“Very easily. By putting myself in your place, and imagining how I should think and act under similar circumstances.”
Then Wingate followed his sweetheart’s lead.
“Well, Mr Varney, I agree with Miss Monkton. We accept you as an ally, without reference to Smeaton. What do you want us to do?”
“I want you to tell me, as fully as you can, everything that has happened, in the minutest detail, from the night of Mr Monkton’s strange disappearance until the present moment.”
It was a long recital. Varney listened attentively and made notes from time to time, as some point struck him. But he did not make many. He seemed to possess a marvellous and retentive memory.
The narrative finished, Varney rose.
“Thanks, I have got it all clear. Now, all this will want thinking over, and it will take me some hours. As soon as I have established something to work upon I will communicate with you. We don’t often see you at the Savage, Mr Wingate, or we might meet there.”
“I have not much leisure,” was Wingate’s reply, “and all I have at my disposal is at Miss Monkton’s service for the present.”
“I quite understand.” He could not fail to read in the slight glow on Sheila’s cheek that the pair were lovers. “Well, good-night. Many thanks for the cordial reception you have given me. I shall do my best. I shall hope to earn the compliments of my old friend Smeaton once again.”
It was close upon ten o’clock when he left the house in Chesterfield Street. Though it was summer time, the night was a dark one. There was no moon, and heavy clouds obscured the stars.