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.
“Astounding news—infernal news!” he cried, dashing his hat down on the table. “But first look at this, and see if you recognise the original.”
He handed Smeaton a snapshot. The detective examined it carefully. Truth to tell, it was not a very brilliant specimen of photographic art.
“The cap and apron puzzled me a little at first,” he said at length. “But it is certainly Mrs Saxton; in other words, I take it, the parlourmaid at Forest View.”
“Just what I suspected,” cried Varney. “I was thinking about the woman, firmly convinced in my own mind that she was different from what she pretended to be. In a flash I thought of Mrs Saxton. I got a snap at her in the garden yesterday morning, without her seeing me, so as to bring it to you for identification.”
“Forest View seems to be the centre of the mystery,” said Smeaton slowly. “Well, this is not the infernal news, I suppose? There is something more to come.”