"Hannaford."
"See the date?" said Matherfield excitedly. "March 18th! Now we've got at it! Ambrose was the man that met Hannaford at Victoria, the tall, muffled-up man that Ledbitter saw! That's—certain!"
"Seems so," agreed Hetherwick. He was still studying the telegram. "Sent off from Fleet Street twelve-fifteen that day," he muttered. "Yes—there doesn't seem much doubt about this. I wonder who this man Ambrose is?"
"We'll soon get to know something about that, Mr. Hetherwick!" exclaimed Matherfield briskly. "Now, I'm just going to put that wire in my pocket, lock up this flat again, have another word or two with that caretaker chap, and go in search of the information you refer to. Come with me! Later, I shall get a search warrant, and make a thorough examination of this flat. Let's be moving."
Downstairs again, Matherfield called up the caretaker.
"You say Dr. Ambrose has been away for a bit?" he asked. "Is there anything unusual in that?"
"Well, not so very," answered the man. "Ever since he came here, two or three years ago, he's been used to going away for a while. I believe he used to go over to Paris. But I never remember him being away more than a week at a time before."
"Evidently he's a doctor," suggested Matherfield. "Did he ever have patients come to see him here?"
The caretaker shook his head.
"No," he replied. "He never had anybody much come to see him here—never remember anybody, unless it was somebody he brought in at night for a smoke, you know. He generally went out early in a morning, and came home late—very late."