nd
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.

"