CHAPTER LIV.
A CHIEF'S PERPLEXITIES.
On Wednesday, the day following that which witnessed the arrival ofWalter Parks and John Ainsworth, Mr. Follingsbee, seated at a latebreakfast, perused a letter, which, judging from the manner of itsreception, must have contained something unusual and interesting.
He read it, re-read it, and read it again. Then pushing back his chair,and leaving his repast half finished, he hurried from thebreakfast-room, and up stairs, straight to that cosey room which, formany days, had been occupied by a guest never visible below. This guesthad also recently turned away from a dainty breakfast, the fragments ofwhich yet remained upon the small table at his elbow, and he was nowperusing the morning paper with the bored look of a man who reads onlyto kill time.
He glanced up as the lawyer entered, but did not rise.
"Well," began his visitor, "at last I have something to wake you upwith: orders to march."
He held in his hand the open letter, and standing directly in front ofthe other, read out its contents with the tone and manner of a manpronouncing his own vindication after a long-suffering silence:
DEAR SIR:
At last you may release your voluntary prisoner. It is best that he return at once to W---- place. Let him go quietly and without fear. By afternoon there may be other arrivals, whom he will be glad to welcome. For yourself, be at the Chief's office this day at 4. P.M.
STANHOPE.
The reader paused and looked triumphantly at his audience of one.
"So," commented this audience, "his name is Stanhope."
Mr. Follingsbee started and then laughed.
"I don't think he cared to keep his identity from you longer," he said,"otherwise he would not have signed his name. I think this means thatthe play is about to end"--tapping the letter lightly with his twofingers. "You have heard of Dick Stanhope, I take it?"
"Stanhope, the detective? Yes; and I am somewhat puzzled. I have alwaysheard of Stanhope in connection with Van Vernet."
"Umph! so has everybody. They're on opposite sides of _this_ case,however. Well, shall you follow Mr. Stanhope's advice?"
"I shall, although his advice reads much like a command. I shall takehim at his word, and go at once."
"Now?"
"This very hour, if your carriage is at my disposal."
"That, of course."
"I feel like a puppet in invisible hands"--rising and moving nervouslyabout--"but, having pledged myself to accept the guidance of thiseccentric detective, I will do my part."
"Well," said the lawyer dryly, "you seem in a desperate hurry. Be sureyou don't overdo it."
"I won't; I'll go home and wait for what is to happen in the afternoon."
Half an hour thereafter, a carriage drew up at the side entrance of theWarburton mansion, and a gentleman leaped out, ran lightly up the steps,opened the door with a latch-key held ready in his hand, and disappearedwithin. The carriage rolled away the moment its occupant had alighted.
In another moment, a man, who had been lounging on the opposite side ofthe street, faced about slowly, and sauntered along until he reached thestreet corner. Turning here he quickened his pace, increasing his speedas he went, until his rapid walk became a swift run just as he turnedthe second corner.
At ten o'clock of this same morning, the Chief of the detectives issitting again in his sanctum, his brow knit and frowning, his handstapping nervously upon the arms of his easy chair, his whole mindabsorbed in intensest thought. Usually he meets the problems that cometo him with imperturbable calm, and looks them down and through; butto-day the thought that he faces is so disagreeable, so perplexing, sobaffling,--and it will not be looked down, nor thought down.
Up to the date of this present perplexity, he has found himself equal toall the emergencies of his profession. Living in a domain of Mysteries,he has been himself King of them all; has held in his hand the clue toeach. His men may have worked in the dark, or with only a fragment oflight, a glimmer of the truth, to guide them. But he, their Chief, hasoverlooked their work, seeing beyond their range of vision, and throughit, to the end.
Always this had been the case until--yes, he would acknowledge thetruth--until this all-demanding Englishman had swooped down upon himwith his old, old mystery, and taken from the Agency, for his owneccentric uses, its two best men. Always, until Van Vernet and RichardStanhope had arrayed themselves as antagonists, in seeking a solution ofthe same problem.
Following up the train of thought suggested by the re-reading of hisdiary, the Chief has been suddenly confronted with some unpleasantsuspicions and possibilities.
He has pondered everything pertaining to the mystery surroundingVernet's improper use of his business letter-heads, and his visit to theWarburton mansion in the guise of Augustus Grip. And he has vainly triedto trace the connection between these man[oe]uvres and some ofStanhope's inconsistencies.
In the search, he has made a discovery: Alan Warburton, the uncle of thelost child for whom his men have been vainly searching, and LeslieWarburton, the widow of the late Archibald Warburton, have both sailedfor Europe. Business connected with the search has been transactedthrough Mr. Follingsbee; and this voyage across the sea, at soinopportune a time, has been treated by the lawyer with singularreticence, not to say secrecy.
What could have caused these two to make such a journey at such a time?Why did Van Vernet enter their house in disguise? Who were the two thathad sailed to Europe by proxy? What was this mystery which, heinstinctively felt, had taken root on the night of the fruitless Raid?
"It was young Warburton who had secured Vernet's services, andafterwards dismissed him in such summary fashion. It was Mr. Follingsbeewho had engaged Stanhope, for that self-same night, _for a masquerade_.If I could question Stanhope," he muttered. "Oh! I need not wait forthat; I'll interview Follingsbee."
He dashed off a note, asking the lawyer to wait upon him thatafternoon, and having dispatched it, was about to resume the study ofhis new problem, when Sanford entered with a memorandum in his hand.
"Beale has come in," he said in a low tone. "He has been the rounds, andgives a full report of Vernet's movements."
"Has Beale been out alone?"
"Not since the first two hours; he has three men out now."
"Phew! Well, read your minutes, Sanford; I see you have taken them downfrom word of mouth."
"Yes, it was the shortest way. Vernet is watching three localities."
"Oh!"
"Beale shadowed him, first, to the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, thelawyer."
"Umph!" The Chief started, then checked himself, and sank back in hischair.
"Here," continued Sanford, "he had a man on guard. They exchanged a fewwords, and Vernet went away, the shadower staying near the lawyer'shouse. From there Vernet went direct to Warburton Place."
The Chief bit his lips and stirred uneasily.
"Here he had another shadower. They also conferred together. Then Vernettook a carriage and went East to the suburbs; out to the very edge ofthe city, where the houses are scattering and inhabited by poorlaborers. At the end of K. street, he left his carriage, and went onfoot to a little saloon, the farthest out of any in that vicinity. Therehe had a long talk with a fellow who seemed to be personating abricklayer. He left the saloon and went back to his carriage, seeminglyin high spirits, and the bricklayer departed in the opposite direction."
"Away from the city?"
"Yes; toward the furthermost houses."
The Chief bent his head and meditated.
"This happened, when?" he asked.
"Yesterday."
"And Beale; what did he do?"
"Set three men to watch three men. One at Follingsbee's, one atWarburton Place, and one at the foot of K. street."
"Good; and these shadowers of Vernet's--could Beale identify either ofthem?"
"No; he is sure they do not belong to us, and were never among our
men."
"Very well. Beale has done famously. Let him keep a strict watch untilfurther orders."
Once more the Chief knits his brow and ponders. The mystery growsdeeper, and he finds in it ample food for meditation.
But he is doomed to interruption. This time it is Vernet's report.
He eyes it askance, and lays it upon the desk beside him. Just now it isless interesting, less important, than his own thoughts.
But again his door opens. He lifts his head with a trace of annoyance.It is George, the office boy. He comes forward and proffers a note tohis Chief.
The latter takes it slowly, looks languidly at the superscription, thenbreaks the seal.
One glance, and the expression of annoyance and languor is gone; theeyes brighten, and the whole man is alive with interest.
And yet the note contains only these two lines:
Send three good men, in plain clothes, to the last saloon at the foot of K. street, 2 P. M. sharp.
DICK S.
"Oh!" ejaculates the Chief, "Dick at last! Something is going tohappen."
And then he calls the office boy back.
"Go to this address," he says, hastily writing upon a card; "ask for Mr.Parks, and say to him that I am obliged to beg himself and friend to putoff their interview with me until this afternoon, say three o'clock."
When the boy had departed, he turned to the desk and took up Vernet'sreport. As he opened it, he frowned and muttered:
"Vernet's doing some queer work. If it were any one else, I should sayhe was in a muddle. As it is, I shall not feel sure that all is rightuntil I know what his man[oe]uvres mean. I'll have no more interviewsuntil I have seen Follingsbee, and studied this matter out."