“From London, sir,” she exclaimed, as if that were rather a remarkable circumstance. “Will you be pleased to step inside?” So saying, she held the door open for him to enter. He did so to find himself in a neat little sitting room, unostentatiously yet comfortably furnished. Three cases of stuffed birds decorated the walls, together with some pictures on religious subjects, a bookcase, the latter scantily furnished, and last, but not least, a Chippendale sofa, and two or three chairs that would not have disgraced a ducal drawing-room. “Kindly take a seat, sir,” said Mrs. Raikes, dusting one of the aforementioned chairs with her apron as she spoke. “If it’s apartments you want I am quite sure I can satisfy you. Of course it’s a bad season of the year, but at the end of the month we shall begin to fill up. There’s some splendid boating on the river, as perhaps you know, and at night, when the houseboats are all lit up, well, it’s quite lively.” Her desire to impress him with the gaieties of the place was almost pathetic, and Burrell felt that he was acting meanly in permitting her to go on, without acquainting her with the real object of his visit. “I am sorry to say that I am not in search of lodgings,” he said. “My business is of an altogether different nature. In the first place, I think I ought to tell you that I am a detective.” “A detective?” she cried in horror. “Lor’, I _do_ hope, sir, there’s nothing wrong?” “Not so far as you are concerned, you may be sure,” he answered. “I have come down here to make some inquiries regarding a gentleman who was known to be staying in your house some time back. His name was Fensden.” The woman shook her head. “I haven’t had a gentleman in my house of that name,” she answered. “In fact, the only gentleman I have had since the beginning of the year was a Mr. Onslow. The name of Fensden I don’t remember at all.” Burrell consulted his pocket-book before he went further. “And yet the information I received was most complete,” he continued. “Victor Fensden, Esq., c/o George Onslow, Laburnum Cottage, Laleham-on-Thames. There couldn’t be anything plainer than that, could there?” “It seems all right, sir,” said the woman. “There is only one Laburnum Cottage, and Mr. Onslow was certainly staying with us. He had his wife with him, a sweet young thing, which was more than could be said of the gentleman, I can assure you.” It was plain from this that she and Mr. Onslow had not been on the best of terms. Burrell took from his pocket the photograph of Fensden, and handed it to her. He was beginning to have an inkling of the truth. “Is that the likeness of Fensden or of Mr. Onslow?” he inquired. “Mr. Onslow, sir, to be sure,” she replied, “and a very good one of him it is too. I hope he’s not a friend of yours, because I couldn’t abear him. The way he treated his poor foreign wife of his was enough to make an honest woman’s blood boil.”