The secretary’s face blanched to the lips. He tried to smile, but the smile was a very forced one.
“Your question, and your manner of putting it, Mr Wingate, are both very offensive. I know no more of Monkton’s whereabouts than you do. It is generally reported that he is abroad.”
“And you know as well as I do that it is not the fact,” answered Wingate sternly. “Have a care, Mr Farloe. We know a good deal about you.”
The secretary assumed an air of extreme hauteur, but his face was whiter than ever.
“It is extremely kind of you to interest yourself in my affairs, but I am afraid they will hardly repay the trouble of investigation. Perhaps you will allow me to bid you good-day.”
“Please give me another moment or two, Mr Farloe. We know this much about you, that you are in close communication with Stent and Bolinski, the two men who sent that dying man in the taxi to Chesterfield Street.”
For a moment the two men glared at each other, Wingate’s face aflame with anger, the other with an expression half of fear, half of defiance, stealing over his white mask.
“You refuse to tell me anything?” asked Wingate at length.
“I have nothing to tell you,” answered the other, in a voice that he could not keep quite steady. “Once again, good-day.” He turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away.
For fully five minutes he walked quickly in an easterly direction. Then he turned round, and cast stealthy glances backwards. Apparently he could not get it out of his mind that Wingate might be pursuing him.