The disguised working-man, otherwise Varney, had been considerably chagrined at the disappearance of the Forest View household, and had sworn to be even with them. He had watched Farloe ever since, knowing that through him he would get at the whereabouts of Stent and Bolinski. Farloe alighted at Hackney Station, and after walking for about a quarter of a mile, turned up one of the many mean streets that abound in that neighbourhood. The secretary knocked at the door of one of the dingiest houses in the row, and disappeared inside. Varney kept his watch. At the end of an hour or so three men emerged from the shabby dwelling. As he expected, the two others were Stent and Bolinski. The three men made their way into Mare Street, and turned into the saloon bar of a big public-house. Something of importance was evidently in progress. Varney reflected. They would be some minutes before they had finished their drinks and their conversation. In the meantime, he had taken the name of the street and the number of the house. He could allow himself five minutes to ring up Scotland Yard. Smeaton was fortunately in. In a few brief words he told the detective of his discovery. Smeaton's reply come back. "Things are happening. I will send at once a couple of sergeants to help you. Hold on till my men arrive and then come straight on to me." It is a far cry from Scotland Yard to Mare Street, Hackney. But, occupied with his own thoughts, it seemed only a few minutes to Varney when the two detectives drove up, and alighted at the door of the public-house. A swift taxi can do wonders in annihilating space. The elder of the two men, whom Varney knew slightly, advanced towards him. "Good-day, Mr Varney. We struck here first, as being the nearest. They're still inside, eh?" "I should have left, if not. Well, I suppose you will take up my job." "That's about it, sir. Mr Smeaton told me he would like to see you as soon as possible. I think he has got something important to communicate. We'll wait for these two gentlemen. Stent and the Russian, to come out--Farloe we have nothing against at present--and then we'll clap the darbies on them in a twinkling." Varney, for a moment, looked incredulous. "But on what charge?" The detective grinned. "One that we only knew of yesterday. A charge of fraud in connection with certain rubber property. Another man of the name of Whyman is in it, but he seems to have got clear away." Varney, his brain in a whirl, took his way back to Scotland Yard, still in his costume of a working-man. "Well, what does it all mean?" he gasped, when he got into Smeaton's room. The great detective smiled genially. "It means, my dear Varney, that we are nearing the end of the Monkton mystery which has baffled us so long." "And the solution?" queried the other eagerly. "That I cannot tell you yet. But when it does come, I am afraid neither you nor I will reap much glory out of it."