THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL
The house at which Spargo and his presently up was an old-fashioned place in the of Waterloo Railway Station—a plain-fronted, four-square erection, mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early days of railway travelling. Anything more in with the modern ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to in London, and Ronald Breton said so as he and the others the pavement.
"And yet a good many people used to this place on their way to and from Southampton in the old days," Rathbury. "And I that old travellers, from the East after a good many years' absence, still in here. You see, it's close to the station, and travellers have a of walking into the nearest place when they've a thousand miles of and railway train them. Look there, now!" They had the as the spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, he a motion of his a on the left, or a number of men who from their appearance, their hats, and their appeared to be Colonials, or at any to have a good part of their time Oriental skies. There was a of that had a Colonial in it; an of tobacco that Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and Rathbury his sagely. "Lay you anything the man was a Colonial, Mr. Spargo," he remarked. "Well, now, I that's the and landlady."
There was an office them, at the of the hall, and a man and woman were them from a box window which opened above a on which a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a fleshy, round-faced, pompous-looking individual, who might at some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured, thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who the with an gaze. Rathbury up to them with easy confidence.
"You the of this house, sir?" he asked. "Mr. Walters? Just so—and Mrs. Walters, I presume?"
The a and looked at his questioner.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he enquired.
"A little of business, Mr. Walters," Rathbury, out a card. "You'll see there who I am—Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald Breton, a barrister."
The landlady, their names and description, pointed to a door, and Rathbury and his to pass through. Obeying her pointed finger, they themselves in a small private parlour. Walters closed the two doors which into it and looked at his visitor.
"What is it, Mr. Rathbury?" he enquired. "Anything wrong?"
"We want a of information," answered Rathbury, almost with indifference.
"Did of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly man, hair, fresh complexion?"
Mrs. Walters started, at her husband.
"There!" she exclaimed. "I some would be made. Yes—a Mr. Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the train got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But—he didn't use it last night. He out—very late—and he came back."
Rathbury nodded. Answering a from the landlord, he took a chair and, down, looked at Mrs. Walters.
"What you think some would be made, ma'am?" he asked. "Had you noticed anything?"
Mrs. Walters a little by this direct question. Her husband gave to a of growl.
"Nothing to notice," he muttered. "Her way of speaking—that's all."
"Well—why I said that was this," said the landlady. "He to tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn't been in London for over twenty years, and couldn't anything about it, him, he said, having much about London at any time. And, of course, when he out so late and came back, why, naturally, I something had to him, and that there'd be made."
"Just so—just so!" said Rathbury. "So you would, ma'am—so you would. Well, something has to him. He's dead. What's more, there's to think he was murdered."
Mr. and Mrs. Walters this with proper and horror, and the a little to his visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work to do the afternoon; Rathbury it, as a of course.
"My respects," he said, his glass. "Well, now, you'll just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, that he was in Middle Temple Lane this morning, at a to three; that there wasn't anything on him but his and a of paper which this gentleman's name and address; that this nothing of him, and that I him here he a cap at a West End hatter's yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel."
"Yes," said Mrs. Walters quickly, "that's so. And he out in that cap last night. Well—we don't know much about him. As I said, he came in here about a past twelve yesterday morning, and Number 20. He had a with him that a and a bag—they're in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had at this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—that, of course, was long we took it. And he his name in the book as John Marbury."
"We'll look at that, if you please," said Rathbury.
Walters in the register and the to the previous day's entries. They all over the man's writing.
"'John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,'" said Rathbury. "Ah—now I was if that would be the same as that on the of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn't—it's different."
"Quite different," said Breton. He, too, was the with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his of it, and asked another question.
"Ever that before?" he suggested.
"Never," answered Breton. "And yet—there's something very familiar about it."
"Then the is that you have it before," Rathbury. "Well—now we'll a little more about Marbury's doings here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. Walters."
"My wife most," said Walters. "I saw the man—I don't speaking with him."
"No," said Mrs. Walters. "You didn't—you weren't much in his way. Well," she continued, "I him up to his room. He talked a bit—said he'd just at Southampton from Melbourne."
"Did he mention his ship?" asked Rathbury. "But if he didn't, it doesn't matter, for we can out."
"I the name's on his things," answered the landlady. "There are some of that sort. Well, he asked for a to be for him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he out at one o'clock, saying to me that he he'd lost, as he didn't know London well at any time, and shouldn't know it at all now. He there—I saw him—looked about him and walked off Blackfriars way. During the the cap you spoke of came for him—from Fiskie's. So, of course, I he'd been Piccadilly way. But he himself came in until ten o'clock. And then he a with him."
"Aye?" said Rathbury. "A gentleman, now? Did you see him?"
"Just," the landlady. "They up to 20, and I just a of the as they up the stairs. A tall, well-built gentleman, with a beard, very well as as I see, with a top and a white his throat, and an umbrella."
"And they to Marbury's room?" said Rathbury. "What then?"
"Well, then, Mr. Marbury for some and soda," Mrs. Walters. "He was particular to have a of whiskey: that, and a of were taken up there. I nothing more until nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the in 20 had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of course, there is. He out at half-past eleven."
"And the other gentleman?" asked Rathbury.
"The other gentleman," answered the landlady, "went out with him. The hall-porter said they the station. And that was the last in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He came back."
"That," Rathbury with a smile, "that is certain, ma'am? Well—I we'd see this Number 20 room, and have a look at what he left there."
"Everything," said Mrs. Walters, "is just as he left it. Nothing's been touched."
It to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the dressing-table a ordinary articles of toilet—none of them of any quality or value: the man had been satisfied with the plain of life. An overcoat from a peg: Rathbury, without ceremony, through its pockets; just as he to and bag, and unlocked, he out on the every article they and each and carefully. And he nothing he any to the owner's identity.
"There you are!" he said, making an end of his task. "You see, it's just the same with these as with the he had on him. There are no papers—there's nothing to tell who he was, what he was after, where he'd come from—though that we may out in other ways. But it's not often that a man without some to his identity. Beyond the that some of this was, you see, in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma'am?" he asked, to Mrs. Walters. "Did he out his in your presence, now?"
"Yes," answered the landlady, with promptitude. "He came into the for a drink after he'd been up to his room. He out a of gold when he paid for it—a whole handful. There must have been some thirty to and half-sovereigns."
"And he hadn't a piece on him—when found," Rathbury.
"I noticed another thing, too," the landlady. "He was a very gold watch and chain, and had a ring on his left hand—little finger—gold, with a big diamond in it."
"Yes," said the detective, thoughtfully, "I noticed that he'd a ring, and that it had been a tight for him. Well—now there's only one thing to ask about. Did your notice if he left any paper around—tore any up, or anything like that?"
But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on the contrary, the of Number 20 had left his room very tidy indeed. So Rathbury that he had no more to ask, and nothing to say, just then, and he the and of the Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and away, by the two men.
"What next?" asked Spargo, as they the street.
"The next thing," answered Rathbury, "is to the man with whom
Marbury left this hotel last night."
"And how's that to be done?" asked Spargo.
"At present," Rathbury, "I don't know."
And with a careless nod, he walked off, of being alone.
