It was evident, then, that he had gone to that little, out-of-the-way restaurant to keep an appointment. The man he met was his guest, as Monkton paid for the dinner. The excuse he made for not dining at home was a subterfuge. The appointment was therefore one that he wished to conceal from his daughter, unless he did not deem it a matter of sufficient importance to warrant an explanation. Monkton's secretary was also interrogated by the detective. He was a fat-faced, rather pompous young man, with a somewhat plausible and ingratiating manner. He had been with Monkton three years. Sheila had seen very little of him, but what little she had seen did not impress her in his favour. And her father had owned that he liked him least of any one of the numerous secretaries who had served him. This young man, James Farloe by name, had very little to tell. He was at the House at eight o'clock, according to Monkton's instructions, and expected, him at that hour. He did not come in till after half-past, and he noticed that his manner was strange and abrupt, as if he had been disturbed by something. At a few minutes before ten he left, presumably for home. When he bade Farloe good-night he still seemed preoccupied. In these terrible days Austin Wingate's business occupied but second place in his thoughts. He was prepared to devote every moment he could snatch to cheer and sustain the sorrowing Sheila. A week had gone by, but thanks to certain instructions given by the authorities, at the instance of the Prime Minister, who deplored the loss of his valuable colleague, the matter was being carefully hushed-up. Late one afternoon, while Smeaton was seated in his bare official room on the second floor at Scotland Yard, the window of which overlooked Westminster Bridge, a constable ushered in a taxi-driver, saying: "This man has come to see you, sir, regarding a fare he drove to Chesterfield Street the other night." "Excellent!" exclaimed Smeaton, lounging back in his chair, having been busy writing reports. "Sit down. What is your name?" "Davies, sir--George Davies," replied the man, twisting his cap awkwardly in his hands as he seated himself. Smeaton could not sum him up. There was no apparent look of dishonesty about him, but he would not like to have said that he conveyed the idea of absolute honesty. There was something a little bit foxy in his expression, and he was decidedly nervous. But then Scotland Yard is an awe-inspiring place to the humbler classes, and nervousness is quite as often a symptom of innocence as of guilt. "I only 'eard about this advertisement from a pal this morning. I never reads the papers," the taxi-driver said. "Well, now you have come, we want to hear all you can tell us. That gentleman died, you know!" The man shifted uneasily, and then said in a deep, husky voice: