Next morning he, however, presented himself at Beech Cottage. Millington received him with an apologetic air. He explained that he had searched his note-books diligently, but he could find nothing that referred to the cipher letters, the two C's entwined, or the man who had ordered them. "I've a notion," he said, when he had finished his rather rambling statement, "that the gentleman who gave the order came from Manchester or Liverpool. But there I may be mixing it up with something else." And Smeaton left, knowing that nothing more could be got out of him. The identity of the writer of the threatening letter had yet to be discovered. Another point had suddenly occurred to him. Was the man who had had the cipher engraved the actual writer of the letter? And the greatest point of all was the whereabouts of the Stolen Statesman: was he dead, or was he still living? Smeaton ascended in the lift to his room at Scotland Yard, where a surprise awaited him, in the shape of a telegram from Varney, handed in at a village five miles from Horsham, in Sussex, three hours before. It read: "Come down here at once. Something unexpected.--Varney." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE ROOM OF SECRETS. Smeaton at once hunted up the time-table. There was a fast train to Horsham in twenty minutes and he could just catch it. He ordered a telegram to be despatched to Varney at the inn which he had given as a rendezvous, stating the time at which he would arrive, and later found the young man at the door, awaiting him. "Thought I had better stop here till you arrived," he said as they shook hands, "otherwise I would have come to Horsham Station. But the Forest View people know me now, and I didn't want one of them to see me talking to a stranger. They might put two and two together." The two men ordered some refreshment, and adjourned to the snug little parlour, which was empty. "No fear of being disturbed here, Smeaton, at this time of day; I know the place well. There will be nobody near for hours, except a passing carter for a glass of beer, and he won't disturb us." "I was glad to have your wire," said the detective, "for I was beginning to get a bit anxious. For several hours now I have been on the track of what I thought was a warm scent, only to find it a cold one. I'll tell you about it when you have had your say." Varney plunged at once into his narrative. And certainly the story he had to tell was a very thrilling one. The main points were these. Having been in the neighbourhood for some time, and being of a gregarious disposition, he had picked up a few acquaintances, with whom he indulged in an occasional chat when the opportunity offered. All these people, he was sure, accepted his own explanation of his presence there, and did not for a moment suspect in the _soi-disant_ artist who rambled about with his sketching materials the young journalist so well-known in Fleet Street.