Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Stolen StatesmanBeing the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery.By William Le QueuxPublished by Skeffington and Son Ltd, London.
The Stolen Statesman, by William Le Queux.
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________________________________________________________________________THE STOLEN STATESMAN, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CHAPTER ONE.
CONCERNING SHEILA MONKTON.
As the Right Honourable Reginald Monkton walked towards Charing Cross onthat June morning his fifty-odd years appeared to weigh lightly upon himTrue, his hair was tinged with grey, yet that was but natural after overtwenty years of political strife and Party bickering, of hard-foughtdivisions in the House, and of campaigns of various sorts up and downthe country. His career had been a brilliantly outstanding one eversince he had graduated at Cambridge. He had risen to be a Bencher ofthe Inner Temple; had been, among other things, Quain Professor of Lawat University College, London. In Parliament he had sat for North-WestManchester for ten years, afterwards for East Huntingdon, and later forthe Govan Division of Glasgow. Among other political appointments hehad held was that of a Junior Lord of the Treasury, afterwards that ofParliamentary Under-Secretary to the Home Office, and now in the latestAdministration he had been given the portfolio of Colonial Secretary.
His one regret was that while he loved the country, and more especiallyFydinge, that fine old Elizabethan manor house in Leicestershire, notfar from Melton Mowbray, yet he was compelled to live in London andendure the fevered political and social life of the metropolis.
That morning, as he turned from Charing Cross towards Pall Mall, he wasin a pensive mood. True, that little knot of people had spontaneouslyexpressed their approval, and perhaps he was secretly gratified.Whatever popular men may say to the contrary, it is always the smallappreciations that please. Reginald Monkton was far more gratified by aschoolgirl asking for his autograph in her well-thumbed album, than bythe roars of applause that greeted his open and fearless speeches in thehuge halls of Manchester, Birmingham, or Glasgow.
The millions of Britain knew him. His portrait appeared regularly inthe illustrated papers, sometimes in declamatory attitude with his mouthopen, his right fist in the palm of his left hand, addressing a greataudience. But that morning, as he passed the "Senior"--as the UnitedService Club is known to officialdom--his thoughts were serious. He hadtasted most of the sweets of life, and all the delights of popularity.Yet that day, the eighth of June, was the fourth anniversary of thedeath of Sheila, his beloved wife, the fine, self-sacrificing helpmateof his early days, the woman who had moulded his career and seen himthrough many hours of disappointment and tribulation, and who, with herwoman's amazing intuition and tact, had at the crisis of his life givenhim that sound advice which had swept him high upon the crest of thewave of popularity.
He recollected that it was on a bright sunny June day--just as thatwas--when, in that little villa amid the feathery palms at Mentone, hehad held his dear one's wasted hard while her eyes had slowly closed inher last long sleep.
A lump arose in his throat as he turned into Cockspur Street, heedlessof the busy bustle of London life, or that two honourable Members hadnodded to him. So absorbed was he that he had only stared at themblankly and passed on.
Like many another man whose name is a household word in Britain to-day,all his popularity counted as nothing to him, and even though he led thebusy life of a Cabinet Minister, yet he was very lonely at heart.
For a second he held his breath, then, setting his wide jaws in harddetermination to put aside those bitter thoughts of the past, and stillunaware that he was being followed, he crossed the road and entered theCarlton Hotel.
The young woman in plain navy blue who had followed him from DowningStreet passed by, and continued until she reached the corner of WaterlooPlace, when she turned, retraced her steps, and, entering the hotel bythe door in Pall Mall, glanced into the palm-court with quick, furtiveeyes. Then, apparently satisfying herself, she went along the narrowcorridor and emerged into the Haymarket.
Again turning the corner into Pall Mall she drew out her handkerchief todab her nose again, and afterwards hailed a taxi and drove away.
On the kerb opposite stood the thick-set young man, who, having seen hersignal, watched her leave, and then crossed and entered the hotel.
Reginald Monkton, on entering the palm-court after leaving his hat andcane, found his daughter Sheila seated at one of the little tables witha spruce, well-set-up, refined young man, awaiting him.
The young man sprang up eagerly, and, putting out his hand, exclaimed:
"It's awfully good of you to come, Mr Monkton! I know how terriblybusy you must be."
"Delighted, my dear Austin," declared the statesman. "Delighted! TheCabinet was just over in time, so I've walked along. Well, Sheila," heasked merrily, turning to his daughter, "what have you been doing thismorning?"
"Oh!" replied the pretty, fair-haired girl, who was very daintily, yetnot showily, dressed. "I've not been doing much, father. I went toBond Street for you, and then I called on Cicely Wheeler. She and herhusband are off to Dinard to-morrow. I've asked them to dine with usto-night."
"Ah! Then you will have to entertain them, I fear, as I must be down atthe House."
"What a pity!" replied the girl in disappointment. "I thought you saidyou would dine at home to-night!"
"I intended to do so, but find it will be impossible," declared herfather as the trio made a move into the restaurant, filled as it waswith a gay London throng who were lunching to the well-modulated strainsof the Roumanian orchestra.
Of the many pretty girls seated at the tables certainly none couldcompare with Sheila Monkton. Indeed, more than one young man turned toadmire her as she seated herself and drew off her gloves, and theyenvied the good-looking young fellow with whom she was laughing sohappily. She had just turned twenty. Her clear-cut features wereflawless; her healthy complexion, her clear hazel eyes, her soft fairhair, and her small mouth combined to impart to her sweetness anddaintiness that were both peculiarly attractive. Her black velvet hattrimmed with saxe blue suited her soft countenance admirably, while thegraceful poise of her head had often been admired by artists; indeed,she was at that very period sitting to Howe, the R.A., for her portraitfor next year's Academy.
As for Austin Wingate, her companion, he was about twenty-four, and ifnot exactly an Adonis he was handsome enough, clean-shaven, with blackhair, eyes of a dark grey, and a mouth which needed no moustache to hideit. His figure was that of the young man of pre-war days whom you metby the dozen in the High at Oxford, broad-shouldered, muscular, and fullof natural energy and grace.
Women who met Austin Wingate for the first time usually thought him anordinary easy-going fellow of that type known as a "nut," who wascareless as long as he lived his own go-ahead town life, the centre ofwhich was the Automobile Club. Yet they would soon discern a certaindeep thoughtful expression in his eyes and a gravity about the lipswhich at once upset the first estimate they had made of his character.
It was true that young Wingate was a merry, careless young fellow. Helived in cosy chambers in Half Moon Street, and his circle of friends,young men of his own age, were a rather wild lot. Most of them wereardent motorists, and nearly all were habitues of that centre ofmotoring in Pall Mall.
Of late Monkton's daughter had been seen about with him a good deal, andin the select little world of politicians' wives there had been manywhisperings over teacups.
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nbsp; That day, however, Monkton was lunching openly with the pair, andseveral people in the restaurant, recognising the trio, put togethertheir heads and gossiped.
While the two young people chattered merrily, Monkton, who had tried tocrush down those ghosts of the past that had obsessed him while hewalked along Whitehall, glanced across at his pretty daughter and sighedas he commenced his meal. Ah! how complete was the image of his deadwife. It was as though she sat there before him in those long-ago daysof over twenty-five years ago, when she was the daughter of a countryvicar and he was on the threshold of his career.
He saw how happy Sheila was with the young man who had so recently comeinto her life. Sometimes he had resented their acquaintance, yet toresent it was, he reflected, only jealousy after all. He himself hadbut little to live for. As a member of the Cabinet he had gained hisgoal. He would, he knew, never fulfil the prophecy of his humbleadmirer standing in Downing Street. He could never