“Zola,” said Mr. Gorby, thoughtfully, taking down a flimsy yellow book rather tattered.  “I’ve heard of him; if his novels are as bad as his reputation I shouldn’t care to read them.”

Here a knock came at the front door, loud and decisive.  On hearing it Mrs. Hableton sprang hastily to her feet.  “That may be Mr. Moreland,” she said, as the detective quickly replaced “Zola” in the bookcase.  “I never ‘ave visitors in the evenin’, bein’ a lone widder, and if it is ’im I’ll bring ’im in ’ere.”

She went out, and presently Gorby, who was listening intently, heard a man’s voice ask if Mr. Whyte was at home.

“No, sir, he ain’t,” answered the landlady; “but there’s a gentleman in his room askin’ after ’im.  Won’t you come in, sir?”

“For a rest, yes,” returned the visitor, and immediately afterwards Mrs. Hableton appeared, ushering in the late Oliver Whyte’s most intimate friend.  He was a tall, slender man, with a pink and white complexion, curly fair hair, and a drooping straw-coloured moustache—­altogether a strikingly aristocratic individual.  He was well-dressed in a suit of check, and had a cool, nonchalant air about him.

“And where is Mr. Whyte to-night?” he asked, sinking into a chair, and taking no more notice of the detective than if he had been an article of furniture.

“Haven’t you seen him lately?” asked the detective quickly.  Mr. Moreland stared in an insolent manner at his questioner for a few moments, as if he were debating the advisability of answering or not.  At last he apparently decided that he would, for slowly pulling off one glove he leaned back in his chair.

“No, I have not,” he said with a yawn.  “I have been up the country for a few days, and arrived back only this evening, so I have not seen him for over a week.  Why do you ask?”

The detective did not answer, but stood looking at the young man before him in a thoughtful manner.

“I hope,” said Mr. Moreland, nonchalantly, “I hope you will know me again, my friend, but I didn’t know Whyte had started a lunatic asylum during my absence.  Who are you?”

Mr. Gorby came forward and stood under the gas light.

“My name is Gorby, sir, and I am a detective,” he said quietly.

“Ah! indeed,” said Moreland, coolly looking him up and down.  “What has Whyte been doing; running away with someone’s wife, eh?  I know he has little weaknesses of that sort.”

Gorby shook his head.

“Do you know where Mr. Whyte is to be found?” he asked, cautiously.

Moreland laughed.

“Not I, my friend,” said he, lightly.  “I presume he is somewhere about here, as these are his head-quarters.  What has he been doing?  Nothing that can surprise me, I assure you—­he was always an erratic individual, and—­”

“He paid reg’ler,” interrupted Mrs. Hableton, pursing up her lips.

“A most enviable reputation to possess,” answered the other with a sneer, “and one I’m afraid I’ll never enjoy.  But why all this questioning about Whyte?  What’s the matter with him?”