Smeaton put an obvious question: “Have they heard anything from Stent?”
“I am coming to that now, and here is more mystery, as might naturally be expected,” was Varney’s answer. “A young man called at the house-agent’s late yesterday afternoon. He was described to me as a youngish, well-dressed fellow, rather thick-set and swarthy. I take it, we know nothing of him in connection with this case?”
Varney looked at Smeaton interrogatively. The detective shook his head.
“No; you have been told of everybody I know.”
“Well, this chap came with a queer sort of story,” Varney went on. “He explained that he was a friend of Stent, I should say Strange. Two or three days ago Strange had received an urgent summons from abroad, which admitted of no delay. He had posted off at once to Croydon, got hold of a furniture dealer there, brought him back, and sold the furniture to him. He was to fetch it before the end of the week. Strange had given this fellow a letter to the agent, authorising him to let the dealer have the furniture, and hand him the proceeds, less a sum of twenty-five pounds which had been paid as deposit. Out of these proceeds the agent was to deduct the sum accruing for rent, the tenancy being up in four months’ time—and keep the balance till Strange sent for it, or gave instructions for it to be sent to him!”
“And, of course, nothing more will be heard of Stent,” interrupted Smeaton. “The balance will lie in the agent’s hands unclaimed.”
“It looks like it,” said Varney. “The agent thought it all sounded very fishy, although this young fellow carried it off in a pretty natural manner. It was only when he was asked to give his name and address that he showed any signs of embarrassment. But, after a moment’s hesitation, it came out pat enough. He was a Mr James Blake, of Verbena Road, Brixton, by profession an insurance agent.”
“A false name and address, of course?” queried Smeaton.
“Yes and no,” replied Varney. “I got up to Victoria about twelve o’clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a plate on the door, ‘James Blake, Insurance Agent.’ I rang the bell and asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there. Fortunately he was in.”
“And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to Horsham?”