"A false name and address, of course?" queried Smeaton. "Yes and no," replied Varney. "I got up to Victoria about twelve o'clock, and hurried at once to Verbena Road. There, sure enough, was a plate on the door, `James Blake, Insurance Agent.' I rang the bell and asked to see him; I had prepared a story for him on my way there. Fortunately he was in." "And he was not the swarthy, thick-set young man who had gone to Horsham?" "Certainly not. He was a man of about forty-five with a black beard. In five minutes he told me all about himself, and his family, a wife and two daughters. One was a typist in the city, the other an assistant in a West End hat shop. Our dark-faced friend apparently picked the name out of the directory at random, or knew something of the neighbourhood and its residents. We may be quite sure Horsham will not see him again for a very long time. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Stent went round the day before, and paid up all the tradespeople." "No want of money," observed Smeaton. "They evidently didn't `shoot the moon' on account of poverty. There's no doubt they spotted you, and guessed they were under observation." "It looks like it," admitted Varney reluctantly. Smeaton had uttered no word of reproach, but it was a blow to the young man's pride to know that he had allowed his quarry to escape. "Well, we must think this over a bit, before we can decide on further steps," said the detective at length, in a desponding tone. "I am off to Chesterfield Street in a few moments, to see if I can learn anything fresh there. We know that Mrs Saxton was at the corner of the street last night, if we are not positive about her companion." Grant opened the door to him when, on the stroke of three, he alighted from a taxi. Half-an-hour went by, and still Sheila did not make her appearance. Smeaton began to fidget and walk up and down the dining-room, for he hated waiting for anybody. Then the door-bell rang. He rose and hastened into the hall, just as Grant opened the door. He saw a dark-haired young woman, neatly dressed in navy blue, standing there. He thought there was a slight tremor of nervousness in her voice as she asked if Miss Monkton was at home. Grant explained that she was out, but he expected her back every minute. Would she come in and wait? Apparently she was on the point of doing so, when she caught sight of Smeaton standing in the background. Her face flushed, and then went pale. She drew back, and her nervousness seemed to increase. It was impossible for her to keep her voice steady. "No--no, thank you," she stammered, as she edged back. "It is of really no importance. I will call another day--to-morrow perhaps." "What name shall I say?" asked Grant, surprised at her agitation. She grew more confused than ever. "I won't trouble you; it doesn't matter in the least. I mean. Miss Monkton would not know my name, if I told it you."