Just as he was going in, he caught sight of Farloe. He took a sudden resolve, and went up to the secretary, who did not seem too pleased to see him. "Good-day, Mr Farloe. May I walk with you a little way? There is something I should like to ask you." The young man assented, but by no means with a good grace. They had taken an instinctive dislike to each other from the first. They walked together in silence for a few paces, and then Wingate suddenly blurted out: "What has become of Reginald Monkton? I know you could tell us, if you chose." The secretary's face blanched to the lips. He tried to smile, but the smile was a very forced one. "Your question, and your manner of putting it, Mr Wingate, are both very offensive. I know no more of Monkton's whereabouts than you do. It is generally reported that he is abroad." "And you know as well as I do that it is not the fact," answered Wingate sternly. "Have a care, Mr Farloe. We know a good deal about you." The secretary assumed an air of extreme _hauteur_, but his face was whiter than ever. "It is extremely kind of you to interest yourself in my affairs, but I am afraid they will hardly repay the trouble of investigation. Perhaps you will allow me to bid you good-day." "Please give me another moment or two, Mr Farloe. We know this much about you, that you are in close communication with Stent and Bolinski, the two men who sent that dying man in the taxi to Chesterfield Street." For a moment the two men glared at each other, Wingate's face aflame with anger, the other with an expression half of fear, half of defiance, stealing over his white mask. "You refuse to tell me anything?" asked Wingate at length. "I have nothing to tell you," answered the other, in a voice that he could not keep quite steady. "Once again, good-day." He turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away. For fully five minutes he walked quickly in an easterly direction. Then he turned round, and cast stealthy glances backwards. Apparently he could not get it out of his mind that Wingate might be pursuing him. But he scanned the faces of the hurrying foot-passengers, and he could discern no hostile countenance. Well-dressed loungers, women intent on shopping and bargains, a man dressed in working costume, walking with a slouching gait. These were all he saw. He hailed a taxi, and shouted in a loud voice: "Broad Street Station." He had to shout loudly, for the roar of the traffic was deafening. The working-man with the slouching gait caught the words. A second taxi was just behind. He opened the door and jumped in, after having whispered in the ear of the driver, "Follow that fellow." At Broad Street Station Farloe alighted, needless to say the man who had pursued him close on his heels. Two tickets were taken for Hackney Station, one first-class, the other third-class.