The Stolen Statesman: Being the Story of a Hushed Up Mystery

baffles me. Ifan Englishman were to talk Italian, I daresay I could follow him."

  They met several times afterwards, and the acquaintance ripened to suchan extent that the doctor asked the young stranger to come round to hishouse, after the day's round was over, for a chat and a smoke. Jansonwas a bachelor; he had only been a few months in the neighbourhood, andhad not as yet made many friends.

  A man who knew a good deal about the subject which interested him most,and could talk fairly well on art--for Varney was a connoisseur of nomean order--was a godsend to the man of medicine, sitting by himself inhis lonely house.

  All this was the prelude to the startling facts which were the cause ofVarney's urgent telegram.

  The previous morning just before his dinner hour, the gardener hadlooked in at the inn for his morning glass of beer, and informed thelandlord that a visitor was expected at Forest View.

  "Mr Strange comes to me after breakfast, and tells me to take in apicking of some special peas we planted, for lunch. He ain't much of aone to talk at the best of times, but he was quite affable and chattythis morning. He tells me he is expecting a foreign gentleman who'svery particular about his food, and he wants to show him what we cando."

  This piece of news was retailed to Varney, who was, of course,immediately interested. According to local report, this was only thesecond occasion on which Forest View had received a visitor.

  He kept a hidden watch on the house. A few minutes past twelve.Strange, to give him the name he was known by down there, drove hismotor-car in the direction of Horsham. Evidently he was going to meetthe visitor at the station.

  In due course the car came back with its two occupants. The strangerwas a man of small stature, with grey moustache and beard, of a darkcomplexion, and unmistakably a foreigner.

  They dismounted at the gate, the garage being approached by an entrancea little lower down. Varney noticed that the foreigner got out veryslowly, leaning heavily on his host's arm as he did so. It was plainthat this visitor, like the other, was in indifferent health.

  Varney hung about during the greater part of the day, but he saw nobody.All the inmates of this singular establishment seemed to prefer theseclusion of the house.

  After the inn had closed, he smoked a last pipe, and then went to bed.He was rather wakeful that night, and did not go to sleep for an hour orso.

  Suddenly he was awakened by a loud knocking. Jumping up, he looked athis watch--it was two o'clock. He was evidently the first to hear it,for he could distinguish no sounds from the room at the other end of thepassage, where the landlord and his wife slept.

  He flung up his window and called out: "Hullo! Who's that?"

  He was answered by the familiar voice of Janson.

  "Sorry to disturb you like this, Mr Franks," cried the doctor,addressing him by his assumed name. "But I want your help. A foreigngentleman, an Italian, arrived at Forest View this morning, and he wastaken alarmingly ill about half-an-hour ago. The poor chap's hours arenumbered. I have been trying to talk to him in his own language; heseems to understand me all right, but I can hardly follow a sentence ofhis, and there's nobody in the house who understands him either."

  The incongruity of the situation forced itself upon Varney immediately."What in the world makes a man come to a house where he can understandnobody, and nobody can understand him," he whispered down.

  "The same thought occurred to me," came the answering whisper. "MrStrange explained it. He said that their parlourmaid understood Italianperfectly, having lived in Italy for some years. She had gone up toLondon early yesterday morning and would not be back till lateto-morrow."

  It flashed instantly across Varney's mind that his suspicions about theyoung woman were correct: that she belonged to a different class fromthat which furnishes parlourmaids. She was a lady masquerading as aservant. Strange's fiction of her having lived abroad was invented tokeep up appearances.

  "He is very rambling, but I ran gather this much," went on Janson in lowtones. "He wants to leave some instructions before he dies. I thoughtof you at once."

  "Right; I will be with you in a couple of minutes."

  By this time the landlord and his wife were awake, and he heard theman's heavy footsteps along the passage. He opened his door, andbriefly explained the situation.

  In a very short time he and the doctor were in the bedroom of the dyingman. Strange was at the bedside, looking intently at the prostratefigure, without a trace of emotion in his sharp, inscrutable features.He withdrew a little distance as Janson approached, and murmuredsomething in a low voice to the other. It was an apology for disturbinghim.

  The man lay motionless for some few minutes, the pallor of deathsettling deeper over the once swarthy features. Janson turned toVarney.

  "I'm afraid it is too late, Mr Franks. He is sinking rapidly. If youcould have been here when I first came."

  Was it fancy, or did he see an expression of relief steal acrossStrange's impenetrable mask?

  If so, he was doomed to disappointment. The dying man stirred, and hislips moved. Varney leaned over, and his quick ear caught some mutteredwords, growing fainter and fainter with the waning of the flickeringstrength.

  The words were in the bastard tongue of Piedmont, difficult tounderstand by anyone who has not lived in Northern Italy.

  "_Dio_!" gasped the dying man. "Forgive me. The doctors have long agotold me I should die suddenly, but--I--I never expected this. Oh, thatsomebody here could understand me?" he whispered to himself.

  "I do. Signore," said Varney, as he leaned over him.

  In the dying man's eyes came a gleam of satisfaction and hope.

  "Ah! Thank Heaven! Then listen," he said. "I want you to do somethingfor me--something--" and he halted as though in reflection. "Well," hewent on, "twenty years ago I did a great wrong in conjunction withanother man. Go to him and tell him that Giovanni Roselli, his oldcomrade, implores him, from his deathbed, to make reparation. You willfind him in Manchester. He was the head of the Compagnia Corezzo, andhis name is James--"

  The surname was never told. As he strove to utter it, the end came.Giovanni Roselli had delivered his message, but he had gone into theshadows, before he could utter the full name of the man to whom it wasconveyed. Varney translated the dying man's message to Strange, but hemade no comment.

  Smeaton sat in silence for a long time when the recital was finished.

  "A house of sinister inmates with sinister secrets," he said at length."What you have told me may have a bearing upon something that has gonebefore."

  Briefly he narrated to Varney the discovery of the threatening letter,and his visit to the engraver and stationer.

  Varney saw at once what had occurred to him.

  "The Compagnia Corezzo gives us a clue--eh?--the initials `C.C.,' whichare the initials on the envelope. Was it an envelope from the company'soffice? You say that the old engraver thought the man who ordered thecipher came from Manchester or Liverpool. Roselli tells us we can findhis man in Manchester?" Smeaton rose. "I'm in hopes that something maycome out of it all," he said, as they shook hands. "Anyway, stay downhere, and keep a close watch on the place. An inquest will be held andsooner or later something of importance will happen. I've kept the taxiwaiting; shall I give you a lift to Horsham? But I noticed a bikeoutside the inn-door. I suppose it is yours." Varney nodded. "Yes, itis part of my machinery. I shall go for a good long spin, and thinkover all that has happened."

  As Smeaton put his foot on the step of the taxi a sudden thought struckhim. He turned back, and drew the young man aside.

  "Keep your eye on the parlourmaid especially," he whispered. "If weever get to the bottom of it, we shall find she plays an important partin this mystery."

  "I quite agree," was Varney's answer, as the two men finally parted.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

  ANOTHER MYSTERY.

  Next day Smeaton sat in his official room, puzzling over the Monktoncase, and sorely perpl
exed.

  He had followed several trails now, but all, it seemed, to no purpose.Farloe and his sister had been shadowed without any result. The visitto Millington had ended in failure.

  Varney had discovered something, and he would follow the clue with thepertinacity of a bloodhound pursuing a faint and elusive scent. But hehimself was thoroughly disheartened.

  There suddenly came a tap at the door, and a constable entered.

  "A very old gentleman wants to see you, sir. He says you will rememberhim," and he handed the detective a slip of paper on which was written"Mr Millington."

  "The gentleman seems to have one foot in the grave, and half of theother, to judge by appearances," the constable went on. "The journeyhas tried him terribly. He's wheezing so, that