“I don’t account for it,” said Spargo.  “I’m trying to.”

Mr. Criedir made no comment on this.  He looked his visitor up and down for a moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly offered him a cigarette.  Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again.

“Yes,” he said.  “I’m trying to account.  And I shall account.  And I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you’ve told me.  Now. then, may I ask you a question or two?”

“A thousand!” responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality.

“Very well.  Did Marbury say he’d call on Cardlestone?”

“He did.  Said he’d call as soon as he could—­that day.”

“Have you told Cardlestone what you’ve just told me?”

“I have.  But not until an hour ago—­on my way back from your office, in fact.  I met him in Fleet Street and told him.”

“Had he received a call from Marbury?”

“No!  Never heard of or seen the man.  At least, never heard of him until he heard of the murder.  He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could recognize it as any man they’d ever known, but they couldn’t.”

“I know they did,” said Spargo.  “I saw ’em at the mortuary.  Um!  Well—­one more question.  When Marbury left you, did he put those stamps in his box again, as before?”

“No,” replied Mr. Criedir.  “He put them in his right-hand breast pocket, and he locked up his old box, and went off swinging it in his left hand.”

Spargo went away down Fleet Street, seeing nobody.  He muttered to himself, and he was still muttering when he got into his room at the office.  And what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over again: 

“Six hours—­six hours—­six hours!  Those six hours!”

Next morning the Watchman came out with four leaded columns of up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:—­

WHO SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M.  AND 9.15 P.M.  ON THE DAY PRECEDING HIS MURDER?

CHAPTER TEN

THE LEATHER BOX

Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he kept to himself.  That a good many thousands of human beings must have set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in that headline was certain; the problem was—­What particular owner or owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him?  Why should they remember him?  Walters and his wife had reason to remember him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so had Myerst; so had William Webster.  But between a quarter past three, when he left the London and Universal Safe Deposit, and