Over the edge of his newspaper he watched Rayner and Miss Slade meet, exchange a word or two, and retire to a corner of an inner lounge in which they often sat talking together.  He had often seen them talking together, and it had struck him that they seemed to talk with more than ordinary confidence.  The hunchback was on terms of easy familiarity with everybody in the house, and he had a remarkable range of topics.  He could talk sport, books, finance, politics, art, science, history, theology—­the variety of his conversation was astonishing.  But Appleyard had begun to notice that he rarely talked to any single person with the exception of Miss Slade—­he would join a group in smoking-room or drawing-room and enter gaily into whatever was being discussed, but he seemed to have no desire to hold a tete-a-tete talk with any one except this young woman, who was now as much an object of mystery and speculation to Appleyard as he himself was.  They were often seen talking together in quiet corners—­and some of the old maids and eligible widows were already saying that Miss Slade was setting her cap at Mr. Rayner’s evident deep purse.

Ambler Appleyard went to bed that night wondering greatly about two matters—­first, why Miss Slade was Miss Slade in Bayswater and Mrs. Marlow at Fullaway’s office; second, if Miss Slade or Mrs. Marlow, whichever she really was, had any secrets with the mysterious Mr. Rayner.  From that he got to wondering who Rayner really was, and what his business was.  And this process of speculation began again next morning, and continued all the way to the Gresham Street warehouse, and by the time he had arrived there he had half-determined to find out more about Miss Slade than was known to him up to then—­and also, since he appeared to be such great friends with Miss Slade, about Mr. Gerald Rayner.

“But how?” he mused as he ran up the steps to the warehouse.  “I’m not a private detective, and I don’t propose to employ one.  If I knew some sharp fellow—­”

Just then he caught sight of Gaffney, who sat on a bale of goods within the warehouse door, holding a note in his hand.  He stood up with a grin of friendly recognition when he saw Appleyard.

“Morning, sir,” he said.  “Letter from Mr. Allerdyke for you.  No answer, but I was to wait till you’d read it.”

Appleyard opened the note there and then.  It was a mere hurried scrawl, saying that Allerdyke was just setting off for Hull, in obedience to a call from the police; as Gaffney had nothing to do, would Appleyard make use of him during Allerdyke’s absence?

Appleyard bade Gaffney wait a while, went into his office, ran through his correspondence, gave the morning’s orders out to the warehouseman, and called the chauffeur inside.

“Gaffney,” he said as he carefully closed the door on them, “you’re a Londoner, aren’t you?”

Gaffney smiled widely.

“Ought to be, Mr. Appleyard,” he answered.  “I was born within sound of Bow Bells, anyhow.  Off Aldersgate Street, sir.  Yes, I’m a Cockney, right enough.”