per," answered Barleyfield. "I should say that he went there four or five nights a week."
"And no doubt conversed with the people he met there?" suggested Viner.
"He was a friendly, sociable man, sir," said Barleyfield. "Yes, he was fond of a talk. But there was one man there that he seemed to associate with—an elderly, superior gentleman whose name I don't know, though I'm familiar enough with his appearance. Him and Mr. Ashton I've often seen sitting in a particular corner, smoking their cigars, and talking together. And—if it's of any importance—I saw them talking like that, at the Grey Mare, the very evening that—that Mr. Ashton died, Mr. Viner."
"What time was that?" asked Viner.
"About the usual time, sir—nine-thirty or so," replied Barleyfield. "I generally look in about that time—nine-thirty to ten."
"Did you leave them talking there?" inquired Viner.
"They were there when I left, sir, at a quarter past ten," answered Barleyfield. "Talking in their usual corner."
"And you say you don't know who this man is?"
"I don't! I know him by sight—but he's a comparatively recent comer to the Grey Mare. I've noticed him for a year or so—not longer."
Viner glanced at the two ladies.
"I suppose you never heard Mr. Ashton mention the Grey Mare?" he asked.
"We never heard Mr. Ashton say anything about his movements," answered Miss Wickham. "We used to wonder, sometimes, if he'd joined a club—
