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 ground that they had work to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter of course.

“My respects,” he said, lifting his glass.  “Well, now, perhaps you’ll just tell me what you know of this man?  I may as well tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn’t anything on him but his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman’s name and address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter’s yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Walters quickly, “that’s so.  And he went out in that cap last night.  Well—­we don’t know much about him.  As I said, he came in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked Number 20.  He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a bag—­they’re in 20 now, of course.  He told me that he had stayed at this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—­that, of course, was long before we took it.  And he signed his name in the book as John Marbury.”