“SAD DEATH FROM DROWNING.--Mr. Robert Bakewell Green, a visitor from London, was accidentally drowned at Baxenham, near Yarby, yesterday. The body was discovered late last night on the beach by the Baxenham rural postman. From the fact that the unfortunate man was wearing no boots it is supposed that he had taken them off in order to pursue the pastime--so popular among Cockney visitors to the seaside--of paddling among the small pools left by the last tide. Doctor Ellis, who examined the body, is of opinion that while so engaged the deceased was overcome by faintness and was drowned in quite shallow water, the body being subsequently washed up upon the beach by the incoming tide. An inquest will be held.” Five minutes after I had read this paragraph I was on my way to catch the next train to Yarby. The reader will remember that Green had given his address as “Care of Mrs. Brand, Elm Cottage, Baxenham,” and my first step was to interview this lady, under the pretence of being a Press representative who had come down to collect further particulars about her late lodger. From Mrs. Brand I learned among other facts that Green had been in the habit of paying frequent visits to Cotley, a seaside town some twenty miles inland. To Cotley I according betook myself, and curiously enough the very first thing that caught my eye after leaving the station was the legend, “Letters Taken,” displayed in the window of a tobacconist’s shop immediately fronting the booking-office entrance. The door was closed, but as I pushed it open a bell overhead announced the arrival of a customer. I found myself in a small shop with another room beyond, on the swing doors of which were the words, “To the Hairdressing Saloon.” There was no one behind the counter, nor, so far as I could see, was there any one in the hair-cutting rooms. But on the counter before me lay half a dozen letters, apparently thrown there by an impatient postman who could not wait for the proprietor’s return. One of them was for “Mr. Robert Bakewell Green,” the inscription being in his own handwriting; another was addressed in a woman’s hand to “Mr. Henry Jeanes,” and I saw that it bore a Norwegian stamp and the Stavanger postmark. Could “Henry Jeanes” be the name under which James Mullen was having letters sent to him? CHAPTER XVI HENRY JEANES, ALIAS JAMES MULLEN