"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.