"I don't know how much of the case you remember," he went on quietly.
"It certainly, at first, began even to puzzle me. On the 12th of last
December a woman, poorly dressed, but with an unmistakable air of having
seen better days, gave information at Scotland Yard of the disappearance
of her husband, William Kershaw, of no occupation, and apparently of no
fixed abode. She was accompanied by a friend--a fat, oily-looking
German--and between them they told a tale which set the police
immediately on the move.

"It appears that on the 10th of December, at about three o'clock in the
afternoon, Karl Müller, the German, called on his friend, William
Kershaw, for the purpose of collecting a small debt--some ten pounds or
so--which the latter owed him. On arriving at the squalid lodging in
Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, he found William Kershaw in a wild
state of excitement, and his wife in tears. Müller attempted to state
the object of his visit, but Kershaw, with wild gestures, waved him
aside, and--in his own words--flabbergasted him by asking him
point-blank for another loan of two pounds, which sum, he declared,
would be the means of a speedy fortune for himself and the friend who
would help him in his need.

"After a quarter of an hour spent in obscure hints, Kershaw, finding the
cautious German obdurate, decided to let him into the secret plan,
which, he averred, would place thousands into their hands."

Instinctively Polly had put down her paper; the mild stranger, with his
nervous air and timid, watery eyes, had a peculiar way of telling his
tale, which somehow fascinated her.