Ambler appeared to be much concerned regarding the poor man’s death. When we had first met beside his vegetable barrow in the London Road he certainly seemed a hard-working, respectable fellow, with a voice rendered hoarse and rough by constantly shouting his wares. But by the whispered words that had passed I knew that Ambler was in his confidence. The nature of this I had several times tried to fathom.
His unexpected death appeared to have upset all Ambler’s plans. He grunted and took a tour round the poorly-furnished chamber.
“Look here!” he said, halting in front of me. “There’s been foul play here. We must lose no time in calling the police—not that they are likely to discover the truth.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the poor fellow has been the victim of a secret assassin.”
“Then you suspect a motive?”
“I believe that there is a motive why his lips should be closed—a strange and remote one.” Then, turning to the old fellow who had been the dead man’s friend, he asked: “Do you know anyone by the name of Slade?”
“Slade?” repeated the croaking old fellow. “Slade? No, sir. I don’t recollect anyone of that name. Is it a man or a woman?”
“Either.”
“No, sir.”