you know, Mr. Viner, a tradesman like myself generally knows a good deal about the people of his neighbourhood. I knew Mr. Ashton very well indeed—he was a good customer of mine, and sometimes he'd stop and have a bit of chat with me. And I can tell you where he very often spent an hour or two of an evening."
"Yes—where?" asked Viner.
"At the Grey Mare Inn, sir," answered Barleyfield promptly. "I have often 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 sup-
