"Nothing!" replied the landlord stolidly. "The room was as you'd expect to find it; tidy enough. And nothing touched--as the police that were called in at first can testify. They can swear as his money was all right and his watch and chain all right--there'd been no robbery. And," he added with resentful emphasis, "I don't care what you nor nobody says!--'tain't no case of murder, this! It's suicide, that's what it is. I don't want my house to get the name and character of a murder place! I can't help it if a quiet-looking, apparently respectable young fellow comes and suicides himself in my house--there's nobody can avoid that, as I know of, but when it comes to murder--" "No one has said anything about murder so far," interrupted the chief quietly. "But since you suggest it, perhaps we'd better ask who you'd got in the house last night." He opened the register at the page in which he had kept his finger, and looked at the last entries. "I see that three--no, four--people came in after this young man who called himself Frank Herman. You booked them, I suppose?" he went on, turning to the landlady. "Were they known to you?" "Only one--that one, Mr. Peter Donaldson, Dundee," answered the landlady. "He's the representative of a jute firm--he often comes here. He's in the house now, or he was, an hour ago--he'll be here for two or three days. Those two, Mr. and Mrs. Nielsen--they appeared to be foreigners. They were here for the night, had breakfast early, and went away by some boat--our porter carried their things to it. Quiet, elderly folks, they were." "And the fourth--John Barcombe, Manchester--you didn't know him?" asked the chief, pointing to the last entry. "I see you gave him Number 29--two doors from Herman." "Yes," said the landlady. "No--I didn't know him. He came in about nine o'clock and had some supper before he went up. He'd his breakfast at eight o'clock this morning, and went away at once. Lots of our customers do that--they're just in for bed and breakfast, and we scarcely notice them." "Did you notice this man--Barcombe?" asked the chief. "Well, not particularly. But I've a fair recollection of him. A rather pale, stiffish-built man, lightish brown hair and moustache, dressed in a dark suit. He'd no luggage, and he paid me for supper, bed, and breakfast when he booked his room," replied the landlady. "Quite a quiet, respectable man--he said something about being unexpectedly obliged to stop for the night, but I didn't pay any great attention." The chief looked attentively at the open page of the register. Then he drew the attention of those around him to the signature of John Barcombe. It was a big, sprawling signature, all the letters sloping downward from left to right, and being of an unusual size for a man.