There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured, thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence.
“You the landlord of this house, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Walters? Just so—and Mrs. Walters, I presume?”
The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he enquired.
“A little matter of business, Mr. Walters,” replied Rathbury, pulling 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, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour. Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his principal visitor.
“What is it, Mr. Rathbury?” he enquired. “Anything wrong?”
“We want a bit of information,” answered Rathbury, almost with indifference.
“Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly man, grey hair, fresh complexion?”
Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband.