"I have got up some facts, sir. I will read you from my notes. Lady Wrenwyck was a girl when she married; her husband some twenty years older. She was forced into the marriage by her parents, who were of good family, but poor as church mice. Her ladyship was a beautiful girl, she soon went the pace, and had heaps of admirers, young and old. The husband, horribly jealous, thought he had bought her with his money. Terrible scenes between the pair, in which her ladyship held her own." Smeaton offered the subordinate his rare meed of praise. "You have done devilish well, Johnson. Go on." Sergeant Johnson proceeded, refreshing himself from his notes. "For several years past they have lived in a sort of armed truce. They live together, that is to say, in the same house, but they never exchange a word with each other, except before guests. If they have to hold communication, it is by means of notes, conveyed through the valet and the lady's maid." "An extraordinary house, Johnson--eh?" interjected Smeaton, thinking of his own little comfortable household. "It's a bit funny, sir, to ordinary people, but in Society nothing is uncommon," replied Johnson. "Shall I go on with my notes?" "Please do," said Smeaton cordially. Johnson was of the younger generation, but he was shaping well. Perhaps it is possible that youngsters have a wider outlook than their elders. Mr Johnson read on, in a deferential voice: "His lordship is an invalid--suffers from some affection of the joints, an aggravated form of rheumatism, walks with a stick. Has been absent from Park Lane for a little time. Nobody knows where he is. His confidential man of business, steward or secretary or something, runs the house in his absence." "And her ladyship?" queried Smeaton eagerly. "I'm coming to that, sir. Her ladyship has been away for some time; travelling abroad they think. My informant gave me the date of her departure. Here it is, sir." Smeaton looked at the little pencilled note. He rose, and shook his subordinate cordially by the hand, saying: "Really you've done more than well. You forget nothing, I see. I shall watch your career with great interest. If I can push you I will. You may rely on that." Johnson bowed low at the great man's praise. "A word here from you, Mr Smeaton, and I'm made in the Service." His voice faltered skilfully here, and he withdrew, leaving Smeaton to his reflections. The great detective meditated long and carefully. He was not a person to jump hastily at conclusions. He sifted the actual from the obvious. One fact emerged clearly, and it was this: Lady Wrenwyck had left her home, to which she had not returned, two days before the mysterious disappearance of Reginald Monkton--_two days_. That feather-headed fool, Caleb Boyle, had told him to "find the woman." Was the feather-headed fool right, and he, Smeaton, upon the wrong road? CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. SHADES OF SOHO.