Oliver Whyte took the rooms two
months ago."
"What was he like?"
"Not very tall, dark face, no whiskers nor moustache, an' quite the
gentleman."
"Anything peculiar about him?"
Mrs. Hableton thought for a moment.
"Well," she said at length, "he 'ad a mole on his left temple, but it
was covered with 'is 'air, an' few people 'ud 'ave seen it."
"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.
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