Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English.  He went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. Criedir in the past at that establishment there was to be none done there in the future by him, for there were newly-printed bills in the window announcing that the place was to let.  And inside he found a short, portly, elderly man who was superintending the packing-up and removal of the last of his stock.  He turned a bright, enquiring eye on the journalist.

“Mr. Criedir?” said Spargo.

“The same, sir,” answered the philatelist.  “You are—?”

“Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman.  You called on me.”

Mr. Criedir opened the door of a tiny apartment at the rear of the very little shop and motioned his caller to enter.  He followed him in and carefully closed the door.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo,” he said genially.  “Take a seat, sir—­I’m all in confusion here—­giving up business, you see.  Yes, I called on you.  I think, having read the Watchman account of that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in your columns, that I can give you a bit of information.”

“Material?” asked Spargo, tersely.

Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor.  He coughed drily.

“That’s for you to decide—­when you’ve heard it,” he said.  “I should say, considering everything, that it was material.  Well, it’s this—­I kept open until yesterday—­everything as usual, you know—­stock in the window and so on—­so that anybody who was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I’m retiring—­retired,” added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, “last night.  Now—­but won’t you take down what I’ve got to tell you?”

“I am taking it down,” answered Spargo.  “Every word.  In my head.”

Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands.

“Oh!” he said.  “Ah, well, in my young days journalists used to pull out pencil and notebook at the first opportunity.  But you modern young men—­”

“Just so,” agreed Spargo.  “This information, now?”

“Well,” said Mr. Criedir, “we’ll go on then.  Yesterday afternoon the man described as Marbury came into my shop.  He—­”

“What time—­exact time?” asked Spargo.

“Two—­to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock,” answered Mr. Criedir.  “I’d swear twenty affidavits on that point.  He was precisely as you’ve described him—­dress, everything—­I tell you I knew his photo as soon as I saw it.  He was carrying a little box—­”

“What sort of box?” said Spargo.

“A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box—­a very miniature trunk, in fact,” replied Mr. Criedir.  “About a foot square; the sort of thing you never see nowadays.  It was very much worn; it attracted me for that very reason.  He set it on the counter and looked at me.  ’You’re a dealer in stamps—­rare stamps?’ he said.  ‘I am,’ I replied.  ’I’ve something here I’d like to show you,’ he said, unlocking the box.  ‘It’s—­’”