Wingate scribbled a brief but polite note to Boyle, inviting him to dinner the following day at a Bohemian club in Shaftesbury Avenue of which he was a member. In this tolerant atmosphere his guest's eccentricities of manner and shabbiness of attire were less likely to provoke comment. Having arranged this, he took his leave of Smeaton, whom he left cogitating over the new development of affairs. The detective had no doubt in his own mind that Boyle, flighty and feather-brained as he seemed, could be level-headed on occasions. The story he told him about Lady Wrenwyck certainly bore the impress of truth, but it was impossible for a man of such peculiar mentality to avoid exaggeration. Before going further into the matter, he would like some corroboration. To whom could he apply? And at once he thought of Mr Chesterton, the Prime Minister. He and Monkton were life-long friends, had been at Cambridge together. Although not actually "born in the purple," having come from commercial stock, he had been adopted into society from his earliest youth. His rare eloquence and commanding gifts had done the rest, and raised him to his present high position. An hour later he was closeted with the Premier in the big, heavily-furnished room at Downing Street. Mr Chesterton received him with that easy and graceful cordiality which was one of his greatest charms. "I have ventured to intrude upon your time, sir, with reference to the matter which is still baffling us--the mysterious disappearance of your colleague Mr Monkton, the Colonial Secretary. I have had a visit from a peculiar person who calls himself Caleb Boyle, and he has given me some information that may or may not prove valuable. He says he knew Mr Monkton intimately. I am aware that you were life-long friends. Do you happen to know anything of the man Boyle?" An amused smile flitted over the Prime Minister's features. "I remember him well, a harum-scarum, chattering, frothy fellow--utterly devoid of brains. Stay, I think perhaps I do him an injustice. I would rather say he suffered from an excess of brain--of the ill-balanced sort. So he has turned up again--eh? I thought he had disappeared for good." "I take it, from that remark, that he has had a somewhat chequered career?" queried Smeaton. "Most chequered," was Mr Chesterton's reply. In a few brief sentences he gave the history of Caleb Boyle, so far as he had known it. He was a man of good family, and possessed of some small fortune. These advantages were nullified by the possession of nearly every quality that made for failure in life. He was headstrong, prodigal, full of an overwhelming conceit in his own capacity. He dabbled a little in everything--and could do nothing well.