"May I have a word with you?" he asked, drawing him aside. "I don't know if you remember, but I saw you the other night in the parlour of that old tavern in Notting Hill—you came in while I was there?"
"I had some idea that I remembered your face when we were introduced just now," said Methley. "Yes, I think I do remember—you were sitting in a corner near the hearth?"
"Just so," agreed Viner. "And I heard you ask the landlord a question about a gentleman whom you used to meet there sometimes—you left some specimen cigars with the landlord for him."
"Yes," assented Methley wonderingly.
"You never knew that man's name?" continued Viner. "Nor who he was? Just so—so I gathered. Then I'll tell you. There was a good reason why he had not been to that tavern for some nights. He was John Ashton, the man who was murdered in Lonsdale Passage!"
Viner was watching his man with all the keenness of which he was capable, and he saw that this announcement fell on Methley as an absolute surprise. He started as only a man can start who has astounding news given to him suddenly.
"God bless me!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean it! Of course, I know about that murder—our own district. And I saw Ashton's picture in the paper—but then there are so many elderly men of that type—broad features, trimmed grey beard! Dear me, dear me! A very pleasant, genial fellow. I'm astonished, Mr. Viner."
Viner resolved on a bold step—he would take it
