“He said, ‘Mrs Stevens?’ and I says, ‘That’s my name, and who are you?’ He says, ‘Mr Kolbecker has lent me his latchkey and allows me the use of his room to-night.’ I says, ‘Oh!’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and here’s a letter from him.’ He hands me a letter; it was from Mr Kolbecker, and it said to let the bearer use his room for the night as he was a friend. ‘All right,’ I says, ‘the sheets are aired; and what might your name be?’ He laughed when I said that, leastways, it wasn’t so much a laugh, it was more liker the noise a hen makes clucking, only not so loud. ‘Anthony,’ he says. ‘Anthony what?’ I asks him. ‘Mr John Anthony, that’s my name,’ he answers me, and I shows him up. He went at eight this morning and give the servant girl a shilling.” “Have you the letter he brought?” “No; he kept it.” “How long has Mr Kolbecker been here?” “Some six months, off and on, but for the last six weeks he has been up in Cumberland.” “Ah!” said Freyberger, “in Cumberland! What is he, this Mr Kolbecker?” “He’s an artist.” “An artist?” “Oh, he’s all right. He pays his way regular. Keeps on his room and sends me the money for it every fortnit regular.” “Have you any of his letters?” “I b’lieve I’ve got the last.” She went to a drawer and hunted amidst some odds and ends. “Here it is; no, ’tis only the envelope.” “Give me the envelope,” said Freyberger. It was a narrow, shabby-looking envelope, addressed in a curious-looking handwriting. It was post-marked “Skirwith,” “Carlisle” and “London, W.C.” “This is Mr Kolbecker’s handwriting?” asked the detective. “It is.” “I must keep this envelope, please.” “No, you don’t,” replied the landlady, suddenly waxing wroth. “Here, you gimme that envelope back; you comes in and asks me questions which I answer about my lodgers. You say you’re from Scotland Yard. How’m I to know? Gimme that back.” Freyberger put the envelope in his pocket. “If you want my credentials,” he said, “call in a constable; every man in this division knows me. Now listen. Mr Kolbecker left you six weeks ago and went to Cumberland?” “Yes.” “You have not seen him since?” “No.” “Well, from information in our hands, Mr Kolbecker went to live in Cumberland, took a cottage there under the name of Klein; he was murdered yesterday evening in a cottage on Blencarn Fell.” “Murdered!” said the woman, staring open-mouthed at the detective. “Yes, murdered, and the man who called here last night and slept in his room was, we believe, the man who murdered him.” “Well, to be sure!” said the woman, sitting down on a chair, placing her hands upon her knees and staring at Freyberger. She was restrained in her exclamation of astonishment because her vocabulary was limited, but her wonder was deep; it was also tinged with a not unpleasant feeling of excitement. Regret, perhaps, she had none. Freyberger, in giving her the information, had departed from the ordinary rule of his trade, to say nothing.