The tall man took a card from his waistcoat pocket and presented it. "Those are my credentials, sir." Hugh ran his eye over it swiftly. He saw the name, Davidson, a common one enough, and, in the corner, Scotland Yard. Why the deuce should this agent of the police want to accost him? And how did he know his name was Murchison? "I think you are acquainted with a family of the name of Burton, brother and sister they call themselves, who live at a house a little way out called Rosemount?" "Of course I know them, that is to say, in a casual sort of way." Needless to say that Murchison had never been more surprised in his life. "Why are you asking these questions?" Mr Davidson darted a keen glance up and down the comparatively empty High Street. "This is rather an exposed place in which to talk, but I have something to tell you which I am sure you will be interested to listen to. I am staying at the `Anchor,' in a side street from this. If you will do me the honour to follow me, I can take you into a private room there, where we shall not be observed nor overheard." Like a man in a dream, Hugh found himself following Mr Davidson to the "Anchor," one of the second-class hotels in the town. He was quite sure that this tall, military looking person was going to clear up the mystery of the couple whom Blankfield, in its wisdom, had refused to visit, and whose acquaintance he owed to a random meeting at a tea-shop. There were only one or two idlers in the entrance-hall of the hotel, which was of what is known as the "Commercial" kind. Murchison was glad to find that he did not seem to attract their observation, as he rapidly crossed over to where his new acquaintance was standing in a rather dark corner. Davidson piloted him into a little sitting-room which opened out of a long narrow passage. He rang the bell, and ordered refreshments with the manner of a man who was acquainted with the usages of polite society. It would be quite safe to say that Hugh, the heir to a great fortune, brought up in the lap of luxury, an aristocrat by adoption, if not exactly by birth, had never found himself up till now in such an environment. He could not truthfully declare that it was an experience he wished to repeat. Still, he could blame nobody but himself, his foolish action in taking up with a couple of persons whom Blankfield, in its superior worldly wisdom, had decided to ignore. As he was in for it, and nothing could undo the past, it was better to go through with it. Let him accommodate himself to the situation, drink his whisky-and-soda in this dingy little parlour of a second-rate hotel, and treat the detective with genial courtesy. After the first mouthful of his drink, Davidson began to explain.