Her scornful tone braced the detective, and dispelled his momentary embarra.s.sment.

"Who then is Mr Williams?" he asked doggedly.

"Oh, you know that, do you?--you seem full of useless knowledge. Mr Williams, an a.s.sumed name like my own, is my youngest and favourite brother. There is a tragic family history which I shall not tell you.

It suffices to say I am the only member of his family who has not severed relations with him. He is very ill. I am here to nurse him back to health and strength."

Johnson looked dubious. She spoke with the ring of truth, but these women of the world could be consummate actresses when they chose.

She rose from her chair, a smile half contemptuous half amused upon her charming face.

"You don't believe me. Wait a moment, and I will convince you."

She left the room, returning after a moment's absence.

"Follow me and see for yourself," she said coldly, and led the way into a bedroom adjoining the room in which they had been talking.

"Look here," she pointed to the bed. "He is asleep; I gave him a composing draught an hour ago."

Johnson looked. A man of about thirty-five, bearing a remarkable likeness to herself, was lying on his side, his hand supporting his head. The worn, drawn features spoke of pain and suffering from which, for the moment, he was relieved.

The detective stole from the room on tiptoe, followed by Lady Wrenwyck.

"You know Mr Monkton by sight, I presume? Have you seen enough? If so, I beg you to relieve me of your presence and your insulting suspicions." She pointed to the stairs with an imperious hand.

Johnson had never felt a bigger fool in his life--he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him.

"I humbly apologise," he faltered, and sneaked down the stairs, feeling like a whipped mongrel.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE MYSTERY OF THE MAID-SERVANT.

When Johnson reported himself to his chief at Scotland Yard he had in a great measure recovered his self-possession. He had only failure to his credit, but that was not his fault. He had followed up the clue given to him with exemplary speed. The weakness lay in the unsubstantial nature of the clue.

Smeaton listened to his recital, and made no caustic or petulant comment. He was a kindly man, and seldom reproached his subordinates, except for instances of sheer stupidity. He never inquired into their methods. Whether they obtained their results by luck or judgment was no concern of his, so long as the results were obtained.

"Sit down. Let us talk this over," he said genially. "It was a clue worth following, wasn't it?"

"Undoubtedly, sir," replied Johnson. "It was one of the few alternatives possible in such a case. I a.s.sure you, sir, I set out with high hopes."

"It's a failure, Johnson, but that's no fault of yours; you did all that could be expected. I have had my rebuff, too. I have tracked the writer of the threatening letter, only to find he died two years before Monkton's disappearance. That was a nasty knock also. And yet that was a good clue too--of the two, a trifle better perhaps than yours."

Detective-sergeant Johnson made no answer. Smeaton looked at him sharply. "You would say that was something to work on, wouldn't you?"

Johnson reflected a moment. When you are going to exalt your own intelligence at the expense of your superior's intellect, it demands diplomacy.

He spoke deferentially. "May I speak my mind plainly?" he asked.

"I desire perfect frankness." Smeaton was not a little man. He knew that elderly men, in spite of their experience, grow stale, and often lose their swiftness of thought. It was well to incline their ears to the rising generation.

"It was a clue worth following, sir, but personally I don't attach great importance to it."

"Give me your reasons, Johnson. I know you have an a.n.a.lytical turn of mind. I shall be delighted to hear them."

And Johnson gave his reasons. "This was a threatening letter. I daresay every big counsel receives them by the dozen. Now, let us construct for a moment the mentality of the writer; we will call him by his real name, Bolinski. A man of keen business instincts, or he would not have been the successful rogue he was. Naturally, therefore, a man of equable temperament."

"It was not the letter of a man of equable temperament," interposed Smeaton grimly.

"A temporary aberration," rejoined the scientific detective. "Even men of calm temperament get into uncontrollable rages occasionally. He wrote it at white heat, strung to momentary madness by the ruin that confronted him. That is understandable. What is _not_ understandable is that a man of that well-balanced mind should cherish rancour for a period of twenty-odd years."

"There is something in what you say, Johnson. I confess that you are more subtle than I am."

Johnson pursued his advantage. "After the lapse of twelve months, by which time he had probably found his feet again, he would recognise it, to use a phrase we both know well, sir, as `a fair cop.' He had defied the law; the law had got the better of him. He would take off his hat, and say to the law: `I give you best. You are the better man, and you won.'"

Smeaton regarded his subordinate with genuine admiration.

"I am not too old to learn, Johnson; you have taught me something to-night." He paused a moment, and added slowly: "You have taught me to distinguish the probable from the possible."

Johnson rose, feeling he had done well and impressed his sagacity upon his chief.

"I believe, sir, when you think it over you will admit that such a delayed scheme of vengeance would not be carried out, after the lapse of so many years, by a man of ordinary sanity. I admit it might be carried out by a lunatic, or a person half-demented, on the borderland--a man who had brooded over an ancient wrong till he became obsessed."

Smeaton nodded, in comprehension. His subordinate was developing unsuspected powers.

"Wait a moment, Johnson. We know certain things. We know Bolinski--who wrote the threatening letter--is out of it, so far as active partic.i.p.ation is concerned. Lady Wrenwyck is out of it. We know the two who put the dying man in the cab. We know about Farloe and Saxton.

We know about the Italian who died at Forest View. We know about the man Whyman, who invited me to stay the night, and disappeared before I was up next morning. You know all these things, everything that has taken place since I took up the case. You have thought it all over."

"I have thought it all over," replied Johnson, always deferential and always imperturbable.

"Don't go yet," said Smeaton. "Frankly, we seem to have come to a dead end. Have _you_ anything to suggest?"

Johnson's triumph was complete. That the great Smeaton should seek the advice of a lieutenant, except in the most casual and non-committal way, was a thing unprecedented.

But, following the example of other great men, he did not lose his head.

He spoke with his accustomed deliberation, his usual deference.

"The mystery, if it ever is solved, sir, will be solved at Forest View.

Keep a watch on that house, day and night." He emphasised the last word, and looked squarely at his chief.

Smeaton gave a sudden start. "You know Varney is watching it."

"A clever fellow, sir; relies upon intuition largely and has little patience with our slower methods. He watches it by day--well, no doubt--but he doesn't watch it by night. Many strange things happen when the sun has gone down."

Smeaton smiled a little uneasily. "You are relying on intuition now yourself, Johnson. But this conversation has given me food for thought.

I will carry out your suggestion. In the meantime understand that, in this last mission, you have done all that is possible. I shall send in a report to that effect."

Johnson withdrew, well pleased with the interview. He had greatly advanced himself in his chief's estimation and he had skilfully avoided wounding Smeaton's _amour propre_.

The day was fated to be one of unpleasant surprises. A few hours later Varney dashed into his room, in a state of great excitement.