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Updated: June 18, 2025
Spargo rose and moved to the door. "Well, I'm off," he said. Then, as if he suddenly recollected something, he turned back. "Oh, by the by," he said, "isn't your guardian, Mr. Elphick, a big authority on philately?" "One of the biggest. Awful enthusiast." "Do you think he'd tell me a bit about those Australian stamps which Marbury showed to Criedir, the dealer?" "Certain, he would delighted.
The man said Criedir had given him Cardlestone's address, and that he'd been with a friend at some rooms in Fountain Court, and as he was passing our building he'd just looked to make sure where Cardlestone lived, and as he'd noticed a light he'd made bold to knock. He and Cardlestone began to examine the stamps. Jane Baylis said good-night, and she and I left Cardlestone and the man together."
"The same, sir," answered the philatelist. "You are ?" "Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman. You called on me." Mr. Criedir opened the door of a tiny apartment at the rear of the very little shop and motioned his caller to enter. He followed him in and carefully closed the door. "Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo," he said genially. "Take a seat, sir I'm all in confusion here giving up business, you see.
"He put his hand under the topmost papers and drew out an envelope," continued Mr. Criedir. "From the envelope he produced an exceedingly rare, exceedingly valuable set of Colonial stamps the very-first ever issued. 'I've just come from Australia, he said.
When Marbury left you, did he put those stamps in his box again, as before?" "No," replied Mr. Criedir. "He put them in his right-hand breast pocket, and he locked up his old box, and went off swinging it in his left hand." Spargo went away down Fleet Street, seeing nobody. He muttered to himself, and he was still muttering when he got into his room at the office.
"Just so," said Mr. Criedir. "Which makes me think that he was going to see Mr. Cardlestone when he was set upon, murdered, and robbed." Spargo looked fixedly at the retired stamp-dealer. "What, going to see an elderly gentleman in his rooms in the Temple, to offer to sell him philatelic rarities at past midnight?" he said. "I think not much!" "All right," replied Mr. Criedir.
Criedir in the past at that establishment there was to be none done there in the future by him, for there were newly-printed bills in the window announcing that the place was to let. And inside he found a short, portly, elderly man who was superintending the packing-up and removal of the last of his stock. He turned a bright, enquiring eye on the journalist. "Mr. Criedir?" said Spargo.
'I promised a young friend of mine out there to sell these stamps for him in London, and as I was passing this way I caught sight of your shop. Will you buy 'em, and how much will you give for 'em?" "Prompt," muttered Spargo. "He seemed to me the sort of man who doesn't waste words," agreed Mr. Criedir. "Well, there was no doubt about the stamps, nor about their great value.
Cardlestone went to the door: we heard a man's voice enquire for him by name; then the voice added that Criedir, the stamp dealer, had advised him to call on Mr. Cardlestone to show him some rare Australian stamps, and that seeing a light under his door he had knocked. Cardlestone asked him in he came in. That was the man we saw next day at the mortuary.
Now but won't you take down what I've got to tell you?" "I am taking it down," answered Spargo. "Every word. In my head." Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands. "Oh!" he said. "Ah, well, in my young days journalists used to pull out pencil and notebook at the first opportunity. But you modern young men " "Just so," agreed Spargo. "This information, now?" "Well," said Mr.
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