Chapter 11: John Ireland’s Warrant

Mr. Franklyn was unable to find a cab. He walked. And as he walked he wondered. Mr. Paxton’s conduct seemed to him to be stranger than, in the presence of Miss Strong, he had cared to admit. It was unlike Cyril to have allowed so amazing a change to have taken place in a holding in which he was so largely interested, and yet to have held his peace. Mr. Franklyn had made more considerable efforts to place himself in communication with Cyril than he had hinted at. There had been several things lately in that gentleman’s conduct which had struck him as peculiar. But all his efforts had been vain. It was only by chance that that afternoon he had run across an acquaintance who informed him that he had just seen Mr. Paxton leaving Victoria in a Brighton train. Taking it for granted that he was journeying towards Miss Strong, as soon as he could, Franklyn followed on his heels.

And now Miss Strong had seen nothing of him! Indeed, she had been told that he intended to spend the night in town. Coupled with other circumstances, to Mr. Franklyn the thing seemed distinctly odd.

Arrived at Makell’s Hotel, he accosted the porter who held the door open for him to enter.

“Is Mr. Paxton staying here?”

“Mr. Paxton is out.”

“Out? Then he is staying here?”

“He has been here. I don’t know if he is returning. You had better inquire at the office.”

Mr. Franklyn inquired. At the office their acquaintance with Mr. Paxton’s movements did not appear to be much greater than the porter’s. He was out. He might return. He probably would. When, they could not say.

“How long ago is it since he went out?”

“Something over an hour.”

“Did he say anything about where he was going to?”

“Not to me. I know nothing, it’s only what I surmise, but he went hurrying out as if he had an appointment which he wanted to keep.”

“An appointment? Something over an hour ago? Yes, he had an appointment about that time, but he never kept it.” Franklyn looked at his watch. The thirty minutes of which he had spoken to Miss Strong were already nearly past. “Can I have a bed here to-night?”

The clerk said that he could. Franklyn took a card out of his pocket-book. He scribbled on it in pencil--

“I shall be at Medina Villas till eleven. Come at once. They are very anxious to have news of you.”

Securing it in an envelope, he handed it to the clerk, instructing him, should Mr. Paxton return before he did, to let him have it at once. Then Mr. Franklyn left the hotel, meaning to walk to the cab rank, which was distant only a few yards, and then drive straight back to Medina Villas.

As he walked along the broad pavement some one stopping him, addressed him by name.

“Is that you, Mr. Franklyn?”

The speaker was John Ireland. In his professional capacity as a solicitor Mr. Franklyn had encountered the detective on more than one occasion. The detective’s next question took Mr. Franklyn a little by surprise.

“Where’s Mr. Paxton?”

Mr. Franklyn looked at his questioner as attentively as the imperfect light would permit. To his trained ear there was something in the inquirer’s tone which was peculiar.

“Mr. Paxton! Why do you ask?”

Ireland seemed to hesitate. Then blurted out bluntly--