Mr. Gorby took no notice of this tirade against men, but stood
looking at Mr. Whyte's library, which seemed to consist mostly of
French novels and sporting newspapers.

"Zola," said Mr. Gorby, thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book
rather tattered. "I've heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his
reputation I shouldn't care to read them."

Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive. On hearing it
Mrs. Hableton sprang hastily to her feet. "That may be Mr. Moreland,"
she said, as the detective quickly replaced "Zola" in the bookcase. "I
never 'ave visitors in the evenin', bein' a lone widder, and if it is
'im I'll bring 'im in 'ere."

She went out, and presently Gorby, who was listening intently, heard a
man's voice ask if Mr. Whyte was at home.

"No, sir, he ain't," answered the landlady; "but there's a gentleman in
his room askin' after 'im. Won't you come in, sir?"

"For a rest, yes," returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards
Mrs. Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte's most
intimate friend. He was a tall, slender man, with a pink and white
complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-coloured
moustache--altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual. He was
well-dressed in a suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.

"And where is Mr. Whyte to-night?" he asked, sinking into a chair, and
taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article