"My dear Marton, this is an unexpected pleasure," said Raston, assisting his distinguished visitor to pull off his coat. "I thought you would have written to me about your visit to Penny." "I didn't go there," replied Marton, with a laugh. "The fact is, Harold, I cannot quite understand this case. You have not explained matters clearly enough in your letter. I have set a detective to watch Penny and Penny's shop, and I have come down to hear all details from your own worshipful lips. But what a foggy sort of place you have here! I have been driving in your mail-coach through a kind of cotton-wool. The guard thought we would never reach Colester. I felt like a character of Dickens in that coach. You are a primitive people here. Do you know I rather like it!" Marton was a tall, slim, black-haired man, neatly dressed in a tweed suit. He constantly smoked cigarettes, and maintained a perfectly calm demeanour. No one ever saw Marton excited. His face was clean-shaven, and his grey eyes were sharp and piercing. He looked what he was, a thorough gentleman, and a remarkably shrewd, clever man. His fame as a detective is so well known that it need hardly be mentioned. "I must get you something to eat," said Raston. "No. I dined at Portfront before I left. Give me a glass of port, and I can smoke a cigarette. This fire is comfortable after the fog." "I have some excellent port, Marton. My dear mother is under the impression that I am delicate, and keeps me well supplied from my father's cellar. I don't know what he says to it." "Being a clergyman, you had better not know," said Marton, dryly. "Your father had a vocabulary of--There, there, I'll say nothing more. I want my port, my cigarette, and a full account of this case. It seems to be an interesting one. I shouldn't have come down otherwise, even for your sake, my dear Harold. I have just twice as much business on hand as I can do with. The detective life is not a happy one." Raston poured out a glass of port and placed it at Marton's elbow. He watched his friend light a cigarette, and himself filled his well-worn briar. Then, when they were comfortably established, he related all that he knew about the case. Marton listened with his eyes on the fire, but made no observation until the recital was finished. Indeed, even then he did not seem inclined to talk. "Well?" said Raston, rather impatiently. "What do you think?" "Wait a bit, my friend. It is a difficult case. I am not prepared to give you an opinion straight away. I must ask something about the people concerned in it first. This Leo Haverleigh? What about him?" "He is a good man, and perfectly honest. I should as soon have suspected myself of stealing the cup as Leo. And I have known him for some time."