And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly returned to the Watchman office. There the assistant who had been told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a business card.
“This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to his place when you came in.”
Spargo took the card and read:
MR. JAMES CRIEDIR,
DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES,
2,021, STRAND.
Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. Criedir in the past at that establishment there was to be none done there in the future by him, for there were newly-printed bills in the window announcing that the place was to let. And inside he found a short, portly, elderly man who was superintending the packing-up and removal of the last of his stock. He turned a bright, enquiring eye on the journalist.
“Mr. Criedir?” said Spargo.
“The same, sir,” answered the philatelist. “You are—?”
“Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman. You called on me.”
Mr. Criedir opened the door of a tiny apartment at the rear of the very little shop and motioned his caller to enter. He followed him in and carefully closed the door.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo,” he said genially. “Take a seat, sir—I’m all in confusion here—giving up business, you see. Yes, I called on you. I think, having read the Watchman account of that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in your columns, that I can give you a bit of information.”