seen him there myself."

"The Grey Mare Inn!" exclaimed Viner, while Mrs. Killenhall and Miss
Wickham looked at each other wonderingly. "Where is that? It sounds like
the name of some village tavern."

"Ah, but you don't know this part of London as I do, sir!" said
Barleyfield, with a knowing smile. "If you did, you'd know the Grey Mare
well enough--it's an institution. It's a real old-fashioned place,
between Westbourne Grove and Notting Hill--one of the very last of the
old taverns, with a tea-garden behind it, and a bar-parlour of a very
comfortable sort, where various old fogies of the neighbourhood gather of
an evening and smoke churchwarden pipes and tell tales of the olden
days--I rather gathered from what I saw that it was the old atmosphere
that attracted Mr. Ashton--made him think of bygone England, you know,
Mr. Viner."

"And you say he went there regularly?" asked Viner.

"I've seen him there a great deal, sir, for I usually turn in there for
half an hour or so, myself, of an evening, when business is over and I've
had my supper," answered Barleyfield. "I should say that he went there
four or five nights a week."

"And no doubt conversed with the people he met there?" suggested Viner.

"He was a friendly, sociable man, sir," said Barleyfield. "Yes, he was
fond of a talk. But there was one man there that he seemed to
associate with--an elderly, superior gentleman whose name I don't
know, though I'm familiar enough with his appearance. Him and Mr.