Starmidge, watching Mr. James Stipp's face closely as he looked at the cards, saw that he was not the sort of man to be taken unawares. There was not the faintest flicker of an eyelid, not a motion of the lips, not the tiniest start of surprise, no show of unusual interest on the manager's part: he nodded, opened a door in the counter, and waved the two detectives towards the inner room. "Be seated, gentlemen," he said, following them inside. "You'll excuse me a minute--important letter to get off--I won't keep you long." He closed the door upon them and Starmidge and Easleby glanced round before taking the chairs to which Mr. Stipp had pointed. There was little to see. A big, roomy desk, middle-Victorian in style, some heavy middle-Victorian chairs, a well-worn carpet and rug, a book-case filled with peerages, baronetages, county directories, Army lists, Navy lists, and other similar volumes of reference to high life, a map or two on the walls, a heavy safe in a corner--these things were all there was to look at. Except one thing--which Starmidge was quick to see. Over the mantelpiece, with an almanac on one side of it, and an interest-table on the other, hung a somewhat faded photograph of Gabriel Chestermarke. The younger detective tapped his companion's arm and silently indicated this grim counterfeit of the man in whose doings they were so keenly interested just then. "That's--the man!" he whispered. "Chestermarke! Gabriel!" Easleby opened mouth and eyes and stared with eager interest. "Egad!" he muttered. "That's lucky! Makes it all the easier. I'll lay you anything you like, my lad, this manager doesn't know anything--not a thing!--about the double identity business. We shall soon find out--leave it to me--at first, anyway. A few plain questions----" Mr. Stipp came bustling in, closing the door behind him. He took off overcoat and hat, ran his fingers through his light hair, and, seating himself, glanced smilingly at his visitors. "Well, gentlemen!" he demanded. "What can I do for you now? Want to make some inquiries?" "Just a few small inquiries, sir," replied Easleby. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name--Mr.----?" "Stipp's my name, sir," answered the manager promptly. "Stipp--James Stipp." "Thank you, sir," said Easleby, with great politeness. "Well, Mr. Stipp, you see from our cards who we are. We've called on you--as representing Mr. Godwin Markham--on behalf--informally, Mr. Stipp--of Mrs. Lester, of Lowdale Court, Chesham." Mr. Stipp's face showed a little surprise at this announcement, and he glanced from one man to the other as if he were puzzled. "Oh!" he said. "Dear me! Why--what has Mrs. Lester called you in for?" Easleby, who had brought another marked newspaper with him, laid it on the manager's desk. "You've no doubt read of this Scarnham affair, Mr. Stipp?" he asked, pointing to his own blue pencillings. "Most people have, I think. Or perhaps it's escaped your notice."