In the Mists.
Detective-sergeant Johnson stood in Smeaton’s room, listening to the final instructions of his chief with his usual respectful air.
“Be as diplomatic as possible, Johnson. Let him suspect that we know everything, without committing yourself to any actual statement. Above all, impress upon him the fact that he must come. We would prefer he did so voluntarily. If he should prove obstinate, give him clearly to understand that we have other means at our disposal.”
Johnson spoke with quiet confidence. “I think you may safely leave it to me. After what you have told me, I am sure I can persuade the gentleman to accompany me. But, of course, I shall say nothing openly, simply confine myself to broad hints that ran only bear one meaning.”
Smeaton regarded Johnson approvingly. For some time past he had discerned in this comparatively young man qualities that bade fair to secure him a high position in his profession. He was level-headed, quick at instructions, possessed of considerable initiative, cautious, yet daring on occasion, confident without being boastful.
“One last word before you leave. You will make quite sure he is in the house before you enter it; in other words, that he has returned to London.”
“I heard yesterday from my cousin, who had met his valet, that his lordship arrived late the previous evening. But to make sure, I have appointed to meet Willet this afternoon, so as to get the latest news.”
“Quite right, Johnson, quite right,” said the great detective in his most cordial tones. “Never leave anything to chance.”
The subordinate bowed himself out, well pleased that he was advancing himself so steadily in his chief’s favour.
An hour later he was in the saloon bar of the exclusive establishment which was patronised by the upper servants of Mayfair. Here he found his cousin awaiting him, who greeted him heartily. The two men had corresponded a few times, but they had not met since the day when Willet had produced the portrait of Lady Wrenwyck.