"Aye, just so! He's been in here like that."
Matherfield turned to Hetherwick with a significant glance.
"That's the man who met Hannaford at Victoria Station that night!—the man that Ledbitter saw, and that nobody's seen since!" he exclaimed. "A million to one on it! Now then, who is he?"
"You know his name and his address," remarked Hetherwick.
"Yes—and I know, too, that Mr. Macpherson here hasn't seen him lately!" retorted Matherfield dryly. "How often, now, Mr. Macpherson, did you use to see him? I mean, did you use to see him at other times than when he came into your shop?"
"Oh, yes! I've seen him in the street, outside," replied the chemist. "I've seen him, too, going in and out of Rule's, and in and out of Romano's."
"In other words," remarked Matherfield, "he was pretty well known about this end of the Strand. I'm not sure, now, that I don't remember such a man myself—black, silky, carefully-trimmed beard, always a big swell. But—Mr. Macpherson hasn't seen him lately! Hm! Do you know if he was in practice, Mr. Macpherson?"
"I could not say as to that, Mr. Matherfield. Seeing that he called himself Dr. Ambrose, I supposed he was a medical practitioner, but I don't know what his degrees or qualifications were at all."
Matherfield glanced at a row of books which stood over a desk at the side of the parlour.
"Have you got an up-to-date medical directory?" he asked. "Good! Let's look the man up. You turn up his name, Mr. Hetherwick," he went on as the chemist handed down a volume; "you're more used to books than I am. Find out if there's anything about him."