"No, sir. The gardener has never heard it, but then, as I say, he hardly ever goes inside the house." The next day, and the day after, Varney watched Forest View closely. From the roadway he had a fairly clear view of the sloping lawn. But neither its occupier nor his visitor were tempted out by the beautiful weather. They were certainly an extraordinary pair to shut themselves up in a gloomy house on these bright sunshiny days. On the third day, however, both emerged from their seclusion, and sauntered on to the lawn. The visitor seemed to stoop slightly, and walk with the languid air of a man who had recently recovered from an illness. They walked about only for a little while, and, as they went back into the house, Varney, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, heard Mr Strange say: "Well, if you think you feel fit enough, we will walk into Horsham after lunch. We can drive back. It may do you good." An idea had formed itself in Varney's brain, fitting in with one of the theories he had formed about this remarkable case. A little after one o'clock the supposed artist stole through the door of the inn, a basket in one hand, a good-sized bag in the other. A few yards down the road he disappeared up a side road, crossed a field, and advanced towards an old disused barn which he had noted on the previous day, and slipped inside. A few moments later there issued a strange and shabbily dressed figure, with a slouching walk. On his left arm hung a basket, full of roses, which had been bought a short time ago from Mrs Chawley. They were so beautiful, Varney told her, that he must paint them. In the guise of a decrepit flower-seller he limped along to the narrow main street of Horsham, and hung about till the pair from Forest View arrived, when he faced them and advancing towards them with his basket before him, he whined when he had got up to them: "Buy a bunch of roses, sir. Threepence a bunch. All fresh picked, sir." "No," said Strange gruffly, "we don't want any, got lots of them," and the pair turned away in ignorance that within that basket, concealed by the flowers, was a small detective camera by which a snapshot of both of them had already been cleverly secured in secret. Varney made his way back at once to the old barn, where he discarded his shabby jacket and cap. Early next morning he was on his way to Smeaton. He had a hope that his investigations had been fruitful, but he could not be sure. Certainly the face and figure of the man Strange answered to the description of the person named Stent whom Scotland Yard had been unable to trace. Having developed and printed the photograph at his own rooms, he was shown into Smeaton's bare official sanctum which overlooked Westminster Bridge, when the celebrated official rose and gripped his hand. "Well, Varney?" he asked, "have you done anything in the Monkton mystery--eh?" "Yes. A bit. Look here. Is this Stent--or not? If it is. I've found him."