"My dear Farloe, you must excuse me for saying that you don't always act with the greatest discretion. Why the devil do you want to go to the House at all for, laying yourself open to be cross-examined by anybody and everybody you meet? Look how differently your sister has acted; she has lain as low as possible, and finally shown them a clean pair of heels. I don't advise you to do exactly the same, for obvious reasons, but it would be advisable to keep very much out of the way till things have blown over." The younger man was evidently not thin-skinned, or he would have indulged in some outburst at those very candid remarks. Stent went on, in his hard, but not altogether unpleasant voice: "It has often struck me that this sort of thing is not quite suitable to a man of your temperament. But now you are in it, you must cultivate the art of keeping your nerves in better order, as I have done. Don't start at shadows. What you have told me doesn't disturb me in the least; it is just what might be expected." "You haven't forgotten that young beggar Varney is on the track?" put in Farloe quietly. "I saw him go into Monkton's house as late as yesterday. He is more to be feared than Smeaton, in my opinion." "I don't care a snap of the finger for the young pup," cried the other, in his most obstinate voice, and a tightening of the resolute jaw that was so well-matched with the dark, piercing eyes. Farloe waited till his companion's momentary irritation had subsided, then he put a question. "You are quite sure that the police have not traced you yet?" "Absolutely," came Stent's reply. He added, in his grimmest manner; "I've not given them a chance." They talked on for a long time, the elder man combating sometimes half humorously, sometimes with ill-concealed irritation, the pessimism of the other. At length when he rose it was nearly three o'clock. "You will let me put you up for the night," urged Farloe. "To be in time for the Paris train in the morning?" laughed the other. "No, thanks, my friend. I want to be somewhere else about that time." He had drunk a good deal during the interview, and Farloe knew that he was getting into one of those dare-devil moods, in which it was rather dangerous to play with him, or to cross him. "As you please," he said, a little sullenly. "I hope you are quite right in your confidence that they have not got on our tracks yet." "Make your mind easy, my dear chap. Your sister took care of that by putting our friend Smeaton on a wrong scent. I have often laughed when I thought of them hunting every nook and corner around St Albans for the gentleman with whom she had only a casual acquaintance." Farloe made no reply. Stent held out one hand, and with the other clapped the young man on the shoulder with rough good humour.