last of his stock. He turned a bright, enquiring eye on the journalist.
"Mr. Criedir?" said Spargo.
"The same, sir," answered the philatelist. "You are?"
"Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman. You called on me."
Mr. Criedir opened the door of a tiny apartment at the rear of the very little shop and motioned his caller to enter. He followed him in and carefully closed the door.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo," he said genially. "Take a seat, sir—I'm all in confusion here—giving up business, you see. Yes, I called on you. I think, having read the Watchman account of that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man's photograph in your columns, that I can give you a bit of information."
"Material?" asked Spargo, tersely.
Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed drily.
"That's for you to decide—when you've heard it," he said. "I should say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it's this—I kept open until yesterday—everything as usual, you know—stock in the window and so on—so that anybody who was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I'm retiring—retired," added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, "last night. Now—but won't you take down what I've got to tell you?"
"I am taking it down," answered Spargo. "Every word. In my head."
Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands.
