his landlady wouldn't keep quiet. It's a whole week since the murder,
and as the lodger has not been seen or heard of, the landlady will
naturally make enquiries. If, however, as I surmise, the lodger is a
stranger, she will not know where to enquire; therefore, under these
circumstances, the most natural thing for her to do would be to
advertise for him, so I'll have a look at the newspapers."

Mr. Gorby got a file of the different newspapers, and looked carefully
through those columns in which missing friends and people who will hear
"something to their advantage" are generally advertised for.

"He was murdered," said Mr. Gorby to himself, "on a Friday morning,
between one and two o'clock, so he might stay away till Monday without
exciting any suspicion. On Monday, however, the landlady would begin to
feel uneasy, and on Tuesday she would advertise for him. Therefore,"
said Mr. Gorby, running his fat finger down the column, "Wednesday it
is."

It did not appear in Wednesday's paper, neither did it in Thursday's,
but in Friday's issue, exactly one week after the murder, Mr. Gorby
suddenly came upon the following advertisement:--

"If Mr. Oliver Whyte does not return to Possum Villa, Grey Street, St.
Kilda, before the end of the week, his rooms will be let again.--
Rubina Hableton."

"Oliver Whyte," repeated Mr. Gorby slowly, "and the initials on the
pocket-handkerchief which was proved to have belonged to the deceased
were 'O.W.' So his name is Oliver Whyte, is it? Now, I wonder if Rubina
Hableton knows anything about this matter. At any rate," said Mr.