“It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say,” replied Mr. Myerst.  “Yes, I should decidedly say so.  The fact is that on June 21st at about—­to be precise—­three o’clock in the afternoon, a stranger, who gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if he could rent a small safe.  He explained to me that he desired to deposit in such a safe a small leather box—­which, by the by, was of remarkably ancient appearance—­that he had brought with him.  I showed him a safe such as he wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the rules of the place, and he engaged the safe, paid the rent for one year in advance, and deposited his leather box—­an affair of about a foot square—­there and then.  After that, having exchanged a remark or two about the altered conditions of London, which, I understood him to say, he had not seen for a great many years, he took his key and his departure.  I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. Marbury who was found murdered.”

“None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst,” said Rathbury.  “And I’m much obliged to you for coming here.  Now you might tell me a little more, sir.  Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?”

“No.  He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of it,” replied the secretary.

“Didn’t give you any hint as to what was in it?” asked Rathbury.

“None.  But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not be burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested,” replied Mr. Myerst.  “He appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe.”

“Ah!” said Rathbury, winking at Spargo.  “So he would, no doubt.  And Marbury himself, sir, now?  How did he strike you?”

Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question.

“Mr. Marbury struck me,” he answered at last, “as a man who had probably seen strange places.  And before leaving he made, what I will term, a remarkable remark.  About—­in fact, about his leather box.”

“His leather box?” said Rathbury.  “And what was it, sir?”

“This,” replied the secretary. “‘That box,’ he said, ’is safe now.  But it’s been safer.  It’s been buried—­and deep-down, too—­for many and many a year!’”

CHAPTER NINE

THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS

“Buried—­and deep-down, too—­for many and many a year,” repeated Mr. Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances.  “I consider that, gentlemen, a very remarkable remark—­very remarkable!”

Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair.  He looked at Spargo.  And with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo’s journalistic instincts had been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off on a new scent.