“Material?” asked Spargo, tersely.
Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed drily.
“That’s for you to decide—when you’ve heard it,” he said. “I should say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it’s this—I kept open until yesterday—everything as usual, you know—stock in the window and so on—so that anybody who was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I’m retiring—retired,” added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, “last night. Now—but won’t you take down what I’ve got to tell you?”
“I am taking it down,” answered Spargo. “Every word. In my head.”
Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands.
“Oh!” he said. “Ah, well, in my young days journalists used to pull out pencil and notebook at the first opportunity. But you modern young men—”
“Just so,” agreed Spargo. “This information, now?”
“Well,” said Mr. Criedir, “we’ll go on then. Yesterday afternoon the man described as Marbury came into my shop. He—”
“What time—exact time?” asked Spargo.
“Two—to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock,” answered Mr. Criedir. “I’d swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was precisely as you’ve described him—dress, everything—I tell you I knew his photo as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little box—”