“The very man,” said Gorby to himself, “I’m on the right path.”

“Mr. Whyte said ’e ’ad just come from England,” went on the woman.

“Which,” thought Mr. Gorby, “accounts for the corpse not being recognised by friends.”

“He took the rooms, an’ said ‘e’d stay with me for six months, an’ paid a week’s rent in advance, an’ ’e allays paid up reg’ler like a respectable man, tho’ I don’t believe in ’em myself.  He said ‘e’d lots of friends, an’ used to go out every night.”

“Who were his friends?”

“That I can’t tell you, for ‘e were very close, an’ when ’e went out of doors I never knowd where ’e went, which is jest like ’em; for they ses they’re goin’ to work, an’ you finds ’em in the beershop.  Mr. Whyte told me ‘e was a-goin’ to marry a heiress, ’e was.”

“Ah!” interjected Mr. Gorby, sapiently.

“He ’ad only one friend as I ever saw—­a Mr. Moreland—­who comed ’ere with ‘m, an’ was allays with ’im—­brother-like.”

“What is this Mr. Moreland like?”

“Good-lookin’ enough,” said Mrs. Hableton sourly, “but ’is ’abits weren’t as good as ’is face—­’andsom is as ’andsom does, is what I ses.”

“I wonder if he knows anything about this affair,” thought Gorby to himself “Where is Mr. Moreland to be found?” he asked.

“Not knowin’, can’t tell,” retorted the landlady, “’e used to be ’ere reg’lar, but I ain’t seen ’im for over a week.”

“Strange! very!” said Gorby, shaking his head.  “I should like to see this Mr. Moreland.  I suppose it’s probable he’ll call again?”

“‘Abit bein’ second nature I s’pose he will,” answered the woman, “’e might call at any time, mostly ‘avin’ called at night.”

“Ah! then I’ll come down this evening on chance of seeing him,” replied the detective.  “Coincidences happen in real life as well as in novels, and the gentleman in question may turn up in the nick of time.  Now, what else about Mr. Whyte?”

“About two weeks ago, or three, I’m not cert’in which, a gentleman called to see Mr. Whyte; ’e was very tall, and wore a light coat.”

“Ah! a morning coat?”

“No! ‘e was in evenin’ dress, and wore a light coat over it, an’ a soft ’at.”

“The very man,” said the detective below his breath; “go on.”

“He went into Mr. Whyte’s room, an’ shut the door.  I don’t know how long they were talkin’ together; but I was sittin’ in this very room and heard their voices git angry, and they were a-swearin’ at one another, which is the way with men, the brutes.  I got up and went into the passage in order to ask ’em not to make such a noise, when Mr. Whyte’s door opens, an’ the gentleman in the light coat comes out, and bangs along to the door.  Mr. Whyte ’e comes to the door of ’is room, an’ ’e ’ollers out.  ‘She is mine; you can’t do anything; an’ the other turns with ’is ‘and on the door an’ says, ‘I can kill you, an’ if you marry ‘er I’ll do it, even in the open street.’”