"Let us make a bargain," he said, in a voice of real heartiness. "Forget for the moment that I am a predatory journalist, on the prowl for sensational news. Just consider me as a man who has a bent for this particular form of investigation, and takes a delight in it. Treat me as a friend, and I will prove myself worthy of your confidence, and help you as far as my brains and resources will permit." It was Sheila who spoke first, with her woman's impulse. "Austin," she said, "I think we may trust Mr Varney." The journalist bowed. "Many thanks. Miss Monkton," He smiled a little as he added: "Ring up my old friend Smeaton, who, I know, has charge of the case, and get his permission if you like. You know, that was your first thought--was it not?" Sheila blushed. "Yes, you are quite right, it was. How did you guess?" "Very easily. By putting myself in your place, and imagining how I should think and act under similar circumstances." Then Wingate followed his sweetheart's lead. "Well, Mr Varney, I agree with Miss Monkton. We accept you as an ally, without reference to Smeaton. What do you want us to do?" "I want you to tell me, as fully as you can, everything that has happened, in the minutest detail, from the night of Mr Monkton's strange disappearance until the present moment." It was a long recital. Varney listened attentively and made notes from time to time, as some point struck him. But he did not make many. He seemed to possess a marvellous and retentive memory. The narrative finished, Varney rose. "Thanks, I have got it all clear. Now, all this will want thinking over, and it will take me some hours. As soon as I have established something to work upon I will communicate with you. We don't often see you at the Savage, Mr Wingate, or we might meet there." "I have not much leisure," was Wingate's reply, "and all I have at my disposal is at Miss Monkton's service for the present." "I quite understand." He could not fail to read in the slight glow on Sheila's cheek that the pair were lovers. "Well, good-night. Many thanks for the cordial reception you have given me. I shall do my best. I shall hope to earn the compliments of my old friend Smeaton once again." It was close upon ten o'clock when he left the house in Chesterfield Street. Though it was summer time, the night was a dark one. There was no moon, and heavy clouds obscured the stars. A man stepped out from under the street lamp nearly opposite, and walked quickly in the direction of Curzon Street. Varney had seen him many times in the House of Commons, and recognised him at once. It was James Farloe, the secretary. Varney followed him up Curzon Street, through the narrow passage that runs past Lansdowne House. For a moment Farloe halted, as if undecided which direction to take. Then, his mind made up, he turned northward, and made his way into Oxford Street.