his house, sir?" he asked. "Mr. Walters? Just
so--and Mrs. Walters, I presume?"

The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he enquired.

"A little matter of business, Mr. Walters," replied Rathbury, pulling
out a card. "You'll see there who I am--Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of
the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald
Breton, a barrister."

The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side
door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying
her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour.
Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his
principal visitor.

"What is it, Mr. Rathbury?" he enquired. "Anything wrong?"

"We want a bit of information," answered Rathbury, almost with
indifference.

"Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday--elderly man,
grey hair, fresh complexion?"

Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband.

"There!" she exclaimed. "I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes--a Mr.
Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train
got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But--he didn't use it last
night. He went out--very late--and he never came back."

Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair
and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters.

"What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma'am?" he asked. "Had
you noticed anything?"

Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her
husband gave vent to a species of growl.

"Nothing to notice," he muttered. "Her way of speaking--that's all."

"Well--why I said that was this," said the landlady. "He happened to
tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn't been in London for over twenty
years, and couldn't remember anything about it, him, he said, never
having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he
went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought
something had happened to him, and that there'd be enquiries made."

"Just so--just so!" said Rathbury. "So you would, ma'am--so you would.
Well, something has happened to him. He's dead. What's more, there's
strong reason to think he was murdered."

Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise
and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his
visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the