Was he speaking the truth or not? Was he honestly puzzled as he appeared, or shielding the writer of that threatening epistle with his assumption of ignorance? Smeaton could not be sure. The only evidence he possessed as to character was that furnished by the deathbed revelations of Roselli, and that was unfavourable. He resolved to try a random shot. "I think at one time you were acquainted with a man of the name of Giovanni Roselli, an Italian." The shot went home. There was a flicker in the steady blue eyes, the voice had lost its bluff and genial ring. He spoke hesitatingly, picking his words. "Ah, yes. Many years ago I knew a fellow named Roselli, in Turin--not very intimately; we did a little deal in marble together on one occasion. What do you know about him?" Smeaton shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Not much. In our business we come across many little things that we have not set out to find, but which emerge from greater issues. However, I did not come here to talk about this foreigner, but in the hope that you might be able to help me with that letter." When Whyman spoke again all traces of his momentary embarrassment had passed. "I am only too sorry that I cannot. I should say that envelope must have been stolen from my office." "Very likely," said Smeaton quietly. Then he rose to go. Whyman at once became effusively hospitable. "I wish you would dine and stay the night with me. I should be most delighted to have a good long chat with you, especially if you could tell me some of your experiences which are no longer secrets. To-morrow, perhaps, I could take you for a spin in the country in my car." Smeaton hesitated. Why did this man, whom he suspected of being a rogue under all this genial veneer, suddenly develop such a partiality for the society of an utter stranger? Did he want to pump him as to what he knew concerning Roselli, whom of course, he did not know was dead? He decided he would stay. If it came to pumping, Smeaton flattered himself he would prove the better of the two at that particular game. He might even make Whyman betray himself in an unguarded moment. They spent quite a pleasant time together. Smeaton was shown over the house and grounds. The dinner was good, the wines and cigars excellent. The detective entertained his host with reminiscences of work at "the Yard" that involved no indiscretion. They sat up chatting till past midnight. But the name of Roselli was not mentioned again on either side. "Good-night, Mr Smeaton, good-night. I have enjoyed your company immensely. Breakfast at half-past nine--eh?" He might be a rogue at bottom, and his wealth might not have been acquired honestly, but he was a very pleasant one. And as a host he was beyond reproach. When Smeaton entered the dining-room the next morning, the butler was waiting for him with a letter in his hand. "Mr Whyman was called away early this morning, sir. He has left this note for you."