“Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda,” continued Mrs. Walters. “He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven.” “And the other gentleman?” asked Rathbury. “The other gentleman,” answered the landlady, “went out with him. The hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the last anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came back.” “That,” observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, “that is quite certain, ma’am? Well—I suppose we’d better see this Number 20 room, and have a look at what he left there.” “Everything,” said Mrs. Walters, “is just as he left it. Nothing’s been touched.” It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet—none of them of any quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, without ceremony, went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid out on the bed every article they contained and examined each separately and carefully. And he found nothing whereby he could gather any clue to the dead owner’s identity. “There you are!” he said, making an end of his task. “You see, it’s just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him. There are no papers—there’s nothing to tell who he was, what he was after, where he’d come from—though that we may find out in other ways. But it’s not often that a man travels without some clue to his identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma’am?” he asked, suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. “Did he pull out his purse in your presence, now?” “Yes,” answered the landlady, with promptitude. “He came into the bar for a drink after he’d been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of gold when he paid for it—a whole handful. There must have been some thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns.” “And he hadn’t a penny piece on him—when found,” muttered Rathbury. “I noticed another thing, too,” remarked the landlady. “He was wearing a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left hand—little finger—gold, with a big diamond in it.” “Yes,” said the detective, thoughtfully, “I noticed that he’d worn a ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well—now there’s only one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn paper around—tore any letters up, or anything like that?”