sole motive of his visit. "Once more,good-bye."
He advanced to the door, hesitated, with his hand upon the knob, andhalf turned round, as if about to say something more. Apparently hechanged his mind.
"A random thought occurred to me, but it is nothing--not worthpursuing," he said airily, and passed out.
But Smeaton knew instinctively the reason of that pause. Boyle hadscrewed up his courage to borrow money, but he could not bring it to thesticking-point.
Had he told the truth or were his statements pure invention?
CHAPTER TWENTY.
A CONFERENCE AT DOWNING STREET.
"He's a blatant idiot, with lucid moments. And in one of those raremoments of lucidity he told me about Lady Wrenwyck. You agree with me,I am sure, that, at any cost, he must be kept from Miss Monkton."
Such was Smeaton's pithy summing-up of his late visitor to AustinWingate, who had hurried round on receipt of an urgent note from thedetective.
"I agree absolutely," was Wingate's emphatic response. "She believes inher father so utterly that it would cut her to the heart to think he wasanything short of immaculate, that he had ever shared the weaknesses ofordinary men. You know all good women make idols of their male-folk.Now, tell me a little more about this person Boyle. Is he what weshould call a gentleman?"
Smeaton shrugged his shoulders. "I have nothing but his own statementto go upon, you understand. But I should say you might have describedhim as such once. Now, he is broken down, slightly shabby, has got the`seen-better-days' look, and is, I surmise, hard-up. You will see him,of course, and I give you this hint beforehand: I think he will want toborrow money. I'm sure he was within an ace of tapping me."
"He can borrow what he likes, in reason, so long as I can keep him awayfrom Chesterfield Street," said Austin fervently.
Smeaton looked at him approvingly. He was a gallant young lover. Nowonder that the girl's heart had gone out to him in her loneliness andmisery.
Wingate scribbled a brief but polite note to Boyle, inviting him todinner the following day at a Bohemian club in Shaftesbury Avenue ofwhich he was a member. In this tolerant atmosphere his guest'seccentricities of manner and shabbiness of attire were less likely toprovoke comment.
Having arranged this, he took his leave of Smeaton, whom he leftcogitating over the new development of affairs.
The detective had no doubt in his own mind that Boyle, flighty andfeather-brained as he seemed, could be level-headed on occasions. Thestory he told him about Lady Wrenwyck certainly bore the impress oftruth, but it was impossible for a man of such peculiar mentality toavoid exaggeration. Before going further into the matter, he would likesome corroboration. To whom could he apply?
And at once he thought of Mr Chesterton, the Prime Minister. He andMonkton were life-long friends, had been at Cambridge together.Although not actually "born in the purple," having come from commercialstock, he had been adopted into society from his earliest youth. Hisrare eloquence and commanding gifts had done the rest, and raised him tohis present high position.
An hour later he was closeted with the Premier in the big,heavily-furnished room at Downing Street.
Mr Chesterton received him with that easy and graceful cordiality whichwas one of his greatest charms.
"I have ventured to intrude upon your time, sir, with reference to thematter which is still baffling us--the mysterious disappearance of yourcolleague Mr Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. I have had a visit froma peculiar person who calls himself Caleb Boyle, and he has given mesome information that may or may not prove valuable. He says he knewMr Monkton intimately. I am aware that you were life-long friends. Doyou happen to know anything of the man Boyle?"
An amused smile flitted over the Prime Minister's features. "I rememberhim well, a harum-scarum, chattering, frothy fellow--utterly devoid ofbrains. Stay, I think perhaps I do him an injustice. I would rathersay he suffered from an excess of brain--of the ill-balanced sort. Sohe has turned up again--eh? I thought he had disappeared for good."
"I take it, from that remark, that he has had a somewhat chequeredcareer?" queried Smeaton.
"Most chequered," was Mr Chesterton's reply. In a few brief sentenceshe gave the history of Caleb Boyle, so far as he had known it.
He was a man of good family, and possessed of some small fortune. Theseadvantages were nullified by the possession of nearly every quality thatmade for failure in life. He was headstrong, prodigal, full of anoverwhelming conceit in his own capacity. He dabbled a little ineverything--and could do nothing well.
He fancied himself an orator, and spouted on politics till he boredeverybody to death. Believed himself a poet, and wrote execrableverses. Flattered himself he was an artist of a high order, and painteddaubs that moved his friends to mirth.
The Premier paused. Then proceeding, he said:
"He came to London after leaving Cambridge, and went the pace. In a fewyears he had run through his money. Then began the downward progress.He became a sponger and a leech, borrowed money in every likelyquarter--cadged for his luncheons and dinners. He had been verygenerous and hospitable in his day, and his friends put up with him aslong as they could. One by one, they fell away, wearied by hisimportunities. Then he came to the last stage--he took to drinking toexcess. Through the influence of the stauncher of his acquaintance, whostill pitied him, he had secured three or four good positions. Oneafter another he had to relinquish them, owing to his intemperatehabits. That was the actual finish. He disappeared from a world inwhich he had once held a very decent footing, and joined the great armyof degenerates who live nobody knows where, and Heaven knows how."
"I take it he is not speaking the truth when he says that he knew MrMonkton intimately?" asked Smeaton, when Mr Chesterton had finished thebrief narrative.
The Premier shrugged his shoulders. "We were all at Cambridge together.He knew Monkton and he knew me, in the way that undergraduates knoweach other. We met afterwards, occasionally, in some of the many setsthat constitute Society. But I am sure that Monkton was never intimatewith him. He was one of dozens of men that he had known at school andcollege. Boyle always built up his supposed friendships on very slendermaterial. It used to be said that if he knocked against an Archbishopby accident, and begged his pardon, he would swear afterwards that hewas on terms of intimacy with him."
There was a pause before Smeaton put his next question.
"This man tells me that at one time there was a scandal about MrMonkton and a certain Lady Wrenwyck--a woman of fashion and a notedbeauty. I take the liberty of asking you to confirm or refute that."
Mr Chesterton frowned slightly. "I take it, Mr Smeaton, you have agood reason for asking me this. But, frankly, I am not fond of raisingold ghosts."
Smeaton answered him a little stiffly. "In my calling, sir. we areoften compelled to put inconvenient questions, but only when, in ourjudgment, they are absolutely necessary."
"I accept your statement on that head, unreservedly, Mr Smeaton." Thefrown cleared from the Premier's brow, and his tone was marked with thatfine courtesy which had secured him so many friends.
He paused a moment, drew a sigh, and resumed. "I will be quite frankwith you, Smeaton. That chatterbox Boyle has told you the truth. Hewas not in our particular set, but of course the common rumours reachedhim. There was a scandal--a very considerable scandal. It distressedhis friends greatly, especially those who, like myself, appreciated hisexceptional talents, and predicted for him a great career."
Again he paused. Then he resumed:
"I am glad to say our counsels and influence prevailed in the end. Weweaned him from this fascinating lady--who fought very hard for him, Imust tell you. In the end we won. A year later he married a verycharming girl, who made him the best of wives, and to whom, I have everyreason to believe, he was devotedly attached."
Smeaton rose, and expressed his thanks for the candid way in which MrChesterton had treated him.
"One last quest
ion, sir, and I have done," he said. "What would be thepresent age of this lady?"
"She is ten years or so Monkton's junior, and looks ten years youngerthan that. At least, she did the last time I saw her, and that was afew months ago."
As he walked across back to Scotland Yard, Smeaton turned it all over inhis mind. Lady Wrenwyck was ten years younger than Monkton, and lookedten years younger than her real age. Therefore, without doubt, she wasa beautiful and fascinating woman, and still dangerous.
Had he cared to question the Prime Minister more closely, he could havegleaned more information about the Wrenwyck household. But MrChesterton was obviously disinclined to raise "old ghosts," as he calledthem. He would obtain what he wanted by other methods.
He hunted up Lord Wrenwyck in the peerage, and found him to be a personof some importance, who