"Dear Mr Smeaton," ran the brief epistle. "A thousand apologies for treating you in this discourteous fashion. I received a letter just now calling me abroad on urgent business that brooks no delay. I may be absent some few weeks. Trusting we shall meet again--Yours sincerely, James Whyman." Smeaton was too accustomed to surprises to exhibit any emotion. He sat down and ate an ample breakfast, and cogitated over the sudden departure of his host. The one obvious fact was that Whyman had flown. He need not waste time over that. The important thing remained: what was the reason of his hurried flight? Before he left the room Smeaton crossed over to a writing-desk in the window, and peered into the waste-paper basket at the side. A forlorn hope--it was empty. A torn-up envelope might have revealed the postmark. But Mr Whyman was evidently too old a bird to leave anything behind him that would enlighten one of the keenest detectives in England. CHAPTER NINETEEN. STILL ANOTHER CLUB. "Now that we are alone, sir, permit me to present myself in proper form. My name is Caleb Boyle, profession gentleman, educated at that glorious old school, Winchester, and graduate of Trinity College. Cambridge." Mr Boyle made a low bow as he completed his self-introduction, which took place in Smeaton's room at Scotland Yard. He was full of gesture, employing a pantomime of arms, hands and face to accentuate his remarks. Smeaton bowed, pointed to a chair, and examined him with minute attention. He was a tall, angular man, thin almost to emaciation. Judging by his figure, you might have put him at forty, but the lines on his face suggested another ten or fifteen years. "I intended no discourtesy to you personally when I declined to give my card to your satellites or subordinates, or whatever name you give to the hangers-on of a great man." Here the fluent Mr Boyle made another of his grotesque bows to lend point to the compliment, and again Smeaton inclined his head politely. He had not as yet quite taken his bearings with regard to this extraordinary creature. "To such persons, Mr Smeaton, I do not take the trouble to reveal my identity; it would be a waste of time. It is my invariable practice to go straight to the fountain-head when I have anything of importance to communicate." Here Mr Boyle swelled out his chest, and said in a voice of intense conviction: "I have no toleration for whipper-snappers, and those, sir, are what one finds, spreading like a fungus, in every department of our public life." It seemed to the police official's well-balanced mind that his visitor was a pompous ass, with a slight suspicion of insanity thrown in. He was not a man to suffer fools gladly, but this particular fool had called on him for some purpose, and he must exercise patience till the purpose was revealed. He must bear with him and coax him. For he felt intuitively that Boyle was one of those men who take a long time in coming to the point.