“I know,” laughed the other. “I have heard so. It is all too ridiculous. The truth has already been published in the Press. Mr Monkton has had a very serious nervous breakdown, and is on the Riviera—even though it is summer.”
“You are quite certain of that—eh, Farloe?”
“Why should I tell you an untruth?” asked the secretary blandly.
They were standing near the Members’ post-office, and the Baronet, having exchanged a nod with the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, who was just passing into the House itself, gazed full into the secretary’s eyes.
“Tell me, Farloe—tell me in strict confidence,” he urged. “I’ll not whisper a word, but—well, do you happen to know anyone of the name of Stent?”
The young man hesitated, though he preserved the most complete and remarkable control.
“Stent? Stent?” he repeated. “No. The name is quite unfamiliar to me.”
“Are you quite certain? Think.”
“I have already thought. I have never heard that name,” was the reply.
“You are quite positive that he is not acquainted with Mr Monkton in some peculiar and mysterious way?”