CHAPTER L.
MR. FOLLINGSBEE’S SOCIAL CALL.
“Holding this card so Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.”—[page 359].
Five weeks have passed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks, the bearded Englishman. Five weeks since that last named and eccentric individual set sail for far-off Australia.
Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there now, and Stanhope is not seen at all.
In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a dark frown upon his broad, high brow.
The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks.
It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little.
John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.
Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.
And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.
Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.
They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done?
Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him.
“You will not see me again,” he had said, “until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson.” And he was keeping his word.
Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done?
It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: “I’ll do my level best for you.” But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: “I shall not return until I have found the criminal.”
What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days?
Something, it must have been, or else—perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer fellow, and he had been sadly cut up by Vernet’s falling off.
The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.
“I may as well leave Dick to his own devices,” he muttered, “but I’ll send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I know where to put my hand on him.”
As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.
“Come in,” he called, somewhat impatiently.
It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief.
“The gentleman is waiting?” queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon the bit of pasteboard.
“Yes, sir.”
“Admit him.”
Then he rose and stood to receive his visitor.
“Ah, Follingsbee, I’m glad it’s you,” extending his hand cordially. “Sit down, sit down.”
And he pushed his guest toward a big easy chair just opposite his own.
The little lawyer responded warmly to his friendly greeting, established himself comfortably in the chair indicated, and resting a hand upon either knee, smiled as he glanced about him.
“You seem pretty comfortable here,” he said, as his eye roved about the well-equipped private office. “Are you particularly busy just now?”
“I can be quite idle,” smiling slightly, “if you want a little of my leisure.”
The attorney gave a short, dry laugh.
“Do you talk at everybody over the top rail of a fence?” he asked. “I thought that belonged to us lawyers. The fact is that although this is not strictly a social call, it’s a call of minor importance. If you have business on hand, I can wait your leisure.”
The Chief leaned back in his chair and smiled across at his visitor.
“I don’t suppose you or I can ever be said to be free from business,” he responded. “I was just growing weary of my bit of mental labor; your interruption is quite welcome, even if it is not ‘strictly social.’ You are anxious to make an informal inquiry about the search for the lost child, I presume?”
“I should be glad to hear anything upon that subject, but that is not my errand.”
“Ah!” The Chief rested his head upon his hand, and looked inquiringly at his vis-a-vis.
“I wanted,” said Mr. Follingsbee, taking out a huge pocket-book and deftly abstracting from it a folded envelope, “to show you a document, and ask you a question. This,” unfolding the envelope, “is the document.”
He smoothed it carefully and handed it to the other, who glanced over it blankly at first, then looked closer and with an expression of surprise.
“Did you write that letter?” queried Mr. Follingsbee.
“N-no.” He said it hesitatingly, and with the surprise fast turning to perplexity.
“Did you cause it to be written?”
The Chief spread the letter out before him on the desk, and slowly deciphered it.
“It’s my paper, and my envelope,” he said at last; “but it was never sent from this office.”
“Then you disown it?”
“Entirely. I hope you intend to tell me how it came into your possession.”
“It is written, as you see, to Mr. Warburton—”
“To Mr. Alan Warburton; yes.”
“Introducing one Mr. Grip, late of Scotland Yards.”
“I see.”
“Well, sir, Mr. Warburton received this note the day on which it was dated.”
The Chief glanced sharply at the date.
“And on that same day, Mr. Augustus Grip presented himself, stating that he was sent from this Agency, with full authority to take such measures as he saw fit in prosecuting the search for the lost child.”
“Well?”
“The fellow began by being impertinent, ended by being insulting—and made his exit through the study window, his case closed.”
The Chief smiled slightly, then relapsed into meditation. After a brief silence, he said:
“Mr. Follingsbee, can’t you give me a fuller account of that interview between Mr. Warburton and this—this Mr. Grip?”
“No,” returns the lawyer, “no; I can’t—at present. There were some things said that made the visit a purely personal affair. The fellow gained access to the house through making use of your name, rather by seeming to. You see by that scrawl he was too clever to actually commit forgery.”
The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature and said:
“I see; sharp rascal.”
“I thought,” pursued the lawyer, “that it might interest you to hear of this affair. The fellow may try the trick again, and—”
“It does interest me, sir,” interrupts the other. “It interests me very much. May I keep this letter?”
“For the present, yes.”
“Thanks. I’ll undertake to find out who wrote it—very soon. And, having identified this impostor, I shall hope to hear more of his doings at Warburton Place.”
“For further information,” said Mr. Follingsbee, rising and taking up his hat, “I must refer you to Mr. Grip, or Mr. Warburton.”
“The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature, and said: “I see; sharp rascal.””—[page 366].
And having finished his errand, Mr. Follingsbee made his adieu and withdrew.
When he was gone, the Chief sat gazing at the chair just vacated, and a curious smile crossed his lips.
“Follingsbee’s a clever lawyer,” he muttered; “maybe that’s why he is so poor a witness. There’s a stronger motive behind his friendly desire to warn me of poachers abroad. He was in a greater hurry to finish his errand than to begin it, and he was relieved when it was done. I wonder, now, why he didn’t ask me if there really was such a person as Augustus Grip!”