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 assure 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.