"Did Miss Mortover ever tell you that she went to Hunter Street police-station last week, and saw a detective-officer there?"
"She did—Wedgwood!"
"Very well, I'm Wedgwood. No doubt Miss Mortover told you all about why she called to see me—about the Wraypoole affair. Since then I've discovered a good deal, and I came here, after calling at the British Museum, to see her about things. And—she's gone!"
The young man had replaced his pipe in his mouth and was steadily drawing at it. He remained silent for a moment; then he suddenly turned to the landlady, nodding his head at the door.
"Just let me and Mr. Wedgwood have a bit of private talk, mistress," he said. "See that no one interrupts—I'll make it all right with you."
The landlady vanished and the newcomer, pointing the detective to a chair at the side of the table, perched himself close by on the table's edge. Wedgwood, watching the pair with something of amused interest, noticed that wherever the master moved the Airedale terrier moved also.
"Look here, Wedgwood!" began this unusual person. "Straight talk! My name's Nottidge, James Nottidge. If you want to
