"I remember a good many mornings," said Jallanby, readily enough. "I went across there with those two several times while they were in the town. They were doing a bit of business with me--we often dropped in over yonder for a glass before dinner. But--I'm surprised that--well, to put it plainly--that detectives should be inquiring after 'em!--I am, indeed." "Mr. Jallanby," said Scarterfield, "I'll be plain with you. This is, so far, merely a matter of suspicion. I'm not sure of the identity of one of these men--it's but one I want to trace at present, though I should like to know who the other is. But--if my man is the man I believe him to be, there's a matter of robbery, and possibly of murder. So you see how serious it is! Now, I'll jog your memory a bit. Do you remember that one morning, as you and these two men were leaving the Goose and Crane, a big seafaring-looking man stepped up to the bearded man you were with and claimed acquaintance with him as being one Netherfield Baxter?" Jallanby started. It was plain that he remembered. "I do!" he exclaimed. "Well enough! I stood by. But--he said he wasn't. There was a mistake." "I believe there was no mistake," said Scarterfield. "I believe that man is Netherfield Baxter, and--it's Netherfield Baxter I want. Now, Mr. Jallanby, what do you know of those two? In confidence!" We had all been standing until then, but at this invitation to disclosure the ship-broker motioned us to sit down, he himself turning the stool which the clerk had just vacated. "This is a queer business, Mr. Scarterfield," he said. "Robbery? Murder? Nasty things, nasty terms to apply to folk that one's done business with. And that, of course, was all that I did with those two men, and all I know about them. Pleasant, good-mannered, gentlemanly chaps I found 'em--why, Lord bless me, I dined with 'em one night at their hotel!" "Which hotel?" asked Scarterfield. "Station Hotel," replied Jallanby. "They were there for ten days or so, while they did their business with me. I never saw aught wrong about 'em either--seemed to be what they represented themselves to be. Certainly they'd plenty of money--for what they wanted here in Hull, anyway. But of course, that's neither here nor there." "What names did you know them under?" inquired Scarterfield. "And where did they profess to come from?" "Well, the man with the brownish beard called himself Mr. Norman Belford," answered Jallanby. "I gathered he was from London. The other man was a Frenchman--some French lord or other, from his name, but I forget it. Mr. Belford always called him Vicomte--which I took to be French for our Viscount." Scarterfield turned and looked at me. And I, too, looked at him. We were thinking of the same thing--old Cazalette's find on the bush in the scrub near the beach at Ravensdene Court. And I could not repress an exclamation. "The handkerchief!" Scarterfield coughed. A dry, significant cough--it meant a great deal.