"He carried off no dead body!" cried Mrs. Marry, crimson with wrath, "if it's Mr. Marlow's corpse you're talking of. I believe Mr. Brown's bin murdered like the doctor."
"Why do you believe so?"
"Because I've made up my mind to believe it," said Mrs. Marry fiercely. "And I'd like to see the man as would change my mind."
"So should I," remarked Blair. "Well, Mrs. Marry, show me Mr. Brown's room. I must examine his luggage."
"There's only one box, and that's locked."
"I'll take the liberty of opening it."
"But you can't. I'm an honest woman. What'll Mr. Brown say when he comes back and finds his things gone? Besides, there's a trifle of rent, and----"
"Hold your tongue!" said the inspector, with a glance which quelled her. "I will take nothing away. You forget who I am, Mrs. Marry. Show me the bedroom." And the landlady, thinking better of it, obeyed without further argument.
The box was there--a common, brown-painted traveling-box. There was no name on it, and it proved to be locked. The inspector asked for a chisel, and forced it open. Within he found three suits of gray clothes, some linen and socks, together with a pair of cloth boots--nothing else. No name on the shirts, no tailor's tag on the clothes. Evidently nothing of Mr. Brown's identity was to be learned from his belongings.
"The man from nowhere," said Phelps, gazing blankly around him.