“I saw that poor gentleman last night, sir,” he said to the inspector. “He was standing at the door of the Mitre, talking to another gentleman—a tallish man.”
“Then I'll go across there,” said Mitchington. “Come with me, if you like, Dr. Bryce.”
This was precisely what Bryce desired—he was already anxious to acquire all the information he could get. And he walked over the way with the inspector, to the quaint old-world inn which filled almost one side of the little square known as Monday Market, and in at the courtyard, where, looking out of the bow window which had served as an outer bar in the coaching days, they found the landlady of the Mitre, Mrs. Partingley. Bryce saw at once that she had heard the news.
“What's this, Mr. Mitchington?” she demanded as they drew near across the cobble-paved yard. “Somebody's been in to say there's been an accident to a gentleman, a stranger—I hope it isn't one of the two we've got in the house?”
“I should say it is, ma'am,” answered the inspector. “He was seen outside here last night by one of our men, anyway.”
The landlady uttered an expression of distress, and opening a side-door, motioned them to step into her parlour.
“Which of them is it?” she asked anxiously. “There's two—came together last night, they did—a tall one and a short one. Dear, dear me!—is it a bad accident, now, inspector?”
“The man's dead, ma'am,” replied Mitchington grimly. “And we want to know who he is. Have you got his name—and the other gentleman's?”
Mrs. Partingley uttered another exclamation of distress and astonishment, lifting her plump hands in horror. But her business faculties remained alive, and she made haste to produce a big visitors' book and to spread it open before her callers.
“There it is!” she said, pointing to the two last entries. “That's the short gentleman's name—Mr. John Braden, London. And that's the tall one's—Mr. Christopher Dellingham—also London. Tourists, of course—we've never seen either of them before.”