resource."

Mr Willet reflected, and then he remembered. "Look here. I've just thought of the very thing! I've a lot of old ill.u.s.trated newspapers by me. Not very long ago there was a full-page portrait of her, in fancy dress at the Devonshire House ball--Queen of Sheba or something. It's a splendid likeness. If you once see it, you'd pick her out from a thousand. Stay here for ten minutes, and I'll hunt it out and bring it round."

Willet was as good as his word. In a little over the time he had stated, the portrait was in Johnson's hands, and carefully scrutinised.

In the words of his cousin, wherever he met Lady Wrenwyck he would "pick her out of a thousand."

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

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

"Doesn't Lord Wrenwyck know? Surely she must have given him some information, 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 his cla.s.s. "She's disappeared half-a-dozen times since her marriage in this way, 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-cla.s.s ways as his cousin. "But you told me that she had no money when she married him. You can't travel about for weeks on nothing. What does she do for cash on these jaunts?"

Mr Willet shrugged his shoulders. "Not so difficult as you think. The old man made a handsome settlement on her, and I suppose she times her journeys 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 address right enough, and, of course, they wouldn't give it. They would forward a letter though, if one could write one that would draw her."

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