quite comfortable, and that you are having everything you wish?"

"Nothing ma'am, could be more pleasant and gratifying, as far as
material comfort goes," answered Mr. Pawle with conviction. "The dinner
was excellent; your wine is sound; this old room is a veritable haven! I
wish we were visiting you under less sad conditions. And now about your
recollections of this poor gentleman, ma'am?"

The landlady laid a large book on the table, and opening it at a page
where at she had placed a marker, pointed to a signature.

"That is the writing of the Mr. John Ashton who came here," she said.
"He registered his name and address the day he came--there it is: 'John
Ashton, 7 Markendale Square, London, W.' You gentlemen will recognise
it, perhaps?"

Mr. Pawle put up his glasses, glanced once at the open book, and turned
to Viner with a confirmatory nod.

"That's Ashton's writing, without a doubt," he said. "It's a signature
not to be forgotten when you've once seen it. Well, that establishes the
fact that he undoubtedly came here on that date. Now, ma'am, what can you
tell about him?"

Mrs. Summers took the chair which Viner drew forward to the hearth and
folded her hands over her silk apron.

"Well sir," she answered, "a good deal. Mr. Ashton came here one Monday
afternoon, in a motorcar, with his luggage, and asked if I could give him
rooms and accommodation for a few days. Of course I could--he had this