“Have you seen that gentleman lately that I’ve sometimes talked to in the corner there?” he asked.
The landlord glanced across the room and shook his head.
“Can’t say that I have, sir,” he answered. “The tallish gentleman with a grey beard? No, he hasn’t been in this last night or two.”
The other man sat down his glass and drew something from his pocket.
“I promised to bring him a specimen of some cigars I bought lately,” he said, laying an envelope on the counter. “I can’t stop tonight. If he should come in, will you give him that—he’ll know what it is.”
“Good heavens!” muttered Viner, as he turned in surprise to Barleyfield. “These men evidently don’t know that the man they’re talking about is—”
“Murdered!” whispered Barleyfield, with a grim smile. “Nothing wonderful in that, Mr. Viner. They haven’t connected Mr. Ashton with the man they’re mentioning—that’s all.”
“And yet Ashton’s portrait has been in the papers!” exclaimed Viner. “It amazes me!”
“Aye, just so, sir,” said Barleyfield. “But—a hundred yards in London takes you into another world, Mr. Viner. For all practical purposes, Lonsdale Passage, though it’s only a mile away, is as much separated from this spot as New York is from London. Well—that’s the man I told you of, sir.”
The man in question drank off the remaining contents of his glass, nodded to the landlord, and walked out. And Viner was suddenly minded to do something towards getting information.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to ask that landlord a question or two. Come with me.”
He went up to the bar, Barleyfield following in close attendance, and gave the landlord a significant glance.
“Can I have a word with you, in private?” he asked.
The landlord looked his questioner over and promptly opened a flap in the counter.
“Step inside, sir,” he said, indicating a door in the rear. “Private room there, sir.”
Viner and Barleyfield walked into a little snugly furnished sitting-room; the landlord followed and closed the door.
“Do you happen to know the name of the gentleman who was speaking to you just now?” asked Viner, going straight to his point. “I’ve a very particular reason for wishing to know it.”
“No more idea than I have of yours, sir,” replied the landlord with a shrewd glance.
Viner pulled out a card and laid it on the table.
“That is my name,” he said. “You and the gentleman who has just gone out were speaking just now of another gentleman whom he used to meet here—who used to sit with him in that far corner. Just so—you don’t know the name of that gentleman, either?”
“No more than I know the others’, sir,” replied the landlord, shaking his head. “Lord bless you, folks may come in here for a year or two, and unless they happen to be neighbours of mine, I don’t know who they are. Now, there’s your friend there,” he went on, indicating Barleyfield with a smile, “I know his face as that of a customer, but I don’t know who he is! That gentleman who’s just gone out, he’s been in the habit of dropping in here for a twelvemonth, maybe, but I never remember hearing his name. As for the gentleman he referred to, why, I know him as one that’s come in here pretty regular for the last few weeks, but I don’t know his name, either.”
“Have you heard of the murder in Lonsdale Passage?” asked Viner.
“Markendale Square way? Yes,” answered the landlord, with awakening interest. “Why, is it anything to do—”
Viner saw an illustrated paper lying on a side-table and caught it up. There was a portrait of Ashton in it, and he held it up before the landlord.
“Don’t you recognize that?” he asked.
The landlord started and stared.
“Bless my life and soul!” he exclaimed. “Why, surely that’s very like the gentleman I just referred to—I should say it was the very man!”
“It is the very man!” said Viner with emphasis, “the man for whom your customer who’s just gone out left the envelope. Now, this man who was murdered in Lonsdale Passage was here in your parlour for some time on the evening of the night on which he was murdered, and he was then in conversation with the man who has just gone out. Naturally, therefore, I should like to know that man’s name.”
“You’re not a detective?” suggested the landlord.
“Not at all!” replied Viner. “I was a neighbour of Mr. Ashton’s, and I am interested—deeply interested—in an attempt to clear up the mystery of his death. Things keep coming out. I didn’t know until this evening that Ashton spent some time here, at your house, the night he was killed. But when I got to know, I came along to make one or two inquiries.”
“Bless me!” said the landlord, who was still staring at the portrait. “Yes, that’s the gentleman, sure enough! I’ve often wondered who he was—pleasant, sociable sort, he was, poor fellow. Now I come to think of it I remember him being in here that night—last time, of course, he was ever in. He was talking to that gentleman who’s just gone; in fact, they left together.”
“They left together, did they!” exclaimed Viner with a sharp glance at Barleyfield. “Ah! What time was that, now?”
“As near as I can recollect, about ten-fifteen to ten-thirty,” answered the landlord. “They’d been talking together for a good hour in that corner where they usually sat. But dear me,” he went on, looking from one to the other of his two visitors, “I’m quite sure that gentleman who’s just left doesn’t know of this murder! Why, you heard him ask for the other gentleman, and leave him some cigars that he’d promised!”
“Just so—which makes it all the stranger,” said Viner. “Well, I’m much obliged to you, landlord—and for
