If his motives been of the nature suggested by Smeaton, he was certainly taking it very well. Wingate pressed on him another whisky-and-soda. The offer was accepted with his usual alacrity. His powers of absorption appeared to be unbounded. Wingate proposed a change of scene. "What do you say to an hour or two at the Empire? We'll stroll round and get a couple of stalls." Mr Boyle was delighted at the suggestion. "Excellent," he cried, with the glee of a schoolboy. "Dear old Empire, dear old mad and sad Empire, what visions it conjures up! Let us go at once. I will tread again the merry lounge, forget all gnawing care, and summon back the light-heartedness of youth." He revelled in it all so much that it was eleven o'clock before Wingate could get him away. And then he had not exhausted his capacity for enjoyment. "Let us make a night of it," he cried cheerfully. "You don't know what a delight it is to mix for a few hours with a man of my own world, like yourself. We had an excellent dinner, but I am sure we could do a little supper together." Wingate would have preferred to decline, but, if he did so, Boyle might be offended. And it was, above all things, necessary to keep him in good humour. "Good man," cried Mr Boyle, with one of his sweeping gestures. "The night is young. A few paces from here is a snug little restaurant, presided over by my old and excellent friend, Luigi. You will be my guest." Wingate started at the name. It was the little house in Soho where Monkton had dined with the bearded Russian on the night of his disappearance. The smiling proprietor welcomed Boyle with extreme cordiality. They were very well acquainted. They had a light supper, and at the conclusion Boyle drew aside the waiter, and whispered something in his ear. Wingate caught the words: "Put it down. I'll call and pay to-morrow." The gentleman in the worn evening suit and the dingy shirt was evidently short of cash. Wingate took advantage of the opportunity. Smeaton had taken a dislike to the man, but what the poor broken-down creature had told him might be of service. "Pardon me, Boyle," he said, dropping the formal prefix, "but I could not help overhearing. If you have come out without money, please let me be your banker for the time being." There was a long pause. Boyle seized the tumbler of whisky-and-soda that stood at his elbow, and drained it at a draught. For a few seconds he seemed struggling with some hidden emotion. Then his usual flamboyancy returned. He hailed the waiter in a loud voice, and ordered more refreshment. Then he laid his long, lean hand on the other's shoulder, and spoke in his deep, rolling tones.