“Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?” asked Spargo. “You can—certain? That’s all right, Rathbury. Now I’m off, and you’ll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I’ll do the same by you.” And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly returned to the _Watchman_ office. There the assistant who had been told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a business card. “This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to his place when you came in.” Spargo took the card and read: MR. JAMES CRIEDIR, DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES, 2,021, STRAND. Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. Criedir in the past at that establishment there was to be none done there in the future by him, for there were newly-printed bills in the window announcing that the place was to let. And inside he found a short, portly, elderly man who was superintending the packing-up and removal of the last of his stock. He turned a bright, enquiring eye on the journalist. “Mr. Criedir?” said Spargo. “The same, sir,” answered the philatelist. “You are—?” “Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_. You called on me.” Mr. Criedir opened the door of a tiny apartment at the rear of the very little shop and motioned his caller to enter. He followed him in and carefully closed the door. “Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo,” he said genially. “Take a seat, sir—I’m all in confusion here—giving up business, you see. Yes, I called on you. I think, having read the _Watchman_ account of that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in your columns, that I can give you a bit of information.” “Material?” asked Spargo, tersely. Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed drily. “That’s for you to decide—when you’ve heard it,” he said. “I should say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it’s this—I kept open until yesterday—everything as usual, you know—stock in the window and so on—so that anybody who was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I’m retiring—retired,” added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, “last night. Now—but won’t you take down what I’ve got to tell you?” “I am taking it down,” answered Spargo. “Every word. In my head.” Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands. “Oh!” he said. “Ah, well, in my young days journalists used to pull out pencil and notebook at the first opportunity. But you modern young men—”