"H'm!" grunted the Baronet, unconvinced. "Perhaps one day, my dear Farloe, you will regret this attempt to wriggle out of a very awkward situation." Then, after a pause, he added: "You know quite as well as I, with others, know, that my friend Monkton is missing!" and the Baronet turned abruptly, leaving Farloe standing in the Lobby. He passed the two police constables and the idling detective, and entered the House itself. Farloe, utterly aghast at Sir Archibald's remarks and the knowledge he evidently possessed, walked blindly out of St Stephen's full of grave thoughts. Not only were the police hot upon the trail which might lead them to the astounding truth concerning the death of the man who, dressed in the Colonial Minister's clothes, had expired in the house in Chesterfield Street, but the facts were being rumoured that night in the world of politics, and to-morrow the chattering little world which revolves in the square mile around Piccadilly and calls itself Society, would also be agog with the sinister story. At the corner of Dean's Yard, not a hundred yards from where the taxi-man Davies had been hailed and the unidentified stranger had been put into his cab, Farloe found a passing taxi and in it drove to his rooms, a cosy little first-floor flat in Ryder Street, St James's. So eager was he that, without taking off his hat, he went at once to the telephone on his writing-table and asked for "trunk." Ten minutes later he spoke to somebody. "Get in your car, and come here at once!" he said. "There's not an instant to be lost. I'll wait up for you, but don't delay a moment. I can't talk over the 'phone, but the situation is very serious. Bring a suit-case. You may have to go to the Continent by the nine o'clock train in the morning." He listened attentively to the reply. "Eh--what? Oh!--yes. I sent a boy with a letter to Knightsbridge station. She's got away all right. Do get here as quickly as you can-- won't you? Leave your car in some garage, and walk here. Don't stop the car outside. I'll leave the hall-door ajar for you. No--I can't tell you anything more over the 'phone--I really can't." CHAPTER ELEVEN. MAINLY CONCERNS MR STENT. James Farloe hung up the telephone receiver, and, lighting a cigar, sat down to think, while wailing for his visitor. He was rather a good-looking young fellow, but, examined closely, his face was not prepossessing. There was a certain furtive expression about him, as of a man continually on the watch lest he should betray himself, and the eyes were shifty. His sister was probably as insincere as himself, but, on the whole, she made a better impression.