remarked on this fact, and he said he'd been away in Derbyshire, revisiting the old place, Ashlowe, near Netherwell, from which he came. Then he went on to say that he'd had a special reason for going there. 'The fact is, Hilsdale,' he said—I'm giving you his very words—'the fact is, I've unearthed one of the prettiest secrets you ever heard of—I got the inkling of it here in London, and I've solved the mystery of it down yonder in Derbyshire. And it'll make nice reading in the papers, my lad—when it comes out!' Of course, I asked him what it was. 'No—no!' he answered. 'You wait, Hilsdale—it's my secret at present!' And I couldn't get him to say more; he wouldn't talk of anything but of the old village and the old folks."
"Did he refer to anybody or any place called Mortover?" asked Wedgwood.
The bookseller shook his head.
"No!—never heard it. Mortover? That's an uncommon word—or name. No!—I've no recollection of it—I'm sure he didn't."
"You're sure he didn't mention to you that he'd been writing something about somebody or something called Mortover?"
"He did not!—I should have remembered that, if only because of the oddity of the word."
"Just keep that word to yourself for a bit, Mr. Hilsdale," said the detective. "I don't
