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.