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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/10373-0.txt b/10373-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..373e98a --- /dev/null +++ b/10373-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9324 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10373 *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Middle Temple Murder + +by J.S. Fletcher + +1919 + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + CHAPTER II. HIS FIRST BRIEF + CHAPTER III. THE CLUE OF THE CAP + CHAPTER IV. THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + CHAPTER V. SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + CHAPTER VI. WITNESS TO A MEETING + CHAPTER VII. MR. AYLMORE + CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + CHAPTER IX. THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + CHAPTER X. THE LEATHER BOX + CHAPTER XI. MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + CHAPTER XII. THE NEW WITNESS + CHAPTER XIII. UNDER SUSPICION + CHAPTER XIV. THE SILVER TICKET + CHAPTER XV. MARKET MILCASTER + CHAPTER XVI. THE “YELLOW DRAGON” + CHAPTER XVII. MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + CHAPTER XVIII. AN OLD NEWSPAPER + CHAPTER XIX. THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + CHAPTER XX. MAITLAND _alias_ MARBURY + CHAPTER XXI. ARRESTED + CHAPTER XXII. THE BLANK PAST + CHAPTER XXIII. MISS BAYLIS + CHAPTER XXIV. MOTHER GUTCH + CHAPTER XXV. REVELATIONS + CHAPTER XXVI. STILL SILENT + CHAPTER XXVII. MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS + CHAPTER XXVIII. OF PROVED IDENTITY + CHAPTER XXIX. THE CLOSED DOORS + CHAPTER XXX. REVELATION + CHAPTER XXXI. THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + CHAPTER XXXII. THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + CHAPTER XXXIII. FORESTALLED + CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WHIP HAND + CHAPTER XXXV. MYERST EXPLAINS + CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + + + +CHAPTER ONE +THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + + +As a rule, Spargo left the _Watchman_ office at two o’clock. The paper +had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to +a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was +responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the +machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, +until two o’clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of +June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had +charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram +which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was +interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. +Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the +office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold +the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. +In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first +grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of +St. Paul’s. + +Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every +night and every morning he walked to and from the _Watchman_ office by +the same route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He +came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed +the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he +encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his +pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he +saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, +looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. +Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He +moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face. + +“What is it?” asked Spargo. + +Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door +of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and +jacket. + +“He says,” answered Driscoll, “him, there—the porter—that there’s a man +lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he’s dead. +Likewise, he thinks he’s murdered.” + +Spargo echoed the word. + +“But what makes him think that?” he asked, peeping with curiosity +beyond Driscoll’s burly form. “Why?” + +“He says there’s blood about him,” answered Driscoll. He turned and +glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. +“You’re a newspaper man, sir?” he suggested. + +“I am,” replied Spargo. + +“You’d better walk down with us,” said Driscoll, with a grin. “There’ll +be something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there may +be.” Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane, +wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At +the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. + +“Come on!” he said shortly. “I’ll show you.” + +Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and +then turned to the porter. + +“How came you to find him, then?” he asked + +The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. + +“I heard that door slam,” he replied, irritably, as if the fact which +he mentioned caused him offence. “I know I did! So I got up to look +around. Then—well, I saw that!” + +He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his +outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man’s foot, booted, +grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand. + +“Sticking out there, just as you see it now,” said the porter. “I ain’t +touched it. And so—” + +He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant +thing. Driscoll nodded comprehendingly. + +“And so you went along and looked?” he suggested. “Just so—just to see +who it belonged to, as it might be.” + +“Just to see—what there was to see,” agreed the porter. “Then I saw +there was blood. And then—well, I made up the lane to tell one of you +chaps.” + +“Best thing you could have done,” said Driscoll. “Well, now then—” + +The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold +and formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having +glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; +something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested to +Spargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man whose foot projected +over the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his pose +certified to it. + +For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen +unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with +their fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully—Spargo +remembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put +his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. +Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human +wreckage which lay before him. + +“You’ll notice,” suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushed +voice, “You’ll notice that he’s lying there in a queer way—same as +if—as if he’d been put there. Sort of propped up against that wall, at +first, and had slid down, like.” + +Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at +his feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, +crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be +elderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a +good, well-made suit of grey check cloth—tweed—and the boots were good: +so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung +so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body; the other was +stretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted to +the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the +shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts and +stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a +finger at them. + +“Seems to me,” he said, slowly, “seems to me as how he’s been struck +down from behind as he came out of here. That blood’s from his +nose—gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?” The other policeman +coughed. + +“Better get the inspector here,” he said. “And the doctor and the +ambulance. Dead—ain’t he?” + +Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the +pavement. + +“As ever they make ’em,” he remarked laconically. “And stiff, too. +Well, hurry up, Jim!” + +Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the +hand-ambulance came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body +for transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man’s +face. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged the +limbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he came +to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other +things. There was some professionalism in Spargo’s curiosity, but there +was also a natural dislike that a fellow-being should have been so +unceremoniously smitten out of the world. + +There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man’s face. It was +that of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, +even homely of feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white +whisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and +the point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that it +was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles were many and deep around the +corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; this man, you would +have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mental +as well as physical. + +Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. +“Better come down to the dead-house,” he muttered confidentially. + +“Why?” asked Spargo. + +“They’ll go through him,” whispered Driscoll. “Search him, d’ye see? +Then you’ll get to know all about him, and so on. Help to write that +piece in the paper, eh?” + +Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night’s work, and until his +encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal +which would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which +he would subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a +man from the _Watchman_ to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in +his line now, now— + +“You’ll be for getting one o’ them big play-cards out with something +about a mystery on it,” suggested Driscoll. “You never know what lies +at the bottom o’ these affairs, no more you don’t.” + +That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for +getting news began to assert itself. + +“All right,” he said. “I’ll go along with you.” + +And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortège through the +streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected +on the unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was +the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a +principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to +whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surely— + +“My opinion,” said a voice at Spargo’s elbow, “my opinion is that it +was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. That’s what I say.” +Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was +accompanying the body. + +“Oh!” said Spargo. “You think—” + +“I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there,” said the +porter. “In somebody’s chambers, maybe. I’ve known of some queer games +in our bit of London! Well!—he never came in at my lodge last +night—I’ll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From +what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place.” + +“That’s what we shall hear presently,” said Spargo. “They’re going to +search him.” + +But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found +nothing. The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, +been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the +skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll’s opinion, +the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder. For there was +nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man +who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in +his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing +valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that +could lead to identification—no letters, no papers, nothing. It was +plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently +stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity +lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been +newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End. + +Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his +food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. +He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at +last that the morning’s event had destroyed his chance of rest; he +accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went +out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from +Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he +found that he had walked down to the police station near which the +unknown man’s body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just +going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. + +“You’re in luck,” he said. “’Tisn’t five minutes since they found a bit +of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor man’s waistcoat pocket—it +had slipped into a crack. Come in, and you’ll see it.” + +Spargo went into the inspector’s office. In another minute he found +himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an +address, scrawled in pencil:—Ronald Breton, Barrister, King’s Bench +Walk, Temple, London. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO +HIS FIRST BRIEF + + +Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. “I +know this man,” he said. + +The inspector showed new interest. + +“What, Mr. Breton?” he asked. + +“Yes. I’m on the _Watchman_, you know, sub-editor. I took an article +from him the other day—article on ‘Ideal Sites for Campers-Out.’ He +came to the office about it. So this was in the dead man’s pocket?” + +“Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn’t present myself. +It’s not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.” + +Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It +seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in +clubs; it had been torn roughly from the sheet. + +“What,” he asked meditatively, “what will you do about getting this man +identified?” + +The inspector shrugged his shoulders. + +“Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There’ll be publicity, you know. I suppose +you’ll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? Then +there’ll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. Somebody +will come forward to identify—sure to. And—” + +A man came into the office—a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly +attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a +stroll, and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his +desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper +which Spargo had just laid down. + +“I’ll go along to King’s Bench Walk and see Mr. Breton,” he observed, +looking at his watch. “It’s just about ten—I daresay he’ll be there +now.” + +“I’m going there, too,” remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself. +“Yes, I’ll go there.” + +The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The +inspector nodded at Spargo. + +“Journalist,” he said, “Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo was +there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton.” Then he nodded +from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. “This is Detective-Sergeant +Rathbury, from the Yard,” he said to Spargo. “He’s come to take charge +of this case.” + +“Oh?” said Spargo blankly. “I see—what,” he went on, with sudden +abruptness, “what shall you do about Breton?” + +“Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury. “He may know +the man and he mayn’t. Anyway, his name and address are here, aren’t +they?” + +“Come along,” said Spargo. “I’ll walk there with you.” + +Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor +Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed +that he was by nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until +the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in +King’s Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere +situate that Spargo spoke. + +“Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on +him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. + +“I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that +question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile. + +“Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily. “I suppose so. He might have had—nothing +on him, eh?” + +The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were +printed. + +“We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except that Mr. Breton +is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn’t long since he +was eating his dinner.” + +“Oh, he’s young—he’s quite young,” said Spargo. “I should say he’s +about four-and-twenty. I’ve met him only—” + +At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down +the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing—presently masculine +laughter mingled with the lighter feminine. + +“Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway,” +said Rathbury. “Mr. Breton’s chambers, too. And the door’s open.” + +The outer oak door of Ronald Breton’s chambers stood thrown wide; the +inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the +detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton’s +rooms. There, against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied +up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal +notabilities, they saw a pretty, vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a +chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was +haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, to the amusement of a young man +who had his back to the door, and of another girl who leant +confidentially against his shoulder. + +“I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury—I put it to you with +confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, +perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your +consciences do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, +the—the—” + +“Think of some more adjectives!” exclaimed the young man. “Hot and +strong ’uns—pile ’em up. That’s what they like—they—Hullo!” + +This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the +proceedings the detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his +head round its edge. Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the +chair, jumped hastily down; the other young lady withdrew from the +young man’s protecting arm; there was a feminine giggle and a feminine +swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald +Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter. + +“Come in, come in!” he exclaimed hastily. “I—” + +Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a +look of surprise. + +“Oh—Mr. Spargo?” he said. “How do you do?—we—I—we were just having a +lark—I’m off to court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. +Spargo?” + +He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and +turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The +detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a +tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, +perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a +general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these +matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may +take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned +and glanced at the journalist. + +“How do you do?” said Spargo slowly. “I—the fact is, I came here with +Mr. Rathbury. He—wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury—of New +Scotland Yard.” + +Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a +lesson. But he was watching the young barrister’s face. And Breton +turned to the detective with a look of surprise. + +“Oh!” he said. “You wish—” + +Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, +which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. “I +wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton,” he said. “This morning, about a +quarter to three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple +Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo +here—he was present when the body was found.” + +“Soon after,” corrected Spargo. “A few minutes after.” + +“When this body was examined at the mortuary,” continued Rathbury, in +his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, “nothing was found that could +lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was +nothing whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in +a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It’s got your name and +address on it, Mr. Breton. See?” + +Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted +brows. + +“By Jove!” he muttered. “So it has; that’s queer. What’s he like, this +man?” + +Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. + +“Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?” he said. +“It’s close by.” + +“Well—I—the fact is, I’ve got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow’s +court,” Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. “But it won’t be +called until after eleven. Will—” + +“Plenty of time, sir,” said Rathbury; “it won’t take you ten minutes to +go round and back again—a look will do. You don’t recognize this +handwriting, I suppose?” + +Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it +again, intently. + +“No!” he answered. “I don’t. I don’t know it at all—I can’t think, of +course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought +he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional +services, you know,” he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; “but, +three—three o’clock in the morning, eh?” + +“The doctor,” observed Rathbury, “the doctor thinks he had been dead +about two and a half hours.” + +Breton turned to the inner door. + +“I’ll—I’ll just tell these ladies I’m going out for a quarter of an +hour,” he said. “They’re going over to the court with me—I got my first +brief yesterday,” he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right and +left at his visitors. “It’s nothing much—small case—but I promised my +fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you know. A +moment.” + +He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all +the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very +particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the +butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice +that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been +similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than +of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and +about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. + +“Well, come on,” said Breton. “Let’s go straight there.” + +The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to +the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered +involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the +young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly +about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose +face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and +earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head. + +“No!” he said with decision. “Don’t know him—don’t know him from Adam. +Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of.” + +Rathbury replaced the cloth. + +“I didn’t suppose you would,” he remarked. “Well, I expect we must go +on the usual lines. Somebody’ll identify him.” + +“You say he was murdered?” said Breton. “Is that—certain?” + +Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. + +“The back of his skull is smashed in,” he said laconically. “The doctor +says he must have been struck down from behind—and a fearful blow, too. +I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Breton.” + +“Oh, all right!” said Breton. “Well, you know where to find me if you +want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr. Spargo.” + +The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the +journalist. + +“I didn’t expect anything from that,” he remarked. “However, it was a +thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?” + +Spargo nodded. + +“Well,” continued Rathbury, “I’ve sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, +where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information +from that quarter—it’s possible. If you like to meet me here at twelve +o’clock I’ll tell you anything I’ve heard. Just now I’m going to get +some breakfast.” + +“I’ll meet you here,” said Spargo, “at twelve o’clock.” + +He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set +off round another. He went to the _Watchman_ office, wrote a few lines, +which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out +again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before +he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the +Law Courts. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE +THE CLUE OF THE CAP + + +Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of +litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and +the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, +asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. +For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his +question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves. + +“Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?” +he suddenly asked. + +“Number seven,” replied the official. “What’s your case—when’s it +down?” + +“I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo. “I’m a pressman—reporter, you +know.” + +The official stuck out a finger. + +“Round the corner—first to your right—second on the left,” he said +automatically. “You’ll find plenty of room—nothing much doing there +this morning.” + +He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless +perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors. + +“Upon my honour!” he muttered. “Upon my honour, I really don’t know +what I’ve come up here for. I’ve no business here.” + +Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. +The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of +papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who +were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And +Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which +of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her +burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton +with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl +with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned +upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a +hope of seeing this girl again—why, he could not then think. + +Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted +his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a +question. + +“Yes,” said Spargo. “I—the fact is, I remembered that you said you were +coming up here, and I came after you. I want—when you’ve time—to have a +talk, to ask you a few questions. About—this affair of the dead man, +you know.” + +Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. + +“Look here,” he said. “When this case of mine is over, I can give you +as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a +favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—round there, and +up the stairs—and I’m a bit pressed for time—I’ve a solicitor waiting +for me. You take them—there’s a good fellow; then, when the case is +over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here—I’ll +introduce you all—no ceremony. Miss Aylmore—Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. +Spargo—of the _Watchman_. Now, I’m off!” Breton turned on the instant; +his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at +two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, +and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years. + +“That is very cool of Ronald,” observed the elder young lady. “Perhaps +his scheme doesn’t fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray don’t—” + +“Oh, it’s all right!” said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. +“I’ve nothing to do. But—where did Mr. Breton say you wished to be +taken?” + +“Into the gallery of number seven court,” said the younger girl +promptly. “Round this corner—I think I know the way.” + +Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving +that morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led +the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries +from which idlers and specially-interested spectators may see and hear +the proceedings which obtain in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks +wherein justice is dispensed at the Law Courts. There was no one else +in that gallery; the attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be +vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter it, and he presently +opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way down the stairs +to meet him. + +“Nothing much going on here this morning,” he whispered behind a raised +hand. “But there’s a nice breach case in number five—get you three good +seats there if you like.” + +Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He +had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and +her sister about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a +lucky dog to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an +equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss +Jessie Aylmore’s side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by +his surroundings. + +“I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?” he whispered. “Is this +really Mr. Breton’s first case?” + +“His very first—all on his own responsibility, any way,” replied +Spargo’s companion, smiling. “And he’s very nervous—and so’s my sister. +Aren’t you, now, Evelyn?” + +Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. + +“I suppose one’s always nervous about first appearances,” she said. +“However, I think Ronald’s got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, +it’s not much of a case: it isn’t even a jury case. I’m afraid you’ll +find it dull, Mr. Spargo—it’s only something about a promissory note.” + +“Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” replied Spargo, unconsciously falling +back on a favourite formula. “I always like to hear lawyers—they manage +to say such a lot about—about—” + +“About nothing,” said Jessie Aylmore. “But there—so do gentlemen who +write for the papers, don’t they?” + +Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that +point when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister’s attention to a man +who had just entered the well of the court. + +“Look, Jessie!” she observed. “There’s Mr. Elphick!” + +Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, +smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and +gowned, was slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that +charmed inner sanctum wherein only King’s Counsel are permitted to sit. +He dropped into this in a fashion which showed that he was one of those +men who loved personal comfort; he bestowed his plump person at the +most convenient angle and fitting a monocle in his right eye, glanced +around him. There were a few of his professional brethren in his +vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks in +conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But +the gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look +and cast his eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. +Thereupon he made a most gracious bow in their direction; his broad +face beamed in a genial smile, and he waved a white hand. + +“Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?” enquired the younger Miss +Aylmore. + +“I rather think I’ve seen him, somewhere about the Temple,” answered +Spargo. “In fact, I’m sure I have.” + +“His chambers are in Paper Buildings,” said Jessie. “Sometimes he gives +tea-parties in them. He is Ronald’s guardian, and preceptor, and +mentor, and all that, and I suppose he’s dropped into this court to +hear how his pupil goes on.” + +“Here is Ronald,” whispered Miss Aylmore. + +“And here,” said her sister, “is his lordship, looking very cross. Now, +Mr. Spargo, you’re in for it.” + +Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on +beneath him. The case which young Breton presently opened was a +commercial one, involving certain rights and properties in a promissory +note; it seemed to the journalist that Breton dealt with it very well, +showing himself master of the financial details, and speaking with +readiness and assurance. He was much more interested in his companions, +and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on how he +could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that +the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, +and that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald +Breton’s favour. + +In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two +sisters. + +“Very good—very good, indeed,” he said, absent-mindedly. “I thought he +put his facts very clearly and concisely.” + +Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. +He pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: +Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, +Spargo’s, connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke. + +“This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the _Watchman_.” Breton said. “Mr. +Elphick—Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, Spargo, that you +saw this poor man soon after he was found.” + +Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The +elderly barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole. + +“My dear sir!” he said. “You—saw this poor fellow? Lying dead—in the +third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, eh?” + +“Yes,” replied Spargo, simply. “I saw him. It was the third entry.” + +“Singular!” said Mr. Elphick, musingly. “I know a man who lives in that +house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until +nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton’s name +and address in his pocket?” + +Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then +he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. + +“Yes, that’s so,” he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton +significantly, he added, “If you can give me those few minutes, now—?” + +“Yes—yes!” responded Ronald Breton, nodding. “I understand. Evelyn—I’ll +leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must go.” + +Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. + +“My dear sir!” he said, eagerly. “Do you—do you think I could possibly +see—the body?” + +“It’s at the mortuary,” answered Spargo. “I don’t know what their +regulations are.” + +Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in +the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. + +“About what I wanted to say to you,” he said at last. “It was—this. +I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder +case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it—thoroughly, first +and last. And—I think you can help me.” + +“How do you know that it is a murder case?” asked Breton quietly. + +“It’s a murder case,” answered Spargo, stolidly. “I feel it. Instinct, +perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me—” + +He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. + +“It seems to me,” he presently continued, “that the clue lies in that +scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between +you and—somebody else.” + +“Possibly,” agreed Breton. “You want to find the somebody else?” + +“I want you to help me to find the somebody else,” answered Spargo. “I +believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t +believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet +Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?” + +Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and +wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came +out as they were stepping in. + +“Oh!” he said. “Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told +you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! Well, he’s just returned. +The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie’s yesterday +afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient +Hotel.” + +“Where is that?” asked Spargo. + +“Waterloo district,” answered Rathbury. “A small house, I believe. +Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?” + +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too.” + +“If I’m not in the way,” said Breton. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper,” he +observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR +THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + + +The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an +old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway +Station—a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially +mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early +days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern +ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to find in London, and +Ronald Breton said so as he and the others crossed the pavement. + +“And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to +and from Southampton in the old days,” remarked Rathbury. “And I +daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good +many years’ absence, still rush in here. You see, it’s close to the +station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place +when they’ve a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind +them. Look there, now!” They had crossed the threshold as the detective +spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, he made a +sidelong motion of his head towards a bar on the left, wherein stood or +lounged a number of men who from their general appearance, their +slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be Colonials, or at +any rate to have spent a good part of their time beneath Oriental +skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a Colonial accent in it; +an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and +Rathbury wagged his head sagely. “Lay you anything the dead man was a +Colonial, Mr. Spargo,” he remarked. “Well, now, I suppose that’s the +landlord and landlady.” + +There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and +woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge +on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a +fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at +some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured, +thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an +enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence. + +“You the landlord of this house, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Walters? Just +so—and Mrs. Walters, I presume?” + +The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. + +“What can I do for you, sir?” he enquired. + +“A little matter of business, Mr. Walters,” replied Rathbury, pulling +out a card. “You’ll see there who I am—Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of +the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald +Breton, a barrister.” + +The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side +door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying +her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour. +Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his +principal visitor. + +“What is it, Mr. Rathbury?” he enquired. “Anything wrong?” + +“We want a bit of information,” answered Rathbury, almost with +indifference. + +“Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly man, +grey hair, fresh complexion?” + +Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband. + +“There!” she exclaimed. “I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes—a Mr. +Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train +got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But—he didn’t use it last +night. He went out—very late—and he never came back.” + +Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair +and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. + +“What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma’am?” he asked. “Had +you noticed anything?” + +Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her +husband gave vent to a species of growl. + +“Nothing to notice,” he muttered. “Her way of speaking—that’s all.” + +“Well—why I said that was this,” said the landlady. “He happened to +tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn’t been in London for over twenty +years, and couldn’t remember anything about it, him, he said, never +having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he +went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought +something had happened to him, and that there’d be enquiries made.” + +“Just so—just so!” said Rathbury. “So you would, ma’am—so you would. +Well, something has happened to him. He’s dead. What’s more, there’s +strong reason to think he was murdered.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise +and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his +visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work +to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter +of course. + +“My respects,” he said, lifting his glass. “Well, now, perhaps you’ll +just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr. and +Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this +morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn’t anything on him but +his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman’s name and +address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I +traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter’s +yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel.” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Walters quickly, “that’s so. And he went out in that +cap last night. Well—we don’t know much about him. As I said, he came +in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked +Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a +bag—they’re in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at this +house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—that, of course, +was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book as John +Marbury.” + +“We’ll look at that, if you please,” said Rathbury. + +Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous +day’s entries. They all bent over the dead man’s writing. + +“‘John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,’” said Rathbury. “Ah—now +I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on the scrap +of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn’t—it’s quite different.” + +“Quite different,” said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting +with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it, +and asked another question. + +“Ever seen that writing before?” he suggested. + +“Never,” answered Breton. “And yet—there’s something very familiar +about it.” + +“Then the probability is that you have seen it before,” remarked +Rathbury. “Well—now we’ll hear a little more about Marbury’s doings +here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. Walters.” + +“My wife knows most,” said Walters. “I scarcely saw the man—I don’t +remember speaking with him.” + +“No,” said Mrs. Walters. “You didn’t—you weren’t much in his way. +Well,” she continued, “I showed him up to his room. He talked a +bit—said he’d just landed at Southampton from Melbourne.” + +“Did he mention his ship?” asked Rathbury. “But if he didn’t, it +doesn’t matter, for we can find out.” + +“I believe the name’s on his things,” answered the landlady. “There are +some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for +him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at +exactly one o’clock, saying to me that he expected he’d get lost, as he +didn’t know London well at any time, and shouldn’t know it at all now. +He went outside there—I saw him—looked about him and walked off towards +Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came for +him—from Fiskie’s. So, of course, I judged he’d been Piccadilly way. +But he himself never came in until ten o’clock. And then he brought a +gentleman with him.” + +“Aye?” said Rathbury. “A gentleman, now? Did you see him?” + +“Just,” replied the landlady. “They went straight up to 20, and I just +caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. A +tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far +as I could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his +throat, and carrying an umbrella.” + +“And they went to Marbury’s room?” said Rathbury. “What then?” + +“Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda,” continued +Mrs. Walters. “He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, +and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until +nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 +had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of +course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven.” + +“And the other gentleman?” asked Rathbury. + +“The other gentleman,” answered the landlady, “went out with him. The +hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the last +anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came +back.” + +“That,” observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, “that is quite certain, +ma’am? Well—I suppose we’d better see this Number 20 room, and have a +look at what he left there.” + +“Everything,” said Mrs. Walters, “is just as he left it. Nothing’s been +touched.” + +It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the +dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet—none of them of +any quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with +the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, +without ceremony, went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he +proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid +out on the bed every article they contained and examined each +separately and carefully. And he found nothing whereby he could gather +any clue to the dead owner’s identity. + +“There you are!” he said, making an end of his task. “You see, it’s +just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him. +There are no papers—there’s nothing to tell who he was, what he was +after, where he’d come from—though that we may find out in other ways. +But it’s not often that a man travels without some clue to his +identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought +in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and +money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma’am?” he asked, +suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. “Did he pull out his purse in your +presence, now?” + +“Yes,” answered the landlady, with promptitude. “He came into the bar +for a drink after he’d been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of +gold when he paid for it—a whole handful. There must have been some +thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns.” + +“And he hadn’t a penny piece on him—when found,” muttered Rathbury. + +“I noticed another thing, too,” remarked the landlady. “He was wearing +a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left +hand—little finger—gold, with a big diamond in it.” + +“Yes,” said the detective, thoughtfully, “I noticed that he’d worn a +ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well—now there’s only +one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn +paper around—tore any letters up, or anything like that?” + +But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on +the contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy +indeed. So Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing +further to say, just then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the +Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and went away, followed by the two +young men. + +“What next?” asked Spargo, as they gained the street. + +“The next thing,” answered Rathbury, “is to find the man with whom +Marbury left this hotel last night.” + +“And how’s that to be done?” asked Spargo. + +“At present,” replied Rathbury, “I don’t know.” + +And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE +SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + + +The barrister and the journalist, left thus unceremoniously on a +crowded pavement, looked at each other. Breton laughed. + +“We don’t seem to have gained much information,” he remarked. “I’m +about as wise as ever.” + +“No—wiser,” said Spargo. “At any rate, I am. I know now that this dead +man called himself John Marbury; that he came from Australia; that he +only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the +company last night of a man whom we have had described to us—a tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman.” + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +“I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in +London,” he remarked. + +“Exactly—so it would,” answered Spargo. “But we know that it was one of +the hundred thousand, or half-million, if you like. The thing is to +find that one—the one.” + +“And you think you can do it?” + +“I think I’m going to have a big try at it.” + +Breton shrugged his shoulders again. + +“What?—by going up to every man who answers the description, and saying +‘Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the Anglo——” + +Spargo suddenly interrupted him. + +“Look here!” he said. “Didn’t you say that you knew a man who lives in +that block in the entry of which Marbury was found?” + +“No, I didn’t,” answered Breton. “It was Mr. Elphick who said that. All +the same, I do know that man—he’s Mr. Cardlestone, another barrister. +He and Mr. Elphick are friends—they’re both enthusiastic +philatelists—stamp collectors, you know—and I dare say Mr. Elphick was +round there last night examining something new Cardlestone’s got hold +of. Why?” + +“I’d like to go round there and make some enquiries,” replied Spargo. +“If you’d be kind enough to——” + +“Oh, I’ll go with you!” responded Breton, with alacrity. “I’m just as +keen about this business as you are, Spargo! I want to know who this +man Marbury is, and how he came to have my name and address on him. +Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, why—” + +“Yes,” said Spargo, as they got into a cab, “yes, that would have +explained a lot. It seems to me that we’ll get at the murderer through +that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury’s line. Yes, +that’s what I think.” + +Breton looked at his companion with interest. + +“But—you don’t know what Rathbury’s line is,” he remarked. + +“Yes, I do,” said Spargo. “Rathbury’s gone off to discover who the man +is with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last night. That’s his +line.” + +“And you want——?” + +“I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who +wrote it,” answered Spargo. “I want to know why that old man was coming +to you when he was murdered.” + +Breton started. + +“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I—I never thought of that. You—you really +think he was coming to me when he was struck down?” + +“Certain. Hadn’t he got an address in the Temple? Wasn’t he in the +Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you.” + +“But—the late hour?” + +“No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I +think he was asking his way. That’s why I want to make some enquiries +in this block.” + +It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of +the office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the +dead man. Being luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the +body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the +sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though +there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had +lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry +than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so +great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a +policeman to move the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion +presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as +to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and +old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously +greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion. + +“Drive them all out into the street!” exclaimed this personage. “Drive +them all away, constable—into Fleet Street or upon the +Embankment—anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a +disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a——” + +“That’s old Cardlestone,” whispered Breton. “He’s always irascible, and +I don’t suppose we’ll get anything out of him. Mr. Cardlestone,” he +continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now +retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as +himself. “I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a +journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He——” + +“I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. +Cardlestone. “And I never talk to journalists—a pack of busybodies, +sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been +committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office +boys and street loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down +these steps and broke his neck—drunk, most likely.” + +He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring +smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first +landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels. + +“Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last +evening, Mr. Cardlestone,” he said. “Of course, neither of you heard +anything suspicious?” + +“What should we hear that was suspicious in the Temple, sir?” demanded +Mr. Cardlestone, angrily. “I hope the Temple is free from that sort of +thing, young Mr. Breton. Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet +evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away all was +as quiet as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above +and around me I know not! Fortunately, our walls are thick, +sir—substantial. I say, sir, the man probably fell down and broke his +neck. What he was doing here, I do not presume to say.” + +“Well, it’s guess, you know, Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Breton, again +winking at Spargo. “But all that was found on this man was a scrap of +paper on which my name and address were written. That’s practically all +that was known of him, except that he’d just arrived from Australia.” + +Mr. Cardlestone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, +acute glance. + +“Eh?” he exclaimed. “What’s this? You say this man had your name and +address on him, young Breton!—yours? And that he came from—Australia?” + +“That’s so,” answered Breton. “That’s all that’s known.” + +Mr. Cardlestone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandanna +handkerchief of strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective +fashion. + +“That’s a mysterious thing,” he observed. “Um—does Elphick know all +that?” + +Breton looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of +Mr. Cardlestone’s altered manner. And Spargo took up the conversation. + +“No,” he said. “All that Mr. Elphick knows is that Mr. Ronald Breton’s +name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. Mr. +Elphick”—here Spargo paused and looked at Breton—“Mr. Elphick,” he +presently continued, slowly transferring his glance to the old +barrister, “spoke of going to view the body.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone, eagerly. “It can be seen? Then I’ll go +and see it. Where is it?” + +Breton started. + +“But—my dear sir!” he said. “Why?” + +Mr. Cardlestone picked up his umbrella again. + +“I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very +door,” he said. “Also, I have known more than one man who went to +Australia. This might—I say might, young gentlemen—might be a man I had +once known. Show me where this body is.” + +Breton looked helplessly at Spargo: it was plain that he did not +understand the turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to +seize an opportunity. In another minute he was conducting Mr. +Cardlestone through the ins and outs of the Temple towards Blackfriars. +And as they turned into Tudor Street they encountered Mr. Elphick. + +“I am going to the mortuary,” he remarked. “So, I suppose, are you, +Cardlestone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?” + +Spargo tried a chance shot—at what he did not know. “The man’s name was +Marbury,” he said. “He was from Australia.” + +He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elphick, but he failed to see that Mr. +Elphick showed any of the surprise which Mr. Cardlestone had exhibited. +Rather, he seemed indifferent. + +“Oh?” he said—“Marbury? And from Australia. Well—I should like to see +the body.” + +Spargo and Breton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder +gentlemen went in. There was nothing to be learnt from either when they +reappeared. + +“We don’t know the man,” said Mr. Elphick, calmly. “As Mr. Cardlestone, +I understand, has said to you already—we have known men who went to +Australia, and as this man was evidently wandering about the Temple, we +thought it might have been one of them, come back. But—we don’t +recognize him.” + +“Couldn’t recognize him,” said Mr. Cardlestone. “No!” + +They went away together arm in arm, and Breton looked at Spargo. + +“As if anybody on earth ever fancied they’d recognize him!” he said. +“Well—what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must go.” + +Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the +pavement, came out of a fit of abstraction. + +“I?” he said. “Oh—I’m going to the office.” And he turned abruptly +away, and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at the +_Watchman_, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the +editor. “Try to get me a few minutes with the chief,” he said. + +The private secretary looked up. + +“Really important?” he asked. + +“Big!” answered Spargo. “Fix it.” + +Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty +well by that time, Spargo lost no time. + +“You’ve heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane?” he suggested. + +“The mere facts,” replied the editor, tersely. + +“I was there when the body was found,” continued Spargo, and gave a +brief résumé of his doings. “I’m certain this is a most unusual +affair,” he went on. “It’s as full of mystery as—as it could be. I want +to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can make such +a story of it as we haven’t had for some time—ages. Let me have it. And +to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. I’ll make +it—big!” + +The editor looked across his desk at Spargo’s eager face. + +“Your other work?” he said. + +“Well in hand,” replied Spargo. “I’m ahead a whole week—both articles +and reviews. I can tackle both.” + +The editor put his finger tips together. + +“Have you got some idea about this, young man?” he asked. + +“I’ve got a great idea,” answered Spargo. He faced the great man +squarely, and stared at him until he had brought a smile to the +editorial face. “That’s why I want to do it,” he added. “And—it’s not +mere boasting nor over-confidence—I know I shall do it better than +anybody else.” + +The editor considered matters for a brief moment. + +“You mean to find out who killed this man?” he said at last. + +Spargo nodded his head—twice. + +“I’ll find that out,” he said doggedly. + +The editor picked up a pencil, and bent to his desk. + +“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. You shall have your two columns.” + +Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got hold of a +block of paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do +things. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX +WITNESS TO A MEETING + + +Ronald Breton walked into the _Watchman_ office and into Spargo’s room +next morning holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved +it at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. + +“I say!” he exclaimed. “That’s the way to do it, Spargo! I congratulate +you. Yes, that’s the way—certain!” + +Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. + +“What way?” he asked indifferently. + +“The way you’ve written this thing up,” said Breton. “It’s a hundred +thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried account of a murder. +It’s—it’s like a—a romance!” + +“Merely a new method of giving news,” said Spargo. He picked up a copy +of the _Watchman_, and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow +managed to make themselves into three, viewing the displayed lettering, +the photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle +Temple Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grey paper, with a +critical eye. “Yes—merely a new method,” he continued. “The question +is—will it achieve its object?” + +“What’s the object?” asked Breton. + +Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it +over to his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put +his feet on his desk. + +“The object?” he said, drily. “Oh, well, the object is the ultimate +detection of the murderer.” + +“You’re after that?” + +“I’m after that—just that.” + +“And not—not simply out to make effective news?” + +“I’m out to find the murderer of John Marbury,” said Spargo +deliberately slow in his speech. “And I’ll find him.” + +“Well, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of clues, so far,” +remarked Breton. “I see—nothing. Do you?” + +Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. + +“I want to know an awful lot,” he said. “I’m hungering for news. I want +to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with himself +between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive +and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with +his skull beaten in and dead. I want to know where he got that scrap of +paper. Above everything, Breton, I want to know what he’d got to do +with you!” + +He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Breton nodded. + +“Yes,” he said. “I confess that’s a corker. But I think——” + +“Well?” said Spargo. + +“I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, or +in prospect, and had been recommended to—me,” said Breton. + +Spargo smiled—a little sardonically. + +“That’s good!” he said. “You had your very first brief—yesterday. +Come—your fame isn’t blown abroad through all the heights yet, my +friend! Besides—don’t intending clients approach—isn’t it strict +etiquette for them to approach?—barristers through solicitors?” + +“Quite right—in both your remarks,” replied Breton, good-humouredly. +“Of course, I’m not known a bit, but all the same I’ve known several +cases where a barrister has been approached in the first instance and +asked to recommend a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me a good +turn may have given this man my address.” + +“Possible,” said Spargo. “But he wouldn’t have come to consult you at +midnight. Breton!—the more I think of it, the more I’m certain there’s +a tremendous mystery in this affair! That’s why I got the chief to let +me write it up as I have done—here. I’m hoping that this +photograph—though to be sure, it’s of a dead face—and this facsimile of +the scrap of paper will lead to somebody coming forward who can——” + +Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble +pillared vestibule of the _Watchman_ office came into the room with the +unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment. + +“I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is,” muttered +Spargo in an aside. “Well?” he said to the boy. “What is it?” + +The messenger came up to the desk. + +“Mr. Spargo,” he said, “there’s a man downstairs who says that he wants +to see somebody about that murder case that’s in the paper this +morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you.” + +“Who is the man?” asked Spargo. + +“Won’t say, sir,” replied the boy. “I gave him a form to fill up, but +he said he wouldn’t write anything—said all he wanted was to see the +man who wrote the piece in the paper.” + +“Bring him here,” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the boy +had gone, and he smiled. “I knew we should have somebody here sooner or +later,” he said. “That’s why I hurried over my breakfast and came down +at ten o’clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances of this +chap’s information proving valuable?” + +“Nothing,” replied Breton. “He’s probably some crank or faddist who’s +got some theory that he wants to ventilate.” + +The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger seemed from +preliminary and outward appearance to justify Breton’s prognostication. +He was obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, +yellow of hair, blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday-best array of +pearl-grey trousers and black coat, and sported a necktie in which were +several distinct colours. Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of +the _Watchman_ building, he had removed his hard billycock hat as he +followed the boy, and he ducked his bared head at the two young men as +he stepped on to the thick pile of the carpet which made luxurious +footing in Spargo’s room. His blue eyes, opened to their widest, looked +round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness of modern +newspaper-office accommodation. + +“How do you do, sir?” said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the +easy-chairs for which the _Watchman_ office is famous. “I understand +that you wish to see me?” + +The caller ducked his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the +chair, put his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to +hang it on his knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. + +“What I want to see, sir,” he observed in a rustic accent, “is the +gentleman as wrote that piece in your newspaper about this here murder +in Middle Temple Lane.” + +“You see him,” said Spargo. “I am that man.” + +The caller smiled—generously. + +“Indeed, sir?” he said. “A very nice bit of reading, I’m sure. And what +might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk free-er to a man when I +know what his name is.” + +“So can I,” answered Spargo. “My name is Spargo—Frank Spargo. What’s +yours?” + +“Name of Webster, sir—William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at +Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife,” continued Mr. Webster, again +smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, “is at +present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it—weather +and all.” + +“That’s right,” said Spargo. “And—you wanted to see me about this +murder, Mr. Webster?” + +“I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that’ll do +for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in +this fashion—happen you’ll be for me to tell it in my own way.” + +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I desire.” + +“Well, to be sure, I couldn’t tell it in no other,” declared Mr. +Webster. “You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was +waiting for my breakfast—they take their breakfasts so late in them +hotels—and when I’d read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to my +wife ‘As soon as I’ve had my breakfast,’ I says, ‘I’m going to where +they print this newspaper to tell ’em something.’ ‘Aye?’ she says, +‘Why, what have you to tell, I should like to know?’ just like that, +Mr. Spargo.” + +“Mrs. Webster,” said Spargo, “is a lady of businesslike principles. And +what have you to tell?” + +Mr. Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and +smiled knowingly. + +“Well, sir,” he continued, “Last night, my wife, she went out to a part +they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of +hers as lives there, and as they wanted to have a bit of woman-talk, +like, I didn’t go. So thinks I to myself, I’ll go and see this here +House of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all +you’d got to do was to tell the policeman at the door that you wanted +to see your own Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told ’em +that I wanted to see our M.P., Mr. Stonewood—you’ll have heard tell of +him, no doubt; he knows me very well—and they passed me, and I wrote +out a ticket for him, and they told me to sit down while they found +him. So I sat down in a grand sort of hall where there were a rare lot +of people going and coming, and some fine pictures and images to look +at, and for a time I looked at them, and then I began to take a bit of +notice of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, like myself. And as +sure as I’m a christened man, sir, the gentleman whose picture you’ve +got in your paper—him as was murdered—was sitting next to me! I knew +that picture as soon as I saw it this morning.” + +Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles on a block of paper, +suddenly looked at his visitor. + +“What time was that?” he asked. + +“It was between a quarter and half-past nine, sir,” answered Mr. +Webster. “It might ha’ been twenty past—it might ha’ been twenty-five +past.” + +“Go on, if you please,” said Spargo. + +“Well, sir, me and this here dead gentleman talked a bit. About what a +long time it took to get a member to attend to you, and such-like. I +made mention of the fact that I hadn’t been in there before. ‘Neither +have I!’ he says, ‘I came in out of curiosity,’ he says, and then he +laughed, sir—queer-like. And it was just after that that what I’m going +to tell you about happened.” + +“Tell,” commanded Spargo. + +“Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along, down this grand hall that +we were sitting in—a tall, handsome gentleman, with a grey beard. He’d +no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper and documents in his +hand, so I thought he was happen one of the members. And all of a +sudden this here man at my side, he jumps up with a sort of start and +an exclamation, and——” + +Spargo lifted his hand. He looked keenly at his visitor. + +“Now, you’re absolutely sure about what you heard him exclaim?” he +asked. “Quite sure about it? Because I see you are going to tell us +what he did exclaim.” + +“I’ll tell you naught but what I’m certain of, sir,” replied Webster. +“What he said as he jumped up was ‘Good God!’ he says, sharp-like—and +then he said a name, and I didn’t right catch it, but it sounded like +Danesworth, or Painesworth, or something of that sort—one of them +there, or very like ’em, at any rate. And then he rushed up to this +here gentleman, and laid his hand on his arm—sudden-like.” + +“And—the gentleman?” asked Spargo, quietly. + +“Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the +man. Then they shook hands. And then, after they’d spoken a few words +together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no +more of ’em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that +picture in it, I said to myself ‘That’s the man I sat next to in that +there hall at the House of Commons!’ Oh, there’s no doubt of it, sir!” + +“And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey +beard?” suggested Spargo. “Could you recognize him from that?” + +“Make no doubt of it, sir,” answered Mr. Webster. “I observed him +particular.” + +Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, +the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes. + +“Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,” he said. + +The farmer went across the room. + +“There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of +Commons here,” said Spargo. “Now, pick out the one you saw. Take your +time—and be sure.” + +He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton. + +“There!” he whispered. “Getting nearer—a bit nearer—eh?” + +“To what?” asked Breton. “I don’t see—” + +A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark. + +“This is him, sir!” answered Mr. Webster. “That’s the gentleman—know +him anywhere!” + +The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby +finger to a photograph, beneath which was written _Stephen Aylmore, +Esq., M.P. for Brookminster_. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN +MR. AYLMORE + + +Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton +start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere +glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. + +“Oh!” he said. “That he?” + +“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster. “Done to the life, that +is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.” + +“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo. “There are a lot of men in +the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards +are grey.” + +But Webster wagged his head. + +“That’s him, sir!” he repeated. “I’m as sure of that as I am that my +name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw talking to him whose +picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no more, sir.” + +“Very good,” said Spargo. “I’m much obliged to you. I’ll see Mr. +Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How long do you +remain in town?” + +“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be +there for another week,” answered the farmer. “Hope I’ve been of some +use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife——” + +Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He +turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. + +“There!—what did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I say I should get some +news? There it is.” + +Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. + +“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I say, Spargo!” + +“Well?” + +“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.” + +“Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his daughters—only +yesterday?” + +“But—how did you know they were his daughters?” + +Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. + +“Instinct—intuition,” he answered. “However, never mind that, just now. +Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if that is the dead man’s real +name, and anyway, it’s all we know him by—was in the company of Mr. +Aylmore that night. Good!” + +“What are you going to do about it?” asked Breton. + +“Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course.” + +He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand +had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. + +“Look here,” said Breton. “I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be +found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and Pacific +Club, you know, in St. James’s. If you like, I’ll go with you.” + +Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. + +“All right,” he said. “Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve something to do. I’ll +meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon.” + +“I’ll be there,” agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand +on it, turned. “What do you expect from—from what we’ve just heard?” he +asked. + +Spargo shrugged his shoulders. + +“Wait—until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say,” he answered. “I +suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.” + +Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to +mutter to himself. + +“Good God!” he says. “Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one +of the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much +observation. Ah!—and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized as +Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. +Stephen Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?” + +Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of +reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness +to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud: + +“AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, +St. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member +Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South +American enterprise.” + +“Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s not very +illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now we’ll make +another.” + +Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of +Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, +leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take +him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he +had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. + +Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the +hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. + +“I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the detective—Mr. +Rathbury.” + +“Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo. + +“Not since,” replied Mrs. Walters. “No—and I was wondering if he’d be +coming round, because——” She paused there and looked at Spargo with +particular enquiry—“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” she asked. “I +suppose you know as much as he does—about this?” + +“He and I,” replied Spargo, with easy confidence, “are working this +case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell him.” + +The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an +inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in +tissue paper. + +“Well,” she said, unwrapping the paper, “we found this in Number 20 +this morning—it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl that found +it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but Walters, +he says as how he shouldn’t be surprised if it’s a diamond. And since +we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after Mr. Marbury +came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he went into +the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of things like +this. So there?” + +Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. + +“That’s a diamond—right enough,” he said. “Put it away, Mrs. Walters—I +shall see Rathbury presently, and I’ll tell him about it. Now, that +other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you recognize him—I +mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?” + +Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters’ face that she had no +more doubt than Webster had. + +“Oh, yes!” she said. “That’s the gentleman who came in with Mr. +Marbury—I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would recognize +him from that—perhaps you’d let our hall-porter and the waiter I +mentioned just now look at it?” + +“I’ll see them separately and see if they’ve ever seen a man who +resembles this,” replied Spargo. + +The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, +and Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the +Atlantic and Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the +steps. He made no reference to his recent doings, and together they +went into the house and asked for Mr. Aylmore. + +Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently +came to them in the visitors’ room. He was already familiar with Mr. +Aylmore’s photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; +the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of +legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and +unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest +of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or +seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met +him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalist had +expected—a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, who looked as if +he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and taught not +to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interests +in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite +expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation +—purposely shortened—of his object in calling upon him. + +“Yes,” he said indifferently. “Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury +and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke +of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much +surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for—I really don’t know how +many years.” + +He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or +not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And +presently Mr. Aylmore went on. + +“I read your account in the _Watchman_ this morning,” he said. “I was +wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with you or +with the police. The fact is—I suppose you want this for your paper, +eh?” he continued after a sudden breaking off. + +“I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print,” answered +Spargo. “If you care to give me any information——” + +“Oh, well!” said Mr. Aylmore. “I don’t mind. The fact is, I knew next +to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some—well, business +relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty +years—perhaps more—since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me in +the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to recall +him. He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, and as +there was little doing in the House that night, and as he had once +been—almost a friend—I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. He told +me that he had only landed from Australia that morning, and what he +wanted my advice about, principally, was—diamonds. Australian +diamonds.” + +“I was unaware,” remarked Spargo, “that diamonds were ever found in +Australia.” + +Mr. Aylmore smiled—a little cynically. + +“Perhaps so,” he said. “But diamonds have been found in Australia from +time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and in the +opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. +Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed +them to me at his hotel—a number of them. We examined them in his +room.” + +“What did he do with them—afterwards?” asked Spargo. + +“He put them in his waistcoat pocket—in a very small wash-leather bag, +from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty +stones—not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some +expert—I mentioned Streeter’s to him. Now, I can tell you how he got +hold of Mr. Breton’s address.” + +The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened +his hold on the pencil with which he was making notes. + +“He got it from me,” continued Mr. Aylmore. “The handwriting on the +scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As +I knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. +Breton, Mr. Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp +solicitor. I wrote down Mr. Breton’s address for him, on a scrap of +paper which he tore off a letter that he took from his pocket. By the +by, I observe that when his body was found there was nothing on it in +the shape of papers or money. I am quite sure that when I left him he +had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a breast-pocket full of +letters.” + +“Where did you leave him, sir?” asked Spargo. “You left the hotel +together, I believe?” + +“Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much +to talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge +and very shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. +My own impression——” He paused for a moment and Spargo waited silently. + +“My own impression—though I confess it may seem to have no very solid +grounds—is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was +robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. +There is the fact that he was robbed, at any rate.” + +“I’ve had a notion,” said Breton, diffidently. “Mayn’t be worth much, +but I’ve had it, all the same. Some fellow-passenger of Marbury’s may +have tracked him all day—Middle Temple Lane’s pretty lonely at night, +you know.” + +No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at +Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door. + +“Well, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “You see, it’s +not much, after all. Of course, there’ll be an inquest on Marbury, and +I shall have to re-tell it. But you’re welcome to print what I’ve told +you.” + +Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards +New Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news—now he +had some to communicate. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT +THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + + +Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal +apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of +its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain +writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much +discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in +the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of +reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was +seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the +apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He +looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand. + +“Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the _Watchman_ this +morning,” he said. “Made extra good reading, I thought. They did right +to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I +suppose, Mr. Spargo?” + +Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury’s right hand. He +lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his +head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his +question answered in the affirmative. + +“Look here,” he said. “We settled yesterday, didn’t we, that you and I +are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? That’s all +right,” he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. “Very well—have +you made any further progress?” + +Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning +back in his chair, shook his head. + +“Frankly, I haven’t,” he replied. “Of course, there’s a lot being done +in the usual official-routine way. We’ve men out making various +enquiries. We’re enquiring about Marbury’s voyage to England. All that +we know up to now is that he was certainly a passenger on a liner which +landed at Southampton in accordance with what he told those people at +the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way and was +understood to take the train to town—as he did. That’s all. There’s +nothing in that. We’ve cabled to Melbourne for any news of him from +there. But I expect little from that.” + +“All right,” said Spargo. “And—what are you doing—you, yourself? +Because, if we’re to share facts, I must know what my partner’s after. +Just now, you seemed to be—drawing.” + +Rathbury laughed. + +“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “when I want to work things +out, I come into this room—it’s quiet, as you see—and I scribble +anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, and—” + +“Do you see it?” asked Spargo, quickly. + +“Well—I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that hotel,” +replied Rathbury. “It seems to me—” + +Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. + +“I’ve found him,” he said. “That’s what I wrote that article for—to +find him. I knew it would find him. I’ve never had any training in your +sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. And it has got +him.” + +Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. + +“Good!” he said. “And—who is he?” + +“I’ll tell you the story,” answered Spargo, “and in a summary. This +morning a man named Webster, a farmer, a visitor to London, came to me +at the office, and said that being at the House of Commons last night +he witnessed a meeting between Marbury and a man who was evidently a +Member of Parliament, and saw them go away together. I showed him an +album of photographs of the present members, and he immediately +recognized the portrait of one of them as the man in question. I +thereupon took the portrait to the Anglo-Orient Hotel—Mrs. Walters also +at once recognized it as that of the man who came to the hotel with +Marbury, stopped with him a while in his room, and left with him. The +man is Mr. Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster.” + +Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. + +“I know him!” he said. “Of course—I remember Mrs. Walters’s description +now. But his is a familiar type—tall, grey-bearded, well-dressed. +Um!—well, we’ll have to see Mr. Aylmore at once.” + +“I’ve seen him,” said Spargo. “Naturally! For you see, Mrs. Walters +gave me a bit more evidence. This morning they found a loose diamond on +the floor of Number 20, and after it was found the waiter who took the +drinks up to Marbury and his guest that night remembered that when he +entered the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of +similar objects. So then I went on to see Mr. Aylmore. You know young +Breton, the barrister?—you met him with me, you remember?” + +“The young fellow whose name and address were found on Marbury,” +replied Rathbury. “I remember.” + +“Breton is engaged to Aylmore’s daughter,” continued Spargo. “Breton +took me to Aylmore’s club. And Aylmore gives a plain, straightforward +account of the matter which he’s granted me leave to print. It clears +up a lot of things. Aylmore knew Marbury over twenty years ago. He lost +sight of him. They met accidentally in the lobby of the House on the +evening preceding the murder. Marbury told him that he wanted his +advice about those rare things, Australian diamonds. He went back with +him to his hotel and spent a while with him; then they walked out +together as far as Waterloo Bridge, where Aylmore left him and went +home. Further, the scrap of grey paper is accounted for. Marbury wanted +the address of a smart solicitor; Aylmore didn’t know of one but told +Marbury that if he called on young Breton, he’d know, and would put him +in the way to find one. Marbury wrote Breton’s address down. That’s +Aylmore’s story. But it’s got an important addition. Aylmore says that +when he left Marbury, Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds +in a wash-leather bag, a lot of gold, and a breast-pocket full of +letters and papers. Now—there was nothing on him when he was found dead +in Middle Temple Lane.” + +Spargo stopped and lighted a fresh cigarette. + +“That’s all I know,” he said. “What do you make of it?” + +Rathbury leaned back in his chair in his apparently favourite attitude +and stared hard at the dusty ceiling above him. + +“Don’t know,” he said. “It brings things up to a point, certainly. +Aylmore and Marbury parted at Waterloo Bridge—very late. Waterloo +Bridge is pretty well next door to the Temple. But—how did Marbury get +into the Temple, unobserved? We’ve made every enquiry, and we can’t +trace him in any way as regards that movement. There’s a clue for his +going there in the scrap of paper bearing Breton’s address, but even a +Colonial would know that no business was done in the Temple at +midnight, eh?” + +“Well,” said Spargo, “I’ve thought of one or two things. He may have +been one of those men who like to wander around at night. He may have +seen—he would see—plenty of lights in the Temple at that hour; he may +have slipped in unobserved—it’s possible, it’s quite possible. I once +had a moonlight saunter in the Temple myself after midnight, and had no +difficulty about walking in and out, either. But—if Marbury was +murdered for the sake of what he had on him—how did he meet with his +murderer or murderers in there? Criminals don’t hang about Middle +Temple Lane.” + +The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making +more hieroglyphics. + +“What’s your theory, Mr. Spargo?” he asked suddenly. “I suppose you’ve +got one.” + +“Have you?” asked Spargo, bluntly. + +“Well,” returned Rathbury, hesitatingly, “I hadn’t, up to now. But +now—now, after what you’ve told me, I think I can make one. It seems to +me that after Marbury left Aylmore he probably mooned about by himself, +that he was decoyed into the Temple, and was there murdered and robbed. +There are a lot of queer ins and outs, nooks and corners in that old +spot, Mr. Spargo, and the murderer, if he knew his ground well, could +easily hide himself until he could get away in the morning. He might be +a man who had access to chambers or offices—think how easy it would be +for such a man, having once killed and robbed his victim, to lie hid +for hours afterwards? For aught we know, the man who murdered Marbury +may have been within twenty feet of you when you first saw his dead +body that morning. Eh?” + +Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the +room and whispered a few words in the detective’s ear. + +“Show him in at once,” said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the man +quitted the room and smiled significantly. “Here’s somebody wants to +tell something about the Marbury case,” he remarked. “Let’s hope it’ll +be news worth hearing.” + +Spargo smiled in his queer fashion. + +“It strikes me that you’ve only got to interest an inquisitive public +in order to get news,” he said. “The principal thing is to investigate +it when you’ve got it. Who’s this, now?” + +The official had returned with a dapper-looking gentleman in a +frock-coat and silk hat, bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp of the +city man, who inspected Rathbury with deliberation and Spargo with a +glance, and being seated turned to the detective as undoubtedly the +person he desired to converse with. + +“I understand that you are the officer in charge of the Marbury murder +case,” he observed. “I believe I can give you some valuable information +in respect to that. I read the account of the affair in the _Watchman_ +newspaper this morning, and saw the portrait of the murdered man there, +and I was at first inclined to go to the _Watchman_ office with my +information, but I finally decided to approach the police instead of +the Press, regarding the police as being more—more responsible.” + +“Much obliged to you, sir,” said Rathbury, with a glance at Spargo. +“Whom have I the pleasure of——” + +“My name,” replied the visitor, drawing out and laying down a card, “is +Myerst—Mr. E.P. Myerst, Secretary of the London and Universal Safe +Deposit Company. I may, I suppose, speak with confidence,” continued +Mr. Myerst, with a side-glance at Spargo. “My information +is—confidential.” + +Rathbury inclined his head and put his fingers together. + +“You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Myerst,” he answered. “If +what you have to tell has any real bearing on the Marbury case, it will +probably have to be repeated in public, you know, sir. But at present +it will be treated as private.” + +“It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say,” replied Mr. +Myerst. “Yes, I should decidedly say so. The fact is that on June 21st +at about—to be precise—three o’clock in the afternoon, a stranger, who +gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if +he could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to +deposit in such a safe a small leather box—which, by the by, was of +remarkably ancient appearance—that he had brought with him. I showed +him a safe such as he wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the +rules of the place, and he engaged the safe, paid the rent for one year +in advance, and deposited his leather box—an affair of about a foot +square—there and then. After that, having exchanged a remark or two +about the altered conditions of London, which, I understood him to say, +he had not seen for a great many years, he took his key and his +departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. +Marbury who was found murdered.” + +“None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst,” said Rathbury. “And I’m much +obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little more, +sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?” + +“No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of +it,” replied the secretary. + +“Didn’t give you any hint as to what was in it?” asked Rathbury. + +“None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not +be burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested,” replied Mr. Myerst. “He +appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible +for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe.” + +“Ah!” said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. “So he would, no doubt. And +Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?” + +Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question. + +“Mr. Marbury struck me,” he answered at last, “as a man who had +probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will +term, a remarkable remark. About—in fact, about his leather box.” + +“His leather box?” said Rathbury. “And what was it, sir?” + +“This,” replied the secretary. “‘That box,’ he said, ‘is safe now. But +it’s been safer. It’s been buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many +a year!’” + + + + +CHAPTER NINE +THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + + +“Buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year,” repeated Mr. +Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. “I consider that, +gentlemen, a very remarkable remark—very remarkable!” + +Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and +began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. +And with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo’s journalistic +instincts had been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off +on a new scent. + +“Remarkable—remarkable, Mr. Myerst!” he assented. “What do you say, Mr. +Spargo?” + +Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered +made a careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several +seconds; then Spargo spoke. + +“And what did you say to that?” he asked quietly. + +Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it +time to enlighten the caller. + +“I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst,” he said smilingly, “that this is +Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo wrote the article about the +Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you’ll +gather, is deeply interested in this matter—and he and I, in our +different capacities, are working together. So—you understand?” Myerst +regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. +Spargo repeated the question he had just put. + +“I said—What did you say to that?” + +Myerst hesitated. + +“Well—er—I don’t think I said anything,” he replied. “Nothing that one +might call material, you know.” + +“Didn’t ask him what he meant?” suggested Spargo. + +“Oh, no—not at all,” replied Myerst. + +Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. + +“Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!” he +said, half-sneeringly. “You might have heard such a story—” + +He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to +Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement. + +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Is it possible to get that box +opened?” + +“It’ll have to be opened,” answered Rathbury, rising. “It’s got to be +opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I’m going to ask Mr. +Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having +it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through +today, but at any rate we’ll have it done tomorrow morning.” + +“Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?” asked +Spargo. “You can—certain? That’s all right, Rathbury. Now I’m off, and +you’ll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I’ll do the +same by you.” + +And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly +returned to the _Watchman_ office. There the assistant who had been +told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a +business card. + +“This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” he +said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, +and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to his +place when you came in.” + +Spargo took the card and read: + +MR. JAMES CRIEDIR, +DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES, +2,021, STRAND. + + +Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, +wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call +himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He +went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and +his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might +have been done by Mr. 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. + +“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. Yes, I called on +you. I think, having read the _Watchman_ account of that Marbury +affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in your columns, +that I can give you a bit of information.” + +“Material?” asked Spargo, tersely. + +Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed +drily. + +“That’s for you to decide—when you’ve heard it,” he said. “I should +say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it’s this—I +kept open until yesterday—everything as usual, you know—stock in the +window and so on—so that anybody who was passing would naturally have +thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I’m +retiring—retired,” added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, “last night. 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. Criedir, “we’ll go on then. Yesterday afternoon the +man described as Marbury came into my shop. He—” + +“What time—exact time?” asked Spargo. + +“Two—to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock,” answered Mr. +Criedir. “I’d swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was precisely +as you’ve described him—dress, everything—I tell you I knew his photo +as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little box—” + +“What sort of box?” said Spargo. + +“A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box—a very miniature trunk, +in fact,” replied Mr. Criedir. “About a foot square; the sort of thing +you never see nowadays. It was very much worn; it attracted me for that +very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. ‘You’re a +dealer in stamps—rare stamps?’ he said. ‘I am,’ I replied. ‘I’ve +something here I’d like to show you,’ he said, unlocking the box. +‘It’s—’” + +“Stop a bit,” said Spargo. “Where did he take the key from with which +he unlocked the box?” + +“It was one of several which he carried on a split ring, and he took +the bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket,” replied Mr. Criedir. +“Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman! Well—he opened his box. It +seemed to me to be full of papers—at any rate there were a lot of +legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you +how I notice things I saw that the papers were stained with age, and +that the red tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink.” + +“Good—good!” murmured Spargo. “Excellent! Proceed, sir.” + +“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. ‘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. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from +business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single +deal, and that, therefore, I couldn’t do anything. ‘No matter,’ he +says, ‘I daresay there are lots of men in your line of trade—perhaps +you can recommend me to a good firm?’ ‘I could recommend you to a dozen +extra-good firms,’ I answered. ‘But I can do better for you. I’ll give +you the name and address of a private buyer who, I haven’t the least +doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from you and will give you a +big price.’ ‘Write it down,’ he says, ‘and thank you for your trouble.’ +So I gave him a bit of advice as to the price he ought to get, and I +wrote the name and address of the man I referred to on the back of one +of my cards.” + +“Whose name and address?” asked Spargo. + +“Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple Lane,” +replied Mr. Criedir. “Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most enthusiastic +and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he didn’t possess +that set of stamps.” + +“I know Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Spargo. “It was at the foot of his +stairs that Marbury was found murdered.” + +“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. “You think and argue on modern +lines—which are, of course, highly superior. But—how do you account for +my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone’s address and for his having +been found dead—murdered—at the foot of Cardlestone’s stairs a few +hours later?” + +“I don’t account for it,” said Spargo. “I’m trying to.” + +Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down +for a moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly +offered him a cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of +thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again. + +“Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to account. And I shall account. And I’m +much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you’ve told me. Now, then, +may I ask you a question or two?” + +“A thousand!” responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality. + +“Very well. Did Marbury say he’d call on Cardlestone?” + +“He did. Said he’d call as soon as he could—that day.” + +“Have you told Cardlestone what you’ve just told me?” + +“I have. But not until an hour ago—on my way back from your office, in +fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him.” + +“Had he received a call from Marbury?” + +“No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until +he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, +another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could +recognize it as any man they’d ever known, but they couldn’t.” + +“I know they did,” said Spargo. “I saw ’em at the mortuary. Um! +Well—one more question. 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. And what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over +again: + +“Six hours—six hours—six hours! Those six hours!” + +Next morning the _Watchman_ came out with four leaded columns of +up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the +four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:—WHO +SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY PRECEDING +HIS MURDER? + + + + +CHAPTER TEN +THE LEATHER BOX + + +Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline +would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he +kept to himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have +set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in +that headline was certain; the problem was—What particular owner or +owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why +should they remember him? Walters and his wife had reason to remember +him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so had Myerst; so had William +Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he left the London and +Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he sat down by +Webster’s side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody seemed to +have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he only +remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable +cloth cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had +come forward with any recollection of him. He must have gone West from +seeing Myerst, because he bought his cap at Fiskie’s; he must +eventually have gone South-West, because he turned up at Westminster. +But where else did he go? What did he do? To whom did he speak? No +answer came to these questions. + +“That shows,” observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away in +Spargo’s room at the _Watchman_ at that particular hour which is +neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, “that +shows how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that +had strayed into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices.” + +“You’d better go and read up a little elementary entomology, Breton,” +said Spargo. “I don’t know much about it myself, but I’ve a pretty good +idea that when an ant walks into the highways and byways of a colony to +which he doesn’t belong he doesn’t survive his intrusion by many +seconds.” + +“Well, you know what I mean,” said Breton. “London’s an ant-heap, isn’t +it? One human ant more or less doesn’t count. This man Marbury must +have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. He’d ride on +a ’bus—almost certain. He’d get into a taxi-cab—I think that’s much +more certain, because it would be a novelty to him. He’d want some +tea—anyway, he’d be sure to want a drink, and he’d turn in somewhere to +get one or the other. He’d buy things in shops—these Colonials always +do. He’d go somewhere to get his dinner. He’d—but what’s the use of +enumeration in this case?” + +“A mere piling up of platitudes,” answered Spargo. + +“What I mean is,” continued Breton, “that piles of people must have +seen him, and yet it’s now hours and hours since your paper came out +this morning, and nobody’s come forward to tell anything. And when you +come to think of it, why should they? Who’d remember an ordinary man in +a grey tweed suit?” + +“‘An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,’” repeated Spargo. “Good line. +You haven’t any copyright in it, remember. It would make a good +cross-heading.” + +Breton laughed. “You’re a queer chap, Spargo,” he said. “Seriously, do +you think you’re getting any nearer anything?” + +“I’m getting nearer something with everything that’s done,” Spargo +answered. “You can’t start on a business like this without evolving +something out of it, you know.” + +“Well,” said Breton, “to me there’s not so much mystery in it. Mr. +Aylmore’s explained the reason why my address was found on the body; +Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained—” + +Spargo suddenly looked up. + +“What?” he said sharply. + +“Why, the reason of Marbury’s being found where he was found,” replied +Breton. “Of course, I see it all! Marbury was mooning around Fleet +Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see +where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The +thing’s plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it.” + +“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Spargo. “That’s it.” He turned over the leaves +of the diary which lay on his desk. “By the by,” he said, looking up +with some interest, “the adjourned inquest is at eleven o’clock +tomorrow morning. Are you going?” + +“I shall certainly go,” answered Breton. “What’s more, I’m going to +take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details were over at +the first sitting, and as there’ll be nothing but this new evidence +tomorrow, and as they’ve never been in a coroner’s court——” + +“Mr. Aylmore’ll be the principal witness tomorrow,” interrupted Spargo. +“I suppose he’ll be able to tell a lot more than he told—me.” + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +“I don’t see that there’s much more to tell,” he said. “But,” he added, +with a sly laugh, “I suppose you want some more good copy, eh?” + +Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. “I’ll tell +you what I want,” he said. “I want to know who John Marbury was. That +would make good copy. Who he was—twenty—twenty-five—forty years ago. +Eh?” + +“And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?” asked Breton. + +“Mr. Aylmore,” answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, “is the +only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John +Marbury in the—past. But he didn’t tell me—much. Perhaps he’ll tell the +coroner and his jury—more. Now, I’m off Breton—I’ve an appointment.” + +And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped +into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. +At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. + +“Well?” said Spargo, as he sprang out: “How is it?” + +“It’s all right,” answered Rathbury. “You can be present: I got the +necessary permission. As there are no relations known, there’ll only be +one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit people, and myself. +Come on—it’s about time.” + +“It sounds,” observed Spargo, “like an exhumation.” + +Rathbury laughed. “Well, we’re certainly going to dig up a dead man’s +secrets,” he said. “At least, we may be going to do so. In my opinion, +Mr. Spargo, we’ll find some clue in this leather box.” + +Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room +where were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to +be the chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had +spoken. And in another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that +the company possessed duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper +authorization having been received from the proper authorities, those +present would now proceed to the safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. +John Marbury, and take from it the property which he himself had +deposited there, a small leather box, which they would afterwards bring +to that room and cause to be opened in each other’s presence. + +It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and +bars before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so +recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. +And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it +seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any +importance. In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden +locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it reminded Spargo +irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept +his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake +smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury’s name had been newly painted +upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door—the front +door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened +by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and +expectation still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders. + +“The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please,” commanded the chairman, +“the duplicate key!” + +Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a +curious-looking key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about +to christen a battleship: the steel door swung slowly back. And there, +in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box. + +It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary’s room that the +procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the +chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary +authorization from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying +the box: followed two other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with +watching official and police interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up +the rear. He whispered something of his notions to the detective; +Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. + +“Let’s hope we’re going to see—something!” he said. + +In the secretary’s room a man waited who touched his forelock +respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box +on the table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members +of the procession gathered round. + +“As we naturally possess no key to this box,” announced the chairman in +grave tones, “it becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in +opening it. Jobson!” + +He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity. +He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see +that he was anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, +Spargo looked at the box. It was pretty much what it had been described +to him as being; a small, square box of old cow-hide, very strongly +made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the +lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for +many a long day. + +There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back. + +“That’s it, if you please, sir,” he said. + +The chairman motioned to the high official. + +“If you would be good enough to open the box, sir,” he said. “Our duty +is now concluded.” + +As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered +round with craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted: +somebody sighed deeply. And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. + +The box was empty! + +Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there +was literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of +a plain, time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned +chintz stuff, such as our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar +with, and containing—nothing. + +“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the chairman. “This is—dear me!—why, +there is nothing in the box!” + +“That,” remarked the high official, drily, “appears to be obvious.” + +The chairman looked at the secretary. + +“I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst,” he said, with the +half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of +an exceptionally fine treat. “Valuable!” + +Myerst coughed. + +“I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin,” he +answered. “The—er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of +great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he +placed it in the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest +value.” + +“But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the +_Watchman_ newspaper, that it was full of papers and—and other +articles,” said the chairman. “Criedir saw papers in it about an hour +before it was brought here.” + +Myerst spread out his hands. + +“I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin,” he answered. “I +know nothing more.” + +“But why should a man deposit an empty box?” began the chairman. “I—” + +The high official interposed. + +“That the box is empty is certain,” he observed. “Did you ever handle +it yourself, Mr. Myerst?” + +Myerst smiled in a superior fashion. + +“I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered +this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he +rented, the box was never out of his hands,” he replied. + +Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the +chairman. + +“Very well,” he said. “We’ve made the enquiry. Rathbury, take the box +away with you and lock it up at the Yard.” + +So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if +mystifying, material for the article which had already become the daily +feature of his paper. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN +MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + + +It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the +adjourned inquest next day that the whole story of what was now +world-famous as the Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated +before him for the thousandth time. There was not a detail of the story +with which he had not become familiar to fulness. The first proceeding +before the coroner had been of a merely formal nature; these were +thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and twelve +good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find +out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John +Marbury came by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo +found himself tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and +noting how each successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter +to the story. The story itself ran quite easily, naturally, +consecutively—you could make it in sections. And Spargo, sitting merely +to listen, made them: + +1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the +body. + +2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death—the man had +been struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow—from some heavy +instrument, and had died immediately. + +3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was +examined nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of +grey paper. + +4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man’s new fashionable +cloth cap, bought at Fiskie’s well-known shop in the West-End, he +traced Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. + +5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there. + +6. The purser of the ss. _Wambarino_ proved that Marbury sailed from +Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved +himself like any other well-regulated passenger, and left the +_Wambarino_ at Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the +last day of his life in just the ordinary manner. + +7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the +matter of the stamps. + +8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury’s visit to the Safe Deposit, and further +proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official +examination, to be empty. + +9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in +one of the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing +the meeting between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to +be Mr. Aylmore, a Member of Parliament. + +All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the +witness-box. And Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for +which the crowded court was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and +realistic specials in the _Watchman_, everybody there had already +become well and thoroughly acquainted with the mass of evidence +represented by the nine witnesses who had been in the box before Mr. +Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with the facts which Mr. +Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview at the club, +which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary interest +which the Member of Parliament’s appearance aroused? For everybody was +extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the last man +who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the +public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who +met Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his +hotel with him, hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the +hotel with him for a stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo +knew well why the interest was so keen—everybody knew that Aylmore was +the only man who could tell the court anything really pertinent about +Marbury; who he was, what he was after; what his life had been. + +He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the +witness-box—a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was +only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a +well-drilled soldier’s, who carried about him an air of conscious +power. Aylmore’s two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite +Spargo, with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had +encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given +him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time; it +was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of +entertainment; they might have been idlers in some Eastern bazaar, +listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional +tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at +them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in +their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. + +“All that they feel,” he thought, “is a bit of extra excitement at the +idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful mystery. Um! +Well—now how much is he mixed up?” + +And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his +eyes off the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the +witness which he was anxious to develop. + +The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. +Aylmore’s evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and +asked a question or two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell, +in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair; +and having received that permission, he went on in a calm, +unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It +sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years +ago. He had lost sight of him for—oh, quite twenty years. He had met +him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on +the evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having +no particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn, +he had gone back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained +awhile with him in his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had +afterwards gone out with him. He had given him the advice he wanted; +they had strolled across Waterloo Bridge; shortly afterwards they had +parted. That was all he knew. + +The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. +It had been in print, under a big headline, in the _Watchman_. Aylmore +had now told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his +next step was to leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory +question or two from the Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a +motion as if to step down. But Spargo, who had been aware since the +beginning of the enquiry of the presence of a certain eminent counsel +who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in that gentleman’s +direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his well-known, +apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, and +glance at the tall figure in the witness-box. + +“The fun is going to begin,” muttered Spargo. + +The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made +a jerky bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He +looked like a man who is going to ask indifferent questions about the +state of the weather, or how Smith’s wife was last time you heard of +her, or if stocks are likely to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this +man before, and he knew many signs of his in voice and manner and +glance. + +“I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your +acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some +time ago?” began the suave, seemingly careless voice. + +“A considerable time ago,” answered Aylmore. + +“How long—roughly speaking?” + +“I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years.” + +“Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way +you have described to us?” + +“Never.” + +“Ever heard from him?” + +“No.” + +“Ever heard of him?” + +“No.” + +“But when you met, you knew each other at once?” + +“Well—almost at once.” + +“Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each +other twenty or twenty-two years ago?” + +“We were—yes, well known to each other.” + +“Close friends?” + +“I said we were acquaintances.” + +“Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?” + +“His name? It was—Marbury.” + +“Marbury—the same name. Where did you know him?” + +“I—oh, here in London.” + +“What was he?” + +“Do you mean—what was his occupation?” + +“What was his occupation?” + +“I believe he was concerned in financial matters.” + +“Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?” + +“Well, yes—on occasions.” + +“What was his business address in London?” + +“I can’t remember that.” + +“What was his private address?” + +“That I never knew.” + +“Where did you transact your business with him?” + +“Well, we met, now and then.” + +“Where? What place, office, resort?” + +“I can’t remember particular places. Sometimes—in the City.” + +“In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or +St. Paul’s Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?” + +“I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange.” + +“Oh! Was he a member of that institution?” + +“Not that I know of.” + +“Were you?” + +“Certainly not!” + +“What were the dealings that you had with him?” + +“Financial dealings—small ones.” + +“How long did your acquaintanceship with him last—what period did it +extend over?” + +“I should say about six months to nine months.” + +“No more?” + +“Certainly no more.” + +“It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?” + +“Oh, quite!” + +“And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for +over twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?” + +“Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he +told me the other evening.” + +“I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or +two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men +are more or less public property. You are represented in this work of +popular reference as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina, +where you made a considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that +you were in London, acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890 +to 1892. Did you then leave England soon after knowing Marbury?” + +“I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892—I am not sure which.” + +“We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want +to solve the important question—who is, who was John Marbury, and how +did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who +knows anything about him. What was your business before you left +England?” + +“I was interested in financial affairs.” + +“Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?” + +“In London, of course.” + +“At what address?” + +For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His +brow had flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared +his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly. + +“I resent these questions about my private affairs!” he snapped out. + +“Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question.” + +“And I refuse to answer it.” + +“Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you +are telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?” + +“I refuse to answer that question also!” + +The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE +THE NEW WITNESS + + +The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. +He was addressing the witness. + +“I am sure, Mr. Aylmore,” he said, “there is no wish to trouble you +with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of this +matter of John Marbury’s death, and as you are the only witness we have +had who knew him personally—” + +Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner. + +“I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!” he exclaimed. “And +I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I +met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private +affairs of twenty years ago—I very much resent it! Any question that is +really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that +seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry.” + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, +and Spargo again became keenly attentive. + +“Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not +yield him offence,” he remarked drily. He turned once more to the +witness, regarding him as if with interest. “Can you tell us of any +person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under +discussion—twenty to twenty-two or three years ago?” he asked. + +Aylmore shook his head angrily. + +“No, I can’t,” he replied. + +“And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at +that time who knew you both!” + +“Possibly—at that time. But when I returned to England my business and +my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don’t know +of anybody who knew Marbury then—anybody.” + +The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; +Spargo saw the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the +door of the court. The Counsel looked again at the witness. + +“One more question. You told the court a little time since that you +parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of +Waterloo Bridge—at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve.” + +“About that time.” + +“And at that place?” + +“Yes.” + +“That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore—just now,” said the +Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. “I am going to ask you, sir, at this +point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the +police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important +nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be +given to you and the jury. If you would be pleased to direct that David +Lyell be called—” + +Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had +sat behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into +view, ushered by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident +young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being +called, stepped jauntily and readily into the place which the member of +Parliament just vacated. He took the oath—Scotch fashion—with the same +readiness and turned easily to the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, +glancing quickly round, saw that the court was breathless with +anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was +going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by +Aylmore. + +“Your name is David Lyell?” + +“That is my name, sir.” + +“And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?” + +“I do.” + +“What are you, Mr. Lyell?” + +“Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & Soutar, +distillers, of Kilmarnock.” + +“Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?” + +“They do—once every six weeks I go to Paris.” + +“On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to +Paris?” + +“I was.” + +“I believe you stayed at De Keyser’s Hotel, at the Blackfriars end of +the Embankment?” + +“I did—it’s handy for the continental trains.” + +“About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go +along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?” + +“I did, sir. I’m a bad sleeper, and it’s a habit of mine to take a walk +of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed.” + +“How far did you walk?” + +“As far as Waterloo Bridge.” + +“Always on the Temple side?” + +“Just so, sir—straight along on that side.” + +“Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody +you knew?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament.” + +Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder’s head +was averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And +Breton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining +silk hat. + +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament,” repeated the Counsel’s suave, +clear tones. “Oh! And how did you come to recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member +of Parliament?” + +“Well, sir, in this way. At home, I’m the secretary of our Liberal Ward +Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to +arrange with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and +speak, and naturally I met him several times, in London and in +Scotland.” + +“So that you knew him quite well?” + +“Oh yes, sir.” + +“Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?” + +Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. + +“Why, of course!” he answered. “There is Mr. Aylmore.” + +“There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore +close to Waterloo Bridge? How close?” + +“Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the +bridge on to the Embankment.” + +“Alone?” + +“No.” + +“Who was with him?” + +“A man, sir.” + +“Did you know the man?” + +“No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I haven’t +forgotten his face.” + +“You haven’t forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell—has anything recalled that +face to you within this last day or two?” + +“Yes, sir, indeed!” + +“What?” + +“The picture of the man they say was murdered—John Marbury.” + +“You’re sure of that?” + +“I’m as certain, sir, as that my name’s what it is.” + +“It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied +by the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?” + +“It is, sir!” + +“Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did +you do?” + +“Oh, I just turned and walked after them.” + +“You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?” + +“They were walking by the way I’d come.” + +“You followed them eastward?” + +“I did—I was going back to the hotel, you see.” + +“What were they doing?” + +“Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir.” + +“How far did you follow them?” + +“I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle +Temple Lane, sir.” + +“And then?” + +“Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De Keyser’s, +and to my bed.” + +There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other +period of the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen +voice put the next question. + +“You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion +into the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the +occasion in question?” + +“I do! I could swear no other, sir.” + +“Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?” + +“Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve.” + +The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a +whispered conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the +witness. + +“You have only just given this information to the police, I +understand?” he said. + +“Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by +this morning’s boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the +papers—the English papers—and seen the dead man’s photographs I +determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland +Yard as soon as I got to London this morning.” + +Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped +down. And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the +Coroner’s attention. + +“May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?” he began. “I—” + +But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and +implacable. “I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in +the box, and that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or +even to answer questions,” he said. “And before you allow him to make +any explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to +interpose at this stage. That witness is——” + +Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner. + +“After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be +heard at once!” he said with emphasis. “As matters stand at present, it +looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I am +allowed to make an explanation—” + +“I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any +explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard,” said the +Treasury Counsel sternly. “There are weighty reasons.” + +“I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give +an explanation,” said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. “Who is +this other witness?” he asked. + +Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two +daughters was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no +distrust of her father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly +turned to the next witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment +lodge of Middle Temple Lane. The Treasury Counsel put a straight +question to him at once. + +“You see that gentleman,” he said, pointing to Aylmore. “Do you know +him as an inmate of the Temple?” + +The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused. + +“Why, certainly, sir!” he answered. “Quite well, sir.” + +“Very good. And now—what name do you know him by?” + +The man grew evidently more bewildered. + +“Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!” he replied. “Mr. Anderson!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN +UNDER SUSPICION + + +A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed +court as this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified +many things—that there were people present who had expected some such +dramatic development; that there were others present who had not; that +the answer itself was only a prelude to further developments. And +Spargo, looking narrowly about him, saw that the answer had aroused +different feelings in Aylmore’s two daughters. The elder one had +dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the younger was sitting +bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine bewilderment. +And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her. + +But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no +stopping the Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in +his own merciless fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the +Coroner, had whispered a word to the solicitor who sat close by him, +and now he turned again to the witness. + +“So you know that gentleman—make sure now—as Mr. Anderson, an inmate of +the Temple?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You don’t know him by any other name?” + +“No, sir, I don’t.” + +“How long have you known him by that name?” + +“I should say two or three years, sir.” + +“See him go in and out regularly?” + +“No, sir—not regularly.” + +“How often, then?” + +“Now and then, sir—perhaps once a week.” + +“Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson’s goings-in-and-out.” + +“Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn’t see him +again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir.” + +“You say ‘nights.’ Do I understand that you never see Mr. Anderson +except at night?” + +“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen him except at night. Always about the same +time, sir.” + +“What time?” + +“Just about midnight, sir.” + +“Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?” + +“I do, sir.” + +“Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?” + +“Yes, sir, just after twelve.” + +“Was he alone?” + +“No, sir; there was another gentleman with him.” + +“Remember anything about that other gentleman?” + +“Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the +other gentleman had grey clothes on.” + +“Had grey clothes on. You didn’t see his face?” + +“Not to remember it, sir. I don’t remember anything but what I’ve told +you, sir.” + +“That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr. +Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they’d passed +through?” + +“Straight up the Lane, sir.” + +“Do you know where Mr. Anderson’s rooms in the Temple are?” + +“Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court.” + +“Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your +lodge?” + +“No, sir.” + +“You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple +Lane next morning?” + +“I did, sir.” + +“Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?” + +“No, sir, I didn’t. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen who +live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the +matter any particular thought.” + +“Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to +come here?” + +“No, sir, never, to anybody.” + +“And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but +Mr. Anderson?” + +“No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson.” + +The Coroner glanced at the Counsel. + +“I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give +the explanation he offered a few minutes ago,” he said. “Do you suggest +anything?” + +“I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he +should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination +again on his oath,” replied the Counsel. “The matter is in your hands.” + +The Coroner turned to Aylmore. + +“Do you object to that?” he asked. + +Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. + +“I object to nothing,” he said in clear tones, “except to being asked +to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and +cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you +like, arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will +answer them so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me +questions about matters of twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or +not as I see fit. And I may as well say that I will take all the +consequences of my silence or my speech.” + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. + +“Very well, Mr. Aylmore,” he said. “I will put certain questions to +you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?” + +“I did.” + +“Was that quite true as regards yourself?” + +“Quite true—absolutely true.” + +“And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!” + +“Equally true.” + +“Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these +witnesses came on the scene, was not true?” + +“No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true.” + +“True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on +Waterloo Bridge!” + +“Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the +Anglo-Orient Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly +afterwards we parted—I did not say where we parted. I see there is a +shorthand writer here who is taking everything down—ask him if that is +not exactly what I said?” + +A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the +Treasury Counsel showed plain annoyance. + +“Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of +ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open +streets after crossing Waterloo Bridge,” he said. “Now—?” + +Aylmore smiled. + +“I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten +any more than I am for your understanding,” he said, with a sneer. “I +said what I now repeat—Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, and +shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth.” + +“Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have +admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely +correct, perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did +part?” + +“I will—willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain +Court.” + +“Then—to reiterate—it was you who took Marbury into the Temple that +night?” + +“It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night.” + +There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate +was fact—solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible +course of events which he had not anticipated. + +“That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain +danger to yourself in making it.” + +“I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it.” + +“Very good. Why did you not make it before?” + +“For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for +the purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I +asked to be allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as +soon as Mr. Lyell had left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am +willing to make it now.” + +“Make it then.” + +“It is simply this,” said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. “I have +found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set +of chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally—very +occasionally, as a rule—go late at night. I also found it convenient, +for my own reasons—with which, I think, no one has anything to do—to +rent those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my +chambers that Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight +with which we are dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at +the very outside: I parted from him at my outer door, and I understood +that he would leave the Temple by the way we had entered and would +drive or walk straight back to his hotel. That is the whole truth. I +wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told all this at first. I had +reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered necessary, that I +parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after midnight.” + +“What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all +this at first?” asked the Treasury Counsel. + +“Reasons which are private to me.” + +“Will you tell them to the court?” + +“No!” + +“Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in +Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?” + +“Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for +him for twenty years or more.” + +“A document of importance?” + +“Of very great importance.” + +“He would have it on him when he was—as we believe he was—murdered and +robbed?” + +“He had it on him when he left me.” + +“Will you tell us what it was?” + +“Certainly not!” + +“In fact, you won’t tell us any more than you choose to tell?” + +“I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night.” + +“Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact +that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told +this court?” + +“That I shall not answer.” + +“Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more +about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years +ago?” + +“I also decline to answer that.” + +The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned +to the Coroner. + +“I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry,” he said +quietly. + +“For a week,” assented the Coroner, turning to the jury. + +The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming— +spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all +mixed up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily +reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the +day’s work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found +himself gazing at Jessie Aylmore. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN +THE SILVER TICKET + + +With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl +aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a +quiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering her +breath. + +“Yes?” he said quietly. + +Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. + +“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to you.” + +“Yes,” said Spargo. “But—the others? Your sister?—Breton?” + +“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered. “They knew I +did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself.” + +Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with +him. + +“Tea,” he said, “is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place +close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and +have some.” + +Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo +said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat +pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had +installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old +tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot +tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her. + +“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.” + +“Yes,” she answered. “I do.” + +“Why?” asked Spargo. + +The girl gave him a searching look. + +“Ronald Breton says you’re the man who’s written all those special +articles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case,” she answered. “Are +you?” + +“I am,” said Spargo. + +“Then you’re a man of great influence,” she went on. “You can stir the +public mind. Mr. Spargo—what are you going to write about my father and +today’s proceedings?” + +Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He +seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, +and bit a great lump out of it. + +“Frankly,” he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, “frankly, I don’t +know. I don’t know—yet. But I’ll tell you this—it’s best to be candid—I +shouldn’t allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making up my +conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?” + +Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the +unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners. + +“I’m not wanting to prejudice or bias you,” she said. “All I want is +that you should be very sure before you say—anything.” + +“I’ll be sure,” said Spargo. “Don’t bother. Is the tea all right?” + +“Beautiful!” she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her +again. “Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think about—about +what has just happened?” + +Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally +ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy +hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea. + +“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I’m no great hand at talking. I can +write pretty decently when I’ve a good story to tell, but I don’t talk +an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I’ve got a +pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When +I write my article this evening, I’ll get all these things marshalled +in proper form, and I shall write clearly about ’em. But I’ll tell you +one thing I do think—I wish your father had made a clean breast of +things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told +everything when he first went into that box.” + +“Why?” she asked. + +“Because he’s now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around +himself. People’ll think—Heaven knows what they’ll think! They already +know that he knows more about Marbury than he’ll tell, that—” + +“But does he?” she interrupted quickly. “Do you think he does?” + +“Yes!” replied Spargo, with emphasis. “I do. A lot more! If he had only +been explicit at first—however, he wasn’t. Now it’s done. As things +stand—look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very +serious position?” + +“Serious?” she exclaimed. + +“Dangerous! Here’s the fact—he’s admitted that he took Marbury to his +rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury’s found +robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!” + +“Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of +robbing him of whatever he had on him?” she laughed scornfully. “My +father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo.” + +“May be,” answered Spargo. “But millionaires have been known to murder +men who held secrets.” + +“Secrets!” she exclaimed. + +“Have some more tea,” said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. “Look +here—this way it is. The theory that people—some people—will build up +(I won’t say that it hasn’t suggested itself to me) is this:—There’s +some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, connection, call +it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty odd years ago. Must +be. There’s some mystery about your father’s life, twenty odd years +ago. Must be—or else he’d have answered those questions. Very well. +‘Ha, ha!’ says the general public. ‘Now we have it!’ ‘Marbury,’ says +the general public, ‘was a man who had a hold on Aylmore. He turned up. +Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him to preserve his own +secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a blind.’ Eh?” + +“You think—people will say that?” she exclaimed. + +“Cock-sure! They’re saying it. Heard half a dozen of ’em say it, in +more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, +they’ll say it. Why, what else could they say?” + +For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then +she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new +interest in what remained of the tea-cakes. + +“Is that what you’re going to say in your article tonight?” she asked, +quietly. + +“No!” replied Spargo, promptly. “It isn’t. I’m going to sit on the +fence tonight. Besides, the case is _sub judice_. All I’m going to do +is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest.” + +The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on +Spargo’s big fist. + +“Is it what you think?” she asked in a low voice. + +“Honour bright, no!” exclaimed Spargo. “It isn’t—it isn’t! I don’t +think it. I think there’s a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of +Marbury’s death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about +Marbury that he won’t tell, but I’m certain sure that he neither killed +Marbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I’m out to +clear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing’ll make me more glad +than to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We’ll +have fresh ones—and fresh tea.” + +“No, thank you,” she said smiling. “And thank you for what you’ve just +said. I’m going now, Mr. Spargo. You’ve done me good.” + +“Oh, rot!” exclaimed Spargo. “Nothing—nothing! I’ve just told you what +I’m thinking. You must go?…” + +He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood +vacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the +shoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him. + +“All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!” he said. “Well, it’s a pleasant +change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look +here, are you going to start your writing just now?” + +“I’m not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I’ve +dined at seven o’clock and given myself time to digest my modest +dinner,” answered Spargo. “What is it?” + +“Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box,” +said Rathbury. “I’ve got it in my room, and I’d like to examine it for +myself. Come on!” + +“The thing’s empty,” said Spargo. + +“There might be a false bottom in it,” remarked Rathbury. “One never +knows. Here, jump into this!” + +He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the +driver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and +himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen him +before. + +“What d’ye think of today’s doings, Spargo?” he asked, as he proceeded +to unlock a cupboard. + +“I think,” said Spargo, “that some of you fellows must have had your +ears set to tingling.” + +“That’s so,” assented Rathbury. “Of course, the next thing’ll be to +find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a man +won’t tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was exactly +doing, what his precise relationship with another man was—why, then, +you’ve just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work on +the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already—you bet! Well, +now, Spargo, here’s the famous box.” + +The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which +he had been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the +lid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against the +exterior lines. + +“No false bottom in that, Rathbury,” he said. “There’s just the outer +leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, and +that’s all. There’s no room for any false bottom or anything of that +sort, d’you see?” + +Rathbury also sized up the box’s capacity. + +“Looks like it,” he said disappointedly. “Well, what about the lid, +then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother’s +farmhouse, where I was reared—there was a pocket in the lid. Let’s see +if there’s anything of the sort here?” + +He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the +tips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a +sharp exclamation. + +“By George, Spargo!” he said. “I don’t know about any pocket, but +there’s something under this lining. Feels like—here, you feel. +There—and there.” + +Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. + +“Yes, that’s so,” he agreed. “Feels like two cards—a large and a small +one. And the small one’s harder than the other. Better cut that lining +out, Rathbury.” + +“That,” remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, “is just what I’m +going to do. We’ll cut along this seam.” + +He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining +of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects +which he dropped on his blotting pad. + +“A child’s photograph,” he said, glancing at one of them. “But what on +earth is that?” + +The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, +much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it +was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost +obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction, +was the figure of a horse. + +“That’s a curious object,” remarked Spargo, picking it up. “I never saw +anything like that before. What can it be?” + +“Don’t know—I never saw anything of the sort either,” said Rathbury. +“Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah—you see, the +photographer’s name and address have been torn away or broken +off—there’s nothing left but just two letters of what’s apparently been +the name of the town—see. Er—that’s all there is. Portrait of a baby, +eh?” + +Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a +casual glance at the baby’s portrait. He picked up the silver ticket +again and turned it over and over. + +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Let me take this silver thing. I know +where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.” + +“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest care of it, +and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No +connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.” + +“Oh, all right,” said Spargo. “Trust me.” + +He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, +wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article +that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street +intent on seeking peculiar information. + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN +MARKET MILCASTER + + +The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned +out of the _Watchman_ office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and +knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not +elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of +course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the +simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of +congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and +acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name +of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your +means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, +and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what +you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a +small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about +Fleet Street bars. + +The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the +Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and +Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate +you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. +You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as +if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. +Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a +small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer’s ink in +your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made +another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, +crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a +few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past +various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After +a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and +found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself +in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted—the whole and sole +work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of +lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you +saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal +legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you +were a member you went in, and if you weren’t a member you tinkled an +electric bell and asked to see a member—if you knew one. + +Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the +bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a +young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly +hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course +and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled. + +“Had we known you were coming,” said Mr. Starkey, “we’d have had a +brass band on the stairs.” + +“I want to come in,” remarked Spargo. + +“Sure!” said Mr. Starkey. “That’s what you’ve come for.” + +“Well, stand out of the way, then, and let’s get in,” said Spargo. +“Look here,” he continued when they had penetrated into a small +vestibule, “doesn’t old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every +night?” + +“Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his +nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily +column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects +of their spotting a winner tomorrow,” answered Mr. Starkey. “It’s five +minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?” + +“A word with him,” answered Spargo. “A mere word—or two.” + +He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and +sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But +the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the +canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting +around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the +great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of +their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a +small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. + +“Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi very extra +special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?” + +“I’ll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal +regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a +route-map of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his +glass. “Phew!—what an atmosphere!” + +“We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. “I’m on the house +committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. +But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_—you know Templeson—he says what we +want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard—says no club is +proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap—second-hand +dealer, don’t you know—what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield +plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would +you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You see—” + +“There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, Starkey, before +anybody else collars him.” + +Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously +came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. +He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a +big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and +beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from +beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; +his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he +looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his +flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive +cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their +wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye. + +“Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. “Crowfoot, +Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see you!” + +“Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said Spargo. “Here, I’ll +get him myself.” + +He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. + +“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like a +pandemonium.” + +Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. + +“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s companionable. What +is it, Spargo?” + +Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I +should say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as +any man writing about ’em?” + +“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot. + +“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo. + +“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden flash +of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you +know.” + +“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just now, +anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with old sporting +affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to +be the only man I know of that could tell anything.” + +“Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot. + +Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up +silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on +Crowfoot’s outstretched palm. + +“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked. + +Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly +turned the silver ticket over. + +“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?” + +“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it is?” + +“Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of these +things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a +young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young ’un!” + +“But what is it?” asked Spargo. + +Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic +device was almost worn away. + +“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at +Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s what it is. One of the +old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market +Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the +obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! +Bless me!—most interesting.” + +“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. “Don’t know it.” + +“Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket +over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in +Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got +gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in +June every year. It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell +through. I went to it often when I was a lad—often!” + +“And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo. + +“This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like +to call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses +of the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a +great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its +possessor—for life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, +anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on +earth did you get this, Spargo?” + +Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting +it in his purse. + +“I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The fact is, I can’t +tell you where I got it just now, but I’ll promise you that I will tell +you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue’s free to do so.” + +“Some mystery, eh?” suggested Crowfoot. + +“Considerable,” answered Spargo. “Don’t mention to anyone that I showed +it to you. You shall know everything eventually.” + +“Oh, all right, my boy, all right!” said Crowfoot. “Odd how things turn +up, isn’t it? Now, I’ll wager anything that there aren’t half a dozen +of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. As I said, there +were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. They +were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I’ve been +in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I’ve seen +these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces—oh, yes!” + +Spargo caught at a notion. + +“How do you get to Market Milcaster?” he asked. + +“Paddington,” replied Crowfoot. “It’s a goodish way.” + +“I wonder,” said Spargo, “if there’s any old sporting man there who +could remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?” + +“Old sporting man!” exclaimed Crowfoot. “Egad!—but no, he must be +dead—anyhow, if he isn’t dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old +Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare +sportsman.” + +“I may go down there,” said Spargo. “I’ll see if he’s alive.” + +“Then, if you do go down,” suggested Crowfoot, “go to the old ‘Yellow +Dragon’ in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage’s place of +business and his private house were exactly opposite the ‘Dragon.’ But +I’m afraid you’ll find him dead—it’s five and twenty years since I was +in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let’s see, now. If +Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he’ll be ninety years of age!” + +“Well, I’ve known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit of +experience,” said Spargo. “I know one—now—my own grandfather. Well, the +best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I’ll tell you all about it some day.” + +“Have another drink?” suggested Crowfoot. + +But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; +he still had something to do. And he got himself away from the +Octoneumenoi, in spite of Starkey, who wished to start a general debate +on the wisest way of expending the club’s ready money balance, and went +back to the _Watchman_, and there he sought the presence of the editor, +and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, saw +him and remained closeted with him for the extraordinary space of ten +minutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed. + +But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at +Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market +Milcaster, and in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an +old-fashioned bedroom looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And +there, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick, +ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the +name, _Benjamin Quarterpage_. + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN +THE “YELLOW DRAGON” + + +Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in +that old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in further +speculations on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no +particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was that in +the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury had +deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he and +Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market +Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market +Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to +trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task? + +“The first thing,” said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, “is to +have a look round. That’ll be no long job.” + +For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from +the station to the “Yellow Dragon” Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a +very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide +thoroughfare—the High Street—with smaller streets leading from it on +either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town +could show—the ancient parish church, the town hall, the market cross, +the principal houses and shops, the bridge, beneath which ran the river +whereon ships had once come up to the town before its mouth, four miles +away, became impassably silted up. It was a bright, clean, little town, +but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo had been quick to +notice that in the “Yellow Dragon,” a big, rambling old hostelry, +reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be little doing. +He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his +arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and +fifty people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, +evidently tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like +an artist, and an unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in +it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo’s +windows; little passage of people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a +countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along; there a farmer in his +light cart sat idly chatting with an aproned tradesman, who had come +out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the +sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open windows stole a +faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows outside the +old houses. + +“A veritable Sleepy Hollow,” mused Spargo. “Let’s go down and see if +there’s anybody to talk to. Great Scott!—to think that I was in the +poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!” + +Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally +landed in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure +instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he +entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed +apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and +ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There +were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had +certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a +century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, +and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; +there were foxes’ masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case +on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and +an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, +old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young +woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy +needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have +looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo, +treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany +it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair. + +“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears to me to +be a very quiet place.” + +“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?” + +“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see +that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of +emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, +that the place is undoubtedly quiet.” + +The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a +new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and +coming out into the room took a chair near his own. + +“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked. +“It’s about all that one ever does see.” + +“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much of +inanition?” + +The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. + +“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you can. Nothing ever happens +here. This place is a back number.” + +“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured +Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in +this town, then?” he added in a louder voice. + +“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I came here from +Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you +see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months.” + +“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dulness. You must +have an antidote.” + +“Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word for Market +Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in here of a +morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in—perhaps during +the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end +of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!—what they want +in Market Milcaster is new times.” + +Spargo pricked up his ears. + +“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old +times,” he said. “I love it!” + +“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked the +barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if you +don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you +did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen +drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that +they couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about +old days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!” + +“Very old men?” asked Spargo. + +“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. Quarterpage, across +the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do any business +now—they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you wouldn’t take him for +more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, further down the street—he’s +eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye—they’re regular patriarchs. +I’ve sat here and listened to them till I believe I could write a +history of Market Milcaster since the year One.” + +“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” said +Spargo. + +He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the +barmaid’s spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town +until seven o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no more +people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo +was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the +bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred +part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit. + +“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the barmaid, +warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their special +pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if +anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and you’ll +hear all they’ve got to say.” + +To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, +twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, +the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow +Dragon” at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the +eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell +began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old +gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo’s eye, gave him a +glance which showed that the play was about to begin. + +“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re first tonight.” + +“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and +became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black +clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe +of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times +round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined +to look on life severely. “Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No, +but here’s Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid. + +Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a +little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting +cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a +flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish +angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian +swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and +gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These +two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed +to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly +as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. + +“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s a symposium.” + +“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. “Grandpa’ll be +here in a minute. We’ll start fair.” + +The barmaid glanced out of the window. + +“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she announced. +“Shall I put the things on the table?” + +“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. “Have +all in readiness.” + +The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, +set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for +making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she +had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse +when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old +men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the +venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he +took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his +friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight +which were positively boyish. + +Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety—a middle-sized, +sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, +clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was +ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his +hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were +smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a +fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease +of life before him even at his age. + +Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began +their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them—the five +had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the +punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each +man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. +Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of anything +but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped +in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in the +presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as for +the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. + +Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when +she said that she believed she could write a history of Market +Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local +events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to +reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident +upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of +racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a +bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the +silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device +uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a +polite bow, said quietly: + +“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?” + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN +MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + + +If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch—the second of the +evening—or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could +scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon +them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of +conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his +cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was +sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the +interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his +outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to +whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing +with great _empressement_ to the ticket. + +“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble +a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?” + +“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a little +with the matter. “You recognize it?” + +“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and so does +every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a +stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, +young gentleman, in this town.” + +“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should I get it +in this town if I’m a stranger?” + +“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot conceive +how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those—what +shall we call them—heirlooms?—yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could +possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again—Where +did you get that, young gentleman?” + +“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent +sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you will +tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, +much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings +of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. +But—what is it?” + +The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous +grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke. + +“It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, +young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges +in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now +unfortunately a thing of the past,” he added. “Fifty—aye, forty!—years +ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was—was—” + +“A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen. + +“Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It was a grand thing—a +very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured—are treasured. And +yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir—” + +Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. + +“I found this ticket—under mysterious circumstances—in London,” he +answered. “I want to trace it. I want to know who its original owner +was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.” + +Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. + +“Wonderful!” he said. “Wonderful! He found this ticket—one of our +famous fifty—in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wants to +trace it—he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he has come +to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal to you if +this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in Market +Milcaster for—I don’t know how many years?” + +There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody +looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the +whole town. + +“But—why?” he asked, showing great surprise. “Why?” + +“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Why? He asks—why? Because, young +gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of +mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our fifty +tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families +to whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most +unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market +Milcaster family.” + +“No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until the +previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he +wisely refrained. “No, I’m certainly not,” he added. + +Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe. + +“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not drawing +to a close—it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young +gentleman—I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, +give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the +race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!” + +“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud suit. “Never +was such a memory as yours, never!” + +“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said the +fat man. “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.” + +“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It’s the greatest blessing +I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a +little thought. And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty +families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or +if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out +how this young gentleman—from London, did you say, sir?” + +“From London,” answered Spargo. + +“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of +our tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “It is—wonderful! But I tell +you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to +breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books +and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of +that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage—Benjamin Quarterpage—and +I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my +breakfast hour is nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily +welcome!” + +Spargo made his best bow. + +“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I +shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment.” + +Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself +in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay +with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, +to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior—a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always +referred to by his father as something quite juvenile—and to Miss +Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than +her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the +choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and +rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a +man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a +vigorous and healthy appetite. + +Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo’s possession +of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. +Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had +judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had +exhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ had +furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he +had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no +mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr. +Quarterpage’s revelations would lead him. + +“You have no idea, Mr. Spargo,” said the old gentleman, when, breakfast +over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which +were abundant evidences of the host’s taste in sporting matters; “you +have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one +of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and +just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my +dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the +year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose +great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were +distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept +in their families for ever—nobody ever anticipated in those days that +our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great +privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and +female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder +himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand +race banquet—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has +been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the +holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody.” + +“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What then?” + +“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as +heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They +were dealt with as I dealt with mine—framed on velvet, and hung up—or +locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care +of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the ‘Dragon,’ that I could +repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can. +But here”—the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a +parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence—“here is a +little volume of my own handwriting—memoranda relating to Market +Milcaster Races—in which is a list of the original holders, together +with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were +given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the +second list, I could trace every ticket—except the one you have in your +purse.” + +“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise. + +“Every one! For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “the +families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people here in +Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re just outside +the town, or they’re not far away. I can’t conceive how the ticket you +have—and it’s genuine enough—could ever get out of possession of one of +these families, and—” + +“Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of possession. I +told you it was found in the lining of a box—that box belonged to a +dead man.” + +“A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “A dead man! Who could—ah! +Perhaps—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!—an idea. I remember something now +that I had never thought of.” + +The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and +turned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. +He pointed this out to Spargo. + +“There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the +race-meetings came to an end,” he said. “If you were acquainted with +this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known +inhabitants—all, of course, burgesses. There’s mine, you +see—Quarterpage. There’s Lummis, there’s Kaye, there’s Skene, there’s +Templeby—the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names. +They all are—on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holders +of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the +tickets. Yes—and now that I think of it, there’s only one man who held +a ticket when this list was made about whom I don’t know anything—at +least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you’ve found must +have been his. But I thought—I thought somebody else had it!” + +“And this man, sir? Who was he?” asked Spargo, intuitively conscious +that he was coming to news. “Is his name there?” + +The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. + +“There it is!” he said. “John Maitland.” + +Spargo bent over the fine writing. + +“Yes, John Maitland,” he observed. “And who was John Maitland?” + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many +drawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old +newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up. + +“If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. +Spargo,” he said, “you would have known who John Maitland was. For some +time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place—aye, and in this +corner of the world. But—aye, here it is—the newspaper of October 5th, +1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’ll find in this old newspaper who John +Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ve +just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day’s business +over with my son—you take this newspaper out into the garden there with +one of these cigars, and read what’ll you find in it, and when you’ve +read that we’ll have some more talk.” + +Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN +AN OLD NEWSPAPER + + +As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the +middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar +and settled down to read. + +“MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS +“TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND + + +“The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on +Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the +Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on +the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman +Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton, +M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais +Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other +magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the public +in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of the Market +Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were filled with +the _élite_ of the town and neighbourhood, including a considerable +number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in the +proceedings. + +“The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the +very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the +occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster—he +referred to the fact that on both those occasions his friend the +Worshipful Mayor had been able to present him with a pair of white +gloves—was not to be repeated on the present occasion. It would be +their sad and regrettable lot to have before them a fellow-townsman +whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position in the +life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the +most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the +offence of embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many +years been the trusted manager, and with which he had been connected +all his life since his school days. He understood that the prisoner who +would shortly be put before the court on his trial was about to plead +guilty, and there would accordingly be no need for him to direct the +gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this matter—what he had to say +respecting the gravity and even enormity of the offence he would +reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury on the +merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later +period of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally +returned a true bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen +from well-known burgesses of the town having been duly sworn. + +“JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street, +Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd, +1891, the sum of £4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, the +Market Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to his +own use. The prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most acutely, +and who looked very pale and much worn, was represented by Mr. Charles +Doolittle, the well-known barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. Stephens, K.C., +appeared on behalf of the prosecution. + +“Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty. + +“Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any +desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think, +had taken a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular +count in the indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, in +the interests of justice, to set forth to the Court some particulars of +the defalcations which had arisen through the prisoner’s much lamented +dishonesty. He proposed to offer a clear and succinct account of the +matter. The prisoner, John Maitland, was the last of an old Market +Milcaster family—he was, in fact, he believed, with the exception of +his own infant son, the very last of the race. His father had been +manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself had entered the +service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he left the local +Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at the age of +thirty-two; he had therefore occupied this highest position of trust +for ten years. His directors had the fullest confidence in him; they +relied on his honesty and his honour; they gave him discretionary +powers such as no bank-manager, probably, ever enjoyed or held before. +In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all intents and purposes, +the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other words he was allowed +full control over everything, and given full licence to do what he +liked. Whether the directors were wise in extending such liberty to +even the most trusted servant, it was not for him (Mr. Stephens) to +say; it was some consolation, under the circumstances, to know that the +loss would fall upon the directors, inasmuch as they themselves held +nearly the whole of the shares. But he had to speak of the loss—of the +serious defalcations which Maitland had committed. The prisoner had +wisely pleaded guilty to the first count of the indictment. But there +were no less than seventeen counts in the indictment. He had pleaded +guilty to embezzling a sum of £4,875 odd. But the total amount of the +defalcations, comprised in the seventeen counts, was no less—it seemed +a most amazing sum!—than £221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the fact—the +banking company had been robbed of over two hundred thousand pounds by +the prisoner in the dock before a mere accident, the most trifling +chance, had revealed to the astounded directors that he was robbing +them at all. And the most serious feature of the whole case was that +not one penny of this money had been, or ever could be, recovered. He +believed that the prisoner’s learned counsel was about to urge upon the +Court that the prisoner himself had been tricked and deceived by +another man, unfortunately not before the Court—a man, he understood, +also well known in Market Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore +could not be called, but whether he was so tricked or deceived was no +excuse for his clever and wholesale robbing of his employers. He had +thought it necessary to put these facts—which would not be +denied—before the Court, in order that it might be known how heavy the +defalcations really had been, and that they should be considered in +dealing with the prisoner. + +“The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part +of the vast sum concerned. + +“Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the +remotest chance—the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting on +his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom he +had just made reference. + +“Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few +words to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens +for the considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had +outlined the main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the +prisoner’s guilt. But, on prisoner’s behalf, he desired to tell the +true story as to how these things came to be. Until as recently as +three years previously the prisoner had never made the slightest +deviation from the straight path of integrity. Unfortunately for him, +and, he believed, for some others in Market Milcaster, there came to +the town three years before the present proceedings, a man named +Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a +stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible +manners, Chamberlayne attracted a good many people—amongst them his +unfortunate client. It was matter of common knowledge that Chamberlayne +had induced numerous persons in Market Milcaster to enter into +financial transactions with him; it was matter of common repute that +those transactions had not always turned out well for Chamberlayne’s +clients. Unhappily for himself, Maitland had great faith in +Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions with him in a large +way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was involved to +vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and his methods, he +had entrusted him with very large sums of money. + +“The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was +to understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner’s own +money. + +“Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred to +were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in +Chamberlayne that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and +that these sums would be repaid, and that a vast profit would result +from their use. + +“The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put +the profit into his own pockets. + +“Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the +two hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question, +Chamberlayne had had the immediate handling of at least two hundred +thousand, and he, the prisoner, had not the ghost of a notion as to +what Chamberlayne had done with it. Unfortunately for everybody, for +the bank, for some other people, and especially for his unhappy client, +Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as these proceedings were +instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible to trace +anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious +circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs. + +“The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr. +Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder, +might think fit to pass. + +“Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few remarks +as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the unfortunate man in +the dock was that until three years ago he had borne a most exemplary +character, and had never committed a dishonest action. It had been his +misfortune, his folly, to allow a plausible man to persuade him to +these acts of dishonesty. That man had been called to another account, +and the prisoner was left to bear the consequences of his association +with him. It seemed as if Chamberlayne had made away with the money for +his own purposes, and it might be that it would yet be recovered. He +would only ask the Court to remember the prisoner’s antecedents and his +previous good conduct, and to bear in mind that whatever his near +future might be he was, in a commercial sense, ruined for life. + +“The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a single +word of valid excuse for Maitland’s conduct. Such dishonesty must be +punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go to penal +servitude for ten years. + +“Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town +later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester.” + +Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain +points in it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the +house—to see old Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window. + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN +THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + + +“I perceive, sir,” said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the library, +“that you have read the account of the Maitland trial.” + +“Twice,” replied Spargo. + +“And you have come to the conclusion that—but what conclusion have you +come to?” asked Mr. Quarterpage. + +“That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland’s property,” said +Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once. + +“Just so,” agreed the old gentleman. “I think so—I can’t think anything +else. But I was under the impression that I could have accounted for +that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the other forty-nine.” + +“Yes—and how?” asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a +decanter and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully +polished the glasses with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set +glasses and decanter on a table in the window, motioning Spargo to take +a chair in proximity thereto. He himself pulled up his own elbow-chair. + +“We’ll take a glass of my old brown sherry,” he said. “Though I say it +as shouldn’t, as the saying goes, I don’t think you could find better +brown sherry than that from Land’s End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr. +Spargo—no, nor further north either, where they used to have good taste +in liquor in my young days! Well, here’s your good health, sir, and +I’ll tell you about Maitland.” + +“I’m curious,” said Spargo. “And about more than Maitland. I want to +know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper report. I want +to know something about the man referred to so much—the stockbroker, +Chamberlayne.” + +“Just so,” observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. “I thought that would +touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when +Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then +about two years old. The child’s mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss +Baylis, appeared on the scene—Maitland had married his wife from a +distance—and took possession of the child and of Maitland’s personal +effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, and +all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small +personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket. +And she may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she +took the child away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in +Market Milcaster. Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things +removed to Dartmoor, and there he served his term. There were people +who were very anxious to get hold of him when he came out—the bank +people, for they believed that he knew more about the disposition of +that money than he’d ever told, and they wanted to induce him to tell +what they hoped he knew—between ourselves, Mr. Spargo, they were going +to make it worth his while to tell.” + +Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old +gentleman talked. + +“Then they didn’t believe what his counsel said—that Chamberlayne got +all the money?” he asked. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +“No—nor anybody else!” he answered. “There was a strong idea in the +town—you’ll see why afterwards—that it was all a put-up job, and that +Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that there was a +nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the bank +people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special agent +to meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some +mistake arose—when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody’s +ever heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis +has.” + +“Where does this Miss Baylis live?” asked Spargo. + +“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “She did live in +Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I +have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after +Maitland’s release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to +trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in +Brighton, she’d completely disappeared, with the child, five years +before. So there wasn’t a clue to Maitland. He served his time—made a +model prisoner—they did find that much out!—earned the maximum +remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there’s +a theory about him in this very town to this very day!” + +“What?” asked Spargo. + +“This. That he’s now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he +got from the bank,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They say that the +sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the +child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland, +and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?” + +“I suppose that was possible,” said Spargo. + +“Quite possible, sir. But now,” continued the old gentleman, +replenishing the glasses, “now we come on to the Chamberlayne story. +It’s a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at +first sight, I’ll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions. +Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster—I don’t know from +where—in 1886—five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then +about Maitland’s age—a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk +to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas’s place is +still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though +old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this +Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old +Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he +married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he’d +been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a +year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne +threw up his post at Vallas’s, and started business as a +stock-and-share broker. He’d been a saving man; he’d got a nice bit of +money with his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his +own, and he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible +manners: he’d have coaxed butter out of a dog’s throat if he’d wanted +to. The moneyed men of the town believed in him—I believed in him +myself, Mr. Spargo—I’d many a transaction with him, and I never lost +aught by him—on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for +most of his clients—there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the +whole he satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, nobody +ever knew what was going on between him and Maitland.” + +“I gather from this report,” said Spargo, “that everything came out +suddenly—unexpectedly?” + +“That was so, sir,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Sudden? Unexpected? Aye, +as a crack of thunder on a fine winter’s day. Nobody had the ghost of a +notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected in the +town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can +assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on +that grand jury as I did—I was its foreman, sir,—and hear a man +sentenced that you’d regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!” + +“How was the thing discovered?” asked Spargo, anxious to get at facts. + +“In this way,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “The Market Milcaster Bank is +in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the +town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father, +a young Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a +shrewd, keen young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about +Maitland, and he insisted on the other partners consenting to a special +investigation, and on their making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught +before he had a chance. But we’re talking about Chamberlayne.” + +“Yes, about Chamberlayne,” agreed Spargo. + +“Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening,” continued Mr. +Quarterpage. “Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town +like wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time—aye, and +had been for years—a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don’t +think there could have been more surprise if we’d heard that the Vicar +had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all +over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear +that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often +remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland’s arrest +nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again. +After his wife’s death he’d taken to spending an hour or so of an +evening across there at the ‘Dragon,’ where you saw me and my friends +last night, but on that night he didn’t go to the ‘Dragon.’ And next +morning he caught the eight o’clock train to London. He happened to +remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected +to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. +But Chamberlayne didn’t come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn’t +come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back +it was in a coffin!” + +“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo. “That was sudden!” + +“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, sir, he came back in his +coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he’d spoken of +being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died very +suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his +brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler—you’ll find him down the +street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew +of Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, +and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that +telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne +had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d +died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and +friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that +there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a +wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And +next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest +would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify +the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the +funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our +cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him +in it, with her.” + +Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and +theories; he was taking everything in. + +“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after that, they +brought Chamberlayne’s body down. Three of ’em came with it—Stephen +Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a solicitor. +Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As Chamberlayne +had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the +body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of +us who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he +had come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s +account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet +him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him +there when he arrived, and they had lunch together. After that, they +got to their business in a private room. Towards the end of the +afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a +doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The doctor said he’d a +diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death, +so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you.” + +The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at +some reminiscence which occurred to him. + +“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came all the +Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne +had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely +certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But +Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing. All that could +be traced was about three or four thousand pounds. He’d left everything +to his nephew, Stephen. There wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums +with which Maitland had entrusted him. And then people began to talk, +and they said what some of them say to this very day!” + +“What’s that?” asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm. + +“That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted +with lead!” he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY +MAITLAND _ALIAS_ MARBURY + + +This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in +Spargo’s mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his +imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his +informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor’s surprise. + +“Do you mean to tell me,” said Spargo at last, “that there are people +in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery which +is said to contain Chamberlayne’s body contains—lead?” + +“Lots of ’em, my dear sir!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Lots of ’em! Go +out in the street and ask the first six men you meet, and I’ll go bail +that four out of the six believe it.” + +“Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take +steps to make certain?” asked Spargo. “Why didn’t they get an order for +exhumation?” + +“Because it was nobody’s particular business to do so,” answered Mr. +Quarterpage. “You don’t know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns +like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they’re +always slow to do anything. It’s a case of who’ll start first—of +initiative. And if they see it’s going to cost anything—then they’ll +have nothing to do with it.” + +“But—the bank people?” suggested Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +“They’re amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die,” he +said. “They’re very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the +Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the +nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now I’ll tell you +something about those three. There was a man here in the town, a +gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper you’ve +got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and he +began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some good—what +do you call it?” + +“I suppose he’d call it ‘copy,’” said Spargo. + +“‘Copy’—that was his term,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Well, he took the +trouble to go to London to ask some quiet questions of the nephew, +Stephen. That was just twelve months after Chamberlayne had been +buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left England—months +before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they didn’t know +which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the doctor—couldn’t be +traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical Register. What do you +think of all that, Mr. Spargo?” + +“I think,” answered Spargo, “that Market Milcaster folk are +considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired +into. The whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy.” + +“Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody’s business,” said Mr. Quarterpage. +“The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, but it was no +good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is.” + +“Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo, “what’s your own honest opinion?” + +The old gentleman smiled. + +“Ah!” he said. “I’ve often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I really have an +opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about the +whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it. +But we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old +silver ticket which you’ve got in your purse. Now——” + +“No!” said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag of +his forefinger. “No! I think we’re coming nearer to it. Now you’ve +given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a lot, +and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I’m going to show you +something.” + +And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph +of John Marbury—the original of the process-picture which he had had +made for the _Watchman_. He handed it over. + +“Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?” he +asked. “Look at it well and closely.” + +Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the +photograph from several points of view. + +“No, sir,” he said at last with a shake of the head. “I don’t recognize +it at all.” + +“Can’t see in it any resemblance to any man you’ve ever known?” asked +Spargo. + +“No, sir, none!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “None whatever.” + +“Very well,” said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table between +them. “Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was like +when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was +when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course, +quite well?” + +Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door. + +“I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you photographs of +both men as they were just before Maitland’s trial. I have a photograph +of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken at a +municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. It’s +been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, and +I’ve no doubt it’s as fresh as when it was taken.” + +He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph +which he laid on the table before his visitor. + +“There you are, sir,” he said. “Quite fresh, you see—it must be getting +on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that it’s +been kept in. Now, that’s Maitland. And that’s Chamberlayne.” + +Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an +ivy-covered wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange +masses of sitters. He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated +by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built +men about whom there was nothing very specially noticeable. + +“Um!” he said, musingly. “Both bearded.” + +“Yes, they both wore beards—full beards,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. +“And you see, they weren’t so much alike. But Maitland was a much +darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while +Chamberlayne’s were rather a bright blue.” + +“The removal of a beard makes a great difference,” remarked Spargo. He +looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with +that of Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. “And twenty years +makes a difference, too,” he added musingly. + +“To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir,” said the +old gentleman. “To others it makes none—I haven’t changed much, they +tell me, during the past twenty years. But I’ve known men change—age, +almost beyond recognition!—in five years. It depends, sir, on what they +go through.” + +Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his +pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I’m after, Mr. +Quarterpage. I’m sure you’ve heard all about what’s known as the Middle +Temple Murder—the Marbury case?” + +“Yes, I’ve read of it,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the _Watchman_?” asked +Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +“I’ve only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man,” he +replied. “I take the _Times_, sir—we always took it, aye, even in the +days when newspapers were taxed.” + +“Very good,” said Spargo. “But perhaps I can tell you a little more +than you’ve read, for I’ve been working up that case ever since the +body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if you’ll just +give me your attention, I’ll tell you the whole story from that moment +until—now.” + +And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case +from the first instant of his own connection with it until the +discovery of the silver ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt +attention, nodding his head from time to time as the younger man made +his points. + +“And now, Mr. Quarterpage,” concluded Spargo, “this is the point I’ve +come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient Hotel as +John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane +that night, was John Maitland—I haven’t a doubt about it after learning +what you tell me about the silver ticket. I’ve found out a great deal +that’s valuable here, and I think I’m getting nearer to a solution of +the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered John +Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne +affair has led me to think this—there may have been people, or a +person, in London, who was anxious to get Marbury, as we’ll call him, +out of the way, and who somehow encountered him that night—anxious to +silence him, I mean, because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I +wondered, as there is so much mystery about him, and as he won’t give +any account of himself, if this man Aylmore was really Chamberlayne. +Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore’s a tall, finely-built man, quite six +feet in height, and his beard, though it’s now getting grizzled, has +been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, was a medium-sized, fair +man, with blue eyes.” + +“That’s so, sir,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, a middling-sized man, +and fair—very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!—this is a revelation. And you +really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury are one and the +same person?” + +“I’m sure of it, now,” said Spargo. “I see it in this way. Maitland, on +his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At last he +comes back, evidently well-to-do. He’s murdered the very day of his +arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him—Aylmore +won’t tell all he knows; that’s flat. But Aylmore’s admitted that he +knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three +years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That’s a +vague term. He won’t say where—he won’t say anything definite—he won’t +even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those days. Do you recollect +anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see Maitland, Mr. +Quarterpage?” + +“I don’t,” answered Mr. Quarterpage. “Maitland was a very quiet, +retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I +never remember that he had visitors; certainly I’ve no recollection of +such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, +would be at that time.” + +“Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?” asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +“Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have,” he said, “I’ll tell +you of something that occurred across there at the ‘Dragon’ only a few +months before the Maitland affair came out. There were some of us in +there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland came in with +Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up to +town next day—he was always to and fro—and we got talking about London. +And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed he was +about the only man of his age in England—and, of course, he meant of +his class and means—who’d never even seen London! And I don’t think he +ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I’m sure he +didn’t, for if he had, I should have heard of it.” + +“Well, that’s queer,” remarked Spargo. “It’s very queer. For I’m +certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. My theory +about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully planted +before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that +he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; +and that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in +it all these years. Now——” + +At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid +looked in at her master. + +“There’s the boots from the ‘Dragon’ at the front door, sir,” she said. +“He’s brought two telegrams across from there for Mr. Spargo, thinking +he might like to have them at once.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE +ARRESTED + + +Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots +of the “Dragon,” and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages +hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Here’s important news,” he said as he closed the library door and +resumed his seat. “I’ll read these telegrams to you, sir, and then we +can discuss them in the light of what we’ve been talking about this +morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to +Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he +hailed from—Coolumbidgee. That report’s just reached the _Watchman_, +and they’ve wired it on to me. It’s from the chief of police at +Coolumbidgee to the editor of the _Watchman_, London:— + +“John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was +unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable +means and bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, +Andrew Robertson, who is still here, and who says that Marbury never +told him anything about himself except that he had emigrated for health +reasons and was a widower. He mentioned that he had had a son who was +dead, and was now without relations. He lived a very quiet, steady life +on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. About six months +ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning told +Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of +some news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the +farm. Robertson bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and +Marbury shortly afterwards left for Melbourne. From what we could +gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was probably in command of five or six +thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a +man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not +say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly +the luggage he brought with him when he came—a stout portmanteau and a +small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at +Coolumbidgee.” + + +“That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the +table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here’s more +startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that +I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage—he promised, you know, to keep me posted +in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says: + +“Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. +Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry +back if you want material for to-morrow’s paper.” + + +Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman +glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. + +“Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I looked the +trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20 +to Paddington—that’ll get me in before half-past four. I’ve an hour +yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That’s +the photographer—or a photographer. You remember I told you of the +photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m calculating that +that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took +it—if he’s alive and I can find him.” + +Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. + +“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, “and he’s +been here for a good many years—Cooper. I’ll take you to him—it’s only +a few doors away.” + +Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. +He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper—an elderly man. + +“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the +bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr. +Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to +ask a few questions. + +“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper. “As well as if it had been +yesterday.” + +“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo. + +But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down +one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he +laid it on his table before his callers. + +“There you are, sir,” he said. “That’s the child!” + +Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. +“Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s the same photograph we found in +the leather box with the silver ticket. I’m obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. +Now, there’s just one more question I want to ask. Did you ever supply +any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland +affair?—that is; after the family had left the town?” + +“Yes,” replied the photographer. “I supplied half a dozen copies to +Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him +here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, too,” he +continued, beginning to turn over another old file. “I have it +somewhere.” + +Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo. + +“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked. “As I told you, +she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after +Maitland’s release.” + +“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper. “I sent six copies of that photograph +to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester +Square, Bayswater, W.” + +Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for +his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he +turned to the old gentleman with a smile. + +“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he exclaimed. +“Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m as certain +of that as that I see your Town Hall there.” + +“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Thank you—as I do—for all your kindness and assistance, and get off to +town by this 1.20,” replied Spargo. “And I shan’t fail to let you know +how things go on.” + +“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, “do +you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?” + +“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis. “I don’t! And I think we’ve got a +good deal to do before we find out who did.” + +Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his +journey to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his +neighbours; it was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to +something else than the theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so +many days. But at Reading the newspaper boys were shouting the news of +the arrest of a Member of Parliament, and Spargo, glancing out of the +window, caught sight of a newspaper placard: + +THE MARBURY MURDER CASE +ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE + + +He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding +it, found a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press +news: + +“Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o’clock this afternoon, +on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned in +the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June +21st last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten +o’clock tomorrow morning.” + + +Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. +He met Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the +detective turned back. + +“Well, so there you are!” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?” + +Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair. + +“What led to it?” he asked abruptly. “There must have been something.” + +“There was something,” he replied. “The thing—stick, bludgeon, whatever +you like to call it, some foreign article—with which Marbury was struck +down was found last night.” + +“Well?” asked Spargo. + +“It was proved to be Aylmore’s property,” answered Rathbury. “It was a +South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain Court.” + +“Where was it found?” asked Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever +he was!” he replied. “Do you know, it had been dropped into a +sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane—actually! Perhaps the murderer thought +it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of course, +it was bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday evening, +and it was quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for Aylmore as +having been in his rooms ever since she knew them.” + +“What does Aylmore say about it?” asked Spargo. “I suppose he’s said +something?” + +“Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought it from +South America with him,” announced Rathbury; “but that he doesn’t +remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks that it was +stolen from them.” + +“Um!” said Spargo, musingly. “But—how do you know that was the thing +that Marbury was struck down with?” + +Rathbury smiled grimly. + +“There’s some of his hair on it—mixed with blood,” he answered. “No +doubt about that. Well—anything come of your jaunt westward?” + +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Lots!” + +“Good?” asked Rathbury. + +“Extra good. I’ve found out who Marbury really was.” + +“No! Really?” + +“No doubt, to my mind. I’m certain of it.” + +Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention. + +“And who was he?” he asked. + +“John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster,” replied Spargo. “Ex-bank +manager. Also ex-convict.” + +“Ex-convict!” + +“Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in +autumn, 1891, to ten years’ penal servitude, for embezzling the bank’s +money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his term +at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. +That’s who Marbury was—Maitland. Dead—certain!” + +Rathbury still stared at his caller. + +“Go on!” he said. “Tell all about it, Spargo. Let’s hear every detail. +I’ll tell you all I know after. But what I know’s nothing to that.” + +Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, +and the detective listened with rapt attention. + +“Yes,” he said at the end. “Yes—I don’t think there’s much doubt about +that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn’t it?” + +Spargo yawned. + +“Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there,” he said. “I haven’t so +much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all in +Aylmore.” + +Rathbury nodded. + +“Yes,” he said. “The thing to find out is—who is Aylmore, or who was +he, twenty years ago?” + +“Your people haven’t found anything out, then?” asked Spargo. + +“Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he +returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since,” +answered Rathbury, smiling. “They’ve no previous dates to go on. What +are you going to do next, Spargo?” + +“Seek out that Miss Baylis,” replied Spargo. + +“You think you could get something there?” asked Rathbury. + +“Look here!” said Spargo. “I don’t believe for a second Aylmore killed +Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what I call +the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something—if she’s +alive. Well, now I’m going to report at the office. Keep in touch with +me, Rathbury.” + +He went on then to the _Watchman_ office, and as he got out of his +taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore’s +daughters. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO +THE BLANK PAST + + +Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the +elder girl hung back diffidently. + +“May we speak to you?” said Jessie. “We have come on purpose to speak +to you. Evelyn didn’t want to come, but I made her come.” + +Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both +to follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed +them in his easiest chairs before he addressed them. + +“I’ve only just got back to town,” he said abruptly. “I was sorry to +hear the news about your father. That’s what’s brought you here, of +course. But—I’m afraid I can’t do much.” + +“I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie,” said +Evelyn Aylmore. “What can he do to help us?” + +Jessie shook her head impatiently. + +“The _Watchman’s_ about the most powerful paper in London, isn’t it?” +she said. “And isn’t Mr. Spargo writing all these articles about the +Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!” + +Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and +papers which had accumulated during his absence. + +“To be absolutely frank with you,” he said, presently, “I don’t see how +anybody’s going to help, so long as your father keeps up that mystery +about the past.” + +“That,” said Evelyn, quietly, “is exactly what Ronald says, Jessie. But +we can’t make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as innocent as +we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don’t know why he +wouldn’t answer the questions put to him at the inquest. And—we know no +more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have begged my father +to speak, he won’t say a word. We saw his danger: Ronald—Mr. +Breton—told us, and we implored him to tell everything he knew about +Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he had +anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and now——” + +“And now he’s locked up,” said Spargo in his usual matter-of-fact +fashion. “Well, there are people who have to be saved from themselves, +you know. Perhaps you’ll have to save your father from the consequences +of his own—shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between ourselves, +how much do you know about your father’s—past?” + +The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo. + +“Nothing,” said the elder. + +“Absolutely nothing!” said the younger. + +“Answer a few plain questions,” said Spargo. “I’m not going to print +your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I’m only asking the +questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in +England?” + +“None that we know of,” replied Evelyn. + +“Nobody you could go to for information about the past?” asked Spargo. + +“No—nobody!” + +Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard. + +“How old is your father?” he asked suddenly. + +“He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago,” answered Evelyn. + +“And how old are you, and how old is your sister?” demanded Spargo. + +“I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen.” + +“Where were you born?” + +“Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San José province of +Argentina, north of Monte Video.” + +“Your father was in business there?” + +“He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There’s no secret +about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to +France—skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That’s how he made his +money.” + +“You don’t know how long he’d been there when you were born?” + +“No.” + +“Was he married when he went out there?” + +“No, he wasn’t. We do know that. He’s told us the circumstances of his +marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from England to +Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was like +himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to +Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each +other, and they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer +arrived.” + +“And your mother is dead?” + +“My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and +Jessie six, then.” + +“And you came to England—how long after that?” + +“Two years.” + +“So that you’ve been in England ten years. And you know nothing +whatever of your father’s past beyond what you’ve told me?” + +“Nothing—absolutely nothing.” + +“Never heard him talk of—you see, according to your account, your +father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina. +He must have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never +heard him speak of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that +sort of thing?” + +“I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to +his marriage,” replied Evelyn. + +“I once asked him a question about his childhood.” said Jessie. “He +answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that he +had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything again.” + +“So that it really comes to this,” remarked Spargo. “You know nothing +whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond +what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe? +That’s about it, isn’t it?” + +“I should say that that is exactly it,” answered Evelyn. + +“Just so,” said Spargo. “And therefore, as I told your sister the other +day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind +him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed +him in order to silence him. That isn’t my view. I not only believe +your father to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no +more than a child unborn of Marbury’s murder, and I’m doing my best to +find out who that murderer was. By the by, since you’ll see all about +it in tomorrow morning’s _Watchman_, I may as well tell you that I’ve +found out who Marbury really was. He——” + +At this moment Spargo’s door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He +shook his head at sight of the two sisters. + +“I thought I should find you here,” he said. “Jessie said she was +coming to see you, Spargo. I don’t know what good you can do—I don’t +see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My +God!—everything’s about as black as ever it can be. Mr. Aylmore—I’ve +just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and I have been with +him for an hour—is obstinate as ever—he will not tell more than he has +told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he won’t speak about that +knowledge of Marbury which he must have?” + +“Oh, well!” said Spargo. “Perhaps we can give him some information +about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it’s not such a difficult +thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as I +was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who +Marbury really was.” + +Breton started. + +“You have? Without doubt?” he exclaimed. + +“Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict.” + +Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls +showed no sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received +the news with as much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury +was a famous musician. But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to +Spargo that he saw a sense of suspicion dawn in his eyes. + +“Marbury—an ex-convict!” he exclaimed. “You mean that?” + +“Read your _Watchman_ in the morning,” said Spargo. “You’ll find the +whole story there—I’m going to write it tonight when you people have +gone. It’ll make good reading.” + +Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo’s hint and went away, Spargo +seeing them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their +father’s innocence and his determination to hunt down the real +criminal. Ronald Breton went down with them to the street and saw them +into a cab, but in another minute he was back in Spargo’s room as +Spargo had expected. He shut the door carefully behind him and turned +to Spargo with an eager face. + +“I say, Spargo, is that really so?” he asked. “About Marbury being an +ex-convict?” + +“That’s so, Breton. I’ve no more doubt about it than I have that I see +you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of +Market Milcaster, who got ten years’ penal servitude in 1891 for +embezzlement.” + +“In 1891? Why—that’s just about the time that Aylmore says he knew +him!” + +“Exactly. And—it just strikes me,” said Spargo, sitting down at his +desk and making a hurried note, “it just strikes me—didn’t Aylmore say +he knew Marbury in London?” + +“Certainly,” replied Breton. “In London.” + +“Um!” mused Spargo. “That’s queer, because Maitland had never been in +London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may have +done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to +South America long before that. Look here, Breton,” he continued, +aloud, “have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before +he’s brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?” + +“Yes,” answered Breton. “I can see him with his solicitor.” + +“Then listen,” said Spargo. “Tomorrow morning you’ll find the whole +story of how I proved Marbury’s identity with Maitland in the +_Watchman_. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore +as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he’s brought +up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters’ peace of +mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows +about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. +Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in—they +know absolutely nothing of their father’s history previous to the time +when they began to understand things! Don’t you see that Aylmore’s +career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!” + +“I know—I know!” said Breton. “Yes—although I’ve gone there a great +deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his +Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he +went out there.” + +“Thirty-seven or eight, at least,” remarked Spargo. “Well, Aylmore’s +more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life +hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?” + +“My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland,” answered +Breton. “We kept up the acquaintance after our return.” + +“Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?” asked +Spargo. + +“Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs +the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of +little else,” said Breton. + +“And their theory—” + +“Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!” replied Breton. “Old +Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his +very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every +tenant of the Temple.” + +“Longish business that,” observed Spargo. “Well, run away now, Breton—I +must write.” + +“Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?” asked Breton as he moved +to the door. “It’s to be at ten-thirty.” + +“No, I shan’t!” replied Spargo. “It’ll only be a remand, and I know +already just as much as I should hear there. I’ve got something much +more important to do. But you’ll remember what I asked of you—get +Aylmore to read my story in the _Watchman_, and beg him to speak out +and tell all he knows—all!” + +And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: “All +he knows—all!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE +MISS BAYLIS + + +Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those +pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely +given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and +boarding-house keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with +their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their +pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into +them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the +residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but +in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that +young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in +more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the +country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but +others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters +whose linen might be cleaner. + +Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as +the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and +bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of +overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid +to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there +was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged +person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of +false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air +and smile which in its wearer—under these circumstances—always means +that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or +whether she will be able to see you. + +“You wish to see Miss Baylis?” said this person, examining Spargo +closely. “Miss Baylis does not often see anybody.” + +“I hope,” said Spargo politely, “that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?” + +“No, she’s not an invalid,” replied the landlady; “but she’s not as +young as she was, and she’s an objection to strangers. Is it anything I +can tell her?” + +“No,” said Spargo. “But you can, if you please, take her a message from +me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask +her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I +should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes.” + +“Perhaps you will sit down,” said the landlady. She led Spargo into a +room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, +evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with +them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the +papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and +if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would +do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door +opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her, +decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as +she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance +lengthen into a look of steady inspection. + +The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable +appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in +height; she was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and +athletic. What at once struck Spargo about her face was the strange +contrast between her dark eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in +abundant coils round a well-shaped head, was of the most snowy +whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as were also the eyebrows +above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking firmness; the +jaw square and determined. And Spargo’s first thought on taking all +this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be +a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an +unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract +anything out of those firmly-locked lips. + +Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded +to order him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her +that he made a profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his +tongue. + +“Mr. Spargo?” she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly suited +to her. “Of, I see, the _Watchman_? You wish to speak to me?” + +Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which +they were standing. + +“Open the casement, if you please,” she commanded him. “We will walk in +the garden. This is not private.” + +Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened +window and he followed her. It was not until they had reached the +bottom of the garden that she spoke again. + +“I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John +Maitland, of Market Milcaster?” she said. “Before you put it. I must +ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for +publication?” + +“Not without your permission,” replied Spargo. “I should not think of +publishing anything you may tell me except with your express +permission.” + +She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good +faith, and nodded her head. + +“In that case,” she said, “what do you want to ask?” + +“I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John +Maitland,” answered Spargo. “I suppose you read the newspapers and +possibly the _Watchman_, Miss Baylis?” + +But Miss Baylis shook her head. + +“I read no newspapers,” she said. “I have no interest in the affairs of +the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole +devotion to it.” + +“Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury +case—a case of a man who was found murdered?” asked Spargo. + +“I have not,” she answered. “I am not likely to hear such things.” + +Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as +great nor as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and +that there actually are, even in London, people who can live quite +cheerfully without a newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went +on. + +“Well,” he said, “I believe that the murdered man, known to the police +as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John Maitland. +In fact, Miss Baylis, I’m absolutely certain of it!” + +He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern +companion to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign +of being impressed. + +“I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo,” she said coldly. “It is no +surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a +thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible +disgrace on those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was +likely to die a bad man’s death.” + +“I may ask you a few questions about him?” suggested Spargo in his most +insinuating manner. + +“You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers,” she +replied. “But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being +John Maitland’s sister-in-law?” + +“I found that out at Market Milcaster,” said Spargo. “The photographer +told me—Cooper.” + +“Ah!” she exclaimed. + +“The questions I want to ask are very simple,” said Spargo. “But your +answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to prison, +of course?” + +Miss Baylis laughed—a laugh of scorn. + +“Could I ever forget it?” she exclaimed. + +“Did you ever visit him in prison?” asked Spargo. + +“Visit him in prison!” she said indignantly. “Visits in prison are to +be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to scoundrels +who are hardened in their sin!” + +“All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?” + +“I saw him, for he forced himself upon me—I could not help myself. He +was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released.” + +“What did he come for?” asked Spargo. + +“To ask for his son—who had been in my charge,” she replied. + +“That’s a thing I want to know about,” said Spargo. “Do you know what a +certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss +Baylis?—they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you +had a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went +to prison, you took the child away, first to Brighton, then +abroad—disappeared with him—and that you made a home ready for Maitland +when he came out. That’s what’s said by some people in Market +Milcaster.” + +Miss Baylis’s stern lips curled. + +“People in Market Milcaster!” she exclaimed. “All the people I ever +knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that +cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would +have seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have +given him a crust of dry bread!” + +“You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man,” observed Spargo, +astonished at her vehemence. + +“I had—and I have,” she answered. “He tricked my sister into a marriage +with him when he knew that she would rather have married an honest man +who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal cruelty; he +robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left us.” + +“Ah!” said Spargo. “Well, so you say Maitland came to you, when he came +out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?” + +“No—the boy was dead.” + +“Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?” + +Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh. + +“I showed him the door!” she said. + +“Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?” enquired +Spargo. + +“I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. Spargo,” +she answered. + +“Then, in short,” said Spargo, “you never heard of him again?” + +“I never heard of him again,” she declared passionately, “and I only +hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was +Maitland!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR +MOTHER GUTCH + + +Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out +on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, +when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that +formidable lady. + +“I’ve just thought of something else,” he said. “I told you that I’m +certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end—murdered.” + +“And I’ve told you,” she replied scornfully, “that in my opinion no end +could be too bad for him.” + +“Just so—I understand you,” said Spargo. “But I didn’t tell you that he +was not only murdered but robbed—robbed of probably a good deal. +There’s good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes, +loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount. +He’d several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South +Wales, where he’d lived quietly for some years.” + +Miss Baylis smiled sourly. + +“What’s all this to me?” she asked. + +“Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be +recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be +somebody who’s entitled to the lot. It’s worth having, Miss Baylis, and +there’s strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up.” + +This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its +effect with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as +scornful as ever. + +“I say again what’s all that to me?” she exclaimed. + +“Well, but hadn’t the dead boy any relatives on his father’s side?” +asked Spargo. “I know you’re his aunt on the mother’s side, and as +you’re indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side. It’s +very easy to find all these things out, you know.” + +Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and +majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the +interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and +glared at the young journalist. + +“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated. + +Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He +was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose. + +“Oh, easy enough!” he said. “I could find out all about Maitland’s +family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!” + +Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. “How?” she +demanded. + +“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. “It is, of course, +the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I +suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and +you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, +Miss Baylis?” + +But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house. + +“I shall tell you nothing more,” she said angrily. “I’ve told you too +much already, and I believe all you’re here for is to get some news for +your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this—when Maitland went to +prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he’d have had +to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn’t a single relation in the +world but me, on either father’s or mother’s side. And even at my age, +old woman as I am, I’d rather beg my bread in the street, I’d rather +starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John +Maitland! That’s all.” + +Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, +she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing +no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling +sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a +queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said +distinctly and yet in a whisper: + +“Young man!” + +Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick +and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he +saw a nondescript shape behind. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Somebody +listening?” + +There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the +cracked, husky voice spoke again. + +“Young man, don’t you move or look as if you were talking to anybody. +Do you know where the ‘King of Madagascar’ public-house is in this +quarter of the town, young man?” + +“No!” answered Spargo. “Certainly not!” + +“Well, anybody’ll tell you when you get outside, young man,” continued +the queer voice of the unseen person. “Go there, and wait at the corner +by the ‘King of Madagascar,’ and I’ll come there to you at the end of +half an hour. Then I’ll tell you something, young man—I’ll tell you +something. Now run away, young man, run away to the ‘King of +Madagascar’—I’m coming!” + +The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel +queer. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he +immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the +privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let +himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a +policeman and asked him if he knew where the “King of Madagascar” was. + +“First to the right, second to the left,” answered the policeman +tersely. “You can’t miss it anywhere round there—it’s a landmark.” + +And Spargo found the landmark—a great, square-built tavern—easily, and +he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and +intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its +suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an +old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize +how dreadful old age may be. + +Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was +dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her +bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was +evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle; +the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a +sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear +what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt. + +“Well?” he said, almost roughly. “Well?” + +“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance. “Let us go +inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a lady can sit +and take her drop of gin—I’ll show you. And if you’re good to me, I’ll +tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now. +But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old +ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little +comforts.” + +Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; +the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at +her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which +was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her +curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little +of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest +which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw +a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew +clearer with every sound she made. + +“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that +made Spargo long to get up and fly. “I wanted that! It’s done me good. +When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for me—and perhaps +another? They’ll do me still more good. And you’ll give me a little +matter of money, won’t you, young man?” + +“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo. + +“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if it’s made +worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about +Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I’m not going to tell you that +now, young man—I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket what I shall +want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I’m only going to show +you that I have the secret. Eh?” + +“Who are you?” asked Spargo. + +The woman leered and chuckled. “What are you going to give me, young +man?” she asked. + +Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two +half-sovereigns. + +“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if you can tell +me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now. +And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!” + +The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand. + +“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored. “Let me hold +one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I +hold one of them. Let me—there’s a good young gentleman.” + +Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, +whatever it might be. + +“You won’t get the other unless you tell something,” he said. “Who are +you, anyway?” + +The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the +half-sovereign, grinned horribly. + +“At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch,” +she answered; “but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a +time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went +to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came +to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to +bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?” + +“Heaven knows!” answered Spargo. + +“Because I’ve got a hold on her, young man—I’ve got a secret of hers,” +continued Mother Gutch. “She’d be scared to death if she knew I’d been +behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she’d be more +than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she’s +grown hard and near with me, and she won’t give me a penny to get a +drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her +little comforts, and if you’ll buy the secret, young man, I’ll split on +her, there and then, when you pay the money.” + +“Before I talk about buying any secret,” said Spargo, “you’ll have to +prove to me that you’ve a secret to sell that’s worth my buying.” + +“And I will prove it!” said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. “Touch +the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I’ll tell you. Now,” +she went on, more quietly—Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the +more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength +and her whole appearance to be improved—“now, you came to her to find +out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn’t +you?” + +“Well?” demanded Spargo. + +“And about that boy of his?” she continued. + +“You heard all that was said,” answered Spargo. “I’m waiting to hear +what you have to say.” + +But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her +questions: + +“And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that +she told him the boy was dead, didn’t she?” she went on. + +“Well?” said Spargo despairingly. “She did. What then?” + +Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled +knowingly. “What then?” she chuckled. “All lies, young man, the boy +isn’t dead—any more than I am. And my secret is—” + +“Well?” demanded Spargo impatiently. “What is it?” + +“This!” answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, “I +know what she did with him!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE +REVELATIONS + + +Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his +journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since +entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear anything +material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that +this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of +extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of +getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother +Gutch’s unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only +saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her +eagerly. + +“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he exclaimed. + +“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch. + +“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo. + +Mother Gutch shook her head. + +“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she replied. “I said +I knew what she did with him.” + +“What, then?” demanded Spargo. + +Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and +favoured Spargo with a look. + +“That’s the secret, young man,” she said. “I’m willing to sell that +secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold +gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I +was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth +something.” + +Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an +unexpected result of it. + +“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” continued Mother +Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That’s plain +language, young man.” + +Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could +this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret +which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple +Murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the _Watchman_ if the +clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the +_Watchman_ was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying +out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent money like water on +much less serious matters than this. + +“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning to +his companion. + +Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really +wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan +had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver +and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite +form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them; +secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most +extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of +her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke. + +“Well, young man,” she said, “having considered matters, and having a +right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have +would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid +weekly—none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and punctual, +every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient to the +parties concerned—but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies +in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it’s a great comfort to +have ’em paid weekly.” + +It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her +weekly dole on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be +Monday or Saturday, but that, after all, was no concern of his, so he +came back to first principles. + +“Even now you haven’t said how much,” he remarked. + +“Three pound a week,” replied Mother Gutch. “And cheap, too!” + +Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might—might!—lead to +something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to +death within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was +nothing to the _Watchman_. He glanced at his watch. At that hour—for +the next hour—the great man of the _Watchman_ would be at the office. +He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. + +“Here, I’ll take you to see my principals,” he said. “We’ll run along +in a taxi-cab.” + +“With all the pleasure in the world, young man,” replied Mother Gutch; +“when you’ve given me that other half-sovereign. As for principals, I’d +far rather talk business with masters than with men—though I mean no +disrespect to you.” + +Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second +half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. But when +that came round he had to wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a third glass +of gin and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in her pocket. +At last he got her off, and in due course to the _Watchman_ office, +where the hall-porter and the messenger boys stared at her in +amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, and he got +her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the presence +of the mighty. + +What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the +fortunes and workings of the _Watchman_ he never knew. It was probably +fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the +facts of the Middle Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an +advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the +conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, +intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up +there. + +Spargo’s room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was +soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and +editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before +going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing +with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of +truth there was in her, but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his +own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room. + +“We’ll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,” he said. +“She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest +importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as +Spargo says, she’ll probably drink herself to death in about as short a +time as possible. Come back—let’s hear her story.” So they returned to +the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by +which the proprietor of the _Watchman_ bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch +the sum of three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the +insertion of the words “every Saturday morning, punctual and regular”) +and then Mrs. Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch +settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for +word. + +“Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a +monkey’s tail nor so short as a Manx cat’s, gentlemen,” said Mrs. +Gutch; “but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland +affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane +Baylis at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and +close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and +had saved a nice bit, and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a +little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican +here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in +this here Maitland’s hands, every penny. I very well remember the day +when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss +Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and +before she’d seen it an hour she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up +to the station with her, and she told me then before she got in the +train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her +sister’s, his wife’s, too, and that she feared all would be lost.” + +“Mrs. Maitland was then dead,” observed Spargo without looking up from +his writing-block. + +“She was, young man, and a good thing, too,” continued Mrs. Gutch. +“Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly +a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with her—which +was Maitland’s. And she told me that night that she’d lost every penny +she had in the world, and that her sister’s money, what ought to have +been the child’s, was gone, too, and she said her say about Maitland. +However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have seen better. And +very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her +and me talked about things. ‘What’s the use,’ says I to her, ‘of your +letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking after it as you +do, and educating it, and so on?’ I says. ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘’Tisn’t +yours,’ I says, ‘you haven’t no right to it,’ I says. ‘As soon as ever +its father comes out,’ says I,’ he’ll come and claim it, and you can’t +do nothing to stop him.’ Well, gentlemen, if you’ll believe me, never +did I see a woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and +swore that Maitland should never see or touch the child again—not under +no circumstances whatever.” + +Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, +with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, +presently, apparently refreshed. + +“Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland’s taking the child away +from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times +about it, always saying the same thing—that Maitland should never have +him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers +about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and +a day or two afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a +lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again, until +one day she came to me, and she says, ‘You don’t know who that +gentleman is that’s come so much lately?’ she says. ‘Not I,’ I says, +‘unless he’s after you.’ ‘After me!’ she says, tossing her head: +‘That’s the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister if that +scoundrel Maitland hadn’t tricked her into throwing him over!’ ‘You +don’t say so!’ I says. ‘Then by rights he ought to have been the +child’s pa!’ ‘He’s going to be a father to the boy,’ she says. ‘He’s +going to take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a +gentleman of him,’ she says, ‘for his mother’s sake.’ ‘Mercy on us!’ +says I. ‘What’ll Maitland say when he comes for him?’ ‘Maitland’ll +never come for him,’ she says, ‘for I’m going to leave here, and the +boy’ll be gone before then. This is all being done,’ she says, ‘so that +the child’ll never know his father’s shame—he’ll never know who his +father was.’ And true enough, the boy was taken away, but Maitland came +before she’d gone, and she told him the child was dead, and I never see +a man so cut up. However, it wasn’t no concern of mine. And so there’s +so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if I ain’t +giving good value.” + +“Very good,” said the proprietor. “Go on.” But Spargo intervened. + +“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy away?” he +asked. + +“Yes, I did,” replied Mrs. Gutch. “Of course I did. Which it was +Elphick.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX +STILL SILENT + + +Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that +made Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her +nerves to be none of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of +them with angry malevolence. + +“Don’t do that again, young man!” she exclaimed sharply. “I can’t +a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it’s bad manners. I observed +that the gentleman’s name was Elphick.” + +Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor—a +glance which came near to being a wink. + +“Just so—Elphick,” he said. “A law gentleman I think you said, Mrs. +Gutch?” + +“I said,” answered Mrs. Gutch, “as how he looked like a lawyer +gentleman. And since you’re so particular, young man, though I wasn’t +addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One of +the sort that wears wigs and gowns—ain’t I seen his picture in Jane +Baylis’s room at the boarding-house where you saw her this morning?” + +“Elderly man?” asked Spargo. + +“Elderly he will be now,” replied the informant; “but when he took the +boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age,” she added, pointing +to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the +proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; “and not so very unlike him +neither, being one as had no hair on his face.” + +“Ah!” said Spargo. “And where did this Mr. Elphick take the boy, Mrs. +Gutch?” + +But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. + +“Ain’t no idea,” she said. “He took him. Then, as I told you, Maitland +came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And after that +she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight tongue. +Once or twice I asked her, and she says, ‘Never you mind,’ she says; +‘he’s all right for life, if he lives to be as old as Methusalem.’ And +she never said more, and I never said more. But,” continued Mrs. Gutch, +whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears away, “she’s +treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a little comfort +such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two of you +a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, +‘Now’s the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!’ And I hope I +done it.” + +Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head +slightly. He meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted +from Mother Gutch. + +“What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?” he asked. +“You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you like.” + +“Which I shall be obliged for, young man,” said Mrs. Gutch, “and +likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every +Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a +Friday, whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first +week in my purse, and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes +and go to a friend of mine where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the +dust of my feet off against Jane Baylis and where I’ve been living with +her.” + +“Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch,” said Spargo, with some anxiety, “if you go back +there tonight, you’ll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis that +you’ve been here and told us all this?” + +Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. + +“Young man,” she said, “you mean well, but you ain’t used to dealing +with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I like. I +wouldn’t tell Jane Baylis my affairs—my new affairs, gentlemen, thanks +to you—not for two annuities, paid twice a week!” + +“Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then +come to my room,” said the editor. “And don’t you forget, Mrs. +Gutch—keep a quiet tongue in your head—no more talk—or there’ll be no +annuities on Saturday mornings.” + +So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier’s department and paid her +her first week’s money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and +saw her depart, and then he went to the editor’s room, strangely +thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they +stopped when Spargo entered and looked at him eagerly. “I think we’ve +done it,” said Spargo quietly. + +“What, precisely, have we found out?” asked the editor. + +“A great deal more than I’d anticipated,” answered Spargo, “and I don’t +know what fields it doesn’t open out. If you look back, you’ll remember +that the only thing found on Marbury’s body was a scrap of grey paper +on which was a name and address—Ronald Breton, King’s Bench Walk.” + +“Well?” + +“Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit—I have accepted two +or three articles of his for our literary page.” + +“Well?” + +“Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of +Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street +today with the murder of Marbury.” + +“I know. Well, what then, Spargo?” + +“But the most important matter,” continued Spargo, speaking very +deliberately, “is this—that is, taking that old woman’s statement to be +true, as I personally believe it is—that Breton, as he has told me +himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian. +That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister.” + +The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore +the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the +same conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a +sharp interrogation: “You think then——” + +Spargo nodded. + +“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is +the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered. + +The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace +the room. + +“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the mystery deepens. What do +you propose to do, Spargo?” + +“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling him +anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and +get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse +for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands—” + +“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand. “Leave it entirely in +Spargo’s hands.” + +“Keep me informed,” said the editor. “Do what you think. It strikes me +you’re on the track.” + +Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still +faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the +reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up +that morning. There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked +for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said +nothing fresh to anybody. + +Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers. He +found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking +unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from +his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into +an inner room. + +“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair. +“This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told +me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?” + +“To get him to tell all?—Yes,” said Spargo. + +Breton shook his head. + +“Stratton—his solicitor, you know—and I saw him this morning before the +police-court proceedings,” he continued. “I told him of my talk with +you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been to +the _Watchman_ office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your +advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private +feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence +against him; how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth +at once; how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion +against himself; how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could +scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo!” + +“He won’t say anything?” + +“He’ll say no more. He was adamant. ‘I told the entire truth in respect +to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the +inquest,’ he said, over and over again, ‘and I shall say nothing +further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man +on such evidence as that, let it!’ And he persisted in that until we +left him. Spargo, I don’t know what’s to be done.” + +“And nothing happened at the police-court?” + +“Nothing—another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he was +removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark—‘If you all want to +prove me innocent,’ he said, ‘find the guilty man.’” + +“Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that,” said +Spargo. + +“Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?” exclaimed +Breton. “Are you any nearer—is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the +slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?” + +Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, +apparently thinking. + +“Was Rathbury in court?” he suddenly asked. + +“He was,” replied Breton. “He was there with two or three other men who +I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in +Aylmore.” + +“If I don’t see Rathbury tonight I’ll see him in the morning,” said +Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down +again. “Look here,” he continued, “I don’t know how this thing stands +in law, but would it be a very weak case against Aylmore if the +prosecution couldn’t show some motive for his killing Marbury?” + +Breton smiled. + +“There’s no necessity to prove motive in murder,” he said. “But I’ll +tell you what, Spargo—if the prosecution can show that Aylmore had a +motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that it was to +Aylmore’s advantage to silence him—why, then, I don’t think he’s a +chance.” + +“I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has +been shown.” + +“I know of none.” + +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. Here”—and Breton scribbled a few words on +a card—“there’s his address and a word from me. I’ll tell you when you +can always find him in, five nights out of seven—at nine o’clock, after +he’s dined. I’d go with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore’s. The +two girls are in terrible trouble.” + +“Give them a message from me,” said Spargo as they went out together. +“Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN +MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS + + +Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o’clock, +asking himself over and over again two questions—the first, how much +does Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him? + +The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a +generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was +full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the +exact number of the set of chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander +about in what was a deserted building. So wandering, he suddenly heard +steps, firm, decisive steps coming up a staircase which he himself had +just climbed. He looked over the banisters down into the hollow +beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure of a tall, +veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening of +his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof +with Miss Baylis. + +Spargo’s mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his +extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that +Miss Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick—come, of course, to tell Mr. +Elphick that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was +on the track of the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it +before, for he had been busily engaged since the departure of Mother +Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis and Mr. Elphick would keep in +communication with each other. At any rate, here she was, and her +destination was, surely, Elphick’s chambers. And the question for him, +Spargo, was—what to do? + +What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, +where he was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman +did not look up. But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she +reached a landing, turned along a corridor with decision, and marched +forward. A moment later Spargo heard a sharp double knock on a door: a +moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; he knew then that Miss +Baylis had sought and gained admittance—somewhere. + +To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the +landing which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about—he had +not, in fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he +went along the corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He +knew that all the doors in that house were double ones, and that the +outer oak in each was solid and substantial enough to be sound proof. +Yet, as men will under such circumstances, he walked softly; he said to +himself, smiling at the thought, that he would be sure to start if +somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But no hand opened any door, +and at last he came to the end of the corridor and found himself +confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters on a +black ground, Mr. Elphick’s Chambers. + +Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back +as quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the +corridor from which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a +glimpse of the Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and +leaning on the sill looked out and considered matters. Should he go +and—if he could gain admittance—beard these two conspirators? Should he +wait until the woman came out and let her see that he was on the track? +Should he hide again until she went, and then see Elphick alone? + +In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things +slide for the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river +and the brown sails, and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten +minutes went by—twenty minutes—nothing happened. Then, as half-past +nine struck from all the neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a +second cigarette, marched straight down the corridor and knocked boldly +at Mr. Elphick’s door. + +Greatly to Spargo’s surprise, the door was opened before there was any +necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a +benevolent, yet somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and +placid face, stood Mr. Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled +smoking jacket over his dress shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. + +Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the +door well open, and motioned the journalist to enter. + +“Come in, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “I was expecting you. Walk forward into +my sitting-room.” + +Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room +into a handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In +spite of the fact that it was still very little past midsummer there +was a cheery fire in the grate, and on a table set near a roomy +arm-chair was set such creature comforts as a spirit-case, a syphon, a +tumbler, and a novel—from which things Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick +had been taking his ease since his dinner. But in another armchair on +the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding figure of Miss +Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She neither spoke +nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And Spargo +stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors, +touched him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat. + +“Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo,” he said, as he resumed his own +chair. “I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up +your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages +of which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss +Baylis told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this +morning I felt sure that it would not be more than a few hours before +you would come to me.” + +“Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at +all?” asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. + +“Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner +unexplored,” replied Mr. Elphick. “The curiosity of the modern pressman +is insatiable.” + +Spargo stiffened. + +“I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick,” he said. “I am charged by my paper +to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found +in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, and——” + +Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand. + +“My good young gentleman!” he said. “You exaggerate your own +importance. I don’t approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In +your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John +Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and +you have been trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into——” + +Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him +which, when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused +now. He looked the old barrister full in the face. + +“Mr. Elphick,” he said, “you are evidently unaware of all that I know. +So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, and I +will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs +of what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the +_Watchman_ tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know.” + +“Dear me—dear me!” said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. “We are so used to +ultra-sensational stories from the _Watchman_ that—but I am a curious +and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so perhaps you will tell me +in a word what it is you do know, eh?” + +Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table +and looked the old barrister straight in the face. + +“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know beyond doubt. I +know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without +doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is +his son, whom you took from that woman!” + +If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in +which Mr. Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more +ample one than that offered to him by the old barrister’s reception of +this news. Mr. Elphick’s face not only fell, but changed; his +expression of almost sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly +resembling abject terror; he dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, +recovered himself, gripped the chair’s arms, and stared at Spargo as if +the young man had suddenly announced to him that in another minute he +must be led to instant execution. And Spargo, quick to see his +advantage, followed it up. + +“That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall +know it tomorrow morning!” he said firmly. “Ronald Breton is the son of +the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the +daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is +not matter of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is +fact—fact!” + +Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few +words. + +“You—did—not—tell—me—this!” + +Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the +lips and as frightened as the man. + +“I—didn’t know!” she muttered. “He didn’t tell me. He only told me this +morning what—what I’ve told you.” + +Spargo picked up his hat. + +“Good-night, Mr. Elphick,” he said. + +But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his +chair and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at +him. He knew then that for some reason or other he had given Mr. +Septimus Elphick a thoroughly bad fright. + +“Well?” he growled. + +“My dear young gentleman!” implored Mr. Elphick. “Don’t go! I’ll—I’ll +do anything for you if you won’t go away to print that. I’ll—I’ll give +you a thousand pounds!” + +Spargo shook him off. + +“That’s enough!” he snarled. “Now, I am off! What, you’d try to bribe +me?” + +Mr. Elphick wrung his hands. + +“I didn’t mean that—indeed I didn’t!” he almost wailed. “I—I don’t know +what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, stay a little, and let us—let us +talk. Let me have a word with you—as many words as you please. I +implore you!” + +Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation. + +“If I stay,” he said, at last, “it will only be on the strict condition +that you answer—and answer truly—whatever questions I like to ask you. +Otherwise——” + +He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching +hands on him. + +“Stay!” he said. “I’ll answer anything you like!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT +OF PROVED IDENTITY + + +Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked +at the two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced +such a curious effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that, +while they were both frightened, they were frightened in different +ways. Miss Baylis had already recovered her composure; she now sat +sombre and stern as ever, returning Spargo’s look with something of +indifferent defiance; he thought he could see that in her mind a +certain fear was battling with a certain amount of wonder that he had +discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she was +concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so +many words that now the secret was out he might do his worst. + +But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was +still trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair +and the hand with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the +glass rattled against his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The +half-contemptuous fashion of his reception of Spargo had now wholly +disappeared; he was a man who had received a shock, and a bad one. And +Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This man knows a great +deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that Marbury was +Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland’s son; he knows +something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly +believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had +buried something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as +astounded as he was frightened to find that it had been at last flung +up to the broad light of day. + +“I shall wait,” suddenly said Spargo, “until you are composed, Mr. +Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, that the +truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you +considerable—shall we say fear?” + +Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown +steadier, and the colour was coming back to his face. + +“If you will let me explain,” he said. “If you will hear what was done +for the boy’s sake—eh?” + +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I wish. I can tell you +this—I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to Mr. +Breton.” + +Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. “He says +that!” she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. “He says that, knowing +that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald +Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a +scoundrel, an ex-convict, a——” + +Elphick lifted his hand. + +“Hush—hush!” he said imploringly. “Mr. Spargo means well, I am sure—I +am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear me——” + +But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the +outer door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across +the room, walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A +boy’s voice penetrated into the sitting-room. + +“If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_, here? He left +this address in case he was wanted.” + +Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger +boys, and jumping up, went to the door. + +“What is it, Rawlins?” he asked. + +“Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There’s Mr. +Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly.” + +“All right,” answered Spargo. “I’m coming just now.” + +He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick. + +“I shall have to go,” he said. “I may be kept. Now, Mr. Elphick, can I +come to see you tomorrow morning?” + +“Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!” replied Elphick eagerly. “Tomorrow +morning, certainly. At eleven—eleven o’clock. That will do?” + +“I shall be here at eleven,” said Spargo. “Eleven sharp.” + +He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve. + +“A word—just a word!” he said. “You—you have not told the—the +boy—Ronald—of what you know? You haven’t?” + +“I haven’t,” replied Spargo. + +Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo’s sleeve. He looked into his face +beseechingly. + +“Promise me—promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won’t tell him until you +have seen me in the morning!” he implored. “I beg you to promise me +this.” + +Spargo hesitated, considering matters. + +“Very well—I promise,” he said. + +“And you won’t print it?” continued Elphick, still clinging to him. +“Say you won’t print it tonight?” + +“I shall not print it tonight,” answered Spargo. “That’s certain.” + +Elphick released his grip on the young man’s arm. + +“Come—at eleven tomorrow morning,” he said, and drew back and closed +the door. + +Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And +there, calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an +evening newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as +imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a +smile. + +“Well,” he said, “how’s things?” + +Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair. + +“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” he said. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“No,” he said, throwing the newspaper aside, “I didn’t. I came to tell +you my latest. You’re at full liberty to stick it into your paper +tonight: it may just as well be known.” + +“Well?” said Spargo. + +Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. + +“Aylmore’s identified,” he said lazily. + +Spargo sat up, sharply. + +“Identified!” + +“Identified, my son. Beyond doubt.” + +“But as whom—as what?” exclaimed Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“He’s an old lag—an ex-convict. Served his time partly at Dartmoor. +That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D’ye see? Clear +as noontide now, Spargo.” + +Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were +fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard +the throbbing of the printing-machines far below. But what he really +saw was the faces of the two girls; what he really heard was the voices +of two girls … + +“Clear as noontide—as noontide,” repeated Rathbury with great +cheerfulness. + +Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. + +“What’s clear as noontide?” he asked sharply. + +“What? Why, the whole thing! Motive—everything,” answered Rathbury. +“Don’t you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is Ainsworth, by +the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just before +Aylmore’s release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes +back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In +time, Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes +back. The two meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or +threatens to let folk know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is +an ex-convict. Result—Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him. +Pooh!—the whole thing’s clear as noontide, as I say. As—noontide!” + +Spargo drummed his fingers again. + +“How?” he asked quietly. “How came Aylmore to be identified?” + +“My work,” said Rathbury proudly. “My work, my son. You see, I thought +a lot. And especially after we’d found out that Marbury was Maitland.” + +“You mean after I’d found out,” remarked Spargo. + +Rathbury waved his cigar. + +“Well, well, it’s all the same,” he said. “You help me, and I help you, +eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I thought—now, where +did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty or twenty-two +years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in +London—at any rate, before his trial, and we haven’t the least proof +that he was in London after. And why won’t Aylmore tell? Clearly +because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a +sudden, it flashed on me in a moment of—what do you writing fellows +call those moments, Spargo?” + +“Inspiration, I should think,” said Spargo. “Direct inspiration.” + +“That’s it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on me—why, +twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor—they must have met there! +And so, we got some old warders who’d been there at that time to come +to town, and we gave ’em opportunities to see Aylmore and to study him. +Of course, he’s twenty years older, and he’s grown a beard, but they +began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was the man +they thought he’d a certain birth-mark. And—he has!” + +“Does Aylmore know that he’s been identified?” asked Spargo. + +Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. + +“Know!” he said scornfully. “Know? He’s admitted it. What was the use +of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it tonight in my +presence. Oh, he knows all right!” + +“And what did he say?” + +Rathbury laughed contemptuously. + +“Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair—that +when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He’s +certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game.” + +“And of what was he convicted?” + +“Oh, of course, we know all about it—now. As soon as we found out who +he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or +Ainsworth (Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a +sort of what they call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up +in the North—Cloudhampton—some thirty years ago. He was nominally +secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the +working classes—Cloudhampton’s a purely artisan population—and they +stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly it +came to smash, and there was nothing. He—Ainsworth, or Aylmore—pleaded +that he was robbed and duped by another man, but the court didn’t +believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story you see, Spargo, when +it all comes out, eh?” + +“All stories are quite plain—when they come out,” observed Spargo. “And +he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn’t want his daughters to +know about his past?” + +“Just so,” agreed Rathbury. “And I don’t know that I blame him. He +thought, of course, that he’d go scot-free over this Marbury affair. +But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy—oh, yes!” + +Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few +minutes, Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last +Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder. + +“Look here, Rathbury!” he said. “It’s very evident that you’re now +going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?” + +Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment. + +“After evidence like that!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course. There’s the +motive, my son, the motive!” + +Spargo laughed. + +“Rathbury!” he said. “Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than you did!” + +The detective got up and put on his hat. + +“Oh!” he said. “Perhaps you know who did, then?” + +“I shall know in a few days,” answered Spargo. + +Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the +door. “Good-night!” he said gruffly. + +“Good-night, Rathbury,” replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. + +But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the _Watchman_. All he wrote +was a short telegram addressed to Aylmore’s daughters. There were only +three words on it—_Have no fear._ + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE +THE CLOSED DOORS + + +Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the _Watchman_ appeared +next day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple +Murder. The other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts +of the identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster +Division, as the _ci-devant_ Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a +time founder and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit +Society, the headquarters of which had been at Cloudhampton, in +Daleshire; the fall of which had involved thousands of honest working +folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. Most of them had +raked up Ainsworth’s past to considerable journalistic purpose: it had +been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall of the +Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble +investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy, +too, to set out again the history of Ainsworth’s arrest, trial, and +fate. There was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man +who by his financial ability had built up a great industrial insurance +society; had—as was alleged—converted the large sums entrusted to him +to his own purposes; had been detected and punished; had disappeared, +after his punishment, so effectually that no one knew where he had +gone; had come back, comparatively a few years later, under another +name, a very rich man, and had entered Parliament and been, in a modest +way, a public character without any of those who knew him in his new +career suspecting that he had once worn a dress liberally ornamented +with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of the morning +newspapers made a couple of columns of it. + +But the _Watchman_, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries +in keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection +with the Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement. +For after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and +his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them, and the result +of their talk had been that all the _Watchman_ thought fit to tell its +readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph: + +“We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the +murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last, +was yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen +Ainsworth, who was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection +with the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty +years ago.” + +Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily +along the front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a +man on an opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which +indicated derision. + +“Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my boy!” +he remarked elegantly. “Why, you’ve missed one of the finest +opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A +miserable paragraph!—why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! +What were you doing last night, old man?” + +“Sleeping,” said Spargo and went by with a nod. “Sleeping!” + +He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple +Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to +Mr. Elphick’s chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer +door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that +hour, but Elphick’s door was closed fast enough. The night before it +had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo’s first +knock, nor to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he +murmured aloud: “Elphick’s door is closed!” + +It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that +Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because +Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked +slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the +stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at +sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him. As if with a +mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands. + +“I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines in the +_Watchman_ this morning,” said Breton. “It was—considerate. As for the +other papers!—Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he did +serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough! He was scapegoat +for another man who disappeared.” + +Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: + +“And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the +two girls last night—it was good of you. They want all the comfort they +can get, poor things! But—what are you doing here, Spargo?” + +Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. + +“I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick—an +appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at +nine o’clock. The appointment—a most important one—was for eleven +o’clock.” + +Breton glanced at his watch. + +“Come on, then,” he said. “It’s well past that now, and my guardian’s a +very martinet in the matter of punctuality.” + +But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton +with troubled eyes. + +“So am I,” he answered. “I was trained to it. Your guardian isn’t +there, Breton.” + +“Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense—I never knew +him miss an appointment!” + +“I knocked three times—three separate times,” answered Spargo. + +“You should have knocked half a dozen times—he may have overslept +himself. He sits up late—he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the +night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton. “Come on—you’ll +see!” + +Spargo shook his head again. + +“He’s not there, Breton,” he said. “He’s gone!” + +Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had +seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He +seized Spargo’s elbow. + +“Come on!” he said. “I have a key to Mr. Elphick’s door, so that I can +go in and out as I like. I’ll soon show you whether he’s gone or not.” + +Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor. + +“All the same,” he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the +latch, “he’s not there, Breton. He’s—off!” + +“Good heavens, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” exclaimed +Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. “Off! Where on +earth should he be off to, when he’s made an appointment with you for +eleven, and—Hullo!” + +He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and +Miss Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself +up on the threshold with a sharp exclamation. + +“Good God!” he cried. “What—what’s all this?” + +Spargo quietly looked over Breton’s shoulder. It needed but one quick +glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he +had quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he +had left Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a +hurried hand, was the little table with its spirit case, its syphon, +its glass, in which stale liquid still stood; there was the novel, +turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, was Elphick’s pipe. But +the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The drawers of a bureau had +been pulled open and never put back; papers of all descriptions, old +legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the centre-table and the +floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had been opened, +its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the grate, +and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred paper; +it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, wherever he +might have disappeared to, had spent some time before his disappearance +in destroying a considerable heap of documents and papers, and in such +haste that he had not troubled to put matters straight before he went. + +Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then +he made one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. +Together they entered an inner room—a sleeping apartment. There was no +one in it, but there were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily +packed a bag as he had destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo +had seen him wearing the previous evening were flung here, there, +everywhere: the gorgeous smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in +one corner, a dress-shirt, in the bosom of which valuable studs still +glistened, in another. One or two suitcases lay about, as if they had +been examined and discarded in favour of something more portable; here, +too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, had been +torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, +revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around +him, seemed to see all that had happened—the hasty, almost frantic +search for and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of +clothing, of packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and +then the flight the getting away, the—— + +“What on earth does all this mean?” exclaimed Breton. “What is it, +Spargo?” + +“I mean exactly what I told you,” answered Spargo. “He’s off! Off!” + +“Off! But why off? What—my guardian!—as quiet an old gentleman as there +is in the Temple—off!” cried Breton. “For what reason, eh? It +isn’t—good God, Spargo, it isn’t because of anything you said to him +last night!” + +“I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him +last night,” replied Spargo. “I was a fool ever to let him out of my +sight.” + +Breton turned on his companion and gasped. + +“Out—of—your—sight!” he exclaimed. “Why—why—you don’t mean to say that +Mr. Elphick has anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God’s +sake, Spargo——” + +Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister’s shoulder. + +“I’m afraid you’ll have to hear a good deal, Breton,” he said. “I was +going to talk to you today in any case. You see——” + +Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which +denote the charwoman’s profession, entered the room and immediately +cried out at what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely. + +“Here, you!” he said. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick this +morning?” + +The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. + +“Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before +half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his +breakfast. I see him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his +usual state of good health, sir, if any thing’s the matter with him +now. No, sir, I ain’t seen nothing of him.” + +Breton let out another exclamation of impatience. + +“You’d better leave all this,” he said. “Mr. Elphick’s evidently gone +away in a hurry, and you mustn’t touch anything here until he comes +back. I’m going to lock up the chambers: if you’ve a key of them give +it to me.” + +The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the +rooms, and vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo. + +“What do you say?” he demanded. “I must hear—a good deal! Out with it, +then, man, for Heaven’s sake.” + +But Spargo shook his head. + +“Not now, Breton,” he answered. “Presently, I tell you, for Miss +Aylmore’s sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on your +guardian’s track. We must—must, I say!—and at once.” + +Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit +his own senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. + +“Come on!” he said. “I know who’ll know where he is, if anybody does.” + +“Who, then?” asked Spargo, as they hurried out. + +“Cardlestone,” answered Breton, grimly. “Cardlestone!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY +REVELATION + + +There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as +ever manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry +into which Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was +Breton paused at the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and +at the wall at its side. + +“Wasn’t it there?” he said in a low voice, pointing at the place he +looked at. “Wasn’t it there, Spargo, just there, that Marbury, or, +rather, Maitland, was found?” + +“It was just there,” answered Spargo. + +“You saw him?” + +“I saw him.” + +“Soon—afterwards?” + +“Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you +ask now?” + +Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his +eyes on walking into the entry, shook his head. + +“Don’t know,” he answered. “I—but come on—let’s see if old Cardlestone +can tell us anything.” + +There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside +Cardlestone’s door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was +evident to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she +opened the door. + +“I don’t think Mr. Cardlestone’ll be in, sir,” she said. “He’s +generally gone out to breakfast at this time—him and Mr. Elphick goes +together.” + +“Just see,” said Breton. “I want to see him if he is in.” The charwoman +entered the chambers and immediately screamed. + +“Quite so,” remarked Spargo. “That’s what I expected to hear. +Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also—off!” + +Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in +close attendance. + +“Good God—another!” groaned Breton. + +If the confusion in Elphick’s rooms had been bad, that in Cardlestone’s +chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene +were repeated—drawers had been torn open, papers thrown about; the +hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and sevens. +An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like +Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his +clothes, and had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any +corner. Spargo began to realize what had taken place—Elphick, having +made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had +expedited him, and they had fled together. But—why? + +The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob; +Breton strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous +objects tossed aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the +inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of +something lying on the floor at which he made a sharp clutch. He had +just secured it and hurried it into his pocket when Breton came back. + +“I don’t know what all this means, Spargo,” he said, almost wearily. “I +suppose you do. Look here,” he went on, turning to the charwoman, “stop +that row—that’ll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr. Cardlestone’s gone +away in a hurry. You’d better—what had she better do, Spargo?” + +“Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as you’re +a friend of Mr. Cardlestone’s give you the key,” answered Spargo, with +a significant glance. “Do that, now, and let’s go—I’ve something to +do.” + +Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned to +Breton. + +“I’ll tell you all I know, presently, Breton,” he said. “In the +meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick or Mr. +Cardlestone leave. I must know where they’ve gone—if I can only find +out. I don’t suppose they went on foot.” + +“All right,” responded Breton, gloomily. “We’ll go and ask. But this is +all beyond me. You don’t mean to say——” + +“Wait a while,” answered Spargo. “One thing at once,” he continued, as +they walked up Middle Temple Lane. “This is the first thing. You ask +the porter if he’s seen anything of either of them—he knows you.” + +The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. + +“Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?” he answered. +“Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early +this morning—soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to +Paris, and they’d breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left.” + +“Say when they’d be back?” asked Breton, with an assumption of entire +carelessness. + +“No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn’t,” answered the porter. “But I should say +they wouldn’t be long because they’d only got small suit-cases with +them—such as they’d put a day or two’s things in, sir.” + +“All right,” said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already +moved off. “What next?” he asked. “Charing Cross, I suppose!” + +Spargo smiled and shook his head. + +“No,” he answered. “I’ve no use for Charing Cross. They haven’t gone to +Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let’s go back to your +chambers. Then I’ll talk to you.” + +Once within Breton’s inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo +dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with +earnest attention. + +“Breton!” he said. “I believe we’re coming in sight of land. You want +to save your prospective father-in-law, don’t you?” + +“Of course!” growled Breton. “That goes without saying. But——” + +“But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it,” said +Spargo. “You see——” + +“Sacrifices!” exclaimed Breton. “What——” + +“You may have to sacrifice some ideas—you may find that you’ll not be +able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought +of them in the past. For instance—Mr. Elphick.” + +Breton’s face grew dark. + +“Speak plainly, Spargo!” he said. “It’s best with me.” + +“Very well,” replied Spargo. “Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way +connected with this affair.” + +“You mean the—murder?” + +“I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I’m now dead certain. +And that’s why they’re off. I startled Elphick last night. It’s evident +that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a +rapid exit. Why?” + +“Why? That’s what I’m asking you! Why? Why? Why?” + +“Because they’re afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, +their first instinct is to—run. They’ve run at the first alarm. +Foolish—but instinctive.” + +Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped +to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad. + +“Spargo!” he exclaimed. “Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian +and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone, of being—murderers?” + +“Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of +knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I +am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all +about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he +knew this dead man to be John Maitland.” + +“You did!” + +“I did. And now, Breton, since it’s got to come out, we’ll have the +truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for you’ll have to +stand a shock or two. But I know what I’m talking about—I can prove +every word I’m going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few +questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?” + +“Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me.” + +“And what was that?” + +“That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me +unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me.” + +“And he’s never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove +the truth of that story?” + +“Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?” + +“You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person who +was particularly near you in your childhood?” + +“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three +years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, +a tall, dark woman, I think, before that.” + +“Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself. “All right, Breton,” he went on +aloud. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ll tell it to you straight +out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not +Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you’re the only child of +the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone’s staircase!” + +Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at +him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he +do?—what would he say?—what—— + +Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the +eyes. + +“Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. +“Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!” + +Spargo nodded. + +“I will—every word,” he answered. “It’s the right thing. Listen, then.” + +It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the +clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought +it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest +attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a +brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him. + +“That’s all,” said Spargo at last. + +“It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically. + +He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. +“What do you really think?” he asked. + +“About—what?” said Spargo. + +“This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.” + +“I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be +forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw +Elphick in last night. And it’s evident that Cardlestone shares in that +fright, or they wouldn’t have gone off in this way together.” + +“Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?” + +Spargo shook his head. + +“I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look here!” + +Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which +he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. + +“What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?” + +“That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of +those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. +I picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking +into his bedroom.” + +“But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical +stamps. And whether they are or not——” + +“What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I believe +that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had on him, and I +want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. And I will +know.” + +Breton handed the stamps back. + +“But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they didn’t murder—I +can’t realize the thing yet!—my father——” + +“If they didn’t murder your father, they know who did!” exclaimed +Spargo. “Now, then, it’s time for more action. Let Elphick and +Cardlestone alone for the moment—they’ll be tracked easily enough. I +want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an +authority from the Government to open a grave?” + +“Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by +showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made.” + +“Good! We’ll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened.” + +“A grave opened! Whose grave?” + +“The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster,” replied +Spargo. + +Breton started. + +“His? In Heaven’s name, why?” he demanded. + +Spargo laughed as he got up. + +“Because I believe it’s empty,” he answered. “Because I believe that +Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is—Cardlestone!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE +THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + + +That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his +proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to +the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the _Watchman_ when +it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate +application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne +grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning +there appeared in the _Watchman_ a notice which set half the mouths of +London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:— + +“ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD. + + +“WHEREAS, on some date within the past twelve months, there was stolen, +abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, Temple, +occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. Anderson, +a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of curious +workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of John +Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of June 21–22 +last, and is now in the hands of the police: + “This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ + newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (ONE THOUSAND POUNDS + STERLING) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or + she stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said + chambers, and will further give full information as to his or her + disposal of the same, and the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ moreover + engages to treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the + most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from + using it in any way detrimental to the informant, who should call + at the _Watchman_ office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time + between eleven and one o’clock midday, and seven and eleven o’clock + in the evening.” + + +“And you really expect to get some information through that?” asked +Breton, who came into Spargo’s room about noon on the day on which the +promising announcement came out. “You really do?” + +“Before today is out,” said Spargo confidently. “There is more magic in +a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I’ll have the history +of that stick before midnight.” + +“How are you to tell that you won’t be imposed upon?” suggested Breton. +“Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick.” + +“Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me +how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick,” said +Spargo. “I haven’t the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken +away from Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the +hands of—” + +“Yes, of whom?” + +“That’s what I want to know in some fashion. I’ve an idea, already. But +I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing—when I +get that information—as I shall—we shall be a long way on the road +towards establishing Aylmore’s innocence.” + +Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a +meditative expression. + +“Spargo,” he said, suddenly, “do you think you’ll get that order for +the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?” + +“I was talking to the solicitors over the ’phone just now,” answered +Spargo. “They’ve every confidence about it. In fact, it’s possible it +may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made +early tomorrow morning.” + +“Shall you go?” asked Breton. + +“Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch +with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there—you’re +concerned.” + +“I should like to go—I will go,” said Breton. “And if that grave proves +to be—empty—I’ll—I’ll tell you something.” + +Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. + +“You’ll tell me something? Something? What?” + +“Never mind—wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or +lead and sawdust. If there’s no body there——” + +At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached +Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, +showed signs of something very like excitement. + +“There’s a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He’s +been hanging about a bit, sir,—seems very shy about coming up. He won’t +say what he wants, and he won’t fill up a form, sir. Says all he wants +is a word or two with you.” + +“Bring him up at once!” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the +boy had gone. “There!” he said, laughing. “This is the man about the +stick—you see if it isn’t.” + +“You’re such a cock-sure chap, Spargo,” said Breton. “You’re always +going on a straight line.” + +“Trying to, you mean,” retorted Spargo. “Well, stop here, and hear what +this chap has to say: it’ll no doubt be amusing.” + +The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo’s +room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of +good _Watchman_ money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a +shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully +apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the +threshold, looking round the comfortably-furnished room, and at the two +well-dressed young men which it framed as if he feared to enter on a +scene of such grandeur. + +“Come in, come in!” said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy-chair +at the side of his desk. “Take a seat. You’ve called about that reward, +of course.” + +The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without +suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. + +“Of course,” he said. “It’s all on the strict private. Name of Edward +Mollison, sir.” + +“And where do you live, and what do you do?” asked Spargo. + +“You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel,” answered Edward +Mollison. “Leastways, that’s where I generally hang out when I can +afford it. And—window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning +when—when——” + +“When you came in contact with the stick we’ve been advertising about,” +suggested Spargo. “Just so. Well, Mollison—what about the stick?” + +Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at +Breton. + +“There ain’t no danger of me being got into trouble along of that +stick?” he asked. “’Cause if there is, I ain’t a-going to say a +word—no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no trouble +of any sort, guv’nor—though a poor man.” + +“Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison,” replied Spargo. “Not +the least. All you’ve got to do is to tell the truth—and prove that it +is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of +Mr. Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, was it?” + +Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his +feelings. He smiled weakly. + +“It was cert’nly me as took it, sir,” he said. “Not that I meant to +pinch it—not me! And, as you might say, I didn’t take it, when all’s +said and done. It was—put on me.” + +“Put on you, was it?” said Spargo. “That’s interesting. And how was it +put on you?” + +Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin. + +“It was this here way,” he answered. “You see, I was working at that +time—near on to nine months since, it is—for the Universal Daylight +Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and +there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore’s—only I knew them +as Mr. Anderson’s—among ’em. And I was there one morning, early it was, +when the charwoman she says to me, ‘I wish you’d take these two or +three hearthrugs,’ she says, ‘and give ’em a good beating,’ she says. +And me being always a ready one to oblige, ‘All right!’ I says, and +takes ’em. ‘Here’s something to wallop ’em with,’ she says, and pulls +that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner of +the lobby. And that’s how I came to handle it, sir.” + +“I see,” said Spargo. “A good explanation. And when you had beaten the +hearthrugs—what then?” + +Mollison smiled his weak smile again. + +“Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something +uncommon,” he answered. “And I thinks—‘Well, this Mr. Anderson, he’s +got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there—he’ll never miss this +old thing,’ I thinks. And so I left it in a corner when I’d done +beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things I took it with +me.” + +“You took it with you?” said Spargo. “Just so. To keep as a curiosity, +I suppose?” + +Mollison’s weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing +his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his +news was imparting confidence to him. + +“Not half!” he answered. “You see, guv’nor, there was an old cove as I +knew in the Temple there as is, or was, ’cause I ain’t been there +since, a collector of antikities, like, and I’d sold him a queer old +thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took +the stick away—see?” + +“I see. And you took the stick to him?” + +“I took it there and then,” replied Mollison. “Pitched him a tale, I +did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle +Simon—which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare +curiosity—which it might ha’ been one, for all I know.” + +“Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?” + +“Bought it there and then,” answered Mollison, with something very like +a wink. + +“Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it?” +asked Spargo. “Something handsome, I hope?” + +“Couple o’ quid,” replied Mollison. “Me not wishing to part with a +family heirloom for less.” + +“Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove’s name +and his address, Mollison?” asked Spargo. + +“I do, sir. Which they’ve painted on his entry—the fifth or sixth as +you go down Middle Temple Lane,” answered Mollison. “Mr. Nicholas +Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase.” + +Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton. + +“Come this way, Mollison,” he said. “We’ll go and see about your little +reward. Excuse me, Breton.” + +Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came +back. + +“There—that’s one matter settled, Breton,” he said. “Now for the next. +The Home Secretary’s made the order for the opening of the grave at +Market Milcaster. I’m going down there at once, and I suppose you’re +coming. And remember, if that grave’s empty——” + +“If that grave’s empty,” said Breton, “I’ll tell you—a good deal.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO +THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + + +There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon, +Spargo, Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the +order for the opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting +on behalf of the proprietor of the _Watchman_. It was late in the +evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in +at the parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” and ascertained that Mr. +Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Breton across the street to +the old gentleman’s house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door, +and recognized Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that +the two should go in; his family, he said, had just retired, but he +himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must +share it. + +“For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo as they +followed the old man into his dining-room. “We have to be up at +daybreak. And—possibly—you, too, would like to be up just as early.” + +Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he +was handling. + +“At daybreak?” he exclaimed. + +“The fact is,” said Spargo, “that grave of Chamberlayne’s is going to +be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home +Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne’s body: the officials in +charge of it have come down in the same train with us; we’re all +staying across there at the ‘Dragon.’ The officials have gone to make +the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak, +or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that +you know of it, you’ll be there?” + +“God bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “You’ve really done that! +Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years. +You’re a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. And this +other young gentleman?” + +Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. +“Mr. Quarterpage,” he said, “this young gentleman is, without doubt, +John Maitland’s son. He’s the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that +I told you of, but there’s no doubt about his parentage. And I’m sure +you’ll shake hands with him and wish him well.” + +Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton +his hand. + +“My dear young sir!” he exclaimed. “That I will indeed! And as to +wishing you well—ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor +father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me, +what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is +found empty—what then?” + +“Then,” answered Spargo, “then I think we shall be able to put our +hands on the man who is supposed to be in it.” + +“You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?” +observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round +Mr. Quarterpage’s hospitable hearth. “You think he was unduly +influenced by him?” + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. + +“Chamberlayne, my dear young sir,” he answered. “Chamberlayne was a +plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he +came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had +contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody—of course, to his own +advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father round his +little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there when he was making his +enquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any +surprise to me to hear—definitely, I mean, young gentlemen—that all +this money that was in question went into Chamberlayne’s pockets. Dear +me—dear me!—and you really believe that Chamberlayne is actually alive, +Mr. Spargo?” + +Spargo pulled out his watch. “We shall all know whether he was buried +in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage,” he +said. + +He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then +nearly midnight, and before three o’clock Spargo and Breton, with the +other men who had accompanied them from London were out of the “Yellow +Dragon” and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. +Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the +long stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the +sea was white with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery +hung veils and webs of gossamer: everything around them was quiet as +the dead folk who lay beneath their feet. And the people actively +concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but +watch stood around in silence. + +“In all my long life of over ninety years,” whispered old Quarterpage, +who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in +spite of his shortened rest, “I have never seen this done before. It +seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man’s last +resting-place—a dreadful thing.” + +“If there is a dead man there,” said Spargo. + +He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he +had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon +the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local +authorities, instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with +canvas; the proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a +man was posted to keep away any very early passersby, who might be +attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do +but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful +of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth; +he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one +phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the +coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the +body of the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his, +Spargo’s, latest theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that +coffin contained no body at all, then—” + +“They’re down to it!” whispered Breton. + +Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had +uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of +them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now +strong light they could all read the lettering on it. + +JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE +Born 1852 +Died 1891 + + +Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the +grave. + +“We shall know now!” he whispered to Breton. “And yet—what is it we +shall know if——” + +“If what?” said Breton. “If—what?” + +But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had +lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous. + +“Now for it!” said the _Watchman’s_ solicitor in an undertone. “Come, +Mr. Spargo, now we shall see.” + +They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the +graveside, as the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The +screws were rusted in their sockets; they grated as the men slowly +worked them out. It seemed to Spargo that each man grew slower and +slower in his movements; he felt that he himself was getting fidgety. +Then he heard a voice of authority. + +“Lift the lid off!” + +A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly +raised the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick +movement. + +Sawdust! + +The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down. +The surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled +it long years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of +deceit. + +Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell. +The chief official present looked round him with a smile. + +“It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion,” he +remarked. “Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies +beneath the sawdust,” he added, turning to the workmen. “Turn it out!” + +The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of +them, evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, +thrust down his fingers at various places along its length. He, too, +laughed. + +“The coffin’s weighted with lead!” he remarked. “See!” + +And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three +intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where +the head, the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. + +“Done it cleverly,” he remarked, looking round. “You see how these +weights have been adjusted. When a body’s laid out in a coffin, you +know, all the weight’s in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here +you see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the +feet. Clever!” + +“Clear out all the sawdust,” said some one. “Let’s see if there’s +anything else.” + +There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of +papers, tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately +manifested great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton +along with him, forced his way to where the officials from the Home +Office and the solicitor sent by the _Watchman_ were hastily examining +their discoveries. + +The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at +Market Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to +him, Mr. Quarterpage’s amongst them. He was not at all astonished to +see these things. But he was something more than astonished when, on +the second parcel being opened, a quantity of papers relating to +Cloudhampton and the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society were +revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and drew Breton aside. + +“It strikes me we’ve found a good deal more than we ever bargained +for!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t Aylmore say that the real culprit at +Cloudhampton was another man—his clerk or something of that sort?” + +“He did,” agreed Breton. “He insists on it.” + +“Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man,” said Spargo. +“He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What’ll be done with those +papers?” he asked, turning to the officials. + +“We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London,” +replied the principal person in authority. “They will be quite safe, +Mr. Spargo; have no fear. We don’t know what they may reveal.” + +“You don’t, indeed!” said Spargo. “But I may as well tell you that I +have a strong belief that they’ll reveal a good deal that nobody dreams +of, so take the greatest care of them.” + +Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried +Breton out of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm. + +“Now, then, Breton!” he commanded. “Out with it!” + +“With what?” + +“You promised to tell me something—a great deal, you said—if we found +that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on—quick!” + +“All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be +found. That’s all.” + +“All! It’s enough. Where, then, in heaven’s name?” + +“Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go +fishing—right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire +moors. I expect they’ve gone there. Nobody knows even their names +there—they could go and lie quiet there for—ages.” + +“Do you know the way to it?” + +“I do—I’ve been there.” + +Spargo motioned him to hurry. + +“Come on, then,” he said. “We’re going there by the very first train +out of this. I know the train, too—we’ve just time to snatch a mouthful +of breakfast and to send a wire to the _Watchman_, and then we’ll be +off. Yorkshire!—Gad, Breton, that’s over three hundred miles away!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE +FORESTALLED + + +Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of +England to the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo +and Breton came late at night to Hawes’ Junction, on the border of +Yorkshire and Westmoreland, and saw rising all around them in the +half-darkness the mighty bulks of the great fells which rise amongst +that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that hour of the night and +amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of some adjacent +waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to Spargo +as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of +human life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he +saw a light, but such lights were few and far between; even as he +looked some of them twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and +Breton were presently to be alone with the night. + +“How far?” he asked Breton as they walked away from the station. + +“We’d better discuss matters,” answered Breton. “The place is in a +narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away across +these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish +for. It’s half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good +two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is—Do we +go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There’s an inn here +at this junction: there’s the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the road +which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the fells. +It’s going to be a black night—look at those masses of black cloud +gathering there!—and possibly a wet one, and we’ve no waterproofs. But +it’s for you to say—I’m game for whatever you like.” + +“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo. + +“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I +remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find +my way. But it’s rough walking.” + +“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every minute’s precious. +But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale +first?” + +“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, while we’re on +this firm road, step it out lively.” + +The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a +soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted +parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at +Breton. + +“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of +recognition. + +“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton. + +“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year,” +replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here again—Tom Summers was coming +across that way this morning, and said he’d seen ’em at the little +cottage. Going to join ’em, I reckon, sir?” + +Breton kicked Spargo under the table. + +“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he answered. “Just +to get a breath of your moorland air.” + +“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen,” said +the landlord. “There’s going to be a storm. And it’s a stiffish way to +make out at this time o’night.” + +“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly. “I know the way, and +we’re not afraid of a wet skin.” + +The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his +arms and scratched his elbows. + +“There was a gentleman—London gentleman by his tongue—came in here this +afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed. “He’ll be there +long since—he’d have daylight for his walk. Happen he’s one of your +party?—he asked where the old gentlemen’s little cottage was.” + +Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. “One of their +friends, perhaps,” answered Breton. “What was he like?” + +The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was +conscious of the fact. + +“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said. “Stranger +hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit—something like your +friend’s there. Yes—he took some bread and cheese with him when he +heard what a long way it was.” + +“Wise man,” remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and +cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. “Come on,” he said, +“let’s be stepping.” + +Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm. +“Who’s the man?” he said. “Can you think, Spargo?” + +“Can’t,” answered Spargo. “I was trying to, while that chap was +talking. But—it’s somebody that’s got in before us. Not Rathbury, +anyhow—he’s not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going +to find your way in this darkness?” + +“You’ll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the +fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see +Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—they’re both well over two thousand +feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between +them. But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!” + +“Go ahead!” said Spargo. “It’s the first time in my life I ever did +anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us all night. I +couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard there’s somebody ahead of +us. Go first, old chap, and I’ll follow.” + +Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but +when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what +was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began. It +seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw +was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint +outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the +figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was +soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than +once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising +his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on +Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his +footsteps. + +“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval of +silence. “Do you mean to say those two—Elphick and Cardlestone—would +take this way?” + +“There is another way—down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw,” +answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round. This is a straight +cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful walk. But at +night—Gad!—here’s the rain, Spargo!” + +The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a +suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey +night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a +vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight +was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his +companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as +they huddled closely together. + +“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet +Street, Spargo,” he said. “You would come on, you know.” + +“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” answered Spargo. +“I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor Cock’ overnight if we +hadn’t heard of that chap in front. If he’s after those two he’s +somebody who knows something. What I can’t make out is—who he can be.” + +“Nor I,” said Breton. “I can’t think of anybody who knows of this +retreat. But—has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside +yourself may have been investigating?” + +“Possible,” replied Spargo. “One never knows. I only wish we’d been a +few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with those two.” + +The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the +heavens cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they +were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away +below them. + +“You see that?” he said. “That’s a sheet of water lying between us and +Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, +drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down +into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There’s a good two hours and a half +stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?” + +Spargo set his teeth. + +“Go on!” he said. + +Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing +his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London +lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even +the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him +that they had walked for ages and had traversed a whole continent of +mountains and valley when at last Breton, halting on the summit of a +wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his companion’s shoulder and pointed +downward with the other. + +“There!” he said. “There!” + +Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to +be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a +light—a mere spark of a light. + +“That’s the cottage,” said Breton, “Late as it is, you see, they’re up. +And here’s the roughest bit of the journey. It’ll take me all my time +to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so step carefully after +me—there are bogs and holes hereabouts.” + +Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the +guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the +ground; always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer +to it. And now when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that +he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been +capable of imagining—so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly +never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream, +making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great +Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of +the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by a ring +of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small +building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built +by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more +than one storey in height, but of some length; a considerable part of +it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood. And from one uncurtained, +blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading +darkness without. + +Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. + +“We’ve got to get across there, Spargo,” he said. “But as we’re already +soaked to the knee it doesn’t matter about getting another wetting. +Have you any idea how long we’ve been walking?” + +“Hours—days—years!” replied Spargo. + +“I should say quite four hours,” said Breton. “In that case, it’s well +past two o’clock, and the light will be breaking in another hour or so. +Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?” + +“What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!” + +“Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they’ve got a light, +I take it that they’re up. Look there!” + +As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the +light. + +“That’s not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone,” said Spargo. “They’re +medium-heighted men. That’s a tallish man.” + +“Then it’s the man the landlord of the ‘Moor Cock’ told us about,” said +Breton. “Now, look here—I know every inch of this place. When we’re +across let me go up to the cottage, and I’ll take an observation +through that window and see who’s inside. Come on.” + +He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of +boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the +bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past +the shrubs and undergrowth until he came to a great bush which stood +between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He +lingered in the shadow of this bush but for a short moment; then came +swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on +Spargo’s arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. + +“Spargo!” he whispered. “Who on earth do you think the other man is?” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR +THE WHIP HAND + + +Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the +objects of his long journey, shook off Breton’s hand with a growl of +resentment. + +“And how on earth can I waste time guessing?” he exclaimed. “Who is +he?” + +Breton laughed softly. + +“Steady, Spargo, steady!” he said. “It’s Myerst—the Safe Deposit man. +Myerst!” + +Spargo started as if something had bitten him. + +“Myerst!” he almost shouted. “Myerst! Good Lord!—why did I never think +of him? Myerst! Then——” + +“I don’t know why you should have thought of him,” said Breton. +“But—he’s there.” + +Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back. + +“Wait!” he said. “We’ve got to discuss this. I’d better tell you what +they’re doing.” + +“What are they doing, then?” demanded Spargo impatiently. + +“Well,” answered Breton. “They’re going through a quantity of papers. +The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. Myerst is +evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. I’ve +formed a notion, Spargo.” + +“What notion?” + +“Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he’s +followed them down here to blackmail them. That’s my notion.” + +Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank. + +“I daresay you’re right,” he said. “Now, what’s to be done?” + +Breton, too, considered matters. + +“I wish,” he said at last, “I wish we could get in there and overhear +what’s going on. But that’s impossible—I know that cottage. The only +thing we can do is this—we must catch Myerst unawares. He’s here for no +good. Look here!” + +And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning +revolver and wagged it in his hand with a smile. + +“That’s a useful thing to have, Spargo,” he remarked. “I slipped it +into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did it. Now +it’ll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be armed.” + +“Well?” said Spargo. + +“Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will, +Myerst, when he’s got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get +where I did just now, behind that bush, and I’ll station myself in the +doorway. You can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I’ll cover +him. Come on, Spargo; it’s beginning to get light already.” + +Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such +cover as the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made +their way to the front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton +posted himself in the porch, motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the +bushes and to look through the window. And Spargo noiselessly followed +his directions and slightly parting the branches which concealed him +looked in through the uncurtained glass. + +The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the +extreme. There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough +chairs and tables, plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a +corner; some food set out on a side table. At the table in the middle +of the floor the three men sat. Cardlestone’s face was in the shadow; +Myerst had his back to the window; old Elphick bending over the table +was laboriously writing with shaking fingers. And Spargo twisted his +head round to his companion. + +“Elphick,” he said, “is writing a cheque. Myerst has another cheque in +his hand. Be ready!—when he gets that second cheque I guess he’ll be +off.” + +Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again. + +“Look out, Breton! He’s coming.” + +Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his +protecting bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they +heard Myerst’s voice, threatening, commanding in tone. + +“Now, remember all I’ve said! And don’t you forget—I’ve the whip hand +of both of you—the whip hand!” + +Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light—to find himself +confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly +revolver within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a +remarkably firm and steady grip. Another glance showed him the figure +of a second business-like looking young man at his side, whose attitude +showed a desire to grapple with him. + +“Good-morning, Mr. Myerst,” said Breton with cold and ironic +politeness. “We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And—I must +trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!” + +Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but +a sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his +head, whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly. + +“That’s wise, Mr. Myerst,” he said, keeping his revolver steadily +pointed at his prisoner’s nose. “Discretion will certainly be the +better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo—may I trouble you +to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them +carefully. Not for papers or documents—just now. We can leave that +matter—we’ve plenty of time. See if he’s got a weapon of any sort on +him, Spargo—that’s the important thing.” + +Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of +searching a man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing +what the prisoner carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a +revolver, while Myerst, finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily +and with profusion. + +“Excellent!” said Breton, laughing again. “Sure he’s got nothing else +on him that’s dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. Myerst, right +about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there are two +revolvers behind your back. March!” + +Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked +into the cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a +glance at the two old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying +back in his chair; Elphick, scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was +coming forward with trembling limbs. + +“Wait a moment,” said Breton, soothingly. “Don’t alarm yourself. We’ll +deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit down in that +chair—it’s the heaviest the place affords. Into it, now! Spargo, you +see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up—hand and foot—to that chair. +And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, and behind him.” + +Myerst suddenly laughed. “You damned young bully!” he exclaimed. “If +you put a rope round me, you’re only putting ropes round the necks of +these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!” + +“We’ll see about that later,” answered Breton. He kept Myerst covered +while Spargo made play with the rope. “Don’t be afraid of hurting him, +Spargo,” he said. “Tie him well and strong. He won’t shift that chair +in a hurry.” + +Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done +credit to a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand +or foot, and Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains. +“That’ll do,” said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his +pocket and turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank +into a chair in the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook +as with palsy and muttered words which the two young men could not +catch. “Guardian,” continued Breton, “don’t be frightened! And don’t +you be frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There’s nothing to be +afraid of, just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me +that Mr. Spargo and I came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this +fellow after?” + +Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge +of tears; as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was +completely gone. And Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard. + +“Spargo,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you’ll find whisky in there. Give +them both a stiff dose: they’ve broken up. Now, guardian,” he +continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, “what was he after? +Shall I suggest it? Was it—blackmail?” + +Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. “Yes, yes!” he +muttered. “Blackmail! That was it—blackmail. He—he got +money—papers—from us. They’re on him.” + +Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt. + +“I thought as much, Mr. Myerst,” he said. “Spargo, let’s see what he +has on him.” + +Spargo began to search the prisoner’s pockets. He laid out everything +on the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated +some sort of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of +loose gold; a number of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated +denominations; various foreign securities, realizable in Paris. And +there was an open cheque, signed by Cardlestone for ten thousand +pounds, and another, with Elphick’s name at the foot, also open, for +half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as Spargo handed +them out. He turned to old Elphick. + +“Guardian,” he said, “why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given this man +these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?” + +Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face +on his ward. + +“He—he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!” he faltered. +“We—we didn’t see that we had a chance.” + +“What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection +with it?” demanded Breton. “Come—tell me the truth now.” + +“He’s been investigating—so he says,” answered Elphick. “He lives in +that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor rooms +above Cardlestone’s. And—and he says he’s the fullest evidence against +Cardlestone—and against me as an accessory after the fact.” + +“And—it’s a lie?” asked Breton. + +“A lie!” answered Elphick. “Of course, it’s a lie. But—he’s so clever +that—that——” + +“That you don’t know how you could prove it otherwise,” said Breton. +“Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does he? That +may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police here.” +He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. “Look +here, Spargo,” he continued. “I’m going to write a note to the +superintendent of police at Hawes—there’s a farm half a mile from here +where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. Now, if you +want to send a wire to the _Watchman_, draft it out, and he’ll take it +with him.” + +Elphick began to move in his corner. + +“Must the police come?” he said. “Must——” + +“The police must come,” answered Breton firmly. “Go ahead with your +wire, Spargo, while I write this note.” + +Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm, +he sat down at Elphick’s side and laid his hand on the old man’s. + +“Now, guardian,” he said, quietly, “you’ve got to tell us the truth.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE +MYERST EXPLAINS + + +It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the +cottage, that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and +fright: Cardlestone still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he +looked incapable of explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more +fitted to speak. And when Breton issued his peremptory invitation to +his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo intervened. + +“Far better leave him alone, Breton,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t +you see the old chap’s done up? They’re both done up. We don’t know +what they’ve gone through with this fellow before we came, and it’s +certain they’ve had no sleep. Leave it all till later—after all, we’ve +found them and we’ve found him.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder +in Myerst’s direction, and Breton involuntarily followed the movement. +He caught the prisoner’s eye, and Myerst laughed. + +“I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever,” he said +sneeringly. “Don’t you, now?” + +“We’ve been clever enough to catch you, anyway,” retorted Breton. “And +now we’ve got you we’ll keep you till the police can relieve us of +you.” + +“Oh!” said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. “And on what charge do +you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you’ll have +some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton.” + +“Well see about that later,” said Breton. “You’ve extorted money by +menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate.” + +“Have I? How do you know they didn’t entrust me with these cheques as +their agent?” exclaimed Myerst. “Answer me that! Or, rather, let them +answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick—didn’t you give +me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!” + +Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of +Myerst’s voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly. + +“Look here, Breton,” he said, whispering, “this scoundrel’s got some +hold on these two old chaps—they’re frightened to death of him. Leave +them alone: it would be best for them if they could get some rest. Hold +your tongue, you!” he added aloud, turning to Myerst. “When we want you +to speak we’ll tell you.” + +But Myerst laughed again. + +“All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_!” he sneered. +“You’re another of the cock-sure lot. And you’re very clever, but not +clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing—” + +Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt +his hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern. + +“I say!” he exclaimed. “He’s more than frightened—he’s ill! What’s to +be done?” + +“I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them,” answered +Breton. “In the meantime, let’s put him to bed—there are beds in that +inner room. We’ll get him to bed and give him something hot to +drink—that’s all I can think of for the present.” + +Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo, +with a happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot +bottles to his feet. When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie +down in the inner room. Presently both old men fell asleep, and then +Breton and Spargo suddenly realized that they themselves were hungry +and wet and weary. + +“There ought to be food in the cupboard,” said Breton, beginning to +rummage. “They’ve generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here we +are, Spargo—these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while +I open one of these tins.” + +The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast +with eyes that eventually began to glisten. + +“I may remind you that I’m hungry, too,” he said as Spargo set the +coffee on the table. “And you’ve no right to starve me, even if you’ve +the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something to eat, if +you please.” + +“You shan’t starve,” said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample supply of +bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate +before Myerst. “Untie his right arm, Spargo,” he continued. “I think we +can give him that liberty. We’ve got his revolver, anyhow.” + +For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst +pushed his plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors. +“Look here!” he said. “You think you know a lot about all this affair, +Spargo, but there’s only one person who knows all about it. That’s me!” + +“We’re taking that for granted,” said Spargo. “We guessed as much when +we found you here. You’ll have ample opportunity for explanation, you +know, later on.” + +“I’ll explain now, if you care to hear,” said Myerst with another of +his cynical laughs. “And if I do, I’ll tell you the truth. I know +you’ve got an idea in your heads that isn’t favourable to me, but +you’re utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look here!—I’ll make you +a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case there—give me one, and +mix me a drink of that whisky—a good ’un—and I’ll tell you what I know +about this matter. Come on!—anything’s better than sitting here doing +nothing.” + +The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. “Let him +talk if he likes,” he said. “We’re not bound to believe him. And we may +hear something that’s true. Give him his cigar and his drink.” + +Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo +presently set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of +his cigar. + +“As it happens, you’ll hear nothing but the truth,” he observed. “Now +that things are as they are, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell the +truth. The fact is, I’ve nothing to fear. You can’t give me in charge, +for it so happens that I’ve got a power of attorney from these two old +chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the money they +entrusted me with. It’s in an inside pocket of that letter-case, and if +you look at it, Breton, you’ll see it’s in order. I’m not even going to +dare you to interfere with or destroy it—you’re a barrister, and you’ll +respect the law. But that’s a fact—and if anybody’s got a case against +anybody, I have against you two for assault and illegal detention. But +I’m not a vindictive man, and——” + +Breton took up Myerst’s letter-case and examined its contents. And +presently he turned to Spargo. + +“He’s right!” he whispered. “This is quite in order.” He turned to +Myerst. “All the same,” he said, addressing him, “we shan’t release +you, because we believe you’re concerned in the murder of John Marbury. +We’re justified in holding you on that account.” + +“All right, my young friend,” said Myerst. “Have your own stupid way. +But I said I’d tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain truth is that +I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know of +what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed +John Maitland. That’s a fact! It may have been the old man in there +who’s already at his own last gasp, or it mayn’t. I tell you I don’t +know—though, like you, Spargo, I’ve tried hard to find out. That’s the +truth—I do not know.” + +“You expect us to believe that?” exclaimed Breton incredulously. + +“Believe it or not, as you like—it’s the truth,” answered Myerst. “Now, +look here—I said nobody knew as much of this affair as I know, and +that’s true also. And here’s the truth of what I know. The old man in +that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, is in reality +Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name was so +freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That’s another +fact!” + +“How,” asked Breton, sternly, “can you prove it? How do you know it?” + +“Because,” replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, “I helped to carry out +his mock death and burial—I was a solicitor in those days, and my name +was—something else. There were three of us at it: Chamberlayne’s +nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried it out very +cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for our +trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well +paid for my help. The first time was in connection with the +Cloudhampton Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society affair—Aylmore, or +Ainsworth, was as innocent as a child in that!—Chamberlayne was the man +at the back. But, unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn’t profit—he lost all +he got by it, pretty quick. That was why be transferred his abilities +to Market Milcaster.” + +“You can prove all this, I suppose?” remarked Spargo. + +“Every word—every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: Your +father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all +the money that was got from the bank. He had—and he engineered that +mock death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who +helped him generously, as I’ve told you. The thing couldn’t have been +better done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor +disappeared; Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck—to tell you the +truth, I was struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed +my name and became Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was +not until three years ago that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in +this way: After I became secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I took +chambers in the Temple, above Cardlestone’s. And I speedily found out +who he was. Instead of going abroad, the old fox—though he was a +comparatively young ’un, then!—had shaved off his beard, settled down +in the Temple and given himself up to his two hobbies, collecting +curiosities and stamps. There he’d lived quietly all these years, and +nobody had ever recognized or suspected him. Indeed, I don’t see how +they could; he lived such a quiet, secluded life, with his collections, +his old port, and his little whims and fads. But—I knew him!” + +“And you doubtless profited by your recognition,” suggested Breton. + +“I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to +hold my tongue,” replied Myerst, “and I was glad to take it and, +naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one +friend—Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I’ll tell you about him.” + +“Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him,” said Breton +sternly. + +“I’ve no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to have +married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took +you and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of +your father’s disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that +Cardlestone is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have +friends—Elphick’s very fond of Cardlestone. He——” + +Spargo turned sharply on Myerst. + +“You say Elphick didn’t know until last night!” he exclaimed. “Why, +then, this running away? What were they running from?” + +“I have no more notion than you have, Spargo,” replied Myerst. “I tell +you one or other of them knows something that I don’t. Elphick, I +gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone—then they both +vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland—I don’t know. +But I’ll tell you what I know about the actual murder—for I do know a +good deal about it, though, as I say, I don’t know who killed Maitland. +Now, first, you know all that about Maitland’s having papers and +valuables and gold on him? Very well—I’ve got all that. The whole lot +is locked up—safely—and I’m willing to hand it over to you, Breton, +when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given—as it will +be—that you’re Maitland’s son.” + +Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when +he saw the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers’ faces. + +“And still more,” he continued, “I’ve got all the contents of that +leather box which Maitland deposited with me—that’s safely locked up, +too, and at your disposal. I took possession of that the day after the +murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I went to Scotland Yard, as +Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a game—and it required +some ingenuity.” + +“A game!” exclaimed Breton. “Good heavens—what game?” + +“I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury +was Maitland of Market Milcaster,” answered Myerst. “When I did know +then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line, +independent of everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland’s papers and +possessions, by that time—except one thing. That packet of Australian +stamps. And—I found out that those stamps were in the hands +of—Cardlestone!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. +THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + +Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two +amazed listeners with a smile of conscious triumph. + +“In the hands of Cardlestone,” he repeated. “Now, what did I argue from +that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone’s rooms +that night. Wasn’t he found lying dead at the foot of Cardlestone’s +stairs? Aye—but who found him? Not the porter—not the police—not you, +Master Spargo, with all your cleverness. The man who found Maitland +lying dead there that night was—I!” + +In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what +Myerst said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his +pockets sat bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him +seriously, could not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and +conceptions are being rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he +laughed, more sneeringly than ever. + +“That’s one for you, Spargo!” he said. “That surprises you—that makes +you think. Now what do you think?—if one may ask.” + +“I think,” said Spargo, “that you are either a consummate liar, or that +this mystery is bigger than before.” + +“I can lie when it’s necessary,” retorted Myerst. “Just now it isn’t +necessary. I’m telling you the plain truth: there’s no reason why I +shouldn’t. As I’ve said before, although you two young bullies have +tied me up in this fashion, you can’t do anything against me. I’ve a +power of attorney from those two old men in there, and that’s enough to +satisfy anybody as to my possession of their cheques and securities. +I’ve the whip hand of you, my sons, in all ways. And that’s why I’m +telling you the truth—to amuse myself during this period of waiting. +The plain truth, my sons!” + +“In pursuance of which,” observed Breton, drily, “I think you mentioned +that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?” + +“I was. That is—as far as I can gather. I’ll tell you all about it. As +I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very late—it +was well past one o’clock. There was nobody about—as a matter of fact, +no one has residential chambers in that building but Cardlestone and +myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck a match +and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon—John Marbury. +Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can +be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra +speed just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of +every article it had on it—money, papers, everything. All these things +are safely locked up—they’ve never been tracked. Next day, using my +facilities as secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the +things in that box. Then I found out who the dead man really was. And +then I deliberately set to work to throw dust in the eyes of the police +and of the newspapers, and particularly in the eyes of young Master +Spargo there. I had an object.” + +“What?” asked Breton. + +“What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather, +Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it +to myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo, +inserted news in your paper—Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity +of Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore’s rooms that night, turned into +our building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met +Cardlestone accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick +together—they recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to +expose Cardlestone, or, rather, Chamberlayne—nobody, of course, could +know what happened, but my theory was that Chamberlayne killed him. +There, at any rate, was the fact that Maitland was found murdered at +Chamberlayne’s very threshold. And, in the course of a few days, I +proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting access to +Chamberlayne’s rooms in his absence that Maitland had been there, had +been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne’s desk, the +rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was +proof positive.” + +Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know—that the +stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo’s breast pocket, where +they had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion +of Chamberlayne’s floor. + +“Why,” asked Breton, after a pause, “why did you never accuse +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?” + +“I did! I have accused him a score of times—and Elphick, too,” replied +Myerst with emphasis. “Not at first, mind you—I never let Chamberlayne +know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my own game to +play. But at last—not so many days ago—I did. I accused them both. +That’s how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be afraid—by that +time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone’s past as +Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick’s fond of Cardlestone. It’s +queer, but he is. He—wants to shield him.” + +“What did they say when you accused them?” asked Breton. “Let’s keep to +that point—never mind their feelings for one another.” + +“Just so, but that feeling’s a lot more to do with this mystery than +you think, my young friend,” said Myerst. “What did they say, you ask? +Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that +he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. +But—they know something about the murder. If those two old men can’t +tell you definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I’m certain +that they have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! +They—” + +A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and +Spargo started to their feet and made for the door. But before they +could reach it Elphick came out, white and shaking. + +“He’s gone!” he exclaimed in quavering accents. “My old friend’s +gone—he’s dead! I was—asleep. I woke suddenly and looked at him. He——” + +Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton +passed quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head. + +“He’s dead,” he said. “He evidently died in his sleep.” + +“Then his secret’s gone with him,” remarked Myerst, calmly. “And now we +shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he didn’t. So +that’s done with!” + +Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away +from his side. + +“He didn’t kill John Maitland!” he cried angrily, attempting to shake +his fist at Myerst. “Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He was as +innocent as I am. You’ve tortured and tormented him to his death with +that charge, as you’re torturing me—among you. I tell you he’d nothing +to do with John Maitland’s death—nothing!” + +Myerst laughed. + +“Who had, then?” he said. + +“Hold your tongue!” commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He sat +down by Elphick’s side and laid his hand soothingly on the old man’s +arm. + +“Guardian,” he said, “why don’t you tell what you know? Don’t be afraid +of that fellow there—he’s safe enough. Tell Spargo and me what you know +of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, +or whoever he is or was, now.” + +Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give +him another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men +with something of an appeal. + +“I’m badly shaken,” he said. “I’ve suffered much lately—I’ve learnt +things that I didn’t know. Perhaps I ought to have spoken before, but I +was afraid for—for him. He was a good friend, Cardlestone, whatever +else he may have been—a good friend. And—I don’t know any more than +what happened that night.” + +“Tell us what happened that night,” said Breton. + +“Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with +Cardlestone. That was about ten o’clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came +to Cardlestone’s—she’d been to my rooms to find me—wanted to see me +particularly—and she’d come on there, knowing where I should be. +Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat +down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to +twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone’s door—his outer door was open, and +of course anybody outside could see lights within. 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. Upon +my honour, we didn’t know him, either that night or next day!” + +“What happened when he came in?” asked Breton. + +“Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. +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.” + +“No one had recognized him?” said Breton. + +“No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. +The others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that +they did—if they did.” + +“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell us what +you and Miss Baylis did?” + +“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d forgotten +something in Cardlestone’s lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet +Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own +rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And +upon my soul and honour that’s all I know!” + +Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and +bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the +cottage. + +“That’s enough!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got it—at last! +Breton—where’s the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this +valley? Then, here’s for it! Look after things till I’m back, or, when +the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town, +anyhow, after wiring.” + +“But—what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton. “Stop! What on +earth——” + +But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth +down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet +and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a +sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling +down a message in shaky handwriting:— + +_Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London._ +_Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland._ +_Coming straight to town with full evidence._ + _Frank Spargo_. + + +Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering +operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent +in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out +again—to find the station. + + +Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the +Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way +of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in +a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, +who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely +comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and +warmly. + +“But you will come—you will come today—and be properly thanked,” she +said. “You will—won’t you?” + +Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a +straight look into Jessie Aylmore’s eyes. + +“I don’t want thanks,” he said. “It was all a lot of luck. And if I +come—today—it will be to see—just you!” + +Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands. + +“I think,” she whispered, “I think that is what I really meant!” + +THE END + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10373 *** diff --git a/10373-h/10373-h.htm b/10373-h/10373-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7113871 --- /dev/null +++ b/10373-h/10373-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13807 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Middle Temple Murder, by J.S. Fletcher</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10373 ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The Middle Temple Murder</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by J.S. Fletcher</h2> + +<h4>1919</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. HIS FIRST BRIEF</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE CLUE OF THE CAP</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. WITNESS TO A MEETING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. MR. AYLMORE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. THE LEATHER BOX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. THE NEW WITNESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. UNDER SUSPICION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. THE SILVER TICKET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. MARKET MILCASTER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. THE “YELLOW DRAGON”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. AN OLD NEWSPAPER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. MAITLAND <i>alias</i> MARBURY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. ARRESTED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. THE BLANK PAST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. MISS BAYLIS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. MOTHER GUTCH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. REVELATIONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. STILL SILENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. OF PROVED IDENTITY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. THE CLOSED DOORS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. REVELATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. FORESTALLED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WHIP HAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. MYERST EXPLAINS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FINAL TELEGRAM</a></td> +</tr> + + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER ONE<br/> +THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER</h2> + +<p> +As a rule, Spargo left the <i>Watchman</i> office at two o’clock. The +paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a +sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was +responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines +began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, until two +o’clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of June, 1912, he +stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had charge of the foreign +news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through +from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear +all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well beyond half-past two +when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he +reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent +his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the +first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of +St. Paul’s. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every night and +every morning he walked to and from the <i>Watchman</i> office by the same +route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to +know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed the habit of +exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at regular +points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his pipe. And on this morning, as +he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a policeman whom he knew, one +Driscoll, standing at the entrance, looking about him. Further away another +policeman appeared, sauntering. Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, +turning, he saw Spargo. He moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in +his face. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door of the +lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and jacket. +</p> + +<p> +“He says,” answered Driscoll, “him, there—the +porter—that there’s a man lying in one of them entries down the +lane, and he thinks he’s dead. Likewise, he thinks he’s +murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo echoed the word. +</p> + +<p> +“But what makes him think that?” he asked, peeping with curiosity +beyond Driscoll’s burly form. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“He says there’s blood about him,” answered Driscoll. He +turned and glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. +“You’re a newspaper man, sir?” he suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better walk down with us,” said Driscoll, with a grin. +“There’ll be something to write pieces in the paper about. At +least, there may be.” Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down +the lane, wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At +the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on!” he said shortly. “I’ll show you.” +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and then turned +to the porter. +</p> + +<p> +“How came you to find him, then?” he asked +</p> + +<p> +The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard that door slam,” he replied, irritably, as if the fact +which he mentioned caused him offence. “I know I did! So I got up to look +around. Then—well, I saw that!” +</p> + +<p> +He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his +outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man’s foot, booted, +grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Sticking out there, just as you see it now,” said the porter. +“I ain’t touched it. And so—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant thing. +Driscoll nodded comprehendingly. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you went along and looked?” he suggested. “Just +so—just to see who it belonged to, as it might be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just to see—what there was to see,” agreed the porter. +“Then I saw there was blood. And then—well, I made up the lane to +tell one of you chaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Best thing you could have done,” said Driscoll. “Well, now +then—” +</p> + +<p> +The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold and +formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having glazed white +tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; something about its +appearance in that grey morning air suggested to Spargo the idea of a mortuary. +And that the man whose foot projected over the step was dead he had no doubt: +the limpness of his pose certified to it. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen +unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with their +fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully—Spargo remembered +afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put his hands in his +pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. Each man had his own +thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human wreckage which lay before him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll notice,” suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a +hushed voice, “You’ll notice that he’s lying there in a queer +way—same as if—as if he’d been put there. Sort of propped up +against that wall, at first, and had slid down, like.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at his +feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, crushed in +against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be elderly because of +grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a good, well-made suit of +grey check cloth—tweed—and the boots were good: so, too, was the +linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung so limply. One leg was +half doubled under the body; the other was stretched straight out across the +threshold; the trunk was twisted to the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles +against which it and the shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there +were gouts and stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, +pointed a finger at them. +</p> + +<p> +“Seems to me,” he said, slowly, “seems to me as how +he’s been struck down from behind as he came out of here. That +blood’s from his nose—gushed out as he fell. What do you say, +Jim?” The other policeman coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Better get the inspector here,” he said. “And the doctor and +the ambulance. Dead—ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +“As ever they make ’em,” he remarked laconically. “And +stiff, too. Well, hurry up, Jim!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the hand-ambulance +came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body for transference to the +mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man’s face. He looked long and +steadily at it while the police arranged the limbs, wondering all the time who +it was that he gazed at, how he came to that end, what was the object of his +murderer, and many other things. There was some professionalism in +Spargo’s curiosity, but there was also a natural dislike that a +fellow-being should have been so unceremoniously smitten out of the world. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man’s face. It was that +of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, even homely of +feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white whisker, trimmed, after an +old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and the point of the jaw. The only +remarkable thing about it was that it was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles +were many and deep around the corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; +this man, you would have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered +storm, mental as well as physical. +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. +“Better come down to the dead-house,” he muttered confidentially. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll go through him,” whispered Driscoll. “Search +him, d’ye see? Then you’ll get to know all about him, and so on. +Help to write that piece in the paper, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night’s work, and until his +encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal which +would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which he would +subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a man from the +<i>Watchman</i> to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in his line now, +now— +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be for getting one o’ them big play-cards out with +something about a mystery on it,” suggested Driscoll. “You never +know what lies at the bottom o’ these affairs, no more you +don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for getting +news began to assert itself. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “I’ll go along with you.” +</p> + +<p> +And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortège through the streets, +still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected on the +unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was the work of +murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a principal London +thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to whom the dealing with it +was all a matter of routine. Surely— +</p> + +<p> +“My opinion,” said a voice at Spargo’s elbow, “my +opinion is that it was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. +That’s what I say.” Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at +his side. He, too, was accompanying the body. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Spargo. “You think—” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there,” said the +porter. “In somebody’s chambers, maybe. I’ve known of some +queer games in our bit of London! Well!—he never came in at my lodge last +night—I’ll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? +From what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what we shall hear presently,” said Spargo. +“They’re going to search him.” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found nothing. The +police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, been struck down from +behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the skull and caused death almost +instantaneously. In Driscoll’s opinion, the murder had been committed for +the sake of plunder. For there was nothing whatever on the body. It was +reasonable to suppose that a man who is well dressed would possess a watch and +chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But +there was nothing valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be +found that could lead to identification—no letters, no papers, nothing. +It was plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently +stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity lay in +the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at +a fashionable shop in the West End. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his food and +he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. He was not the +sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at last that the +morning’s event had destroyed his chance of rest; he accordingly rose, +took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went out. He was not sure of any +particular idea when he strolled away from Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise +him when, half an hour later he found that he had walked down to the police +station near which the unknown man’s body lay in the mortuary. And there +he met Driscoll, just going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re in luck,” he said. “’Tisn’t five +minutes since they found a bit of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor +man’s waistcoat pocket—it had slipped into a crack. Come in, and +you’ll see it.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went into the inspector’s office. In another minute he found +himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an address, +scrawled in pencil:—Ronald Breton, Barrister, King’s Bench Walk, +Temple, London. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER TWO<br/> +HIS FIRST BRIEF</h2> + +<p> +Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. “I know +this man,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The inspector showed new interest. +</p> + +<p> +“What, Mr. Breton?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I’m on the <i>Watchman</i>, you know, sub-editor. I took an +article from him the other day—article on ‘Ideal Sites for +Campers-Out.’ He came to the office about it. So this was in the dead +man’s pocket?” +</p> + +<p> +“Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn’t present +myself. It’s not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It seemed to +him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in clubs; it had been +torn roughly from the sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” he asked meditatively, “what will you do about +getting this man identified?” +</p> + +<p> +The inspector shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There’ll be publicity, you know. I +suppose you’ll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? +Then there’ll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. +Somebody will come forward to identify—sure to. And—” +</p> + +<p> +A man came into the office—a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly +attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a stroll, +and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his desk, at the +same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper which Spargo had just +laid down. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go along to King’s Bench Walk and see Mr. +Breton,” he observed, looking at his watch. “It’s just about +ten—I daresay he’ll be there now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going there, too,” remarked Spargo, but as if speaking +to himself. “Yes, I’ll go there.” +</p> + +<p> +The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The inspector nodded +at Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Journalist,” he said, “Mr. Spargo of the <i>Watchman</i>. +Mr. Spargo was there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton.” +Then he nodded from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. “This is +Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, from the Yard,” he said to Spargo. +“He’s come to take charge of this case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh?” said Spargo blankly. “I see—what,” he went +on, with sudden abruptness, “what shall you do about Breton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury. “He +may know the man and he mayn’t. Anyway, his name and address are here, +aren’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come along,” said Spargo. “I’ll walk there with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor Street; his +companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed that he was by +nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until the two were climbing +the old balustrated staircase of the house in King’s Bench Walk in which +Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere situate that Spargo spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on +him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that +question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily. “I suppose so. He might have +had—nothing on him, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were printed. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except +that Mr. Breton is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn’t +long since he was eating his dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he’s young—he’s quite young,” said Spargo. +“I should say he’s about four-and-twenty. I’ve met him +only—” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down the +staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing—presently masculine laughter +mingled with the lighter feminine. +</p> + +<p> +“Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, +anyway,” said Rathbury. “Mr. Breton’s chambers, too. And the +door’s open.” +</p> + +<p> +The outer oak door of Ronald Breton’s chambers stood thrown wide; the +inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the detective +obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton’s rooms. There, +against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied up with pink tape, +and black-framed pictures of famous legal notabilities, they saw a pretty, +vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a chair, wigged and gowned, and +flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, +to the amusement of a young man who had his back to the door, and of another +girl who leant confidentially against his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury—I put it to you with +confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, perhaps +brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your consciences do my +client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, the—the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of some more adjectives!” exclaimed the young man. +“Hot and strong ’uns—pile ’em up. That’s what +they like—they—Hullo!” +</p> + +<p> +This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the proceedings the +detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his head round its edge. +Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the chair, jumped hastily down; +the other young lady withdrew from the young man’s protecting arm; there +was a feminine giggle and a feminine swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into +an inner room, and Mr. Ronald Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet +the interrupter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in!” he exclaimed hastily. “I—” +</p> + +<p> +Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a look of +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—Mr. Spargo?” he said. “How do you +do?—we—I—we were just having a lark—I’m off to +court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and turned +again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The detective, on his +part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a tall, slimly-built youth, of +handsome features and engaging presence, perfectly groomed, and immaculately +garbed, and having upon him a general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the +impression from these matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young +men who may take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He +turned and glanced at the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do?” said Spargo slowly. “I—the fact is, I +came here with Mr. Rathbury. He—wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant +Rathbury—of New Scotland Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a lesson. +But he was watching the young barrister’s face. And Breton turned to the +detective with a look of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “You wish—” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, which he +had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. “I wished to ask a +question, Mr. Breton,” he said. “This morning, about a quarter to +three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and +there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here—he was +present when the body was found.” +</p> + +<p> +“Soon after,” corrected Spargo. “A few minutes after.” +</p> + +<p> +“When this body was examined at the mortuary,” continued Rathbury, +in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, “nothing was found that could +lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing +whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in +the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It’s got your name and address on it, +Mr. Breton. See?” +</p> + +<p> +Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” he muttered. “So it has; that’s queer. +What’s he like, this man?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?” he said. +“It’s close by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I—the fact is, I’ve got a case on, in Mr. Justice +Borrow’s court,” Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. +“But it won’t be called until after eleven. Will—” +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty of time, sir,” said Rathbury; “it won’t take +you ten minutes to go round and back again—a look will do. You +don’t recognize this handwriting, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, +intently. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he answered. “I don’t. I don’t know it at +all—I can’t think, of course, who this man could be, to have my +name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting +my professional services, you know,” he went on, with a shy smile at +Spargo; “but, three—three o’clock in the morning, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor,” observed Rathbury, “the doctor thinks he had +been dead about two and a half hours.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton turned to the inner door. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll—I’ll just tell these ladies I’m going out +for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “They’re going over to +the court with me—I got my first brief yesterday,” he went on with +a boyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. “It’s +nothing much—small case—but I promised my fiancée and her sister +that they should be present, you know. A moment.” +</p> + +<p> +He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory +of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his +dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this +youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into +the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic +of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about +Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, come on,” said Breton. “Let’s go straight +there.” +</p> + +<p> +The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the +general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he +entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no +sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to +the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a +cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew +back, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he said with decision. “Don’t know +him—don’t know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, +that I know of.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury replaced the cloth. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t suppose you would,” he remarked. “Well, I +expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody’ll identify him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say he was murdered?” said Breton. “Is +that—certain?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. +</p> + +<p> +“The back of his skull is smashed in,” he said laconically. +“The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind—and a +fearful blow, too. I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right!” said Breton. “Well, you know where to find +me if you want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr. +Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t expect anything from that,” he remarked. +“However, it was a thing to be done. You are going to write about this +for your paper?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” continued Rathbury, “I’ve sent a man to +Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, where that cap came from, you know. We may +get a bit of information from that quarter—it’s possible. If you +like to meet me here at twelve o’clock I’ll tell you anything +I’ve heard. Just now I’m going to get some breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll meet you here,” said Spargo, “at twelve +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round +another. He went to the <i>Watchman</i> office, wrote a few lines, which he +enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again. Somehow or +other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realized what he +was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER THREE<br/> +THE CLUE OF THE CAP</h2> + +<p> +Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, +Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and the adjacent +corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, asked him if there was +any particular part of the building he wanted. For a moment Spargo stared at +the man as if he did not comprehend his question. Then his mental powers +reasserted themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this +morning?” he suddenly asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Number seven,” replied the official. “What’s your +case—when’s it down?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo. “I’m a +pressman—reporter, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +The official stuck out a finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Round the corner—first to your right—second on the +left,” he said automatically. “You’ll find plenty of +room—nothing much doing there this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless perambulation of +the dreary, depressing corridors. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honour!” he muttered. “Upon my honour, I really +don’t know what I’ve come up here for. I’ve no business +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. The +young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of papers tied +up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who were laughing and +chattering as they tripped along at his side. And Spargo, glancing at them +meditatively, instinctively told himself which of them it was that he and +Rathbury had overheard as she made her burlesque speech: it was not the elder +one, who walked by Ronald Breton with something of an air of proprietorship, +but the younger, the girl with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and +it suddenly dawned upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a +notion, a hope of seeing this girl again—why, he could not then think. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted his hat. +Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo. “I—the fact is, I remembered that +you said you were coming up here, and I came after you. I want—when +you’ve time—to have a talk, to ask you a few questions. +About—this affair of the dead man, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said. “When this case of mine is over, I can +give you as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me +a favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—round there, and +up the stairs—and I’m a bit pressed for time—I’ve a +solicitor waiting for me. You take them—there’s a good fellow; +then, when the case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. +Here—I’ll introduce you all—no ceremony. Miss +Aylmore—Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. Spargo—of the <i>Watchman</i>. +Now, I’m off!” Breton turned on the instant; his gown whisked round +a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at two smiling girls. He saw then +that both were pretty and attractive, and that one seemed to be the elder by +some three or four years. +</p> + +<p> +“That is very cool of Ronald,” observed the elder young lady. +“Perhaps his scheme doesn’t fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray +don’t—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s all right!” said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly +stupid. “I’ve nothing to do. But—where did Mr. Breton say you +wished to be taken?” +</p> + +<p> +“Into the gallery of number seven court,” said the younger girl +promptly. “Round this corner—I think I know the way.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving that +morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led the two young +ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries from which idlers and +specially-interested spectators may see and hear the proceedings which obtain +in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks wherein justice is dispensed at the +Law Courts. There was no one else in that gallery; the attendant in the +corridor outside seemed to be vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter +it, and he presently opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way +down the stairs to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing much going on here this morning,” he whispered behind a +raised hand. “But there’s a nice breach case in number +five—get you three good seats there if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He had +decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and her sister +about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a lucky dog to be in +possession of such a charming future wife and an equally charming +sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss Jessie Aylmore’s side, +and looked around him as if he were much awed by his surroundings. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?” he whispered. +“Is this really Mr. Breton’s first case?” +</p> + +<p> +“His very first—all on his own responsibility, any way,” +replied Spargo’s companion, smiling. “And he’s very +nervous—and so’s my sister. Aren’t you, now, Evelyn?” +</p> + +<p> +Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose one’s always nervous about first appearances,” she +said. “However, I think Ronald’s got plenty of confidence, and, as +he says, it’s not much of a case: it isn’t even a jury case. +I’m afraid you’ll find it dull, Mr. Spargo—it’s only +something about a promissory note.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” replied Spargo, unconsciously +falling back on a favourite formula. “I always like to hear +lawyers—they manage to say such a lot about—about—” +</p> + +<p> +“About nothing,” said Jessie Aylmore. “But there—so do +gentlemen who write for the papers, don’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that point +when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister’s attention to a man who had +just entered the well of the court. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, Jessie!” she observed. “There’s Mr. +Elphick!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, +smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and gowned, was +slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that charmed inner sanctum +wherein only King’s Counsel are permitted to sit. He dropped into this in +a fashion which showed that he was one of those men who loved personal comfort; +he bestowed his plump person at the most convenient angle and fitting a monocle +in his right eye, glanced around him. There were a few of his professional +brethren in his vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks +in conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But the +gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look and cast his +eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. Thereupon he made a most +gracious bow in their direction; his broad face beamed in a genial smile, and +he waved a white hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?” enquired the younger Miss +Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“I rather think I’ve seen him, somewhere about the Temple,” +answered Spargo. “In fact, I’m sure I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“His chambers are in Paper Buildings,” said Jessie. +“Sometimes he gives tea-parties in them. He is Ronald’s guardian, +and preceptor, and mentor, and all that, and I suppose he’s dropped into +this court to hear how his pupil goes on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here is Ronald,” whispered Miss Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“And here,” said her sister, “is his lordship, looking very +cross. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’re in for it.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on beneath him. +The case which young Breton presently opened was a commercial one, involving +certain rights and properties in a promissory note; it seemed to the journalist +that Breton dealt with it very well, showing himself master of the financial +details, and speaking with readiness and assurance. He was much more interested +in his companions, and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on +how he could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that +the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, and +that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald Breton’s +favour. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two sisters. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good—very good, indeed,” he said, absent-mindedly. +“I thought he put his facts very clearly and concisely.” +</p> + +<p> +Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. He +pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: Spargo +gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, Spargo’s, +connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the <i>Watchman</i>.” Breton +said. “Mr. Elphick—Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, +Spargo, that you saw this poor man soon after he was found.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The elderly +barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir!” he said. “You—saw this poor fellow? +Lying dead—in the third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, +eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Spargo, simply. “I saw him. It was the third +entry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Singular!” said Mr. Elphick, musingly. “I know a man who +lives in that house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until +nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton’s name +and address in his pocket?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then he had +no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s so,” he answered shortly. Then, looking at +Breton significantly, he added, “If you can give me those few minutes, +now—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes!” responded Ronald Breton, nodding. “I +understand. Evelyn—I’ll leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must +go.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir!” he said, eagerly. “Do you—do you think I +could possibly see—the body?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s at the mortuary,” answered Spargo. “I don’t +know what their regulations are.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in the +quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“About what I wanted to say to you,” he said at last. “It +was—this. I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to +have a real big murder case. I think this is one. I want to go right into +it—thoroughly, first and last. And—I think you can help me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that it is a murder case?” asked Breton quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a murder case,” answered Spargo, stolidly. “I +feel it. Instinct, perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it +seems to me—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me,” he presently continued, “that the clue lies +in that scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between +you and—somebody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly,” agreed Breton. “You want to find the somebody +else?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to help me to find the somebody else,” answered Spargo. +“I believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t +believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet +Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and wig, +and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came out as they +were stepping in. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, +Mr. Spargo. I told you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! +Well, he’s just returned. The cap which the dead man was wearing was +bought at Fiskie’s yesterday afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, +Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient Hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is that?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Waterloo district,” answered Rathbury. “A small house, I +believe. Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to +come, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I’m not in the way,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper,” he +observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER FOUR<br/> +THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL</h2> + +<p> +The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an +old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway +Station—a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially mid-Victorian +in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early days of railway +travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern ideas of a hotel it would +have been difficult to find in London, and Ronald Breton said so as he and the +others crossed the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to and +from Southampton in the old days,” remarked Rathbury. “And I +daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good many +years’ absence, still rush in here. You see, it’s close to the +station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place when +they’ve a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind them. +Look there, now!” They had crossed the threshold as the detective spoke, +and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, he made a sidelong motion +of his head towards a bar on the left, wherein stood or lounged a number of men +who from their general appearance, their slouched hats, and their bronzed faces +appeared to be Colonials, or at any rate to have spent a good part of their +time beneath Oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a Colonial +accent in it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and +Rathbury wagged his head sagely. “Lay you anything the dead man was a +Colonial, Mr. Spargo,” he remarked. “Well, now, I suppose +that’s the landlord and landlady.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and woman +were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge on which lay a +register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a fleshy, round-faced, +somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at some time have been a butler; +the woman a tall, spare-figured, thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined +the newcomers with an enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy +confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“You the landlord of this house, sir?” he asked. “Mr. +Walters? Just so—and Mrs. Walters, I presume?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do for you, sir?” he enquired. +</p> + +<p> +“A little matter of business, Mr. Walters,” replied Rathbury, +pulling out a card. “You’ll see there who I +am—Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a +newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald Breton, a barrister.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side door, and +signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying her pointed finger, +they found themselves in a small private parlour. Walters closed the two doors +which led into it and looked at his principal visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Mr. Rathbury?” he enquired. “Anything +wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“We want a bit of information,” answered Rathbury, almost with +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly +man, grey hair, fresh complexion?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” she exclaimed. “I knew some enquiry would be made. +Yes—a Mr. Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon +train got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But—he didn’t use +it last night. He went out—very late—and he never came back.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair and, +sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. +</p> + +<p> +“What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma’am?” he +asked. “Had you noticed anything?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her husband gave +vent to a species of growl. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing to notice,” he muttered. “Her way of +speaking—that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—why I said that was this,” said the landlady. “He +happened to tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn’t been in London for +over twenty years, and couldn’t remember anything about it, him, he said, +never having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he went +out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought something had +happened to him, and that there’d be enquiries made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—just so!” said Rathbury. “So you would, +ma’am—so you would. Well, something has happened to him. He’s +dead. What’s more, there’s strong reason to think he was +murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise and +horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his visitors. Spargo +and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work to do during the +afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter of course. +</p> + +<p> +“My respects,” he said, lifting his glass. “Well, now, +perhaps you’ll just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell +you, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this +morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn’t anything on him but his +clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman’s name and +address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I traced +him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter’s yesterday, and +had it sent to your hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. Walters quickly, “that’s so. And he +went out in that cap last night. Well—we don’t know much about him. +As I said, he came in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and +booked Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a +bag—they’re in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at +this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—that, of +course, was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book as John +Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll look at that, if you please,” said Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous day’s +entries. They all bent over the dead man’s writing. +</p> + +<p> +“‘John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,’” said +Rathbury. “Ah—now I was wondering if that writing would be the same +as that on the scrap of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it +isn’t—it’s quite different.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite different,” said Breton. He, too, was regarding the +handwriting with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of +it, and asked another question. +</p> + +<p> +“Ever seen that writing before?” he suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” answered Breton. “And yet—there’s +something very familiar about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the probability is that you have seen it before,” remarked +Rathbury. “Well—now we’ll hear a little more about +Marbury’s doings here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. +Walters.” +</p> + +<p> +“My wife knows most,” said Walters. “I scarcely saw the +man—I don’t remember speaking with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mrs. Walters. “You didn’t—you +weren’t much in his way. Well,” she continued, “I showed him +up to his room. He talked a bit—said he’d just landed at +Southampton from Melbourne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he mention his ship?” asked Rathbury. “But if he +didn’t, it doesn’t matter, for we can find out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe the name’s on his things,” answered the landlady. +“There are some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be +cooked for him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out +at exactly one o’clock, saying to me that he expected he’d get +lost, as he didn’t know London well at any time, and shouldn’t know +it at all now. He went outside there—I saw him—looked about him and +walked off towards Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of +came for him—from Fiskie’s. So, of course, I judged he’d been +Piccadilly way. But he himself never came in until ten o’clock. And then +he brought a gentleman with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye?” said Rathbury. “A gentleman, now? Did you see +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just,” replied the landlady. “They went straight up to 20, +and I just caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. +A tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far as I +could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his throat, and +carrying an umbrella.” +</p> + +<p> +“And they went to Marbury’s room?” said Rathbury. “What +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda,” continued +Mrs. Walters. “He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, and +a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until nearly +midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 had gone out, +and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of course, there is. He +went out at half-past eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the other gentleman?” asked Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“The other gentleman,” answered the landlady, “went out with +him. The hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the +last anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came +back.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, “that is quite +certain, ma’am? Well—I suppose we’d better see this Number 20 +room, and have a look at what he left there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything,” said Mrs. Walters, “is just as he left it. +Nothing’s been touched.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the +dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet—none of them of any +quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with the plain +necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, without ceremony, +went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he proceeded to examine trunk +and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid out on the bed every article they +contained and examined each separately and carefully. And he found nothing +whereby he could gather any clue to the dead owner’s identity. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are!” he said, making an end of his task. “You +see, it’s just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on +him. There are no papers—there’s nothing to tell who he was, what +he was after, where he’d come from—though that we may find out in +other ways. But it’s not often that a man travels without some clue to +his identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought in +Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and money on +him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma’am?” he asked, +suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. “Did he pull out his purse in your +presence, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the landlady, with promptitude. “He came into +the bar for a drink after he’d been up to his room. He pulled out a +handful of gold when he paid for it—a whole handful. There must have been +some thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he hadn’t a penny piece on him—when found,” +muttered Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“I noticed another thing, too,” remarked the landlady. “He +was wearing a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his +left hand—little finger—gold, with a big diamond in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the detective, thoughtfully, “I noticed that +he’d worn a ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. +Well—now there’s only one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid +notice if he left any torn paper around—tore any letters up, or anything +like that?” +</p> + +<p> +But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on the +contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy indeed. So +Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing further to say, just +then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the Anglo-Orient Hotel good +morning, and went away, followed by the two young men. +</p> + +<p> +“What next?” asked Spargo, as they gained the street. +</p> + +<p> +“The next thing,” answered Rathbury, “is to find the man with +whom Marbury left this hotel last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how’s that to be done?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“At present,” replied Rathbury, “I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being alone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER FIVE<br/> +SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE</h2> + +<p> +The barrister and the journalist, left thus unceremoniously on a crowded +pavement, looked at each other. Breton laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t seem to have gained much information,” he remarked. +“I’m about as wise as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—wiser,” said Spargo. “At any rate, I am. I know now +that this dead man called himself John Marbury; that he came from Australia; +that he only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the +company last night of a man whom we have had described to us—a tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in +London,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly—so it would,” answered Spargo. “But we know +that it was one of the hundred thousand, or half-million, if you like. The +thing is to find that one—the one.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think you can do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’m going to have a big try at it.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton shrugged his shoulders again. +</p> + +<p> +“What?—by going up to every man who answers the description, and +saying ‘Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the +Anglo——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” he said. “Didn’t you say that you knew a +man who lives in that block in the entry of which Marbury was found?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I didn’t,” answered Breton. “It was Mr. Elphick +who said that. All the same, I do know that man—he’s Mr. +Cardlestone, another barrister. He and Mr. Elphick are +friends—they’re both enthusiastic philatelists—stamp +collectors, you know—and I dare say Mr. Elphick was round there last +night examining something new Cardlestone’s got hold of. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to go round there and make some enquiries,” replied +Spargo. “If you’d be kind enough to——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ll go with you!” responded Breton, with alacrity. +“I’m just as keen about this business as you are, Spargo! I want to +know who this man Marbury is, and how he came to have my name and address on +him. Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, +why—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo, as they got into a cab, “yes, that would +have explained a lot. It seems to me that we’ll get at the murderer +through that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury’s line. +Yes, that’s what I think.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton looked at his companion with interest. +</p> + +<p> +“But—you don’t know what Rathbury’s line is,” he +remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do,” said Spargo. “Rathbury’s gone off to +discover who the man is with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last +night. That’s his line.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you want——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who +wrote it,” answered Spargo. “I want to know why that old man was +coming to you when he was murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I—I never thought of that. +You—you really think he was coming to me when he was struck down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain. Hadn’t he got an address in the Temple? Wasn’t he +in the Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—the late hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I think +he was asking his way. That’s why I want to make some enquiries in this +block.” +</p> + +<p> +It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of the +office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the dead man. Being +luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the body was found, was +thick with the inquisitive and the sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder +had spread, and though there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which +the body had lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the +entry than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so great +that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a policeman to move +the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion presented themselves at the +entry this policeman was being lectured as to his duties by a little +weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and old-fashioned garments, and an +ancient silk hat, who was obviously greatly exercised by the unwonted +commotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Drive them all out into the street!” exclaimed this personage. +“Drive them all away, constable—into Fleet Street or upon the +Embankment—anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a +disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a——” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s old Cardlestone,” whispered Breton. “He’s +always irascible, and I don’t suppose we’ll get anything out of +him. Mr. Cardlestone,” he continued, making his way up to the old +gentleman who was now retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as +ancient as himself. “I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. +Spargo, a journalist, who is much interested in this murder. +He——” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. +Cardlestone. “And I never talk to journalists—a pack of busybodies, +sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been committed, +and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office boys and street +loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down these steps and broke his +neck—drunk, most likely.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring smile and a +nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first landing, motioning +the journalist to keep at their heels. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last +evening, Mr. Cardlestone,” he said. “Of course, neither of you +heard anything suspicious?” +</p> + +<p> +“What should we hear that was suspicious in the Temple, sir?” +demanded Mr. Cardlestone, angrily. “I hope the Temple is free from that +sort of thing, young Mr. Breton. Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet +evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away all was as quiet +as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above and around me I +know not! Fortunately, our walls are thick, sir—substantial. I say, sir, +the man probably fell down and broke his neck. What he was doing here, I do not +presume to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s guess, you know, Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked +Breton, again winking at Spargo. “But all that was found on this man was +a scrap of paper on which my name and address were written. That’s +practically all that was known of him, except that he’d just arrived from +Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cardlestone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, acute +glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” he exclaimed. “What’s this? You say this man had +your name and address on him, young Breton!—yours? And that he came +from—Australia?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so,” answered Breton. “That’s all +that’s known.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cardlestone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandanna handkerchief of +strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a mysterious thing,” he observed. +“Um—does Elphick know all that?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of Mr. +Cardlestone’s altered manner. And Spargo took up the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said. “All that Mr. Elphick knows is that Mr. Ronald +Breton’s name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. +Mr. Elphick”—here Spargo paused and looked at +Breton—“Mr. Elphick,” he presently continued, slowly +transferring his glance to the old barrister, “spoke of going to view the +body.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone, eagerly. “It can be seen? +Then I’ll go and see it. Where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“But—my dear sir!” he said. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cardlestone picked up his umbrella again. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very +door,” he said. “Also, I have known more than one man who went to +Australia. This might—I say might, young gentlemen—might be a man I +had once known. Show me where this body is.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton looked helplessly at Spargo: it was plain that he did not understand the +turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to seize an opportunity. In +another minute he was conducting Mr. Cardlestone through the ins and outs of +the Temple towards Blackfriars. And as they turned into Tudor Street they +encountered Mr. Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to the mortuary,” he remarked. “So, I suppose, +are you, Cardlestone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo tried a chance shot—at what he did not know. “The +man’s name was Marbury,” he said. “He was from +Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elphick, but he failed to see that Mr. Elphick +showed any of the surprise which Mr. Cardlestone had exhibited. Rather, he +seemed indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh?” he said—“Marbury? And from Australia. +Well—I should like to see the body.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo and Breton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder +gentlemen went in. There was nothing to be learnt from either when they +reappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t know the man,” said Mr. Elphick, calmly. “As +Mr. Cardlestone, I understand, has said to you already—we have known men +who went to Australia, and as this man was evidently wandering about the +Temple, we thought it might have been one of them, come back. But—we +don’t recognize him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t recognize him,” said Mr. Cardlestone. +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +They went away together arm in arm, and Breton looked at Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“As if anybody on earth ever fancied they’d recognize him!” +he said. “Well—what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must +go.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the pavement, +came out of a fit of abstraction. +</p> + +<p> +“I?” he said. “Oh—I’m going to the office.” +And he turned abruptly away, and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at +the <i>Watchman</i>, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the +editor. “Try to get me a few minutes with the chief,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The private secretary looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Really important?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Big!” answered Spargo. “Fix it.” +</p> + +<p> +Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty well by +that time, Spargo lost no time. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane?” he +suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“The mere facts,” replied the editor, tersely. +</p> + +<p> +“I was there when the body was found,” continued Spargo, and gave a +brief résumé of his doings. “I’m certain this is a most unusual +affair,” he went on. “It’s as full of mystery as—as it +could be. I want to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can +make such a story of it as we haven’t had for some time—ages. Let +me have it. And to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. +I’ll make it—big!” +</p> + +<p> +The editor looked across his desk at Spargo’s eager face. +</p> + +<p> +“Your other work?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well in hand,” replied Spargo. “I’m ahead a whole +week—both articles and reviews. I can tackle both.” +</p> + +<p> +The editor put his finger tips together. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got some idea about this, young man?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got a great idea,” answered Spargo. He faced the great +man squarely, and stared at him until he had brought a smile to the editorial +face. “That’s why I want to do it,” he added. +“And—it’s not mere boasting nor over-confidence—I know +I shall do it better than anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +The editor considered matters for a brief moment. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to find out who killed this man?” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded his head—twice. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll find that out,” he said doggedly. +</p> + +<p> +The editor picked up a pencil, and bent to his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. You shall have your two +columns.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got hold of a block of +paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do things. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER SIX<br/> +WITNESS TO A MEETING</h2> + +<p> +Ronald Breton walked into the <i>Watchman</i> office and into Spargo’s +room next morning holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved it +at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. +</p> + +<p> +“I say!” he exclaimed. “That’s the way to do it, +Spargo! I congratulate you. Yes, that’s the way—certain!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. +</p> + +<p> +“What way?” he asked indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“The way you’ve written this thing up,” said Breton. +“It’s a hundred thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried +account of a murder. It’s—it’s like a—a romance!” +</p> + +<p> +“Merely a new method of giving news,” said Spargo. He picked up a +copy of the <i>Watchman</i>, and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow +managed to make themselves into three, viewing the displayed lettering, the +photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle Temple +Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grey paper, with a critical eye. +“Yes—merely a new method,” he continued. “The question +is—will it achieve its object?” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the object?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it over to +his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put his feet on his +desk. +</p> + +<p> +“The object?” he said, drily. “Oh, well, the object is the +ultimate detection of the murderer.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re after that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m after that—just that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And not—not simply out to make effective news?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m out to find the murderer of John Marbury,” said Spargo +deliberately slow in his speech. “And I’ll find him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of clues, so +far,” remarked Breton. “I see—nothing. Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to know an awful lot,” he said. “I’m hungering +for news. I want to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with +himself between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive +and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with his skull +beaten in and dead. I want to know where he got that scrap of paper. Above +everything, Breton, I want to know what he’d got to do with you!” +</p> + +<p> +He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Breton nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “I confess that’s a corker. But I +think——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, or +in prospect, and had been recommended to—me,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo smiled—a little sardonically. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s good!” he said. “You had your very first +brief—yesterday. Come—your fame isn’t blown abroad through +all the heights yet, my friend! Besides—don’t intending clients +approach—isn’t it strict etiquette for them to +approach?—barristers through solicitors?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right—in both your remarks,” replied Breton, +good-humouredly. “Of course, I’m not known a bit, but all the same +I’ve known several cases where a barrister has been approached in the +first instance and asked to recommend a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me +a good turn may have given this man my address.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possible,” said Spargo. “But he wouldn’t have come to +consult you at midnight. Breton!—the more I think of it, the more +I’m certain there’s a tremendous mystery in this affair! +That’s why I got the chief to let me write it up as I have +done—here. I’m hoping that this photograph—though to be sure, +it’s of a dead face—and this facsimile of the scrap of paper will +lead to somebody coming forward who can——” +</p> + +<p> +Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble pillared +vestibule of the <i>Watchman</i> office came into the room with the +unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is,” +muttered Spargo in an aside. “Well?” he said to the boy. +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +The messenger came up to the desk. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Spargo,” he said, “there’s a man downstairs who +says that he wants to see somebody about that murder case that’s in the +paper this morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the man?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t say, sir,” replied the boy. “I gave him a form +to fill up, but he said he wouldn’t write anything—said all he +wanted was to see the man who wrote the piece in the paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring him here,” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the +boy had gone, and he smiled. “I knew we should have somebody here sooner +or later,” he said. “That’s why I hurried over my breakfast +and came down at ten o’clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances +of this chap’s information proving valuable?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” replied Breton. “He’s probably some crank or +faddist who’s got some theory that he wants to ventilate.” +</p> + +<p> +The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger seemed from preliminary +and outward appearance to justify Breton’s prognostication. He was +obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, yellow of hair, +blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday-best array of pearl-grey trousers and +black coat, and sported a necktie in which were several distinct colours. +Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of the <i>Watchman</i> building, he +had removed his hard billycock hat as he followed the boy, and he ducked his +bared head at the two young men as he stepped on to the thick pile of the +carpet which made luxurious footing in Spargo’s room. His blue eyes, +opened to their widest, looked round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness +of modern newspaper-office accommodation. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, sir?” said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the +easy-chairs for which the <i>Watchman</i> office is famous. “I understand +that you wish to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +The caller ducked his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the chair, put +his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to hang it on his +knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. +</p> + +<p> +“What I want to see, sir,” he observed in a rustic accent, +“is the gentleman as wrote that piece in your newspaper about this here +murder in Middle Temple Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see him,” said Spargo. “I am that man.” +</p> + +<p> +The caller smiled—generously. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir?” he said. “A very nice bit of reading, +I’m sure. And what might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk +free-er to a man when I know what his name is.” +</p> + +<p> +“So can I,” answered Spargo. “My name is Spargo—Frank +Spargo. What’s yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Name of Webster, sir—William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at +Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife,” continued Mr. Webster, again +smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, “is at +present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it—weather and +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said Spargo. “And—you wanted to +see me about this murder, Mr. Webster?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that’ll +do for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in this +fashion—happen you’ll be for me to tell it in my own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I desire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to be sure, I couldn’t tell it in no other,” declared +Mr. Webster. “You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was +waiting for my breakfast—they take their breakfasts so late in them +hotels—and when I’d read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to +my wife ‘As soon as I’ve had my breakfast,’ I says, +‘I’m going to where they print this newspaper to tell ’em +something.’ ‘Aye?’ she says, ‘Why, what have you to +tell, I should like to know?’ just like that, Mr. Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Webster,” said Spargo, “is a lady of businesslike +principles. And what have you to tell?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and smiled +knowingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” he continued, “Last night, my wife, she went out +to a part they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of +hers as lives there, and as they wanted to have a bit of woman-talk, like, I +didn’t go. So thinks I to myself, I’ll go and see this here House +of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all you’d +got to do was to tell the policeman at the door that you wanted to see your own +Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told ’em that I wanted to see +our M.P., Mr. Stonewood—you’ll have heard tell of him, no doubt; he +knows me very well—and they passed me, and I wrote out a ticket for him, +and they told me to sit down while they found him. So I sat down in a grand +sort of hall where there were a rare lot of people going and coming, and some +fine pictures and images to look at, and for a time I looked at them, and then +I began to take a bit of notice of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, +like myself. And as sure as I’m a christened man, sir, the gentleman +whose picture you’ve got in your paper—him as was +murdered—was sitting next to me! I knew that picture as soon as I saw it +this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles on a block of paper, suddenly +looked at his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“What time was that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It was between a quarter and half-past nine, sir,” answered Mr. +Webster. “It might ha’ been twenty past—it might ha’ +been twenty-five past.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, if you please,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, me and this here dead gentleman talked a bit. About what a +long time it took to get a member to attend to you, and such-like. I made +mention of the fact that I hadn’t been in there before. ‘Neither +have I!’ he says, ‘I came in out of curiosity,’ he says, and +then he laughed, sir—queer-like. And it was just after that that what +I’m going to tell you about happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell,” commanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along, down this grand hall that +we were sitting in—a tall, handsome gentleman, with a grey beard. +He’d no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper and documents in his +hand, so I thought he was happen one of the members. And all of a sudden this +here man at my side, he jumps up with a sort of start and an exclamation, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo lifted his hand. He looked keenly at his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you’re absolutely sure about what you heard him +exclaim?” he asked. “Quite sure about it? Because I see you are +going to tell us what he did exclaim.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you naught but what I’m certain of, sir,” +replied Webster. “What he said as he jumped up was ‘Good +God!’ he says, sharp-like—and then he said a name, and I +didn’t right catch it, but it sounded like Danesworth, or Painesworth, or +something of that sort—one of them there, or very like ’em, at any +rate. And then he rushed up to this here gentleman, and laid his hand on his +arm—sudden-like.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—the gentleman?” asked Spargo, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the man. +Then they shook hands. And then, after they’d spoken a few words +together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no more of +’em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that picture in it, +I said to myself ‘That’s the man I sat next to in that there hall +at the House of Commons!’ Oh, there’s no doubt of it, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey +beard?” suggested Spargo. “Could you recognize him from +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Make no doubt of it, sir,” answered Mr. Webster. “I observed +him particular.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, the +leaves of which he turned over for several minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The farmer went across the room. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of +Commons here,” said Spargo. “Now, pick out the one you saw. Take +your time—and be sure.” +</p> + +<p> +He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” he whispered. “Getting nearer—a bit +nearer—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“To what?” asked Breton. “I don’t see—” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark. +</p> + +<p> +“This is him, sir!” answered Mr. Webster. “That’s the +gentleman—know him anywhere!” +</p> + +<p> +The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby finger to +a photograph, beneath which was written <i>Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P. for +Brookminster</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER SEVEN<br/> +MR. AYLMORE</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton start; he +himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere glance at the +photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “That he?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster. “Done to +the life, that is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo. “There are a +lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the +beards are grey.” +</p> + +<p> +But Webster wagged his head. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s him, sir!” he repeated. “I’m as sure of +that as I am that my name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw +talking to him whose picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no +more, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Spargo. “I’m much obliged to you. +I’ll see Mr. Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How +long do you remain in town?” +</p> + +<p> +“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be +there for another week,” answered the farmer. “Hope I’ve been +of some use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He turned to +Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. +</p> + +<p> +“There!—what did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I +say I should get some news? There it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I say, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his +daughters—only yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“But—how did you know they were his daughters?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“Instinct—intuition,” he answered. “However, never mind +that, just now. Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if +that is the dead man’s real name, and anyway, it’s all we know him +by—was in the company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do about it?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand had +already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said Breton. “I know where Mr. Aylmore is always +to be found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and +Pacific Club, you know, in St. James’s. If you like, I’ll go with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve +something to do. I’ll meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly +noon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be there,” agreed Breton. He made for the door, and +with his hand on it, turned. “What do you expect from—from what +we’ve just heard?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait—until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say,” he +answered. “I suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to mutter to +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” he says. +“Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one of +the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much +observation. Ah!—and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized as +Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. Stephen +Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of +reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness to a +page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud: +</p> + +<p> +“AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, St. +Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member Atlantic and +Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South American +enterprise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s +not very illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now +we’ll make another.” +</p> + +<p> +Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr. +Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, leaving the +office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take him to the +Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he had spoken to +Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall; she +recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the +detective—Mr. Rathbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Not since,” replied Mrs. Walters. “No—and I was +wondering if he’d be coming round, because——” She +paused there and looked at Spargo with particular +enquiry—“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” she +asked. “I suppose you know as much as he does—about this?” +</p> + +<p> +“He and I,” replied Spargo, with easy confidence, “are +working this case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an inner +compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in tissue paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, unwrapping the paper, “we found this in +Number 20 this morning—it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl +that found it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but +Walters, he says as how he shouldn’t be surprised if it’s a +diamond. And since we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after +Mr. Marbury came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he went +into the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of things like +this. So there?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a diamond—right enough,” he said. “Put it +away, Mrs. Walters—I shall see Rathbury presently, and I’ll tell +him about it. Now, that other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you +recognize him—I mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters’ face that she had no +more doubt than Webster had. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes!” she said. “That’s the gentleman who came in +with Mr. Marbury—I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would +recognize him from that—perhaps you’d let our hall-porter and the +waiter I mentioned just now look at it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see them separately and see if they’ve ever seen a man +who resembles this,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, and +Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the Atlantic and +Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the steps. He made no +reference to his recent doings, and together they went into the house and asked +for Mr. Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently came to +them in the visitors’ room. He was already familiar with Mr. +Aylmore’s photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; +the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of +legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and unobtrusively, doing +yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest of the party whips, without +forcing themselves into the limelight or seizing every opportunity to air their +opinions. Now that Spargo met him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what +the journalist had expected—a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, +who looked as if he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and +taught not to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid +interests in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite +expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation +—purposely shortened—of his object in calling upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said indifferently. “Yes, it is quite true that I +met Marbury and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant +spoke of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much +surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for—I really don’t know +how many years.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or not to +say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And presently Mr. +Aylmore went on. +</p> + +<p> +“I read your account in the <i>Watchman</i> this morning,” he said. +“I was wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with +you or with the police. The fact is—I suppose you want this for your +paper, eh?” he continued after a sudden breaking off. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print,” +answered Spargo. “If you care to give me any +information——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” said Mr. Aylmore. “I don’t mind. The fact +is, I knew next to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some—well, +business relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty +years—perhaps more—since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me +in the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to recall him. +He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, and as there was +little doing in the House that night, and as he had once been—almost a +friend—I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. He told me that he had +only landed from Australia that morning, and what he wanted my advice about, +principally, was—diamonds. Australian diamonds.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was unaware,” remarked Spargo, “that diamonds were ever +found in Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aylmore smiled—a little cynically. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so,” he said. “But diamonds have been found in +Australia from time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and +in the opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. +Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed them to +me at his hotel—a number of them. We examined them in his room.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he do with them—afterwards?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“He put them in his waistcoat pocket—in a very small wash-leather +bag, from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty +stones—not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some +expert—I mentioned Streeter’s to him. Now, I can tell you how he +got hold of Mr. Breton’s address.” +</p> + +<p> +The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened his +hold on the pencil with which he was making notes. +</p> + +<p> +“He got it from me,” continued Mr. Aylmore. “The handwriting +on the scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As I +knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. Breton, Mr. +Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp solicitor. I wrote +down Mr. Breton’s address for him, on a scrap of paper which he tore off +a letter that he took from his pocket. By the by, I observe that when his body +was found there was nothing on it in the shape of papers or money. I am quite +sure that when I left him he had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a +breast-pocket full of letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you leave him, sir?” asked Spargo. “You left the +hotel together, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much to +talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge and very +shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. My own +impression——” He paused for a moment and Spargo waited +silently. +</p> + +<p> +“My own impression—though I confess it may seem to have no very +solid grounds—is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was +robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. There is +the fact that he was robbed, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had a notion,” said Breton, diffidently. +“Mayn’t be worth much, but I’ve had it, all the same. Some +fellow-passenger of Marbury’s may have tracked him all day—Middle +Temple Lane’s pretty lonely at night, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at Mr. +Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. +“You see, it’s not much, after all. Of course, there’ll be an +inquest on Marbury, and I shall have to re-tell it. But you’re welcome to +print what I’ve told you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards New +Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news—now he had some +to communicate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER EIGHT<br/> +THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT</h2> + +<p> +Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal apartment which +was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of its furnishings and its +indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain writing-table and a hard chair or +two; a map of London, much discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of +eminent bands in the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books +of reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was +seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the apparently +aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He looked up as the +journalist entered, and held out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the <i>Watchman</i> this +morning,” he said. “Made extra good reading, I thought. They did +right to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I +suppose, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury’s right hand. He +lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his head in +a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his question +answered in the affirmative. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said. “We settled yesterday, didn’t we, +that you and I are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? +That’s all right,” he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. +“Very well—have you made any further progress?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning back in +his chair, shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly, I haven’t,” he replied. “Of course, +there’s a lot being done in the usual official-routine way. We’ve +men out making various enquiries. We’re enquiring about Marbury’s +voyage to England. All that we know up to now is that he was certainly a +passenger on a liner which landed at Southampton in accordance with what he +told those people at the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way +and was understood to take the train to town—as he did. That’s all. +There’s nothing in that. We’ve cabled to Melbourne for any news of +him from there. But I expect little from that.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Spargo. “And—what are you +doing—you, yourself? Because, if we’re to share facts, I must know +what my partner’s after. Just now, you seemed to be—drawing.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “when I want to work +things out, I come into this room—it’s quiet, as you see—and +I scribble anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you see it?” asked Spargo, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that +hotel,” replied Rathbury. “It seems to me—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve found him,” he said. “That’s what I wrote +that article for—to find him. I knew it would find him. I’ve never +had any training in your sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. +And it has got him.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he said. “And—who is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you the story,” answered Spargo, “and in a +summary. This morning a man named Webster, a farmer, a visitor to London, came +to me at the office, and said that being at the House of Commons last night he +witnessed a meeting between Marbury and a man who was evidently a Member of +Parliament, and saw them go away together. I showed him an album of photographs +of the present members, and he immediately recognized the portrait of one of +them as the man in question. I thereupon took the portrait to the Anglo-Orient +Hotel—Mrs. Walters also at once recognized it as that of the man who came +to the hotel with Marbury, stopped with him a while in his room, and left with +him. The man is Mr. Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. +</p> + +<p> +“I know him!” he said. “Of course—I remember Mrs. +Walters’s description now. But his is a familiar type—tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed. Um!—well, we’ll have to see Mr. Aylmore +at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen him,” said Spargo. “Naturally! For you see, +Mrs. Walters gave me a bit more evidence. This morning they found a loose +diamond on the floor of Number 20, and after it was found the waiter who took +the drinks up to Marbury and his guest that night remembered that when he +entered the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of similar +objects. So then I went on to see Mr. Aylmore. You know young Breton, the +barrister?—you met him with me, you remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“The young fellow whose name and address were found on Marbury,” +replied Rathbury. “I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Breton is engaged to Aylmore’s daughter,” continued Spargo. +“Breton took me to Aylmore’s club. And Aylmore gives a plain, +straightforward account of the matter which he’s granted me leave to +print. It clears up a lot of things. Aylmore knew Marbury over twenty years +ago. He lost sight of him. They met accidentally in the lobby of the House on +the evening preceding the murder. Marbury told him that he wanted his advice +about those rare things, Australian diamonds. He went back with him to his +hotel and spent a while with him; then they walked out together as far as +Waterloo Bridge, where Aylmore left him and went home. Further, the scrap of +grey paper is accounted for. Marbury wanted the address of a smart solicitor; +Aylmore didn’t know of one but told Marbury that if he called on young +Breton, he’d know, and would put him in the way to find one. Marbury +wrote Breton’s address down. That’s Aylmore’s story. But +it’s got an important addition. Aylmore says that when he left Marbury, +Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds in a wash-leather bag, a lot of +gold, and a breast-pocket full of letters and papers. Now—there was +nothing on him when he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo stopped and lighted a fresh cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all I know,” he said. “What do you make of +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury leaned back in his chair in his apparently favourite attitude and +stared hard at the dusty ceiling above him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know,” he said. “It brings things up to a point, +certainly. Aylmore and Marbury parted at Waterloo Bridge—very late. +Waterloo Bridge is pretty well next door to the Temple. But—how did +Marbury get into the Temple, unobserved? We’ve made every enquiry, and we +can’t trace him in any way as regards that movement. There’s a clue +for his going there in the scrap of paper bearing Breton’s address, but +even a Colonial would know that no business was done in the Temple at midnight, +eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Spargo, “I’ve thought of one or two +things. He may have been one of those men who like to wander around at night. +He may have seen—he would see—plenty of lights in the Temple at +that hour; he may have slipped in unobserved—it’s possible, +it’s quite possible. I once had a moonlight saunter in the Temple myself +after midnight, and had no difficulty about walking in and out, either. +But—if Marbury was murdered for the sake of what he had on him—how +did he meet with his murderer or murderers in there? Criminals don’t hang +about Middle Temple Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making more +hieroglyphics. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s your theory, Mr. Spargo?” he asked suddenly. “I +suppose you’ve got one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you?” asked Spargo, bluntly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” returned Rathbury, hesitatingly, “I hadn’t, up +to now. But now—now, after what you’ve told me, I think I can make +one. It seems to me that after Marbury left Aylmore he probably mooned about by +himself, that he was decoyed into the Temple, and was there murdered and +robbed. There are a lot of queer ins and outs, nooks and corners in that old +spot, Mr. Spargo, and the murderer, if he knew his ground well, could easily +hide himself until he could get away in the morning. He might be a man who had +access to chambers or offices—think how easy it would be for such a man, +having once killed and robbed his victim, to lie hid for hours afterwards? For +aught we know, the man who murdered Marbury may have been within twenty feet of +you when you first saw his dead body that morning. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the room and +whispered a few words in the detective’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Show him in at once,” said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the +man quitted the room and smiled significantly. “Here’s somebody +wants to tell something about the Marbury case,” he remarked. +“Let’s hope it’ll be news worth hearing.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo smiled in his queer fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“It strikes me that you’ve only got to interest an inquisitive +public in order to get news,” he said. “The principal thing is to +investigate it when you’ve got it. Who’s this, now?” +</p> + +<p> +The official had returned with a dapper-looking gentleman in a frock-coat and +silk hat, bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp of the city man, who +inspected Rathbury with deliberation and Spargo with a glance, and being seated +turned to the detective as undoubtedly the person he desired to converse with. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that you are the officer in charge of the Marbury murder +case,” he observed. “I believe I can give you some valuable +information in respect to that. I read the account of the affair in the +<i>Watchman</i> newspaper this morning, and saw the portrait of the murdered +man there, and I was at first inclined to go to the <i>Watchman</i> office with +my information, but I finally decided to approach the police instead of the +Press, regarding the police as being more—more responsible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Much obliged to you, sir,” said Rathbury, with a glance at Spargo. +“Whom have I the pleasure of——” +</p> + +<p> +“My name,” replied the visitor, drawing out and laying down a card, +“is Myerst—Mr. E.P. Myerst, Secretary of the London and Universal +Safe Deposit Company. I may, I suppose, speak with confidence,” continued +Mr. Myerst, with a side-glance at Spargo. “My information +is—confidential.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury inclined his head and put his fingers together. +</p> + +<p> +“You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Myerst,” he answered. +“If what you have to tell has any real bearing on the Marbury case, it +will probably have to be repeated in public, you know, sir. But at present it +will be treated as private.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say,” replied Mr. +Myerst. “Yes, I should decidedly say so. The fact is that on June 21st at +about—to be precise—three o’clock in the afternoon, a +stranger, who gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if he +could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to deposit in such +a safe a small leather box—which, by the by, was of remarkably ancient +appearance—that he had brought with him. I showed him a safe such as he +wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the rules of the place, and he engaged +the safe, paid the rent for one year in advance, and deposited his leather +box—an affair of about a foot square—there and then. After that, +having exchanged a remark or two about the altered conditions of London, which, +I understood him to say, he had not seen for a great many years, he took his +key and his departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. +Marbury who was found murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst,” said Rathbury. “And +I’m much obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little +more, sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of +it,” replied the secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t give you any hint as to what was in it?” asked +Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not be +burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested,” replied Mr. Myerst. +“He appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible +for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. “So he would, no +doubt. And Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Marbury struck me,” he answered at last, “as a man who +had probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will term, +a remarkable remark. About—in fact, about his leather box.” +</p> + +<p> +“His leather box?” said Rathbury. “And what was it, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“This,” replied the secretary. “‘That box,’ he +said, ‘is safe now. But it’s been safer. It’s been +buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year!’” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER NINE<br/> +THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS</h2> + +<p> +“Buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year,” +repeated Mr. Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. “I consider +that, gentlemen, a very remarkable remark—very remarkable!” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and began +swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. And with his +knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo’s journalistic instincts had +been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off on a new scent. +</p> + +<p> +“Remarkable—remarkable, Mr. Myerst!” he assented. “What +do you say, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered made a +careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several seconds; then Spargo +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you say to that?” he asked quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it time to +enlighten the caller. +</p> + +<p> +“I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst,” he said smilingly, +“that this is Mr. Spargo, of the <i>Watchman</i>. Mr. Spargo wrote the +article about the Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, +you’ll gather, is deeply interested in this matter—and he and I, in +our different capacities, are working together. So—you understand?” +Myerst regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. +Spargo repeated the question he had just put. +</p> + +<p> +“I said—What did you say to that?” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—er—I don’t think I said anything,” he +replied. “Nothing that one might call material, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t ask him what he meant?” suggested Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no—not at all,” replied Myerst. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!” +he said, half-sneeringly. “You might have heard such a +story—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to Rathbury, +who was regarding him with amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Is it possible to get that +box opened?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll have to be opened,” answered Rathbury, rising. +“It’s got to be opened. It probably contains the clue we want. +I’m going to ask Mr. Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first +steps about having it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the +matter through today, but at any rate we’ll have it done tomorrow +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?” asked +Spargo. “You can—certain? That’s all right, Rathbury. Now +I’m off, and you’ll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, +and I’ll do the same by you.” +</p> + +<p> +And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly +returned to the <i>Watchman</i> office. There the assistant who had been told +off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a business +card. +</p> + +<p> +“This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” +he said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, +and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to +his place when you came in.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took the card and read: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +MR. JAMES CRIEDIR,<br/> +DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES,<br/> +2,021, STRAND. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why +Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in +rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He went up Fleet Street and soon +found the shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior +showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Criedir?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“The same, sir,” answered the philatelist. “You +are—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Spargo, of the <i>Watchman</i>. You called on me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo,” he said genially. “Take a +seat, sir—I’m all in confusion here—giving up business, you +see. Yes, I called on you. I think, having read the <i>Watchman</i> account of +that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in +your columns, that I can give you a bit of information.” +</p> + +<p> +“Material?” asked Spargo, tersely. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed drily. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s for you to decide—when you’ve heard it,” +he said. “I should say, considering everything, that it was material. +Well, it’s this—I kept open until yesterday—everything as +usual, you know—stock in the window and so on—so that anybody who +was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on, though +as a matter of fact, I’m retiring—retired,” added Mr. Criedir +with a laugh, “last night. Now—but won’t you take down what +I’ve got to tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am taking it down,” answered Spargo. “Every word. In my +head.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” agreed Spargo. “This information, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Criedir, “we’ll go on then. Yesterday +afternoon the man described as Marbury came into my shop. He—” +</p> + +<p> +“What time—exact time?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Two—to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock,” answered +Mr. Criedir. “I’d swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was +precisely as you’ve described him—dress, everything—I tell +you I knew his photo as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little +box—” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of box?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box—a very miniature +trunk, in fact,” replied Mr. Criedir. “About a foot square; the +sort of thing you never see nowadays. It was very much worn; it attracted me +for that very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. +‘You’re a dealer in stamps—rare stamps?’ he said. +‘I am,’ I replied. ‘I’ve something here I’d like +to show you,’ he said, unlocking the box. +‘It’s—’” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit,” said Spargo. “Where did he take the key from +with which he unlocked the box?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was one of several which he carried on a split ring, and he took the +bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket,” replied Mr. Criedir. +“Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman! Well—he opened his box. +It seemed to me to be full of papers—at any rate there were a lot of +legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you how I +notice things I saw that the papers were stained with age, and that the red +tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good—good!” murmured Spargo. “Excellent! Proceed, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. ‘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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“Prompt,” muttered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“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. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from +business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single deal, and +that, therefore, I couldn’t do anything. ‘No matter,’ he +says, ‘I daresay there are lots of men in your line of +trade—perhaps you can recommend me to a good firm?’ ‘I could +recommend you to a dozen extra-good firms,’ I answered. ‘But I can +do better for you. I’ll give you the name and address of a private buyer +who, I haven’t the least doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from +you and will give you a big price.’ ‘Write it down,’ he says, +‘and thank you for your trouble.’ So I gave him a bit of advice as +to the price he ought to get, and I wrote the name and address of the man I +referred to on the back of one of my cards.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose name and address?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple +Lane,” replied Mr. Criedir. “Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most +enthusiastic and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he +didn’t possess that set of stamps.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Spargo. “It was at the +foot of his stairs that Marbury was found murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked fixedly at the retired stamp-dealer. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” replied Mr. Criedir. “You think and argue on +modern lines—which are, of course, highly superior. But—how do you +account for my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone’s address and for his +having been found dead—murdered—at the foot of Cardlestone’s +stairs a few hours later?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t account for it,” said Spargo. “I’m +trying to.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down for a +moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly offered him a +cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of thanks, and smoked +half-way through it before he spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to account. And I shall +account. And I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you’ve +told me. Now, then, may I ask you a question or two?” +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand!” responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Did Marbury say he’d call on Cardlestone?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did. Said he’d call as soon as he could—that day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you told Cardlestone what you’ve just told me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have. But not until an hour ago—on my way back from your office, +in fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had he received a call from Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until +he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, another +philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could recognize it as any +man they’d ever known, but they couldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know they did,” said Spargo. “I saw ’em at the +mortuary. Um! Well—one more question. When Marbury left you, did he put +those stamps in his box again, as before?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. And what he +muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over again: +</p> + +<p> +“Six hours—six hours—six hours! Those six hours!” +</p> + +<p> +Next morning the <i>Watchman</i> came out with four leaded columns of +up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the four +ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:—WHO SAW +JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY PRECEDING HIS MURDER? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER TEN<br/> +THE LEATHER BOX</h2> + +<p> +Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline would +bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he kept to +himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have set eyes on John +Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in that headline was certain; +the problem was—What particular owner or owners of a pair or of many +pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why should they remember him? Walters +and his wife had reason to remember him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so +had Myerst; so had William Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he +left the London and Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he +sat down by Webster’s side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody +seemed to have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he +only remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable cloth +cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had come forward with +any recollection of him. He must have gone West from seeing Myerst, because he +bought his cap at Fiskie’s; he must eventually have gone South-West, +because he turned up at Westminster. But where else did he go? What did he do? +To whom did he speak? No answer came to these questions. +</p> + +<p> +“That shows,” observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away +in Spargo’s room at the <i>Watchman</i> at that particular hour which is +neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, “that shows +how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that had strayed +into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better go and read up a little elementary entomology, +Breton,” said Spargo. “I don’t know much about it myself, but +I’ve a pretty good idea that when an ant walks into the highways and +byways of a colony to which he doesn’t belong he doesn’t survive +his intrusion by many seconds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know what I mean,” said Breton. “London’s an +ant-heap, isn’t it? One human ant more or less doesn’t count. This +man Marbury must have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. +He’d ride on a ’bus—almost certain. He’d get into a +taxi-cab—I think that’s much more certain, because it would be a +novelty to him. He’d want some tea—anyway, he’d be sure to +want a drink, and he’d turn in somewhere to get one or the other. +He’d buy things in shops—these Colonials always do. He’d go +somewhere to get his dinner. He’d—but what’s the use of +enumeration in this case?” +</p> + +<p> +“A mere piling up of platitudes,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“What I mean is,” continued Breton, “that piles of people +must have seen him, and yet it’s now hours and hours since your paper +came out this morning, and nobody’s come forward to tell anything. And +when you come to think of it, why should they? Who’d remember an ordinary +man in a grey tweed suit?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,’” repeated +Spargo. “Good line. You haven’t any copyright in it, remember. It +would make a good cross-heading.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton laughed. “You’re a queer chap, Spargo,” he said. +“Seriously, do you think you’re getting any nearer anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m getting nearer something with everything that’s +done,” Spargo answered. “You can’t start on a business like +this without evolving something out of it, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Breton, “to me there’s not so much mystery +in it. Mr. Aylmore’s explained the reason why my address was found on the +body; Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he said sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the reason of Marbury’s being found where he was +found,” replied Breton. “Of course, I see it all! Marbury was +mooning around Fleet Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it +was, just to see where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done +for. The thing’s plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Spargo. “That’s +it.” He turned over the leaves of the diary which lay on his desk. +“By the by,” he said, looking up with some interest, “the +adjourned inquest is at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Are you +going?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall certainly go,” answered Breton. “What’s more, +I’m going to take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details +were over at the first sitting, and as there’ll be nothing but this new +evidence tomorrow, and as they’ve never been in a coroner’s +court——” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore’ll be the principal witness tomorrow,” +interrupted Spargo. “I suppose he’ll be able to tell a lot more +than he told—me.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see that there’s much more to tell,” he said. +“But,” he added, with a sly laugh, “I suppose you want some +more good copy, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. “I’ll +tell you what I want,” he said. “I want to know who John Marbury +was. That would make good copy. Who he +was—twenty—twenty-five—forty years ago. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore,” answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, +“is the only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John +Marbury in the—past. But he didn’t tell me—much. Perhaps +he’ll tell the coroner and his jury—more. Now, I’m off +Breton—I’ve an appointment.” +</p> + +<p> +And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped into a +taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. At the corner of +its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo, as he sprang out: “How is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right,” answered Rathbury. “You can be +present: I got the necessary permission. As there are no relations known, +there’ll only be one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit +people, and myself. Come on—it’s about time.” +</p> + +<p> +“It sounds,” observed Spargo, “like an exhumation.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. “Well, we’re certainly going to dig up a dead +man’s secrets,” he said. “At least, we may be going to do so. +In my opinion, Mr. Spargo, we’ll find some clue in this leather +box.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room where +were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to be the +chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had spoken. And in +another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that the company possessed +duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper authorization having been +received from the proper authorities, those present would now proceed to the +safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. John Marbury, and take from it the +property which he himself had deposited there, a small leather box, which they +would afterwards bring to that room and cause to be opened in each +other’s presence. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and bars +before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so recently rented by +the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. And at first sight of it, +he saw that it was so small an affair that it seemed ludicrous to imagine that +it could contain anything of any importance. In fact, it looked to be no more +than a plain wooden locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it +reminded Spargo irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had +kept his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake +smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury’s name had been newly painted +upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door—the front +door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened by the +chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and expectation still leapt +in the bosoms of the beholders. +</p> + +<p> +“The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please,” commanded the +chairman, “the duplicate key!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a curious-looking +key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about to christen a battleship: +the steel door swung slowly back. And there, in a two-foot square cavity, lay +the leather box. +</p> + +<p> +It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary’s room that the +procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the chairman, +abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary authorization +from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying the box: followed two +other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with watching official and police +interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up the rear. He whispered something of +his notions to the detective; Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s hope we’re going to see—something!” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +In the secretary’s room a man waited who touched his forelock +respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box on the +table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members of the +procession gathered round. +</p> + +<p> +“As we naturally possess no key to this box,” announced the +chairman in grave tones, “it becomes our duty to employ professional +assistance in opening it. Jobson!” +</p> + +<p> +He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity. He +examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see that he was +anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, Spargo looked at the box. +It was pretty much what it had been described to him as being; a small, square +box of old cow-hide, very strongly made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a +handle projecting from the lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden +away somewhere for many a long day. +</p> + +<p> +There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, if you please, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The chairman motioned to the high official. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would be good enough to open the box, sir,” he said. +“Our duty is now concluded.” +</p> + +<p> +As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered round with +craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted: somebody sighed deeply. +And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. +</p> + +<p> +The box was empty! +</p> + +<p> +Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there was +literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of a plain, +time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned chintz stuff, such as +our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar with, and +containing—nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the chairman. “This +is—dear me!—why, there is nothing in the box!” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” remarked the high official, drily, “appears to be +obvious.” +</p> + +<p> +The chairman looked at the secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst,” he said, with the +half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of an +exceptionally fine treat. “Valuable!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin,” he +answered. “The—er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of +great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he placed it in +the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest value.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the +<i>Watchman</i> newspaper, that it was full of papers and—and other +articles,” said the chairman. “Criedir saw papers in it about an +hour before it was brought here.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst spread out his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin,” he answered. +“I know nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should a man deposit an empty box?” began the chairman. +“I—” +</p> + +<p> +The high official interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“That the box is empty is certain,” he observed. “Did you +ever handle it yourself, Mr. Myerst?” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst smiled in a superior fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered +this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he rented, the +box was never out of his hands,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the chairman. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he said. “We’ve made the enquiry. +Rathbury, take the box away with you and lock it up at the Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if mystifying, +material for the article which had already become the daily feature of his +paper. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER ELEVEN<br/> +MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED</h2> + +<p> +It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the adjourned +inquest next day that the whole story of what was now world-famous as the +Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated before him for the thousandth +time. There was not a detail of the story with which he had not become familiar +to fulness. The first proceeding before the coroner had been of a merely formal +nature; these were thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and +twelve good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find +out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John Marbury came +by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo found himself +tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and noting how each +successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter to the story. The story +itself ran quite easily, naturally, consecutively—you could make it in +sections. And Spargo, sitting merely to listen, made them: +</p> + +<p> +1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the body. +</p> + +<p> +2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death—the man had been +struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow—from some heavy +instrument, and had died immediately. +</p> + +<p> +3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was examined +nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of grey paper. +</p> + +<p> +4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man’s new fashionable cloth +cap, bought at Fiskie’s well-known shop in the West-End, he traced +Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. +</p> + +<p> +5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there. +</p> + +<p> +6. The purser of the ss. <i>Wambarino</i> proved that Marbury sailed from +Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved himself like +any other well-regulated passenger, and left the <i>Wambarino</i> at +Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the last day of his life in +just the ordinary manner. +</p> + +<p> +7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the matter of the +stamps. +</p> + +<p> +8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury’s visit to the Safe Deposit, and further +proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official examination, to +be empty. +</p> + +<p> +9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in one of +the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing the meeting +between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to be Mr. Aylmore, a +Member of Parliament. +</p> + +<p> +All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the witness-box. And +Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for which the crowded court +was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and realistic specials in the +<i>Watchman</i>, everybody there had already become well and thoroughly +acquainted with the mass of evidence represented by the nine witnesses who had +been in the box before Mr. Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with +the facts which Mr. Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview +at the club, which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary +interest which the Member of Parliament’s appearance aroused? For +everybody was extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the +last man who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the +public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who met +Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his hotel with him, +hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the hotel with him for a +stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo knew well why the interest was +so keen—everybody knew that Aylmore was the only man who could tell the +court anything really pertinent about Marbury; who he was, what he was after; +what his life had been. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the +witness-box—a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was only +slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a well-drilled +soldier’s, who carried about him an air of conscious power. +Aylmore’s two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite Spargo, +with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had encountered their glance +as they entered the court, and they had given him a friendly nod and smile. He +had watched them from time to time; it was plain to him that they regarded the +whole affair as a novel sort of entertainment; they might have been idlers in +some Eastern bazaar, listening to the unfolding of many tales from the +professional tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked +at them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in their +cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“All that they feel,” he thought, “is a bit of extra +excitement at the idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful +mystery. Um! Well—now how much is he mixed up?” +</p> + +<p> +And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his eyes off +the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the witness which he +was anxious to develop. +</p> + +<p> +The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. Aylmore’s +evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and asked a question or +two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell, in his own way, what he knew +of the dead man and of this sad affair; and having received that permission, he +went on in a calm, unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told +Spargo. It sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many +years ago. He had lost sight of him for—oh, quite twenty years. He had +met him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on the +evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having no +particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn, he had gone +back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained awhile with him in +his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had afterwards gone out with +him. He had given him the advice he wanted; they had strolled across Waterloo +Bridge; shortly afterwards they had parted. That was all he knew. +</p> + +<p> +The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. It had +been in print, under a big headline, in the <i>Watchman</i>. Aylmore had now +told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his next step was to +leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory question or two from the +Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a motion as if to step down. But +Spargo, who had been aware since the beginning of the enquiry of the presence +of a certain eminent counsel who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in +that gentleman’s direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his +well-known, apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, +and glance at the tall figure in the witness-box. +</p> + +<p> +“The fun is going to begin,” muttered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made a jerky +bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He looked like a man +who is going to ask indifferent questions about the state of the weather, or +how Smith’s wife was last time you heard of her, or if stocks are likely +to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this man before, and he knew many signs +of his in voice and manner and glance. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your +acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some time +ago?” began the suave, seemingly careless voice. +</p> + +<p> +“A considerable time ago,” answered Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“How long—roughly speaking?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way you +have described to us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ever heard from him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ever heard of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“But when you met, you knew each other at once?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—almost at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each other +twenty or twenty-two years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“We were—yes, well known to each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Close friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said we were acquaintances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?” +</p> + +<p> +“His name? It was—Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marbury—the same name. Where did you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—oh, here in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean—what was his occupation?” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his occupation?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he was concerned in financial matters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes—on occasions.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his business address in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t remember that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his private address?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I never knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you transact your business with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we met, now and then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where? What place, office, resort?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t remember particular places. Sometimes—in the +City.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or St. +Paul’s Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Was he a member of that institution?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not that I know of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“What were the dealings that you had with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Financial dealings—small ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long did your acquaintanceship with him last—what period did +it extend over?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say about six months to nine months.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite!” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for over +twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he +told me the other evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or +two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men are more +or less public property. You are represented in this work of popular reference +as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina, where you made a +considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that you were in London, +acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890 to 1892. Did you then leave +England soon after knowing Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892—I am not sure which.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want +to solve the important question—who is, who was John Marbury, and how did +he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who knows +anything about him. What was your business before you left England?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was interested in financial affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?” +</p> + +<p> +“In London, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“At what address?” +</p> + +<p> +For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His brow had +flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared his shoulders +and faced his questioner defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“I resent these questions about my private affairs!” he snapped +out. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I refuse to answer it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you are +telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“I refuse to answer that question also!” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER TWELVE<br/> +THE NEW WITNESS</h2> + +<p> +The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. He was +addressing the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure, Mr. Aylmore,” he said, “there is no wish to +trouble you with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of +this matter of John Marbury’s death, and as you are the only witness we +have had who knew him personally—” +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!” he exclaimed. +“And I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when +I met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private +affairs of twenty years ago—I very much resent it! Any question that is +really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that seem to me +wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, and +Spargo again became keenly attentive. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not yield +him offence,” he remarked drily. He turned once more to the witness, +regarding him as if with interest. “Can you tell us of any person now +living who knew Marbury in London at the time under discussion—twenty to +twenty-two or three years ago?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore shook his head angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I can’t,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at that +time who knew you both!” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly—at that time. But when I returned to England my business +and my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don’t +know of anybody who knew Marbury then—anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; Spargo saw +the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the door of the court. The +Counsel looked again at the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“One more question. You told the court a little time since that you +parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of Waterloo +Bridge—at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +“About that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“And at that place?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore—just now,” said +the Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. “I am going to ask you, sir, at +this point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the police +authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important nature, and I +think that this is the stage at which it ought to be given to you and the jury. +If you would be pleased to direct that David Lyell be called—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had sat +behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into view, ushered +by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident young man, evidently a +Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being called, stepped jauntily and +readily into the place which the member of Parliament just vacated. He took the +oath—Scotch fashion—with the same readiness and turned easily to +the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, glancing quickly round, saw that the court +was breathless with anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new +witness was going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by +Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name is David Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is my name, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you, Mr. Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & +Soutar, distillers, of Kilmarnock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?” +</p> + +<p> +“They do—once every six weeks I go to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to +Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you stayed at De Keyser’s Hotel, at the Blackfriars end +of the Embankment?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did—it’s handy for the continental trains.” +</p> + +<p> +“About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go +along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, sir. I’m a bad sleeper, and it’s a habit of mine to +take a walk of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How far did you walk?” +</p> + +<p> +“As far as Waterloo Bridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Always on the Temple side?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, sir—straight along on that side.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody +you knew?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder’s head was +averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And Breton was +nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining silk hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament,” repeated the +Counsel’s suave, clear tones. “Oh! And how did you come to +recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member of Parliament?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, in this way. At home, I’m the secretary of our Liberal +Ward Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to arrange +with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and speak, and naturally +I met him several times, in London and in Scotland.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that you knew him quite well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, of course!” he answered. “There is Mr. Aylmore.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore close +to Waterloo Bridge? How close?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the bridge +on to the Embankment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“A man, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know the man?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I +haven’t forgotten his face.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell—has anything +recalled that face to you within this last day or two?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“The picture of the man they say was murdered—John Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re sure of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m as certain, sir, as that my name’s what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied by +the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did you +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I just turned and walked after them.” +</p> + +<p> +“You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“They were walking by the way I’d come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You followed them eastward?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did—I was going back to the hotel, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“What were they doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“How far did you follow them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle Temple +Lane, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De +Keyser’s, and to my bed.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other period of +the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen voice put the next +question. +</p> + +<p> +“You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion into +the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the occasion in +question?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do! I could swear no other, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a whispered +conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“You have only just given this information to the police, I +understand?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by +this morning’s boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the +papers—the English papers—and seen the dead man’s photographs +I determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland Yard as +soon as I got to London this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped down. +And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the Coroner’s +attention. +</p> + +<p> +“May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?” he began. +“I—” +</p> + +<p> +But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and implacable. +“I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in the box, and +that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or even to answer +questions,” he said. “And before you allow him to make any +explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to interpose at +this stage. That witness is——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be +heard at once!” he said with emphasis. “As matters stand at +present, it looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I +am allowed to make an explanation—” +</p> + +<p> +“I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any +explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard,” said the Treasury +Counsel sternly. “There are weighty reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give an +explanation,” said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. “Who is +this other witness?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two daughters +was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no distrust of her +father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly turned to the next +witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment lodge of Middle Temple Lane. +The Treasury Counsel put a straight question to him at once. +</p> + +<p> +“You see that gentleman,” he said, pointing to Aylmore. “Do +you know him as an inmate of the Temple?” +</p> + +<p> +The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, certainly, sir!” he answered. “Quite well, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. And now—what name do you know him by?” +</p> + +<p> +The man grew evidently more bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +“Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!” he replied. “Mr. +Anderson!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<br/> +UNDER SUSPICION</h2> + +<p> +A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed court as +this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified many +things—that there were people present who had expected some such dramatic +development; that there were others present who had not; that the answer itself +was only a prelude to further developments. And Spargo, looking narrowly about +him, saw that the answer had aroused different feelings in Aylmore’s two +daughters. The elder one had dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the +younger was sitting bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine +bewilderment. And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her. +</p> + +<p> +But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no stopping the +Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in his own merciless +fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the Coroner, had whispered a word to +the solicitor who sat close by him, and now he turned again to the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“So you know that gentleman—make sure now—as Mr. Anderson, an +inmate of the Temple?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know him by any other name?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you known him by that name?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say two or three years, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“See him go in and out regularly?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir—not regularly.” +</p> + +<p> +“How often, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now and then, sir—perhaps once a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson’s goings-in-and-out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn’t see +him again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say ‘nights.’ Do I understand that you never see Mr. +Anderson except at night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen him except at night. Always about the +same time, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just about midnight, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, just after twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir; there was another gentleman with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remember anything about that other gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the +other gentleman had grey clothes on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had grey clothes on. You didn’t see his face?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to remember it, sir. I don’t remember anything but what +I’ve told you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr. +Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they’d passed +through?” +</p> + +<p> +“Straight up the Lane, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where Mr. Anderson’s rooms in the Temple are?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your +lodge?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple +Lane next morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I didn’t. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen +who live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the matter +any particular thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to come +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, never, to anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but Mr. +Anderson?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson.” +</p> + +<p> +The Coroner glanced at the Counsel. +</p> + +<p> +“I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give the +explanation he offered a few minutes ago,” he said. “Do you suggest +anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he +should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination again on his +oath,” replied the Counsel. “The matter is in your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +The Coroner turned to Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you object to that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. +</p> + +<p> +“I object to nothing,” he said in clear tones, “except to +being asked to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and +cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you like, +arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will answer them +so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me questions about matters of +twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or not as I see fit. And I may as +well say that I will take all the consequences of my silence or my +speech.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel rose again. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Mr. Aylmore,” he said. “I will put certain +questions to you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was that quite true as regards yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite true—absolutely true.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!” +</p> + +<p> +“Equally true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these +witnesses came on the scene, was not true?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true.” +</p> + +<p> +“True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on +Waterloo Bridge!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the Anglo-Orient +Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly afterwards we +parted—I did not say where we parted. I see there is a shorthand writer +here who is taking everything down—ask him if that is not exactly what I +said?” +</p> + +<p> +A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the Treasury +Counsel showed plain annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of +ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open streets +after crossing Waterloo Bridge,” he said. “Now—?” +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten any +more than I am for your understanding,” he said, with a sneer. “I +said what I now repeat—Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, and +shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have +admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely correct, +perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did part?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will—willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain +Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then—to reiterate—it was you who took Marbury into the +Temple that night?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night.” +</p> + +<p> +There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate was +fact—solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible course +of events which he had not anticipated. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain +danger to yourself in making it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Why did you not make it before?” +</p> + +<p> +“For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for the +purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I asked to be +allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as soon as Mr. Lyell had +left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am willing to make it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make it then.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is simply this,” said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. “I +have found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set of +chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally—very occasionally, as +a rule—go late at night. I also found it convenient, for my own +reasons—with which, I think, no one has anything to do—to rent +those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my chambers that +Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight with which we are +dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at the very outside: I +parted from him at my outer door, and I understood that he would leave the +Temple by the way we had entered and would drive or walk straight back to his +hotel. That is the whole truth. I wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told +all this at first. I had reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered +necessary, that I parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after +midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all this +at first?” asked the Treasury Counsel. +</p> + +<p> +“Reasons which are private to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell them to the court?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in +Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for him +for twenty years or more.” +</p> + +<p> +“A document of importance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of very great importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would have it on him when he was—as we believe he +was—murdered and robbed?” +</p> + +<p> +“He had it on him when he left me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell us what it was?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“In fact, you won’t tell us any more than you choose to +tell?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact +that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told this +court?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I shall not answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more +about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“I also decline to answer that.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned to the +Coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry,” he said +quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“For a week,” assented the Coroner, turning to the jury. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming— +spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all mixed +up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily reckoning up the +value of the new complexions put on everything by the day’s work, +suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found himself gazing at Jessie +Aylmore. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER FOURTEEN<br/> +THE SILVER TICKET</h2> + +<p> +With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl aside from +the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a quiet by-street. +He looked down at her as she stood recovering her breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” he said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo. “But—the others? Your +sister?—Breton?” +</p> + +<p> +“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered. “They +knew I did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Tea,” he said, “is what you want. I know a queer, +old-fashioned place close by here where you can get the best China tea in +London. Come and have some.” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo said +nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, his +fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had installed himself and his +companion in a quiet nook in the old tea-house he had told her of, and had +given an order for tea and hot tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. +Then he turned to her. +</p> + +<p> +“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. “I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The girl gave him a searching look. +</p> + +<p> +“Ronald Breton says you’re the man who’s written all those +special articles in the <i>Watchman</i> about the Marbury case,” she +answered. “Are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’re a man of great influence,” she went on. +“You can stir the public mind. Mr. Spargo—what are you going to +write about my father and today’s proceedings?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He seized, +without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, and bit a great +lump out of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly,” he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, +“frankly, I don’t know. I don’t know—yet. But +I’ll tell you this—it’s best to be candid—I +shouldn’t allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making up my +conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the unconventionality +and brusqueness of his manners. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not wanting to prejudice or bias you,” she said. +“All I want is that you should be very sure before you +say—anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be sure,” said Spargo. “Don’t bother. Is +the tea all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beautiful!” she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at +her again. “Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think +about—about what has just happened?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally ornamented with +butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy hair. Then he ate more +tea-cake and gulped more tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I’m no great hand at +talking. I can write pretty decently when I’ve a good story to tell, but +I don’t talk an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless +I’ve got a pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I +think. When I write my article this evening, I’ll get all these things +marshalled in proper form, and I shall write clearly about ’em. But +I’ll tell you one thing I do think—I wish your father had made a +clean breast of things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had +told everything when he first went into that box.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he’s now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion +around himself. People’ll think—Heaven knows what they’ll +think! They already know that he knows more about Marbury than he’ll +tell, that—” +</p> + +<p> +“But does he?” she interrupted quickly. “Do you think he +does?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” replied Spargo, with emphasis. “I do. A lot more! If +he had only been explicit at first—however, he wasn’t. Now +it’s done. As things stand—look here, does it strike you that your +father is in a very serious position?” +</p> + +<p> +“Serious?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Dangerous! Here’s the fact—he’s admitted that he took +Marbury to his rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning +Marbury’s found robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards +off!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of +robbing him of whatever he had on him?” she laughed scornfully. “My +father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“May be,” answered Spargo. “But millionaires have been known +to murder men who held secrets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Secrets!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Have some more tea,” said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. +“Look here—this way it is. The theory that people—some +people—will build up (I won’t say that it hasn’t suggested +itself to me) is this:—There’s some mystery about the relationship, +acquaintanceship, connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury +twenty odd years ago. Must be. There’s some mystery about your +father’s life, twenty odd years ago. Must be—or else he’d +have answered those questions. Very well. ‘Ha, ha!’ says the +general public. ‘Now we have it!’ ‘Marbury,’ says the +general public, ‘was a man who had a hold on Aylmore. He turned up. +Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him to preserve his own secret, and +robbed him of all he had on him as a blind.’ Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“You think—people will say that?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Cock-sure! They’re saying it. Heard half a dozen of ’em say +it, in more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, +they’ll say it. Why, what else could they say?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then she +turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new interest in what +remained of the tea-cakes. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that what you’re going to say in your article tonight?” +she asked, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” replied Spargo, promptly. “It isn’t. I’m +going to sit on the fence tonight. Besides, the case is <i>sub judice</i>. All +I’m going to do is to tell, in my way, what took place at the +inquest.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on +Spargo’s big fist. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it what you think?” she asked in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Honour bright, no!” exclaimed Spargo. “It +isn’t—it isn’t! I don’t think it. I think there’s +a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of Marbury’s death, and I +think your father knows an enormous lot about Marbury that he won’t tell, +but I’m certain sure that he neither killed Marbury nor knows anything +whatever about his death. And as I’m out to clear this mystery up, and +mean to do it, nothing’ll make me more glad than to clear your father. I +say, do have some more tea-cake? We’ll have fresh ones—and fresh +tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” she said smiling. “And thank you for what +you’ve just said. I’m going now, Mr. Spargo. You’ve done me +good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, rot!” exclaimed Spargo. “Nothing—nothing! +I’ve just told you what I’m thinking. You must go?…” +</p> + +<p> +He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood vacantly +staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the shoulder. +Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!” he said. “Well, +it’s a pleasant change to squire young ladies after being all day in that +court. Look here, are you going to start your writing just now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not going to start my writing as you call it, until after +I’ve dined at seven o’clock and given myself time to digest my +modest dinner,” answered Spargo. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather +box,” said Rathbury. “I’ve got it in my room, and I’d +like to examine it for myself. Come on!” +</p> + +<p> +“The thing’s empty,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“There might be a false bottom in it,” remarked Rathbury. +“One never knows. Here, jump into this!” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the driver go +straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and himself into the +drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen him before. +</p> + +<p> +“What d’ye think of today’s doings, Spargo?” he asked, +as he proceeded to unlock a cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Spargo, “that some of you fellows must have +had your ears set to tingling.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so,” assented Rathbury. “Of course, the next +thing’ll be to find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. +When a man won’t tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was +exactly doing, what his precise relationship with another man was—why, +then, you’ve just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at +work on the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already—you bet! +Well, now, Spargo, here’s the famous box.” +</p> + +<p> +The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which he had +been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the lid and looked +inside, measuring the inner capacity against the exterior lines. +</p> + +<p> +“No false bottom in that, Rathbury,” he said. “There’s +just the outer leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging +stuff, and that’s all. There’s no room for any false bottom or +anything of that sort, d’you see?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury also sized up the box’s capacity. +</p> + +<p> +“Looks like it,” he said disappointedly. “Well, what about +the lid, then? I remember there was an old box like this in my +grandmother’s farmhouse, where I was reared—there was a pocket in +the lid. Let’s see if there’s anything of the sort here?” +</p> + +<p> +He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the tips of +his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a sharp exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“By George, Spargo!” he said. “I don’t know about any +pocket, but there’s something under this lining. Feels like—here, +you feel. There—and there.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s so,” he agreed. “Feels like two +cards—a large and a small one. And the small one’s harder than the +other. Better cut that lining out, Rathbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, “is just +what I’m going to do. We’ll cut along this seam.” +</p> + +<p> +He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining of the +lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects which he +dropped on his blotting pad. +</p> + +<p> +“A child’s photograph,” he said, glancing at one of them. +“But what on earth is that?” +</p> + +<p> +The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, much-worn +silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it was what seemed +to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost obliterated by rubbing; on the +other, similarly worn down by friction, was the figure of a horse. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a curious object,” remarked Spargo, picking it up. +“I never saw anything like that before. What can it be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know—I never saw anything of the sort either,” +said Rathbury. “Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. +Ah—you see, the photographer’s name and address have been torn away +or broken off—there’s nothing left but just two letters of +what’s apparently been the name of the town—see. +Er—that’s all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual +glance at the baby’s portrait. He picked up the silver ticket again and +turned it over and over. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Let me take this silver +thing. I know where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest +care of it, and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. +No connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right,” said Spargo. “Trust me.” +</p> + +<p> +He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, wondering +about this singular find. And when he had written his article that evening, and +seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street intent on seeking peculiar +information. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER FIFTEEN<br/> +MARKET MILCASTER</h2> + +<p> +The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned out of +the <i>Watchman</i> office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and knowledge in +one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not elsewhere in the +world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of course, a club; otherwise it +would not have been what it was. It is the simplest thing in life, in England, +at any rate, to form a club of congenial spirits. You get so many of your +choice friends and acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves +under a name of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to +your means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, and +there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what you please on +your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a small paradise of your +own of this description than to lounge about Fleet Street bars. +</p> + +<p> +The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the Octoneumenoi. +Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and Greek was a dark +mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate you once reached the +portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. You turned out of Fleet +Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as if you might suddenly find +yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. Then you suddenly dived down +another alley and found yourself in a small court, with high walls around you +and a smell of printer’s ink in your nose and a whirring of printing +presses in your ears. You made another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered +by bales of paper, crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after +falling over a few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up +past various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After a +lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and found it +heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself in a small +entresol, somewhat artistically painted—the whole and sole work of an +artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of lumber and +paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you saw the brass +plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal legal notice that this +club was duly registered and so on, and if you were a member you went in, and +if you weren’t a member you tinkled an electric bell and asked to see a +member—if you knew one. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the bell, and +asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a young gentleman +with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly hair that would have +done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course and shook Spargo by the hand +until his teeth rattled. +</p> + +<p> +“Had we known you were coming,” said Mr. Starkey, “we’d +have had a brass band on the stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to come in,” remarked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure!” said Mr. Starkey. “That’s what you’ve +come for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, stand out of the way, then, and let’s get in,” said +Spargo. “Look here,” he continued when they had penetrated into a +small vestibule, “doesn’t old Crowfoot turn in here about this time +every night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his nose +in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily column wherein +he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects of their spotting a +winner tomorrow,” answered Mr. Starkey. “It’s five minutes to +his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?” +</p> + +<p> +“A word with him,” answered Spargo. “A mere word—or +two.” +</p> + +<p> +He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and sound that +for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But the smoke was +gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the canopy Spargo made out +various groups of men of all ages, sitting around small tables, smoking and +drinking, and all talking as if the great object of their lives was to get as +many words as possible out of their mouths in the shortest possible time. In +the further corner was a small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi +very extra special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, +Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal +regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a route-map +of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his glass. +“Phew!—what an atmosphere!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. +“I’m on the house committee now, and I brought that very matter up +at our last meeting. But Templeson, of the <i>Bulletin</i>—you know +Templeson—he says what we want is a wine-cooler to stand under that +sideboard—says no club is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows +a chap—second-hand dealer, don’t you know—what has a beauty +to dispose of in old Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, +Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? +You see—” +</p> + +<p> +“There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, +Starkey, before anybody else collars him.” +</p> + +<p> +Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously came a +man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. He was a tall, +elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a big, sweeping moustache +stood well out against a square-cut jaw and beneath a prominent nose; a pair of +keen blue eyes looked out from beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore +neither hat nor cap; his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown +tweed; he looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his +flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive cricket +clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their wearer had been a +mighty figure in the public eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. +“Crowfoot, Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said +Spargo. “Here, I’ll get him myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like +a pandemonium.” +</p> + +<p> +Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. +</p> + +<p> +“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s +companionable. What is it, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I should +say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as any +man writing about ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden +flash of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just +now, anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with +old sporting affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you +to be the only man I know of that could tell anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up silver +ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on Crowfoot’s +outstretched palm. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly +turned the silver ticket over. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it +is?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of +these things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a +young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young +’un!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what is it?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic device +was almost worn away. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old +racecourse at Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s +what it is. One of the old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of +Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the +obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! +Bless me!—most interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. +“Don’t know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver +ticket over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in +Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got gradually +silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in June every year. +It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell through. I went to it +often when I was a lad—often!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like to +call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses of +the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a +great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its possessor—for +life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, anywhere. It also +gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on earth did you get this, +Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting it in his +purse. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The +fact is, I can’t tell you where I got it just now, but I’ll promise +you that I will tell you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue’s +free to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some mystery, eh?” suggested Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +“Considerable,” answered Spargo. “Don’t mention to +anyone that I showed it to you. You shall know everything eventually.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right, my boy, all right!” said Crowfoot. “Odd how +things turn up, isn’t it? Now, I’ll wager anything that there +aren’t half a dozen of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. +As I said, there were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. +They were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I’ve +been in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I’ve +seen these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces—oh, +yes!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo caught at a notion. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you get to Market Milcaster?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Paddington,” replied Crowfoot. “It’s a goodish +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” said Spargo, “if there’s any old sporting +man there who could remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for +instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Old sporting man!” exclaimed Crowfoot. “Egad!—but no, +he must be dead—anyhow, if he isn’t dead, he must be a veritable +patriarch. Old Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare +sportsman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may go down there,” said Spargo. “I’ll see if +he’s alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, if you do go down,” suggested Crowfoot, “go to the old +‘Yellow Dragon’ in the High Street, a fine old place. +Quarterpage’s place of business and his private house were exactly +opposite the ‘Dragon.’ But I’m afraid you’ll find him +dead—it’s five and twenty years since I was in Market Milcaster, +and he was an old bird then. Let’s see, now. If Old Ben Quarterpage is +alive, Spargo, he’ll be ninety years of age!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my +bit of experience,” said Spargo. “I know one—now—my own +grandfather. Well, the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I’ll tell you all +about it some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have another drink?” suggested Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; he still +had something to do. And he got himself away from the Octoneumenoi, in spite of +Starkey, who wished to start a general debate on the wisest way of expending +the club’s ready money balance, and went back to the <i>Watchman</i>, and +there he sought the presence of the editor, and in spite of the fact that it +was the busiest hour of the night, saw him and remained closeted with him for +the extraordinary space of ten minutes. And after that Spargo went home and +fell into bed. +</p> + +<p> +But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at +Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market Milcaster, and +in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an old-fashioned bedroom +looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And there, right opposite him, he +saw an ancient house, old brick, ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over +the door of which was the name, <i>Benjamin Quarterpage</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER SIXTEEN<br/> +THE “YELLOW DRAGON”</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in that +old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in further speculations +on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no particularly clear plan. +The one thing he was certain of was that in the old leather box which the man +whom he knew as John Marbury had deposited with the London and Universal Safe +Deposit Company, he and Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets +of Market Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market +Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to trace it. +How was he going to set about this difficult task? +</p> + +<p> +“The first thing,” said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, +“is to have a look round. That’ll be no long job.” +</p> + +<p> +For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from the +station to the “Yellow Dragon” Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a +very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide thoroughfare—the +High Street—with smaller streets leading from it on either side. In the +High Street seemed to be everything that the town could show—the ancient +parish church, the town hall, the market cross, the principal houses and shops, +the bridge, beneath which ran the river whereon ships had once come up to the +town before its mouth, four miles away, became impassably silted up. It was a +bright, clean, little town, but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo +had been quick to notice that in the “Yellow Dragon,” a big, +rambling old hostelry, reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be +little doing. He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his +arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and fifty +people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, evidently +tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like an artist, and an +unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in it. There was little +traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo’s windows; little passage of +people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a countryman drove a lazy cow as +lazily along; there a farmer in his light cart sat idly chatting with an +aproned tradesman, who had come out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything +lay the quiet of the sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open +windows stole a faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows +outside the old houses. +</p> + +<p> +“A veritable Sleepy Hollow,” mused Spargo. “Let’s go +down and see if there’s anybody to talk to. Great Scott!—to think +that I was in the poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours +ago!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally landed +in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure instinct turned +into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he entered the place. This was a +roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed apartment, looking out upon the High Street, +and was furnished and ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town +hotels. There were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which +had certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a +century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, and an +old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; there were +foxes’ masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case on a +side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and an antique +snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, old-fashioned bar in a +corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young woman seated behind it, who was +yawning over a piece of fancy needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered +as Andromeda may have looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And +Spargo, treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany +it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair. +</p> + +<p> +“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears +to me to be a very quiet place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. +Quiet. I see that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two +shades of emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, +that the place is undoubtedly quiet.” +</p> + +<p> +The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a new +specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into +the room took a chair near his own. +</p> + +<p> +“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked. +“It’s about all that one ever does see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much +of inanition?” +</p> + +<p> +The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you +can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured +Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this +town, then?” he added in a louder voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I +came here from Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In +Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten +months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dulness. +You must have an antidote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word +for Market Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in +here of a morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks +in—perhaps during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit +round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, +indeed!—what they want in Market Milcaster is new times.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo pricked up his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about +old times,” he said. “I love it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked +the barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if +you don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you +did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen drop in +here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that they +couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about old +days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very old men?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. +Quarterpage, across the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do +any business now—they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you +wouldn’t take him for more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, +further down the street—he’s eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. +Kaye—they’re regular patriarchs. I’ve sat here and listened +to them till I believe I could write a history of Market Milcaster since the +year One.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” +said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the barmaid’s +spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town until seven +o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no +more people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo was +glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the bar-parlour, where he +took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred part in which the old townsmen +had been reported to him to sit. +</p> + +<p> +“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the +barmaid, warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their +special pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if +anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and +you’ll hear all they’ve got to say.” +</p> + +<p> +To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, twenty-four +hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, the proceedings of +that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” at Market +Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the eighteenth century. Precisely +as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of +the High Street, an old gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching +Spargo’s eye, gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to +begin. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re +first tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and +became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black clothes, +with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe of grey whisker +and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times round his neck, and by +the expression of his countenance was inclined to look on life severely. +“Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No, but here’s +Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid. +</p> + +<p> +Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a little, +dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting cut, and of very +loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a flower in his lapel, and a +tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish angle. The other was a big, portly, +bearded man with a Falstaffian swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the +barmaid as he entered, and gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he +passed her. These two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially +designed to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly +as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s +a symposium.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. +“Grandpa’ll be here in a minute. We’ll start fair.” +</p> + +<p> +The barmaid glanced out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she +announced. “Shall I put the things on the table?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. +“Have all in readiness.” +</p> + +<p> +The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, set out +upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for making punch, a +box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she had just completed this +interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse when the door opened again +and in walked one of the most remarkable old men Spargo had ever seen. And by +this time, knowing that this was the venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of +whom Crowfoot had told him, he took good stock of the newcomer as he took his +place amongst his friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of +delight which were positively boyish. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety—a middle-sized, +sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed, and +strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was ruddy as a sun-warmed +pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his hand was steady as a rock. His +clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay +as if he had been going to a fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had +a pretty long lease of life before him even at his age. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began their +symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them—the five had the +end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the punch with all +due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each man lighted his pipe or +took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. Other folk came and went; the old +gentlemen were oblivious of anything but their own talk. Now and then a young +gentleman of the town dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer +and to dally in the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the +patriarchs: as for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said +that she believed she could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year +One. After discussing the weather, the local events of the day, and various +personal matters, the old fellows got to reminiscences of the past, telling +tale after tale, recalling incident upon incident of long years before. At last +they turned to memories of racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo +determined on a bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking +the silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device uppermost, on +the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a polite bow, said +quietly: +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN<br/> +MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK</h2> + +<p> +If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch—the second of +the evening—or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could +scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon them by +his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of conversation died +out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his cigar out of his mouth as +if he had suddenly discovered that he was sucking a stick of poison; all lifted +astonished faces to the interrupter, staring from him to the shining object +exhibited in his outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. +Quarterpage, to whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, +pointing with great <i>empressement</i> to the ticket. +</p> + +<p> +“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to +tremble a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a +little with the matter. “You recognize it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and +so does every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a +stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, young +gentleman, in this town.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should +I get it in this town if I’m a stranger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot +conceive how any person in the town who is in possession of one of +those—what shall we call them—heirlooms?—yes, heirlooms of +antiquity, could possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask +again—Where did you get that, young gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a +silent sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you +will tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, much +worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings of somebody or +something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. But—what is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous grunts. Then +Mr. Quarterpage spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, +young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges in +respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now unfortunately a +thing of the past,” he added. “Fifty—aye, forty!—years +ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was—was—” +</p> + +<p> +“A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It was a grand +thing—a very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured—are +treasured. And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. +</p> + +<p> +“I found this ticket—under mysterious circumstances—in +London,” he answered. “I want to trace it. I want to know who its +original owner was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful!” he said. “Wonderful! He found this +ticket—one of our famous fifty—in London, and under mysterious +circumstances. He wants to trace it—he wants to know to whom it belonged! +That is why he has come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I +appeal to you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in +Market Milcaster for—I don’t know how many years?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody looking at him +as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the whole town. +</p> + +<p> +“But—why?” he asked, showing great surprise. +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Why? He asks—why? +Because, young gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these +friends of mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our +fifty tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families to +whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most unexplainably +mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market Milcaster +family.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that +until the previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he +wisely refrained. “No, I’m certainly not,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not +drawing to a close—it is already within a few minutes of our departure, +young gentleman—I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from +memory, give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the +race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud +suit. “Never was such a memory as yours, never!” +</p> + +<p> +“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said +the fat man. “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.” +</p> + +<p> +“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It’s the +greatest blessing I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, +with a little thought. And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty +families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or if not +close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out how this young +gentleman—from London, did you say, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“From London,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of our +tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “It is—wonderful! But I +tell you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to +breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books and +papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of that ticket +was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage—Benjamin Quarterpage—and I reside +at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my breakfast hour is +nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily welcome!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo made his best bow. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly obliged by your kind +invitation, and I shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself in an +old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay with summer +flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, to Mr. Quarterpage, +Junior—a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always referred to by his father as +something quite juvenile—and to Miss Quarterpage, a young-old lady of +something a little less elderly than her brother, and to a breakfast table +bounteously spread with all the choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, +Senior, was as fresh and rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to +encounter so old a man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, +and of such a vigorous and healthy appetite. +</p> + +<p> +Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo’s possession +of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. Quarterpage was +still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had judged it well to enlighten +his host as to who he was, and had exhibited a letter with which the editor of +the <i>Watchman</i> had furnished him, told how in the exercise of his +journalistic duties he had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. +But he made no mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first +whither Mr. Quarterpage’s revelations would lead him. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no idea, Mr. Spargo,” said the old gentleman, when, +breakfast over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in +which were abundant evidences of the host’s taste in sporting matters; +“you have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of +one of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and +just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my dear sir, +were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the year 1781. They were +made in the town by a local silversmith, whose great-great-grandson still +carries on the business. The fifty were distributed amongst the fifty leading +burgesses of the town to be kept in their families for ever—nobody ever +anticipated in those days that our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The +ticket carried great privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his +family, male and female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the +holder himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand +race banquet—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has +been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the holder +of a silver ticket was to be somebody.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as +heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. +“They were dealt with as I dealt with mine—framed on velvet, and +hung up—or locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the +greatest care of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the +‘Dragon,’ that I could repeat the names of all the families who +held these tickets. So I can. But here”—the old gentleman drew out +a drawer and produced from it a parchment-bound book which he handled with +great reverence—“here is a little volume of my own +handwriting—memoranda relating to Market Milcaster Races—in which +is a list of the original holders, together with another list showing who held +the tickets when the races were given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that +by going through the second list, I could trace every ticket—except the +one you have in your purse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Every one! For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, +“the families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people +here in Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re +just outside the town, or they’re not far away. I can’t conceive +how the ticket you have—and it’s genuine enough—could ever +get out of possession of one of these families, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of +possession. I told you it was found in the lining of a box—that box +belonged to a dead man.” +</p> + +<p> +“A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “A dead man! Who +could—ah! Perhaps—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!—an idea. I +remember something now that I had never thought of.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and turned +over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. He pointed +this out to Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the +race-meetings came to an end,” he said. “If you were acquainted +with this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known +inhabitants—all, of course, burgesses. There’s mine, you +see—Quarterpage. There’s Lummis, there’s Kaye, there’s +Skene, there’s Templeby—the gentlemen you saw last night. All good +old town names. They all are—on this list. I know every family mentioned. +The holders of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the +tickets. Yes—and now that I think of it, there’s only one man who +held a ticket when this list was made about whom I don’t know +anything—at least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which +you’ve found must have been his. But I thought—I thought somebody +else had it!” +</p> + +<p> +“And this man, sir? Who was he?” asked Spargo, intuitively +conscious that he was coming to news. “Is his name there?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. +</p> + +<p> +“There it is!” he said. “John Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo bent over the fine writing. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, John Maitland,” he observed. “And who was John +Maitland?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many drawers in an +ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old newspapers, carefully +sorted into small bundles and tied up. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. +Spargo,” he said, “you would have known who John Maitland was. For +some time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place—aye, and in this +corner of the world. But—aye, here it is—the newspaper of October +5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’ll find in this old newspaper who John +Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I’ll tell you what to do. +I’ve just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day’s +business over with my son—you take this newspaper out into the garden +there with one of these cigars, and read what’ll you find in it, and when +you’ve read that we’ll have some more talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<br/> +AN OLD NEWSPAPER</h2> + +<p> +As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the middle page, +headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar and settled down to +read. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS<br/> +“TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND +</p> + +<p> +“The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on +Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the Recorder, Henry +John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on the bench by the +Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman Pettiford), the Vicar of +Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton, M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., +Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., +Captain Murrill, J.P., and other magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded +attendance of the public in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, +ex-manager of the Market Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court +were filled with the <i>élite</i> of the town and neighbourhood, including a +considerable number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in the +proceedings. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the +very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the occasion of +his last two official visits to Market Milcaster—he referred to the fact +that on both those occasions his friend the Worshipful Mayor had been able to +present him with a pair of white gloves—was not to be repeated on the +present occasion. It would be their sad and regrettable lot to have before them +a fellow-townsman whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position +in the life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the +most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the offence of +embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many years been the +trusted manager, and with which he had been connected all his life since his +school days. He understood that the prisoner who would shortly be put before +the court on his trial was about to plead guilty, and there would accordingly +be no need for him to direct the gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this +matter—what he had to say respecting the gravity and even enormity of the +offence he would reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury +on the merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later period +of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally returned a true +bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen from well-known burgesses +of the town having been duly sworn. +</p> + +<p> +“JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street, +Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd, 1891, +the sum of £4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, the Market +Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to his own use. The +prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most acutely, and who looked very +pale and much worn, was represented by Mr. Charles Doolittle, the well-known +barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. Stephens, K.C., appeared on behalf of the +prosecution. +</p> + +<p> +“Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any +desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think, had taken +a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular count in the +indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, in the interests of +justice, to set forth to the Court some particulars of the defalcations which +had arisen through the prisoner’s much lamented dishonesty. He proposed +to offer a clear and succinct account of the matter. The prisoner, John +Maitland, was the last of an old Market Milcaster family—he was, in fact, +he believed, with the exception of his own infant son, the very last of the +race. His father had been manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself had +entered the service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he left the local +Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at the age of thirty-two; he +had therefore occupied this highest position of trust for ten years. His +directors had the fullest confidence in him; they relied on his honesty and his +honour; they gave him discretionary powers such as no bank-manager, probably, +ever enjoyed or held before. In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all +intents and purposes, the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other words he +was allowed full control over everything, and given full licence to do what he +liked. Whether the directors were wise in extending such liberty to even the +most trusted servant, it was not for him (Mr. Stephens) to say; it was some +consolation, under the circumstances, to know that the loss would fall upon the +directors, inasmuch as they themselves held nearly the whole of the shares. But +he had to speak of the loss—of the serious defalcations which Maitland +had committed. The prisoner had wisely pleaded guilty to the first count of the +indictment. But there were no less than seventeen counts in the indictment. He +had pleaded guilty to embezzling a sum of £4,875 odd. But the total amount of +the defalcations, comprised in the seventeen counts, was no less—it +seemed a most amazing sum!—than £221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the +fact—the banking company had been robbed of over two hundred thousand +pounds by the prisoner in the dock before a mere accident, the most trifling +chance, had revealed to the astounded directors that he was robbing them at +all. And the most serious feature of the whole case was that not one penny of +this money had been, or ever could be, recovered. He believed that the +prisoner’s learned counsel was about to urge upon the Court that the +prisoner himself had been tricked and deceived by another man, unfortunately +not before the Court—a man, he understood, also well known in Market +Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore could not be called, but whether he +was so tricked or deceived was no excuse for his clever and wholesale robbing +of his employers. He had thought it necessary to put these facts—which +would not be denied—before the Court, in order that it might be known how +heavy the defalcations really had been, and that they should be considered in +dealing with the prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part of +the vast sum concerned. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the +remotest chance—the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting on +his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom he had just +made reference. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few words +to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens for the +considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had outlined the +main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the prisoner’s +guilt. But, on prisoner’s behalf, he desired to tell the true story as to +how these things came to be. Until as recently as three years previously the +prisoner had never made the slightest deviation from the straight path of +integrity. Unfortunately for him, and, he believed, for some others in Market +Milcaster, there came to the town three years before the present proceedings, a +man named Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a +stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible manners, +Chamberlayne attracted a good many people—amongst them his unfortunate +client. It was matter of common knowledge that Chamberlayne had induced +numerous persons in Market Milcaster to enter into financial transactions with +him; it was matter of common repute that those transactions had not always +turned out well for Chamberlayne’s clients. Unhappily for himself, +Maitland had great faith in Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions +with him in a large way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was +involved to vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and his methods, +he had entrusted him with very large sums of money. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was to +understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner’s own money. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred to +were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in Chamberlayne +that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and that these sums would be +repaid, and that a vast profit would result from their use. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put the +profit into his own pockets. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the two +hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question, Chamberlayne had had +the immediate handling of at least two hundred thousand, and he, the prisoner, +had not the ghost of a notion as to what Chamberlayne had done with it. +Unfortunately for everybody, for the bank, for some other people, and +especially for his unhappy client, Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as +these proceedings were instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible +to trace anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious +circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr. +Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder, might +think fit to pass. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few remarks +as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the unfortunate man in the +dock was that until three years ago he had borne a most exemplary character, +and had never committed a dishonest action. It had been his misfortune, his +folly, to allow a plausible man to persuade him to these acts of dishonesty. +That man had been called to another account, and the prisoner was left to bear +the consequences of his association with him. It seemed as if Chamberlayne had +made away with the money for his own purposes, and it might be that it would +yet be recovered. He would only ask the Court to remember the prisoner’s +antecedents and his previous good conduct, and to bear in mind that whatever +his near future might be he was, in a commercial sense, ruined for life. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a single +word of valid excuse for Maitland’s conduct. Such dishonesty must be +punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go to penal +servitude for ten years. +</p> + +<p> +“Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town +later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain points in +it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the house—to see old +Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER NINETEEN<br/> +THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY</h2> + +<p> +“I perceive, sir,” said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the +library, “that you have read the account of the Maitland trial.” +</p> + +<p> +“Twice,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have come to the conclusion that—but what conclusion have +you come to?” asked Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland’s property,” +said Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” agreed the old gentleman. “I think so—I +can’t think anything else. But I was under the impression that I could +have accounted for that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the other +forty-nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—and how?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a decanter +and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully polished the glasses +with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set glasses and decanter on a +table in the window, motioning Spargo to take a chair in proximity thereto. He +himself pulled up his own elbow-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll take a glass of my old brown sherry,” he said. +“Though I say it as shouldn’t, as the saying goes, I don’t +think you could find better brown sherry than that from Land’s End to +Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr. Spargo—no, nor further north either, where they +used to have good taste in liquor in my young days! Well, here’s your +good health, sir, and I’ll tell you about Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m curious,” said Spargo. “And about more than +Maitland. I want to know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper +report. I want to know something about the man referred to so much—the +stockbroker, Chamberlayne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. “I thought that +would touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when +Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then about two +years old. The child’s mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss Baylis, +appeared on the scene—Maitland had married his wife from a +distance—and took possession of the child and of Maitland’s +personal effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, +and all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small +personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket. And she +may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she took the child +away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in Market Milcaster. +Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things removed to Dartmoor, and +there he served his term. There were people who were very anxious to get hold +of him when he came out—the bank people, for they believed that he knew +more about the disposition of that money than he’d ever told, and they +wanted to induce him to tell what they hoped he knew—between ourselves, +Mr. Spargo, they were going to make it worth his while to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old gentleman +talked. +</p> + +<p> +“Then they didn’t believe what his counsel said—that +Chamberlayne got all the money?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No—nor anybody else!” he answered. “There was a strong +idea in the town—you’ll see why afterwards—that it was all a +put-up job, and that Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that +there was a nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the +bank people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special agent to +meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some mistake +arose—when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody’s ever +heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis has.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where does this Miss Baylis live?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “She did +live in Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I +have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after +Maitland’s release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to +trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in +Brighton, she’d completely disappeared, with the child, five years +before. So there wasn’t a clue to Maitland. He served his time—made +a model prisoner—they did find that much out!—earned the maximum +remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there’s a +theory about him in this very town to this very day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This. That he’s now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what +he got from the bank,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They say that the +sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the child, she +went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland, and that he went off +to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that was possible,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite possible, sir. But now,” continued the old gentleman, +replenishing the glasses, “now we come on to the Chamberlayne story. +It’s a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at first +sight, I’ll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions. +Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster—I don’t know +from where—in 1886—five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was +then about Maitland’s age—a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came +as clerk to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas’s +place is still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though +old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this Chamberlayne; he +made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old Vallas paid him a rare good +salary. He settled down in the town, and he married a town girl, one of the +Corkindales, the saddlers, when he’d been here three years. Unfortunately +she died in childbirth within a year of their marriage. It was very soon after +that that Chamberlayne threw up his post at Vallas’s, and started +business as a stock-and-share broker. He’d been a saving man; he’d +got a nice bit of money with his wife; he always let it be known that he had +money of his own, and he started in a good way. He was a man of the most +plausible manners: he’d have coaxed butter out of a dog’s throat if +he’d wanted to. The moneyed men of the town believed in him—I +believed in him myself, Mr. Spargo—I’d many a transaction with him, +and I never lost aught by him—on the contrary, he did very well for me. +He did well for most of his clients—there were, of course, ups and downs, +but on the whole he satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, +nobody ever knew what was going on between him and Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“I gather from this report,” said Spargo, “that everything +came out suddenly—unexpectedly?” +</p> + +<p> +“That was so, sir,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Sudden? +Unexpected? Aye, as a crack of thunder on a fine winter’s day. Nobody had +the ghost of a notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected +in the town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can +assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on that +grand jury as I did—I was its foreman, sir,—and hear a man +sentenced that you’d regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!” +</p> + +<p> +“How was the thing discovered?” asked Spargo, anxious to get at +facts. +</p> + +<p> +“In this way,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “The Market Milcaster +Bank is in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the +town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father, a young +Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a shrewd, keen +young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about Maitland, and he insisted +on the other partners consenting to a special investigation, and on their +making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught before he had a chance. But +we’re talking about Chamberlayne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, about Chamberlayne,” agreed Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening,” continued Mr. +Quarterpage. “Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town like +wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time—aye, and had +been for years—a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don’t +think there could have been more surprise if we’d heard that the Vicar +had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all over the +place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear that news like +everybody else. But it was remembered, and often remarked upon afterwards, that +from the moment of Maitland’s arrest nobody in Market Milcaster ever had +speech with Chamberlayne again. After his wife’s death he’d taken +to spending an hour or so of an evening across there at the +‘Dragon,’ where you saw me and my friends last night, but on that +night he didn’t go to the ‘Dragon.’ And next morning he +caught the eight o’clock train to London. He happened to remark to the +stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected to be back late that +night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. But Chamberlayne +didn’t come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn’t come back to +Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back it was in a +coffin!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo. “That was sudden!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, sir, he came +back in his coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he’d +spoken of being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died +very suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his +brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler—you’ll find him down the +street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew of +Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, and +was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that telegram, Mr. +Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne had had a sudden +seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d died shortly +afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and friends in London, his +brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that there was any necessity +for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a wire to Stephen Chamberlayne +asking if there was aught he could do. And next morning came another wire from +Stephen saying that no inquest would be necessary, as the doctor had been +present and able to certify the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all +arrangements for the funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a +vault in our cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury +him in it, with her.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and theories; he +was taking everything in. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after +that, they brought Chamberlayne’s body down. Three of ’em came with +it—Stephen Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a +solicitor. Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As +Chamberlayne had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met +the body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of us +who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he had +come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s account, +our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet him at the +Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him there when he arrived, +and they had lunch together. After that, they got to their business in a +private room. Towards the end of the afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly +ill, and though they got a doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The +doctor said he’d a diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the +cause of his death, so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told +you.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at some +reminiscence which occurred to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came +all the Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne +had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely certain that +most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had +left practically nothing. All that could be traced was about three or four +thousand pounds. He’d left everything to his nephew, Stephen. There +wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums with which Maitland had entrusted +him. And then people began to talk, and they said what some of them say to this +very day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted with +lead!” he answered. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY<br/> +MAITLAND <i>ALIAS</i> MARBURY</h2> + +<p> +This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in +Spargo’s mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his +imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his informant, +who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor’s surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to tell me,” said Spargo at last, “that there +are people in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery +which is said to contain Chamberlayne’s body contains—lead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lots of ’em, my dear sir!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. +“Lots of ’em! Go out in the street and ask the first six men you +meet, and I’ll go bail that four out of the six believe it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take steps +to make certain?” asked Spargo. “Why didn’t they get an order +for exhumation?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it was nobody’s particular business to do so,” +answered Mr. Quarterpage. “You don’t know country-town life, my +dear sir. In towns like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, +but they’re always slow to do anything. It’s a case of who’ll +start first—of initiative. And if they see it’s going to cost +anything—then they’ll have nothing to do with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—the bank people?” suggested Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did +die,” he said. “They’re very old-fashioned, +conservative-minded people, the Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted +the version of the nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now +I’ll tell you something about those three. There was a man here in the +town, a gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper +you’ve got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and +he began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some +good—what do you call it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he’d call it ‘copy,’” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Copy’—that was his term,” agreed Mr. +Quarterpage. “Well, he took the trouble to go to London to ask some quiet +questions of the nephew, Stephen. That was just twelve months after +Chamberlayne had been buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left +England—months before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they +didn’t know which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the +doctor—couldn’t be traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical +Register. What do you think of all that, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” answered Spargo, “that Market Milcaster folk are +considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired into. The +whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody’s business,” said Mr. +Quarterpage. “The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, +but it was no good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo, “what’s your own honest +opinion?” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said. “I’ve often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I +really have an opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about +the whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it. But +we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old silver +ticket which you’ve got in your purse. Now——” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag +of his forefinger. “No! I think we’re coming nearer to it. Now +you’ve given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a +lot, and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I’m going to show you +something.” +</p> + +<p> +And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph of John +Marbury—the original of the process-picture which he had had made for the +<i>Watchman</i>. He handed it over. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?” he +asked. “Look at it well and closely.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the photograph +from several points of view. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” he said at last with a shake of the head. “I +don’t recognize it at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t see in it any resemblance to any man you’ve ever +known?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, none!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “None +whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table +between them. “Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was +like when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was +when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course, quite +well?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you +photographs of both men as they were just before Maitland’s trial. I have +a photograph of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken +at a municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. +It’s been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, +and I’ve no doubt it’s as fresh as when it was taken.” +</p> + +<p> +He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph which +he laid on the table before his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are, sir,” he said. “Quite fresh, you see—it +must be getting on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that +it’s been kept in. Now, that’s Maitland. And that’s +Chamberlayne.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an ivy-covered +wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange masses of sitters. +He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw +two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built men about whom there was nothing +very specially noticeable. +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” he said, musingly. “Both bearded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they both wore beards—full beards,” assented Mr. +Quarterpage. “And you see, they weren’t so much alike. But Maitland +was a much darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while +Chamberlayne’s were rather a bright blue.” +</p> + +<p> +“The removal of a beard makes a great difference,” remarked Spargo. +He looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with that of +Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. “And twenty years makes a +difference, too,” he added musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir,” said +the old gentleman. “To others it makes none—I haven’t changed +much, they tell me, during the past twenty years. But I’ve known men +change—age, almost beyond recognition!—in five years. It depends, +sir, on what they go through.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his pockets, and +looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to tell you what +I’m after, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m sure you’ve heard all about +what’s known as the Middle Temple Murder—the Marbury case?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’ve read of it,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the +<i>Watchman</i>?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man,” +he replied. “I take the <i>Times</i>, sir—we always took it, aye, +even in the days when newspapers were taxed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Spargo. “But perhaps I can tell you a +little more than you’ve read, for I’ve been working up that case +ever since the body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if +you’ll just give me your attention, I’ll tell you the whole story +from that moment until—now.” +</p> + +<p> +And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case from the +first instant of his own connection with it until the discovery of the silver +ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt attention, nodding his head from +time to time as the younger man made his points. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Mr. Quarterpage,” concluded Spargo, “this is the +point I’ve come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient +Hotel as John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane +that night, was John Maitland—I haven’t a doubt about it after +learning what you tell me about the silver ticket. I’ve found out a great +deal that’s valuable here, and I think I’m getting nearer to a +solution of the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered John +Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne affair has +led me to think this—there may have been people, or a person, in London, +who was anxious to get Marbury, as we’ll call him, out of the way, and +who somehow encountered him that night—anxious to silence him, I mean, +because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I wondered, as there is so much mystery +about him, and as he won’t give any account of himself, if this man +Aylmore was really Chamberlayne. Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore’s a +tall, finely-built man, quite six feet in height, and his beard, though +it’s now getting grizzled, has been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, +was a medium-sized, fair man, with blue eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so, sir,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, a +middling-sized man, and fair—very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!—this +is a revelation. And you really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury +are one and the same person?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure of it, now,” said Spargo. “I see it in this +way. Maitland, on his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At +last he comes back, evidently well-to-do. He’s murdered the very day of +his arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him—Aylmore +won’t tell all he knows; that’s flat. But Aylmore’s admitted +that he knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three +years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That’s a +vague term. He won’t say where—he won’t say anything +definite—he won’t even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those +days. Do you recollect anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see +Maitland, Mr. Quarterpage?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t,” answered Mr. Quarterpage. “Maitland was a +very quiet, retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I +never remember that he had visitors; certainly I’ve no recollection of +such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, would be at +that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have,” he said, +“I’ll tell you of something that occurred across there at the +‘Dragon’ only a few months before the Maitland affair came out. +There were some of us in there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland +came in with Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up +to town next day—he was always to and fro—and we got talking about +London. And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed he was +about the only man of his age in England—and, of course, he meant of his +class and means—who’d never even seen London! And I don’t +think he ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I’m +sure he didn’t, for if he had, I should have heard of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s queer,” remarked Spargo. “It’s very +queer. For I’m certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. +My theory about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully +planted before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that +he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; and +that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in it all these +years. Now——” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid looked in +at her master. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the boots from the ‘Dragon’ at the front door, +sir,” she said. “He’s brought two telegrams across from there +for Mr. Spargo, thinking he might like to have them at once.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE<br/> +ARRESTED</h2> + +<p> +Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots of the +“Dragon,” and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages +hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s important news,” he said as he closed the library +door and resumed his seat. “I’ll read these telegrams to you, sir, +and then we can discuss them in the light of what we’ve been talking +about this morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to +Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he hailed +from—Coolumbidgee. That report’s just reached the <i>Watchman</i>, +and they’ve wired it on to me. It’s from the chief of police at +Coolumbidgee to the editor of the <i>Watchman</i>, London:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was +unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable means and +bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, Andrew Robertson, who +is still here, and who says that Marbury never told him anything about himself +except that he had emigrated for health reasons and was a widower. He mentioned +that he had had a son who was dead, and was now without relations. He lived a +very quiet, steady life on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. +About six months ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning +told Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of some +news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the farm. Robertson +bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and Marbury shortly afterwards +left for Melbourne. From what we could gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was +probably in command of five or six thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told +Robertson that he had met a man in Melbourne who had given him news that +surprised him, but did not say what news. He had in his possession when he left +Robertson exactly the luggage he brought with him when he came—a stout +portmanteau and a small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left +behind at Coolumbidgee.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams +on the table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now +here’s more startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard +detective that I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage—he promised, you know, to +keep me posted in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. +Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry +back if you want material for to-morrow’s paper.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman glanced at +both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I +looked the trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the +1.20 to Paddington—that’ll get me in before half-past four. +I’ve an hour yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market +Milcaster. That’s the photographer—or a photographer. You remember +I told you of the photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m +calculating that that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who +took it—if he’s alive and I can find him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, +“and he’s been here for a good many years—Cooper. I’ll +take you to him—it’s only a few doors away.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. He put a +direct question to Mr. Cooper—an elderly man. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the +bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr. +Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to ask a +few questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper. “As well as if it had +been yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down one +labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he laid it on +his table before his callers. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are, sir,” he said. “That’s the +child!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. +“Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s the same +photograph we found in the leather box with the silver ticket. I’m +obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. Now, there’s just one more question I want to +ask. Did you ever supply any further copies of this photograph to anybody after +the Maitland affair?—that is; after the family had left the town?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied the photographer. “I supplied half a dozen +copies to Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, +brought him here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, +too,” he continued, beginning to turn over another old file. “I +have it somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked. +“As I told you, she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were +made after Maitland’s release.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper. “I sent six copies of that +photograph to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester +Square, Bayswater, W.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for his +courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he turned to the old +gentleman with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he +exclaimed. “Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. +I’m as certain of that as that I see your Town Hall there.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you—as I do—for all your kindness and assistance, and +get off to town by this 1.20,” replied Spargo. “And I shan’t +fail to let you know how things go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, +“do you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis. “I don’t! And I +think we’ve got a good deal to do before we find out who did.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his journey +to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his neighbours; it +was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to something else than the +theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so many days. But at Reading the +newspaper boys were shouting the news of the arrest of a Member of Parliament, +and Spargo, glancing out of the window, caught sight of a newspaper placard: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE MARBURY MURDER CASE<br/> +ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE +</p> + +<p> +He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding it, found +a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press news: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o’clock this +afternoon, on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned +in the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June 21st +last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten o’clock +tomorrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. He met +Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the detective turned back. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, so there you are!” he said. “I suppose you’ve +heard the news?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“What led to it?” he asked abruptly. “There must have been +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was something,” he replied. “The thing—stick, +bludgeon, whatever you like to call it, some foreign article—with which +Marbury was struck down was found last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“It was proved to be Aylmore’s property,” answered Rathbury. +“It was a South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain +Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where was it found?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever he +was!” he replied. “Do you know, it had been dropped into a +sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane—actually! Perhaps the murderer thought +it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of course, it was +bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday evening, and it was +quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for Aylmore as having been in his +rooms ever since she knew them.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does Aylmore say about it?” asked Spargo. “I suppose +he’s said something?” +</p> + +<p> +“Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought it from +South America with him,” announced Rathbury; “but that he +doesn’t remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks that it +was stolen from them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” said Spargo, musingly. “But—how do you know that +was the thing that Marbury was struck down with?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury smiled grimly. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some of his hair on it—mixed with blood,” he +answered. “No doubt about that. Well—anything come of your jaunt +westward?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Lots!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good?” asked Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“Extra good. I’ve found out who Marbury really was.” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Really?” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt, to my mind. I’m certain of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention. +</p> + +<p> +“And who was he?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster,” replied Spargo. +“Ex-bank manager. Also ex-convict.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ex-convict!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in +autumn, 1891, to ten years’ penal servitude, for embezzling the +bank’s money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his +term at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. +That’s who Marbury was—Maitland. Dead—certain!” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury still stared at his caller. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” he said. “Tell all about it, Spargo. Let’s +hear every detail. I’ll tell you all I know after. But what I +know’s nothing to that.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, and the +detective listened with rapt attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said at the end. “Yes—I don’t think +there’s much doubt about that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn’t +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo yawned. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there,” he said. “I +haven’t so much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all +in Aylmore.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “The thing to find out is—who is +Aylmore, or who was he, twenty years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your people haven’t found anything out, then?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he +returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since,” +answered Rathbury, smiling. “They’ve no previous dates to go on. +What are you going to do next, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seek out that Miss Baylis,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You think you could get something there?” asked Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” said Spargo. “I don’t believe for a second +Aylmore killed Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what +I call the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something—if +she’s alive. Well, now I’m going to report at the office. Keep in +touch with me, Rathbury.” +</p> + +<p> +He went on then to the <i>Watchman</i> office, and as he got out of his +taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore’s +daughters. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO<br/> +THE BLANK PAST</h2> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the elder +girl hung back diffidently. +</p> + +<p> +“May we speak to you?” said Jessie. “We have come on purpose +to speak to you. Evelyn didn’t want to come, but I made her come.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both to +follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed them in his +easiest chairs before he addressed them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve only just got back to town,” he said abruptly. “I +was sorry to hear the news about your father. That’s what’s brought +you here, of course. But—I’m afraid I can’t do much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie,” +said Evelyn Aylmore. “What can he do to help us?” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie shook her head impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Watchman’s</i> about the most powerful paper in London, +isn’t it?” she said. “And isn’t Mr. Spargo writing all +these articles about the Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and papers which +had accumulated during his absence. +</p> + +<p> +“To be absolutely frank with you,” he said, presently, “I +don’t see how anybody’s going to help, so long as your father keeps +up that mystery about the past.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” said Evelyn, quietly, “is exactly what Ronald says, +Jessie. But we can’t make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as +innocent as we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don’t +know why he wouldn’t answer the questions put to him at the inquest. +And—we know no more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have +begged my father to speak, he won’t say a word. We saw his danger: +Ronald—Mr. Breton—told us, and we implored him to tell everything +he knew about Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he +had anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and +now——” +</p> + +<p> +“And now he’s locked up,” said Spargo in his usual +matter-of-fact fashion. “Well, there are people who have to be saved from +themselves, you know. Perhaps you’ll have to save your father from the +consequences of his own—shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between +ourselves, how much do you know about your father’s—past?” +</p> + +<p> +The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said the elder. +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely nothing!” said the younger. +</p> + +<p> +“Answer a few plain questions,” said Spargo. “I’m not +going to print your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I’m only +asking the questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in +England?” +</p> + +<p> +“None that we know of,” replied Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody you could go to for information about the past?” asked +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“No—nobody!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard. +</p> + +<p> +“How old is your father?” he asked suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago,” answered Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“And how old are you, and how old is your sister?” demanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where were you born?” +</p> + +<p> +“Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San José province of +Argentina, north of Monte Video.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father was in business there?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There’s no +secret about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to +France—skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That’s how he made +his money.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know how long he’d been there when you were +born?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he married when he went out there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he wasn’t. We do know that. He’s told us the +circumstances of his marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from +England to Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was +like himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to +Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each other, and +they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer arrived.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your mother is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and +Jessie six, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you came to England—how long after that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two years.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that you’ve been in England ten years. And you know nothing +whatever of your father’s past beyond what you’ve told me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—absolutely nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard him talk of—you see, according to your account, your +father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina. He must +have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never heard him speak +of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that sort of thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to his +marriage,” replied Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“I once asked him a question about his childhood.” said Jessie. +“He answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that +he had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that it really comes to this,” remarked Spargo. “You know +nothing whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond +what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe? That’s +about it, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say that that is exactly it,” answered Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” said Spargo. “And therefore, as I told your sister +the other day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind +him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed him in +order to silence him. That isn’t my view. I not only believe your father +to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no more than a child +unborn of Marbury’s murder, and I’m doing my best to find out who +that murderer was. By the by, since you’ll see all about it in tomorrow +morning’s <i>Watchman</i>, I may as well tell you that I’ve found +out who Marbury really was. He——” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Spargo’s door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He +shook his head at sight of the two sisters. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I should find you here,” he said. “Jessie said she +was coming to see you, Spargo. I don’t know what good you can do—I +don’t see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My +God!—everything’s about as black as ever it can be. Mr. +Aylmore—I’ve just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and +I have been with him for an hour—is obstinate as ever—he will not +tell more than he has told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he +won’t speak about that knowledge of Marbury which he must have?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” said Spargo. “Perhaps we can give him some +information about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it’s not such a +difficult thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as +I was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who Marbury +really was.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“You have? Without doubt?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls showed no +sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received the news with as +much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury was a famous musician. +But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to Spargo that he saw a sense of +suspicion dawn in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Marbury—an ex-convict!” he exclaimed. “You mean +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Read your <i>Watchman</i> in the morning,” said Spargo. +“You’ll find the whole story there—I’m going to write +it tonight when you people have gone. It’ll make good reading.” +</p> + +<p> +Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo’s hint and went away, Spargo seeing +them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their father’s +innocence and his determination to hunt down the real criminal. Ronald Breton +went down with them to the street and saw them into a cab, but in another +minute he was back in Spargo’s room as Spargo had expected. He shut the +door carefully behind him and turned to Spargo with an eager face. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Spargo, is that really so?” he asked. “About Marbury +being an ex-convict?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so, Breton. I’ve no more doubt about it than I have +that I see you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of +Market Milcaster, who got ten years’ penal servitude in 1891 for +embezzlement.” +</p> + +<p> +“In 1891? Why—that’s just about the time that Aylmore says he +knew him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. And—it just strikes me,” said Spargo, sitting down +at his desk and making a hurried note, “it just strikes +me—didn’t Aylmore say he knew Marbury in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” replied Breton. “In London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” mused Spargo. “That’s queer, because Maitland had +never been in London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may +have done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to +South America long before that. Look here, Breton,” he continued, aloud, +“have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before he’s +brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Breton. “I can see him with his +solicitor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then listen,” said Spargo. “Tomorrow morning you’ll +find the whole story of how I proved Marbury’s identity with Maitland in +the <i>Watchman</i>. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore +as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he’s brought +up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters’ peace of mind +to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows about Maitland +twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. Why, I was asking his +daughters some questions before you came in—they know absolutely nothing +of their father’s history previous to the time when they began to +understand things! Don’t you see that Aylmore’s career, previous to +his return to England, is a blank past!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know—I know!” said Breton. “Yes—although +I’ve gone there a great deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything +earlier than his Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on +when he went out there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-seven or eight, at least,” remarked Spargo. “Well, +Aylmore’s more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his +life hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?” +</p> + +<p> +“My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland,” answered +Breton. “We kept up the acquaintance after our return.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?” asked +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs the +thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of little +else,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“And their theory—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!” replied Breton. +“Old Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his +very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every tenant +of the Temple.” +</p> + +<p> +“Longish business that,” observed Spargo. “Well, run away +now, Breton—I must write.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?” asked Breton as he +moved to the door. “It’s to be at ten-thirty.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I shan’t!” replied Spargo. “It’ll only be a +remand, and I know already just as much as I should hear there. I’ve got +something much more important to do. But you’ll remember what I asked of +you—get Aylmore to read my story in the <i>Watchman</i>, and beg him to +speak out and tell all he knows—all!” +</p> + +<p> +And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: “All he +knows—all!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE<br/> +MISS BAYLIS</h2> + +<p> +Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those +pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely given up to +the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and boarding-house keeper. +They are very pretentious, those squares, with their many-storied houses, their +stuccoed frontages, and their pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent +country folk, coming into them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, +take them to be the residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live +nowhere else but in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the +fact that young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in +more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the country folk +to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but others, more knowing, are +aware that they are Swiss or German waiters whose linen might be cleaner. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as the door +was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and bacon, of fish and +chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of overcoats, wraps, and sticks +in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid to answer the bell. And presently, +in answer to his enquiries, there was the usual type of landlady confronting +him, a more than middle-aged person who desired to look younger, and made +attempts in the way of false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that +somewhat air and smile which in its wearer—under these +circumstances—always means that she is considering whether you will be +able to cheat her or whether she will be able to see you. +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to see Miss Baylis?” said this person, examining Spargo +closely. “Miss Baylis does not often see anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” said Spargo politely, “that Miss Baylis is not an +invalid?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she’s not an invalid,” replied the landlady; “but +she’s not as young as she was, and she’s an objection to strangers. +Is it anything I can tell her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Spargo. “But you can, if you please, take her a +message from me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to +ask her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I should +be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will sit down,” said the landlady. She led Spargo into +a room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, evidently +inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with them and to amuse +himself by watching them knit or sew or read the papers, and he wondered if +they always did these things every day, and if they would go on doing them +until a day would come when they would do them no more, and he was beginning to +feel very dreary when the door opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after +one sharp glance at her, decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the +common. And as she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first +glance lengthen into a look of steady inspection. +</p> + +<p> +The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable +appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in height; she +was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and athletic. What at +once struck Spargo about her face was the strange contrast between her dark +eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in abundant coils round a well-shaped +head, was of the most snowy whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as +were also the eyebrows above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking +firmness; the jaw square and determined. And Spargo’s first thought on +taking all this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to +be a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an +unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract anything +out of those firmly-locked lips. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded to order +him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her that he made a +profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Spargo?” she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly +suited to her. “Of, I see, the <i>Watchman</i>? You wish to speak to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which they +were standing. +</p> + +<p> +“Open the casement, if you please,” she commanded him. “We +will walk in the garden. This is not private.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened window and he +followed her. It was not until they had reached the bottom of the garden that +she spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John +Maitland, of Market Milcaster?” she said. “Before you put it. I +must ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for +publication?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not without your permission,” replied Spargo. “I should not +think of publishing anything you may tell me except with your express +permission.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good faith, +and nodded her head. +</p> + +<p> +“In that case,” she said, “what do you want to ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John +Maitland,” answered Spargo. “I suppose you read the newspapers and +possibly the <i>Watchman</i>, Miss Baylis?” +</p> + +<p> +But Miss Baylis shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I read no newspapers,” she said. “I have no interest in the +affairs of the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole +devotion to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury +case—a case of a man who was found murdered?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not,” she answered. “I am not likely to hear such +things.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as great nor +as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and that there +actually are, even in London, people who can live quite cheerfully without a +newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “I believe that the murdered man, known to +the police as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John +Maitland. In fact, Miss Baylis, I’m absolutely certain of it!” +</p> + +<p> +He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern companion +to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign of being +impressed. +</p> + +<p> +“I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo,” she said coldly. “It +is no surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a +thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible disgrace on +those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was likely to die a bad +man’s death.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may ask you a few questions about him?” suggested Spargo in his +most insinuating manner. +</p> + +<p> +“You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers,” she +replied. “But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being +John Maitland’s sister-in-law?” +</p> + +<p> +“I found that out at Market Milcaster,” said Spargo. “The +photographer told me—Cooper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“The questions I want to ask are very simple,” said Spargo. +“But your answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to +prison, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis laughed—a laugh of scorn. +</p> + +<p> +“Could I ever forget it?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever visit him in prison?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Visit him in prison!” she said indignantly. “Visits in +prison are to be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to +scoundrels who are hardened in their sin!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him, for he forced himself upon me—I could not help myself. +He was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he come for?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“To ask for his son—who had been in my charge,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a thing I want to know about,” said Spargo. “Do +you know what a certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss +Baylis?—they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you had +a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went to prison, +you took the child away, first to Brighton, then abroad—disappeared with +him—and that you made a home ready for Maitland when he came out. +That’s what’s said by some people in Market Milcaster.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis’s stern lips curled. +</p> + +<p> +“People in Market Milcaster!” she exclaimed. “All the people +I ever knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that +cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would have +seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have given him a +crust of dry bread!” +</p> + +<p> +“You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man,” observed +Spargo, astonished at her vehemence. +</p> + +<p> +“I had—and I have,” she answered. “He tricked my sister +into a marriage with him when he knew that she would rather have married an +honest man who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal cruelty; he +robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Spargo. “Well, so you say Maitland came to you, +when he came out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—the boy was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I showed him the door!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?” enquired +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. +Spargo,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, in short,” said Spargo, “you never heard of him +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard of him again,” she declared passionately, “and +I only hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was +Maitland!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR<br/> +MOTHER GUTCH</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out on his +way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, when a new idea +suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that formidable lady. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just thought of something else,” he said. “I told +you that I’m certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad +end—murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ve told you,” she replied scornfully, “that in +my opinion no end could be too bad for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—I understand you,” said Spargo. “But I +didn’t tell you that he was not only murdered but robbed—robbed of +probably a good deal. There’s good reason to believe that he had +securities, bank notes, loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of +a large amount. He’d several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, +in New South Wales, where he’d lived quietly for some years.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis smiled sourly. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s all this to me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be +recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be somebody +who’s entitled to the lot. It’s worth having, Miss Baylis, and +there’s strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn +up.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its effect +with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as scornful as +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“I say again what’s all that to me?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but hadn’t the dead boy any relatives on his father’s +side?” asked Spargo. “I know you’re his aunt on the +mother’s side, and as you’re indifferent perhaps, I can find some +on the other side. It’s very easy to find all these things out, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and majestic +fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the interview was +distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and glared at the young +journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He was +quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, easy enough!” he said. “I could find out all about +Maitland’s family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. “How?” she +demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. +“It is, of course, the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his +short life. I suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, +and you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, +Miss Baylis?” +</p> + +<p> +But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall tell you nothing more,” she said angrily. +“I’ve told you too much already, and I believe all you’re +here for is to get some news for your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you +this—when Maitland went to prison his child would have been defenceless +but for me; he’d have had to go to the workhouse but for me; he +hadn’t a single relation in the world but me, on either father’s or +mother’s side. And even at my age, old woman as I am, I’d rather +beg my bread in the street, I’d rather starve and die, than touch a penny +piece that had come from John Maitland! That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, she +marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing no other +way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling sound in the +shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a queer, cracked, horrible +voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said distinctly and yet in a whisper: +</p> + +<p> +“Young man!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick and +bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he saw a +nondescript shape behind. “Who’s there?” he demanded. +“Somebody listening?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the cracked, +husky voice spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man, don’t you move or look as if you were talking to +anybody. Do you know where the ‘King of Madagascar’ public-house is +in this quarter of the town, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” answered Spargo. “Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, anybody’ll tell you when you get outside, young man,” +continued the queer voice of the unseen person. “Go there, and wait at +the corner by the ‘King of Madagascar,’ and I’ll come there +to you at the end of half an hour. Then I’ll tell you something, young +man—I’ll tell you something. Now run away, young man, run away to +the ‘King of Madagascar’—I’m coming!” +</p> + +<p> +The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel queer. But +he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he immediately turned on +his heel without so much as a glance at the privet hedge, and went across the +garden and through the house, and let himself out at the door. And at the next +corner of the square he met a policeman and asked him if he knew where the +“King of Madagascar” was. +</p> + +<p> +“First to the right, second to the left,” answered the policeman +tersely. “You can’t miss it anywhere round there—it’s a +landmark.” +</p> + +<p> +And Spargo found the landmark—a great, square-built tavern—easily, +and he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and +intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its suggestions +of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an old woman and leered +at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize how dreadful old age may be. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was dressed +respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her bonnet was smart; +her smaller fittings were good. But her face was evil; it showed unmistakable +signs of a long devotion to the bottle; the old eyes leered and ogled, the old +lips were wicked. Spargo felt a sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, +but he was going to hear what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to +look what he felt. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said, almost roughly. “Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance. +“Let us go inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a +lady can sit and take her drop of gin—I’ll show you. And if +you’re good to me, I’ll tell you something about that cat that you +were talking to just now. But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my +pocket, young man? Old ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you +know, little comforts.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; the +attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at her +presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which was a certain +brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her curiously as with +shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little of her wicked old face, +and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest which was not thirst but pure +greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw a new light steal into her eyes, and +she laughed in a voice that grew clearer with every sound she made. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow +that made Spargo long to get up and fly. “I wanted that! It’s done +me good. When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for +me—and perhaps another? They’ll do me still more good. And +you’ll give me a little matter of money, won’t you, young +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if +it’s made worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more +about Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I’m not going to tell you +that now, young man—I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket +what I shall want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I’m only +going to show you that I have the secret. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The woman leered and chuckled. “What are you going to give me, young +man?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two half-sovereigns. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if +you can tell me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, +now. And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!” +</p> + +<p> +The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand. +</p> + +<p> +“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored. “Let +me hold one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I +hold one of them. Let me—there’s a good young gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, whatever it +might be. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t get the other unless you tell something,” he said. +“Who are you, anyway?” +</p> + +<p> +The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the half-sovereign, +grinned horribly. +</p> + +<p> +“At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother +Gutch,” she answered; “but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and +once upon a time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I +went to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came to +live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to bring me with +her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven knows!” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I’ve got a hold on her, young man—I’ve got a +secret of hers,” continued Mother Gutch. “She’d be scared to +death if she knew I’d been behind that hedge and had heard what she said +to you, and she’d be more than scared if she knew that you and I were +here, talking. But she’s grown hard and near with me, and she won’t +give me a penny to get a drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a +right to her little comforts, and if you’ll buy the secret, young man, +I’ll split on her, there and then, when you pay the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before I talk about buying any secret,” said Spargo, +“you’ll have to prove to me that you’ve a secret to sell +that’s worth my buying.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I will prove it!” said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. +“Touch the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I’ll tell +you. Now,” she went on, more quietly—Spargo noticed that the more +she drank, the more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain +strength and her whole appearance to be improved—“now, you came to +her to find out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, +didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” demanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“And about that boy of his?” she continued. +</p> + +<p> +“You heard all that was said,” answered Spargo. “I’m +waiting to hear what you have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her +questions: +</p> + +<p> +“And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that she +told him the boy was dead, didn’t she?” she went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo despairingly. “She did. What then?” +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled knowingly. +“What then?” she chuckled. “All lies, young man, the boy +isn’t dead—any more than I am. And my secret is—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” demanded Spargo impatiently. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“This!” answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, +“I know what she did with him!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE<br/> +REVELATIONS</h2> + +<p> +Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his +journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since +entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear +anything material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared +that this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of +extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of getting +important information from her, he forgot all about Mother Gutch’s +unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only saw in her +somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he +exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch. +</p> + +<p> +“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she +replied. “I said I knew what she did with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, then?” demanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and favoured +Spargo with a look. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the secret, young man,” she said. “I’m +willing to sell that secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three +drops of cold gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, +when I was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth +something.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an +unexpected result of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” +continued Mother Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. +That’s plain language, young man.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could this +wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret which would +lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple Murder? Well, it would +be a fine thing for the <i>Watchman</i> if the clearing up of everything came +through one of its men. And the <i>Watchman</i> was noted for being generous +even to extravagance in laying out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent +money like water on much less serious matters than this. +</p> + +<p> +“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning +to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really wonderful +to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan had become; he +did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver and on edge when he +first met her, and that a resort to her favourite form of alcohol in liberal +quantity had calmed and quickened them; secretly he was regarding her with +astonishment as the most extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was +almost afraid of her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, young man,” she said, “having considered matters, and +having a right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to +have would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid +weekly—none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and punctual, +every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient to the parties +concerned—but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies in my +sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it’s a great comfort to have +’em paid weekly.” +</p> + +<p> +It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her weekly dole +on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be Monday or Saturday, but +that, after all, was no concern of his, so he came back to first principles. +</p> + +<p> +“Even now you haven’t said how much,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Three pound a week,” replied Mother Gutch. “And cheap, +too!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might—might!—lead +to something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to death +within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was nothing to the +<i>Watchman</i>. He glanced at his watch. At that hour—for the next +hour—the great man of the <i>Watchman</i> would be at the office. He +jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, I’ll take you to see my principals,” he said. +“We’ll run along in a taxi-cab.” +</p> + +<p> +“With all the pleasure in the world, young man,” replied Mother +Gutch; “when you’ve given me that other half-sovereign. As for +principals, I’d far rather talk business with masters than with +men—though I mean no disrespect to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second half-sovereign, +and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. But when that came round he had to +wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a third glass of gin and purchased a flask of +the same beverage to put in her pocket. At last he got her off, and in due +course to the <i>Watchman</i> office, where the hall-porter and the messenger +boys stared at her in amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, +and he got her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the +presence of the mighty. +</p> + +<p> +What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the fortunes +and workings of the <i>Watchman</i> he never knew. It was probably fortunate +for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the facts of the Middle +Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an advantage in securing the +revelations of which Spargo had got the conditional promise. At any rate, they +accompanied Spargo to his room, intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with +the lady he had locked up there. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo’s room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was +soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and editor +in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before going into any +further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing with her until +something could be done to find out what likelihood of truth there was in her, +but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his own shrewd fashion, took his two +companions out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,” +he said. “She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest +importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as Spargo +says, she’ll probably drink herself to death in about as short a time as +possible. Come back—let’s hear her story.” So they returned +to the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by which the +proprietor of the <i>Watchman</i> bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch the sum of +three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the insertion of the +words “every Saturday morning, punctual and regular”) and then Mrs. +Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch settled herself to do so, +and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for word. +</p> + +<p> +“Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a +monkey’s tail nor so short as a Manx cat’s, gentlemen,” said +Mrs. Gutch; “but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland +affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane Baylis at +Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and close to the +sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and had saved a nice bit, +and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a little fortune left her by +her father, as was at one time a publican here in London, she had a good lump +of money. And all that money was in this here Maitland’s hands, every +penny. I very well remember the day when the news came about that affair of +Maitland robbing the bank. Miss Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw +it in the paper, and before she’d seen it an hour she was off to Market +Milcaster. I went up to the station with her, and she told me then before she +got in the train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her +sister’s, his wife’s, too, and that she feared all would be +lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Maitland was then dead,” observed Spargo without looking up +from his writing-block. +</p> + +<p> +“She was, young man, and a good thing, too,” continued Mrs. Gutch. +“Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly a +week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with her—which was +Maitland’s. And she told me that night that she’d lost every penny +she had in the world, and that her sister’s money, what ought to have +been the child’s, was gone, too, and she said her say about Maitland. +However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have seen better. And very +soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her and me talked +about things. ‘What’s the use,’ says I to her, ‘of your +letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking after it as you do, and +educating it, and so on?’ I says. ‘Why not?’ says she. +‘’Tisn’t yours,’ I says, ‘you haven’t no +right to it,’ I says. ‘As soon as ever its father comes out,’ +says I,’ he’ll come and claim it, and you can’t do nothing to +stop him.’ Well, gentlemen, if you’ll believe me, never did I see a +woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and swore that Maitland +should never see or touch the child again—not under no circumstances +whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, with an +apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, presently, +apparently refreshed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland’s taking the child +away from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times +about it, always saying the same thing—that Maitland should never have +him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers about it, +and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and a day or two +afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a lawyer, and he stopped a +day or two, and he came again and again, until one day she came to me, and she +says, ‘You don’t know who that gentleman is that’s come so +much lately?’ she says. ‘Not I,’ I says, ‘unless +he’s after you.’ ‘After me!’ she says, tossing her +head: ‘That’s the gentleman that ought to have married my poor +sister if that scoundrel Maitland hadn’t tricked her into throwing him +over!’ ‘You don’t say so!’ I says. ‘Then by +rights he ought to have been the child’s pa!’ ‘He’s +going to be a father to the boy,’ she says. ‘He’s going to +take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a gentleman of +him,’ she says, ‘for his mother’s sake.’ ‘Mercy +on us!’ says I. ‘What’ll Maitland say when he comes for +him?’ ‘Maitland’ll never come for him,’ she says, +‘for I’m going to leave here, and the boy’ll be gone before +then. This is all being done,’ she says, ‘so that the +child’ll never know his father’s shame—he’ll never know +who his father was.’ And true enough, the boy was taken away, but +Maitland came before she’d gone, and she told him the child was dead, and +I never see a man so cut up. However, it wasn’t no concern of mine. And +so there’s so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if +I ain’t giving good value.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said the proprietor. “Go on.” But Spargo +intervened. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy +away?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did,” replied Mrs. Gutch. “Of course I did. Which it +was Elphick.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX<br/> +STILL SILENT</h2> + +<p> +Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that made +Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her nerves to be none +of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of them with angry +malevolence. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t do that again, young man!” she exclaimed sharply. +“I can’t a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it’s bad +manners. I observed that the gentleman’s name was Elphick.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor—a +glance which came near to being a wink. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—Elphick,” he said. “A law gentleman I think +you said, Mrs. Gutch?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said,” answered Mrs. Gutch, “as how he looked like a +lawyer gentleman. And since you’re so particular, young man, though I +wasn’t addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One +of the sort that wears wigs and gowns—ain’t I seen his picture in +Jane Baylis’s room at the boarding-house where you saw her this +morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Elderly man?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Elderly he will be now,” replied the informant; “but when he +took the boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age,” she added, +pointing to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the +proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; “and not so very unlike him +neither, being one as had no hair on his face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Spargo. “And where did this Mr. Elphick take the +boy, Mrs. Gutch?” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t no idea,” she said. “He took him. Then, as I +told you, Maitland came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And +after that she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight +tongue. Once or twice I asked her, and she says, ‘Never you mind,’ +she says; ‘he’s all right for life, if he lives to be as old as +Methusalem.’ And she never said more, and I never said more. But,” +continued Mrs. Gutch, whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears +away, “she’s treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a +little comfort such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two +of you a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, +‘Now’s the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!’ +And I hope I done it.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head slightly. He +meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted from Mother Gutch. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?” he +asked. “You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you +like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which I shall be obliged for, young man,” said Mrs. Gutch, +“and likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every +Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a Friday, +whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first week in my purse, +and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes and go to a friend of mine +where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the dust of my feet off against Jane +Baylis and where I’ve been living with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch,” said Spargo, with some anxiety, “if +you go back there tonight, you’ll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis +that you’ve been here and told us all this?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man,” she said, “you mean well, but you ain’t +used to dealing with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I +like. I wouldn’t tell Jane Baylis my affairs—my new affairs, +gentlemen, thanks to you—not for two annuities, paid twice a week!” +</p> + +<p> +“Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then come +to my room,” said the editor. “And don’t you forget, Mrs. +Gutch—keep a quiet tongue in your head—no more talk—or +there’ll be no annuities on Saturday mornings.” +</p> + +<p> +So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier’s department and paid her her +first week’s money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and saw +her depart, and then he went to the editor’s room, strangely thoughtful. +The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they stopped when Spargo +entered and looked at him eagerly. “I think we’ve done it,” +said Spargo quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“What, precisely, have we found out?” asked the editor. +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal more than I’d anticipated,” answered Spargo, +“and I don’t know what fields it doesn’t open out. If you +look back, you’ll remember that the only thing found on Marbury’s +body was a scrap of grey paper on which was a name and address—Ronald +Breton, King’s Bench Walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit—I have accepted +two or three articles of his for our literary page.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of Aylmore, +the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street today with the +murder of Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know. Well, what then, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“But the most important matter,” continued Spargo, speaking very +deliberately, “is this—that is, taking that old woman’s +statement to be true, as I personally believe it is—that Breton, as he +has told me himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a +guardian. That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister.” +</p> + +<p> +The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore the +expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the same +conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a sharp +interrogation: “You think then——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is the +young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the room. +</p> + +<p> +“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the +mystery deepens. What do you propose to do, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling +him anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and get +an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse for wanting +an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand. “Leave it +entirely in Spargo’s hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep me informed,” said the editor. “Do what you think. It +strikes me you’re on the track.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still faintly +redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the reporter who had +been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up that morning. There was +nothing new; the authorities had merely asked for another remand. So far as the +reporter knew, Aylmore had said nothing fresh to anybody. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers. He +found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking unusually grave +and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from his outer door, beckoned +the journalist to follow him, and led him into an inner room. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a +chair. “This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you +told me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?” +</p> + +<p> +“To get him to tell all?—Yes,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Breton shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Stratton—his solicitor, you know—and I saw him this morning +before the police-court proceedings,” he continued. “I told him of +my talk with you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been +to the <i>Watchman</i> office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your +advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private +feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence against him; +how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth at once; how he had +certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion against himself; how, as the +evidence stands at present, any jury could scarcely do less than convict him. +And it was all no good, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t say anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll say no more. He was adamant. ‘I told the entire truth +in respect to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the +inquest,’ he said, over and over again, ‘and I shall say nothing +further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man on such +evidence as that, let it!’ And he persisted in that until we left him. +Spargo, I don’t know what’s to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“And nothing happened at the police-court?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he +was removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark—‘If you all +want to prove me innocent,’ he said, ‘find the guilty +man.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that,” said +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?” +exclaimed Breton. “Are you any nearer—is Rathbury any nearer? Is +there the slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, +apparently thinking. +</p> + +<p> +“Was Rathbury in court?” he suddenly asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He was,” replied Breton. “He was there with two or three +other men who I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in +Aylmore.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I don’t see Rathbury tonight I’ll see him in the +morning,” said Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, +sat down again. “Look here,” he continued, “I don’t +know how this thing stands in law, but would it be a very weak case against +Aylmore if the prosecution couldn’t show some motive for his killing +Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no necessity to prove motive in murder,” he said. +“But I’ll tell you what, Spargo—if the prosecution can show +that Aylmore had a motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that +it was to Aylmore’s advantage to silence him—why, then, I +don’t think he’s a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has been +shown.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know of none.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rose and moved to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“One of the biggest. Awful enthusiast.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think he’d tell me a bit about those Australian stamps +which Marbury showed to Criedir, the dealer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain, he would—delighted. Here”—and Breton +scribbled a few words on a card—“there’s his address and a +word from me. I’ll tell you when you can always find him in, five nights +out of seven—at nine o’clock, after he’s dined. I’d go +with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore’s. The two girls are in +terrible trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give them a message from me,” said Spargo as they went out +together. “Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN<br/> +MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS</h2> + +<p> +Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o’clock, asking +himself over and over again two questions—the first, how much does +Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him? +</p> + +<p> +The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a generation +of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was full of stairs and +passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the exact number of the set of +chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander about in what was a deserted +building. So wandering, he suddenly heard steps, firm, decisive steps coming up +a staircase which he himself had just climbed. He looked over the banisters +down into the hollow beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure +of a tall, veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening +of his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof with +Miss Baylis. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo’s mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his +extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that Miss +Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick—come, of course, to tell Mr. Elphick +that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was on the track of +the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it before, for he had been +busily engaged since the departure of Mother Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis +and Mr. Elphick would keep in communication with each other. At any rate, here +she was, and her destination was, surely, Elphick’s chambers. And the +question for him, Spargo, was—what to do? +</p> + +<p> +What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, where he +was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman did not look up. +But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she reached a landing, turned along +a corridor with decision, and marched forward. A moment later Spargo heard a +sharp double knock on a door: a moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; +he knew then that Miss Baylis had sought and gained admittance—somewhere. +</p> + +<p> +To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the landing +which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about—he had not, in +fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he went along the +corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He knew that all the doors in +that house were double ones, and that the outer oak in each was solid and +substantial enough to be sound proof. Yet, as men will under such +circumstances, he walked softly; he said to himself, smiling at the thought, +that he would be sure to start if somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But +no hand opened any door, and at last he came to the end of the corridor and +found himself confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters +on a black ground, Mr. Elphick’s Chambers. +</p> + +<p> +Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back as +quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the corridor from +which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a glimpse of the +Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and leaning on the sill looked +out and considered matters. Should he go and—if he could gain +admittance—beard these two conspirators? Should he wait until the woman +came out and let her see that he was on the track? Should he hide again until +she went, and then see Elphick alone? +</p> + +<p> +In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things slide for +the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river and the brown sails, +and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten minutes went by—twenty +minutes—nothing happened. Then, as half-past nine struck from all the +neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a second cigarette, marched straight +down the corridor and knocked boldly at Mr. Elphick’s door. +</p> + +<p> +Greatly to Spargo’s surprise, the door was opened before there was any +necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a benevolent, yet +somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and placid face, stood Mr. +Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled smoking jacket over his dress +shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the door well +open, and motioned the journalist to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “I was expecting you. Walk +forward into my sitting-room.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room into a +handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In spite of the fact +that it was still very little past midsummer there was a cheery fire in the +grate, and on a table set near a roomy arm-chair was set such creature comforts +as a spirit-case, a syphon, a tumbler, and a novel—from which things +Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick had been taking his ease since his dinner. But +in another armchair on the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding +figure of Miss Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She +neither spoke nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And +Spargo stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors, touched +him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo,” he said, as he resumed his +own chair. “I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up +your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages of +which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss Baylis +told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this morning I felt sure +that it would not be more than a few hours before you would come to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at +all?” asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner +unexplored,” replied Mr. Elphick. “The curiosity of the modern +pressman is insatiable.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo stiffened. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick,” he said. “I am charged by +my paper to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found +in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“My good young gentleman!” he said. “You exaggerate your own +importance. I don’t approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In +your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John Marbury +was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and you have been +trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him which, +when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused now. He looked +the old barrister full in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Elphick,” he said, “you are evidently unaware of all +that I know. So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, +and I will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs of +what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the <i>Watchman</i> +tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me—dear me!” said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. “We +are so used to ultra-sensational stories from the <i>Watchman</i> +that—but I am a curious and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so +perhaps you will tell me in a word what it is you do know, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table and looked +the old barrister straight in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know beyond +doubt. I know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without +doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is his son, +whom you took from that woman!” +</p> + +<p> +If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in which Mr. +Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more ample one than +that offered to him by the old barrister’s reception of this news. Mr. +Elphick’s face not only fell, but changed; his expression of almost +sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly resembling abject terror; he +dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, recovered himself, gripped the +chair’s arms, and stared at Spargo as if the young man had suddenly +announced to him that in another minute he must be led to instant execution. +And Spargo, quick to see his advantage, followed it up. +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall +know it tomorrow morning!” he said firmly. “Ronald Breton is the +son of the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the +daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is not matter +of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is fact—fact!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few words. +</p> + +<p> +“You—did—not—tell—me—this!” +</p> + +<p> +Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the lips and +as frightened as the man. +</p> + +<p> +“I—didn’t know!” she muttered. “He didn’t +tell me. He only told me this morning what—what I’ve told +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo picked up his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Elphick,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his chair +and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at him. He knew +then that for some reason or other he had given Mr. Septimus Elphick a +thoroughly bad fright. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he growled. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young gentleman!” implored Mr. Elphick. “Don’t +go! I’ll—I’ll do anything for you if you won’t go away +to print that. I’ll—I’ll give you a thousand pounds!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook him off. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough!” he snarled. “Now, I am off! What, +you’d try to bribe me?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick wrung his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean that—indeed I didn’t!” he almost +wailed. “I—I don’t know what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, +stay a little, and let us—let us talk. Let me have a word with +you—as many words as you please. I implore you!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“If I stay,” he said, at last, “it will only be on the strict +condition that you answer—and answer truly—whatever questions I +like to ask you. Otherwise——” +</p> + +<p> +He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching hands +on him. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” he said. “I’ll answer anything you like!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT<br/> +OF PROVED IDENTITY</h2> + +<p> +Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked at the +two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced such a curious +effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that, while they were both +frightened, they were frightened in different ways. Miss Baylis had already +recovered her composure; she now sat sombre and stern as ever, returning +Spargo’s look with something of indifferent defiance; he thought he could +see that in her mind a certain fear was battling with a certain amount of +wonder that he had discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she +was concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so many +words that now the secret was out he might do his worst. +</p> + +<p> +But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was still +trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair and the hand +with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the glass rattled against +his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The half-contemptuous fashion of his +reception of Spargo had now wholly disappeared; he was a man who had received a +shock, and a bad one. And Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This +man knows a great deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that +Marbury was Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland’s +son; he knows something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly +believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had buried +something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as astounded as he was +frightened to find that it had been at last flung up to the broad light of day. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall wait,” suddenly said Spargo, “until you are +composed, Mr. Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, +that the truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you +considerable—shall we say fear?” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown steadier, and +the colour was coming back to his face. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will let me explain,” he said. “If you will hear what +was done for the boy’s sake—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I wish. I can +tell you this—I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to +Mr. Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. “He says +that!” she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. “He says that, +knowing that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald +Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a scoundrel, an +ex-convict, a——” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick lifted his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush—hush!” he said imploringly. “Mr. Spargo means +well, I am sure—I am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear +me——” +</p> + +<p> +But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the outer +door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across the room, +walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A boy’s voice +penetrated into the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the <i>Watchman</i>, here? He left +this address in case he was wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger boys, and +jumping up, went to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Rawlins?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There’s Mr. +Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” answered Spargo. “I’m coming just +now.” +</p> + +<p> +He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have to go,” he said. “I may be kept. Now, Mr. +Elphick, can I come to see you tomorrow morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!” replied Elphick eagerly. +“Tomorrow morning, certainly. At eleven—eleven o’clock. That +will do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be here at eleven,” said Spargo. “Eleven +sharp.” +</p> + +<p> +He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“A word—just a word!” he said. “You—you have not +told the—the boy—Ronald—of what you know? You +haven’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo’s sleeve. He looked into his face +beseechingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me—promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won’t tell him +until you have seen me in the morning!” he implored. “I beg you to +promise me this.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo hesitated, considering matters. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well—I promise,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And you won’t print it?” continued Elphick, still clinging +to him. “Say you won’t print it tonight?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not print it tonight,” answered Spargo. +“That’s certain.” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick released his grip on the young man’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Come—at eleven tomorrow morning,” he said, and drew back and +closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And there, +calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an evening +newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as imperturbable as ever. He +greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “how’s things?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, throwing the newspaper aside, “I didn’t. +I came to tell you my latest. You’re at full liberty to stick it into +your paper tonight: it may just as well be known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. +</p> + +<p> +“Aylmore’s identified,” he said lazily. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sat up, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Identified!” +</p> + +<p> +“Identified, my son. Beyond doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“But as whom—as what?” exclaimed Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s an old lag—an ex-convict. Served his time partly at +Dartmoor. That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D’ye see? +Clear as noontide now, Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were fixed on +a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard the throbbing of +the printing-machines far below. But what he really saw was the faces of the +two girls; what he really heard was the voices of two girls … +</p> + +<p> +“Clear as noontide—as noontide,” repeated Rathbury with great +cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s clear as noontide?” he asked sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“What? Why, the whole thing! Motive—everything,” answered +Rathbury. “Don’t you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is +Ainsworth, by the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just +before Aylmore’s release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes +back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In time, +Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes back. The two +meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or threatens to let folk +know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is an ex-convict. +Result—Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him. Pooh!—the +whole thing’s clear as noontide, as I say. As—noontide!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo drummed his fingers again. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” he asked quietly. “How came Aylmore to be +identified?” +</p> + +<p> +“My work,” said Rathbury proudly. “My work, my son. You see, +I thought a lot. And especially after we’d found out that Marbury was +Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean after I’d found out,” remarked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury waved his cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, it’s all the same,” he said. “You help me, +and I help you, eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I +thought—now, where did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty +or twenty-two years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in +London—at any rate, before his trial, and we haven’t the least +proof that he was in London after. And why won’t Aylmore tell? Clearly +because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a sudden, +it flashed on me in a moment of—what do you writing fellows call those +moments, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Inspiration, I should think,” said Spargo. “Direct +inspiration.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on +me—why, twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor—they must have +met there! And so, we got some old warders who’d been there at that time +to come to town, and we gave ’em opportunities to see Aylmore and to +study him. Of course, he’s twenty years older, and he’s grown a +beard, but they began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was +the man they thought he’d a certain birth-mark. And—he has!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does Aylmore know that he’s been identified?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Know!” he said scornfully. “Know? He’s admitted it. +What was the use of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it +tonight in my presence. Oh, he knows all right!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he say?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair—that +when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He’s +certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game.” +</p> + +<p> +“And of what was he convicted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course, we know all about it—now. As soon as we found out +who he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or Ainsworth +(Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a sort of what they +call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up in the +North—Cloudhampton—some thirty years ago. He was nominally +secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the working +classes—Cloudhampton’s a purely artisan population—and they +stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly it came to +smash, and there was nothing. He—Ainsworth, or Aylmore—pleaded that +he was robbed and duped by another man, but the court didn’t believe him, +and he got seven years. Plain story you see, Spargo, when it all comes out, +eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“All stories are quite plain—when they come out,” observed +Spargo. “And he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn’t want +his daughters to know about his past?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” agreed Rathbury. “And I don’t know that I +blame him. He thought, of course, that he’d go scot-free over this +Marbury affair. But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy—oh, +yes!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few minutes, +Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last Spargo came back +and clapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Rathbury!” he said. “It’s very evident that +you’re now going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“After evidence like that!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course. +There’s the motive, my son, the motive!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Rathbury!” he said. “Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than +you did!” +</p> + +<p> +The detective got up and put on his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “Perhaps you know who did, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall know in a few days,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the door. +“Good-night!” he said gruffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Rathbury,” replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. +</p> + +<p> +But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the <i>Watchman</i>. All he wrote was a +short telegram addressed to Aylmore’s daughters. There were only three +words on it—<i>Have no fear.</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE<br/> +THE CLOSED DOORS</h2> + +<p> +Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the <i>Watchman</i> appeared next +day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple Murder. The +other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts of the +identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster Division, as +the <i>ci-devant</i> Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a time founder +and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society, the headquarters +of which had been at Cloudhampton, in Daleshire; the fall of which had involved +thousands of honest working folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. +Most of them had raked up Ainsworth’s past to considerable journalistic +purpose: it had been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall +of the Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble +investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy, too, to +set out again the history of Ainsworth’s arrest, trial, and fate. There +was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man who by his financial +ability had built up a great industrial insurance society; had—as was +alleged—converted the large sums entrusted to him to his own purposes; +had been detected and punished; had disappeared, after his punishment, so +effectually that no one knew where he had gone; had come back, comparatively a +few years later, under another name, a very rich man, and had entered +Parliament and been, in a modest way, a public character without any of those +who knew him in his new career suspecting that he had once worn a dress +liberally ornamented with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of +the morning newspapers made a couple of columns of it. +</p> + +<p> +But the <i>Watchman</i>, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries in +keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection with the +Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement. For after Rathbury +had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and his editor, and had sat long +in consultation with them, and the result of their talk had been that all the +<i>Watchman</i> thought fit to tell its readers next morning was contained in a +curt paragraph: +</p> + +<p> +“We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the +murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last, was +yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen Ainsworth, who +was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection with the Hearth and +Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily along the +front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a man on an +opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which indicated derision. +</p> + +<p> +“Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my +boy!” he remarked elegantly. “Why, you’ve missed one of the +finest opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A +miserable paragraph!—why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! What +were you doing last night, old man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sleeping,” said Spargo and went by with a nod. +“Sleeping!” +</p> + +<p> +He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple Lane. +It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to Mr. +Elphick’s chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer door. It +is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that hour, but +Elphick’s door was closed fast enough. The night before it had been +promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo’s first knock, nor +to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he murmured aloud: +“Elphick’s door is closed!” +</p> + +<p> +It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that +Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because +Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked slowly back +along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the stairs Ronald +Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at sight of Spargo paused, +staring questioningly at him. As if with a mutual sympathy the two young men +shook hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines +in the <i>Watchman</i> this morning,” said Breton. “It +was—considerate. As for the other papers!—Aylmore assured me last +night, Spargo, that though he did serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent +enough! He was scapegoat for another man who disappeared.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: +</p> + +<p> +“And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to +the two girls last night—it was good of you. They want all the comfort +they can get, poor things! But—what are you doing here, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. +Elphick—an appointment which he made when I called on him, as you +suggested, at nine o’clock. The appointment—a most important +one—was for eleven o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton glanced at his watch. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then,” he said. “It’s well past that now, and +my guardian’s a very martinet in the matter of punctuality.” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton with +troubled eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“So am I,” he answered. “I was trained to it. Your guardian +isn’t there, Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense—I never +knew him miss an appointment!” +</p> + +<p> +“I knocked three times—three separate times,” answered +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You should have knocked half a dozen times—he may have overslept +himself. He sits up late—he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the +night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton. “Come +on—you’ll see!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook his head again. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not there, Breton,” he said. “He’s +gone!” +</p> + +<p> +Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had seen +Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He seized +Spargo’s elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on!” he said. “I have a key to Mr. Elphick’s +door, so that I can go in and out as I like. I’ll soon show you whether +he’s gone or not.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“All the same,” he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the +latch, “he’s not there, Breton. He’s—off!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, man, I don’t know what you’re talking +about!” exclaimed Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. +“Off! Where on earth should he be off to, when he’s made an +appointment with you for eleven, and—Hullo!” +</p> + +<p> +He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and Miss +Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself up on the +threshold with a sharp exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” he cried. “What—what’s all +this?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo quietly looked over Breton’s shoulder. It needed but one quick +glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he had +quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he had left +Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a hurried hand, was the +little table with its spirit case, its syphon, its glass, in which stale liquid +still stood; there was the novel, turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, +was Elphick’s pipe. But the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The +drawers of a bureau had been pulled open and never put back; papers of all +descriptions, old legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the +centre-table and the floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had +been opened, its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the +grate, and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred paper; +it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, wherever he might +have disappeared to, had spent some time before his disappearance in destroying +a considerable heap of documents and papers, and in such haste that he had not +troubled to put matters straight before he went. +</p> + +<p> +Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then he made +one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. Together they entered +an inner room—a sleeping apartment. There was no one in it, but there +were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily packed a bag as he had +destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo had seen him wearing the +previous evening were flung here, there, everywhere: the gorgeous +smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in one corner, a dress-shirt, in the +bosom of which valuable studs still glistened, in another. One or two suitcases +lay about, as if they had been examined and discarded in favour of something +more portable; here, too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, +had been torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, +revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around him, +seemed to see all that had happened—the hasty, almost frantic search for +and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of clothing, of +packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and then the flight the +getting away, the—— +</p> + +<p> +“What on earth does all this mean?” exclaimed Breton. “What +is it, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean exactly what I told you,” answered Spargo. +“He’s off! Off!” +</p> + +<p> +“Off! But why off? What—my guardian!—as quiet an old +gentleman as there is in the Temple—off!” cried Breton. “For +what reason, eh? It isn’t—good God, Spargo, it isn’t because +of anything you said to him last night!” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him +last night,” replied Spargo. “I was a fool ever to let him out of +my sight.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton turned on his companion and gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Out—of—your—sight!” he exclaimed. +“Why—why—you don’t mean to say that Mr. Elphick has +anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God’s sake, +Spargo——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you’ll have to hear a good deal, Breton,” +he said. “I was going to talk to you today in any case. You +see——” +</p> + +<p> +Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which denote the +charwoman’s profession, entered the room and immediately cried out at +what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, you!” he said. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick +this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before +half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his breakfast. I see +him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his usual state of good +health, sir, if any thing’s the matter with him now. No, sir, I +ain’t seen nothing of him.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton let out another exclamation of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better leave all this,” he said. “Mr. +Elphick’s evidently gone away in a hurry, and you mustn’t touch +anything here until he comes back. I’m going to lock up the chambers: if +you’ve a key of them give it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the rooms, and +vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say?” he demanded. “I must hear—a good +deal! Out with it, then, man, for Heaven’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Not now, Breton,” he answered. “Presently, I tell you, for +Miss Aylmore’s sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on +your guardian’s track. We must—must, I say!—and at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit his own +senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on!” he said. “I know who’ll know where he is, if +anybody does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who, then?” asked Spargo, as they hurried out. +</p> + +<p> +“Cardlestone,” answered Breton, grimly. “Cardlestone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY<br/> +REVELATION</h2> + +<p> +There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as ever +manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry into which +Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was Breton paused at +the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and at the wall at its side. +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t it there?” he said in a low voice, pointing at the +place he looked at. “Wasn’t it there, Spargo, just there, that +Marbury, or, rather, Maitland, was found?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was just there,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Soon—afterwards?” +</p> + +<p> +“Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you +ask now?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his eyes on +walking into the entry, shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know,” he answered. “I—but come +on—let’s see if old Cardlestone can tell us anything.” +</p> + +<p> +There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside +Cardlestone’s door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was evident +to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Mr. Cardlestone’ll be in, sir,” she +said. “He’s generally gone out to breakfast at this time—him +and Mr. Elphick goes together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just see,” said Breton. “I want to see him if he is +in.” The charwoman entered the chambers and immediately screamed. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” remarked Spargo. “That’s what I expected to +hear. Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also—off!” +</p> + +<p> +Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in close +attendance. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God—another!” groaned Breton. +</p> + +<p> +If the confusion in Elphick’s rooms had been bad, that in +Cardlestone’s chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the +previous scene were repeated—drawers had been torn open, papers thrown +about; the hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and +sevens. An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like +Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his clothes, and +had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any corner. Spargo began to +realize what had taken place—Elphick, having made his own preparations +for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had expedited him, and they had fled +together. But—why? +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob; Breton +strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous objects tossed +aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the inner room. And Spargo, +looking about him, suddenly caught sight of something lying on the floor at +which he made a sharp clutch. He had just secured it and hurried it into his +pocket when Breton came back. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what all this means, Spargo,” he said, almost +wearily. “I suppose you do. Look here,” he went on, turning to the +charwoman, “stop that row—that’ll do no good, you know. I +suppose Mr. Cardlestone’s gone away in a hurry. You’d +better—what had she better do, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as +you’re a friend of Mr. Cardlestone’s give you the key,” +answered Spargo, with a significant glance. “Do that, now, and +let’s go—I’ve something to do.” +</p> + +<p> +Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned to Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you all I know, presently, Breton,” he said. +“In the meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick +or Mr. Cardlestone leave. I must know where they’ve gone—if I can +only find out. I don’t suppose they went on foot.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” responded Breton, gloomily. “We’ll go and +ask. But this is all beyond me. You don’t mean to +say——” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a while,” answered Spargo. “One thing at once,” +he continued, as they walked up Middle Temple Lane. “This is the first +thing. You ask the porter if he’s seen anything of either of +them—he knows you.” +</p> + +<p> +The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?” he answered. +“Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early +this morning—soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to Paris, +and they’d breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say when they’d be back?” asked Breton, with an assumption +of entire carelessness. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn’t,” answered the porter. +“But I should say they wouldn’t be long because they’d only +got small suit-cases with them—such as they’d put a day or +two’s things in, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had +already moved off. “What next?” he asked. “Charing Cross, I +suppose!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo smiled and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered. “I’ve no use for Charing Cross. They +haven’t gone to Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let’s +go back to your chambers. Then I’ll talk to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Once within Breton’s inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo +dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with earnest +attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Breton!” he said. “I believe we’re coming in sight of +land. You want to save your prospective father-in-law, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course!” growled Breton. “That goes without saying. +But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it,” said +Spargo. “You see——” +</p> + +<p> +“Sacrifices!” exclaimed Breton. “What——” +</p> + +<p> +“You may have to sacrifice some ideas—you may find that +you’ll not be able to think as well of some people in the future as you +have thought of them in the past. For instance—Mr. Elphick.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton’s face grew dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak plainly, Spargo!” he said. “It’s best with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied Spargo. “Mr. Elphick, then, is in some +way connected with this affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean the—murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I’m now dead +certain. And that’s why they’re off. I startled Elphick last night. +It’s evident that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that +they made a rapid exit. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? That’s what I’m asking you! Why? Why? Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because they’re afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, +their first instinct is to—run. They’ve run at the first alarm. +Foolish—but instinctive.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped to his +feet and thumped his blotting-pad. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo!” he exclaimed. “Are you telling me that you accuse +my guardian and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone, of being—murderers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of +knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I am also +accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all about Maitland, +alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he knew this dead man to be +John Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. And now, Breton, since it’s got to come out, we’ll +have the truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for +you’ll have to stand a shock or two. But I know what I’m talking +about—I can prove every word I’m going to say to you. And first let +me ask you a few questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me +unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to +prove the truth of that story?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person +who was particularly near you in your childhood?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years +old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall, dark +woman, I think, before that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself. “All right, +Breton,” he went on aloud. “I’m going to tell you the truth. +I’ll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations +afterwards. Your real name is not Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, +and you’re the only child of the man who was found murdered at the foot +of Cardlestone’s staircase!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at him with +some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he do?—what would +he say?—what—— +</p> + +<p> +Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. +“Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“I will—every word,” he answered. “It’s the right +thing. Listen, then.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the clock +outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought it to an end. +And all that time Breton listened with the keenest attention, only asking a +question now and then; now and then making a brief note on a sheet of paper +which he had drawn to him. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” said Spargo at last. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically. +</p> + +<p> +He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. +“What do you really think?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“About—what?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be +forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw Elphick +in last night. And it’s evident that Cardlestone shares in that fright, +or they wouldn’t have gone off in this way together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look +here!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which he handed +to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?” +</p> + +<p> +“That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of +those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. I +picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking into +his bedroom.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical +stamps. And whether they are or not——” +</p> + +<p> +“What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I +believe that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had +on him, and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. +And I will know.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton handed the stamps back. +</p> + +<p> +“But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they +didn’t murder—I can’t realize the thing yet!—my +father——” +</p> + +<p> +“If they didn’t murder your father, they know who did!” +exclaimed Spargo. “Now, then, it’s time for more action. Let +Elphick and Cardlestone alone for the moment—they’ll be tracked +easily enough. I want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get +an authority from the Government to open a grave?” +</p> + +<p> +“Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by showing +the very strongest reasons why it should be made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good! We’ll give the reasons. I want to have a grave +opened.” +</p> + +<p> +“A grave opened! Whose grave?” +</p> + +<p> +“The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster,” replied +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“His? In Heaven’s name, why?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laughed as he got up. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I believe it’s empty,” he answered. “Because I +believe that Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name +is—Cardlestone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE<br/> +THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER</h2> + +<p> +That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his +proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to the +offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the <i>Watchman</i> when it +wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate application +to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne grave at Market +Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning there appeared in the +<i>Watchman</i> a notice which set half the mouths of London a-watering. That +notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“W<small>HEREAS</small>, on some date within the past twelve months, +there was stolen, abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, +Temple, occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. Anderson, +a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of curious workmanship, +which stick was probably used in the murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in +Middle Temple Lane, on the night of June 21–22 last, and is now in the hands of +the police:<br/> + “This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the <i>Watchman</i> +newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (O<small>NE</small> +T<small>HOUSAND</small> P<small>OUNDS</small> S<small>TERLING</small>) at once +and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or she stole, abstracted, or took +away the said stick from the said chambers, and will further give full +information as to his or her disposal of the same, and the Proprietor of the +<i>Watchman</i> moreover engages to treat any revelation affecting the said +stick in the most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from +using it in any way detrimental to the informant, who should call at the +<i>Watchman</i> office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time between eleven +and one o’clock midday, and seven and eleven o’clock in the +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you really expect to get some information through that?” asked +Breton, who came into Spargo’s room about noon on the day on which the +promising announcement came out. “You really do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before today is out,” said Spargo confidently. “There is +more magic in a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I’ll have +the history of that stick before midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“How are you to tell that you won’t be imposed upon?” +suggested Breton. “Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me how +he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick,” said Spargo. +“I haven’t the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken away +from Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the hands +of—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I want to know in some fashion. I’ve an idea, +already. But I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one +thing—when I get that information—as I shall—we shall be a +long way on the road towards establishing Aylmore’s innocence.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a meditative +expression. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo,” he said, suddenly, “do you think you’ll get +that order for the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was talking to the solicitors over the ’phone just now,” +answered Spargo. “They’ve every confidence about it. In fact, +it’s possible it may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening +will be made early tomorrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you go?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch +with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there—you’re +concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to go—I will go,” said Breton. “And if +that grave proves to be—empty—I’ll—I’ll tell you +something.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll tell me something? Something? What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind—wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body +or lead and sawdust. If there’s no body there——” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached Spargo. +His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, showed signs of +something very like excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo,” he +said. “He’s been hanging about a bit, sir,—seems very shy +about coming up. He won’t say what he wants, and he won’t fill up a +form, sir. Says all he wants is a word or two with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring him up at once!” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when +the boy had gone. “There!” he said, laughing. “This is the +man about the stick—you see if it isn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re such a cock-sure chap, Spargo,” said Breton. +“You’re always going on a straight line.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trying to, you mean,” retorted Spargo. “Well, stop here, and +hear what this chap has to say: it’ll no doubt be amusing.” +</p> + +<p> +The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo’s +room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of good +<i>Watchman</i> money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a shy and +self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully apparent to everybody +and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the threshold, looking round the +comfortably-furnished room, and at the two well-dressed young men which it +framed as if he feared to enter on a scene of such grandeur. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in!” said Spargo, rising and pointing to an +easy-chair at the side of his desk. “Take a seat. You’ve called +about that reward, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without +suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” he said. “It’s all on the strict private. +Name of Edward Mollison, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where do you live, and what do you do?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel,” answered Edward +Mollison. “Leastways, that’s where I generally hang out when I can +afford it. And—window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning +when—when——” +</p> + +<p> +“When you came in contact with the stick we’ve been advertising +about,” suggested Spargo. “Just so. Well, Mollison—what about +the stick?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t no danger of me being got into trouble along of that +stick?” he asked. “’Cause if there is, I ain’t a-going +to say a word—no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no +trouble of any sort, guv’nor—though a poor man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison,” replied Spargo. +“Not the least. All you’ve got to do is to tell the truth—and +prove that it is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out +of Mr. Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, was it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his feelings. He +smiled weakly. +</p> + +<p> +“It was cert’nly me as took it, sir,” he said. “Not +that I meant to pinch it—not me! And, as you might say, I didn’t +take it, when all’s said and done. It was—put on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Put on you, was it?” said Spargo. “That’s interesting. +And how was it put on you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin. +</p> + +<p> +“It was this here way,” he answered. “You see, I was working +at that time—near on to nine months since, it is—for the Universal +Daylight Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and +there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore’s—only I knew +them as Mr. Anderson’s—among ’em. And I was there one +morning, early it was, when the charwoman she says to me, ‘I wish +you’d take these two or three hearthrugs,’ she says, ‘and +give ’em a good beating,’ she says. And me being always a ready one +to oblige, ‘All right!’ I says, and takes ’em. +‘Here’s something to wallop ’em with,’ she says, and +pulls that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner of the +lobby. And that’s how I came to handle it, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said Spargo. “A good explanation. And when you had +beaten the hearthrugs—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison smiled his weak smile again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something +uncommon,” he answered. “And I thinks—‘Well, this Mr. +Anderson, he’s got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up +there—he’ll never miss this old thing,’ I thinks. And so I +left it in a corner when I’d done beating the rugs, and when I went away +with my things I took it with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You took it with you?” said Spargo. “Just so. To keep as a +curiosity, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison’s weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing +his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his news was +imparting confidence to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Not half!” he answered. “You see, guv’nor, there was +an old cove as I knew in the Temple there as is, or was, ’cause I +ain’t been there since, a collector of antikities, like, and I’d +sold him a queer old thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye +when I took the stick away—see?” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. And you took the stick to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I took it there and then,” replied Mollison. “Pitched him a +tale, I did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle +Simon—which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare +curiosity—which it might ha’ been one, for all I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bought it there and then,” answered Mollison, with something very +like a wink. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for +it?” asked Spargo. “Something handsome, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Couple o’ quid,” replied Mollison. “Me not wishing to +part with a family heirloom for less.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove’s +name and his address, Mollison?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir. Which they’ve painted on his entry—the fifth or +sixth as you go down Middle Temple Lane,” answered Mollison. “Mr. +Nicholas Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Come this way, Mollison,” he said. “We’ll go and see +about your little reward. Excuse me, Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came back. +</p> + +<p> +“There—that’s one matter settled, Breton,” he said. +“Now for the next. The Home Secretary’s made the order for the +opening of the grave at Market Milcaster. I’m going down there at once, +and I suppose you’re coming. And remember, if that grave’s +empty——” +</p> + +<p> +“If that grave’s empty,” said Breton, “I’ll tell +you—a good deal.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO<br/> +THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN</h2> + +<p> +There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon, Spargo, +Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the order for the +opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting on behalf of the +proprietor of the <i>Watchman</i>. It was late in the evening when they reached +the little town, but Spargo, having looked in at the parlour of the +“Yellow Dragon” and ascertained that Mr. Quarterpage had only just +gone home, took Breton across the street to the old gentleman’s house. +Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door, and recognized Spargo immediately. +Nothing would satisfy him but that the two should go in; his family, he said, +had just retired, but he himself was going to take a final nightcap and a +cigar, and they must share it. +</p> + +<p> +“For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo as they +followed the old man into his dining-room. “We have to be up at daybreak. +And—possibly—you, too, would like to be up just as early.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he was +handling. +</p> + +<p> +“At daybreak?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” said Spargo, “that grave of +Chamberlayne’s is going to be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get +an order from the Home Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne’s +body: the officials in charge of it have come down in the same train with us; +we’re all staying across there at the ‘Dragon.’ The officials +have gone to make the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at +daybreak, or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that +you know of it, you’ll be there?” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “You’ve +really done that! Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all +these years. You’re a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. +And this other young gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. +“Mr. Quarterpage,” he said, “this young gentleman is, without +doubt, John Maitland’s son. He’s the young barrister, Mr. Ronald +Breton, that I told you of, but there’s no doubt about his parentage. And +I’m sure you’ll shake hands with him and wish him well.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young sir!” he exclaimed. “That I will indeed! And +as to wishing you well—ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor +father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me, what a +night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is found +empty—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” answered Spargo, “then I think we shall be able to +put our hands on the man who is supposed to be in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, +sir?” observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down +round Mr. Quarterpage’s hospitable hearth. “You think he was unduly +influenced by him?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Chamberlayne, my dear young sir,” he answered. “Chamberlayne +was a plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he +came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had contrived +to ingratiate himself with everybody—of course, to his own advantage. I +firmly believe that he twisted your father round his little finger. As I told +Mr. Spargo there when he was making his enquiries of me a short while back, it +would never have been any surprise to me to hear—definitely, I mean, +young gentlemen—that all this money that was in question went into +Chamberlayne’s pockets. Dear me—dear me!—and you really +believe that Chamberlayne is actually alive, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo pulled out his watch. “We shall all know whether he was buried in +that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then nearly +midnight, and before three o’clock Spargo and Breton, with the other men +who had accompanied them from London were out of the “Yellow +Dragon” and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. +Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the long +stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the sea was white +with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery hung veils and webs of +gossamer: everything around them was quiet as the dead folk who lay beneath +their feet. And the people actively concerned went quietly to work, and those +who could do nothing but watch stood around in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“In all my long life of over ninety years,” whispered old +Quarterpage, who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in +spite of his shortened rest, “I have never seen this done before. It +seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man’s last +resting-place—a dreadful thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“If there is a dead man there,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he had no +scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon the dead. He +watched all that was done. The men employed by the local authorities, +instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with canvas; the proceedings +were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a man was posted to keep away any +very early passersby, who might be attracted by the unusual proceedings. At +first there was nothing to do but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by +reflecting that every spadeful of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing +him nearer to the truth; he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at +any rate one phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the +coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the body of +the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his, Spargo’s, latest +theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that coffin contained no body +at all, then—” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re down to it!” whispered Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had +uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of them was +brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now strong light they +could all read the lettering on it. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE<br/> +Born 1852<br/> +Died 1891 +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the grave. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall know now!” he whispered to Breton. “And +yet—what is it we shall know if——” +</p> + +<p> +“If what?” said Breton. “If—what?” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had lately been +working for, and the issues were tremendous. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for it!” said the <i>Watchman’s</i> solicitor in an +undertone. “Come, Mr. Spargo, now we shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the graveside, as +the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The screws were rusted in +their sockets; they grated as the men slowly worked them out. It seemed to +Spargo that each man grew slower and slower in his movements; he felt that he +himself was getting fidgety. Then he heard a voice of authority. +</p> + +<p> +“Lift the lid off!” +</p> + +<p> +A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly raised +the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick movement. +</p> + +<p> +Sawdust! +</p> + +<p> +The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down. The +surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled it long +years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of deceit. +</p> + +<p> +Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell. The chief +official present looked round him with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion,” he +remarked. “Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies beneath +the sawdust,” he added, turning to the workmen. “Turn it +out!” +</p> + +<p> +The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of them, +evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, thrust down +his fingers at various places along its length. He, too, laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“The coffin’s weighted with lead!” he remarked. +“See!” +</p> + +<p> +And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three +intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where the head, +the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. +</p> + +<p> +“Done it cleverly,” he remarked, looking round. “You see how +these weights have been adjusted. When a body’s laid out in a coffin, you +know, all the weight’s in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here you +see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the feet. +Clever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clear out all the sawdust,” said some one. “Let’s see +if there’s anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of papers, +tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately manifested +great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton along with him, +forced his way to where the officials from the Home Office and the solicitor +sent by the <i>Watchman</i> were hastily examining their discoveries. +</p> + +<p> +The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at Market +Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to him, Mr. +Quarterpage’s amongst them. He was not at all astonished to see these +things. But he was something more than astonished when, on the second parcel +being opened, a quantity of papers relating to Cloudhampton and the Hearth and +Home Mutual Benefit Society were revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and +drew Breton aside. +</p> + +<p> +“It strikes me we’ve found a good deal more than we ever bargained +for!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t Aylmore say that the real culprit +at Cloudhampton was another man—his clerk or something of that +sort?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did,” agreed Breton. “He insists on it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man,” said +Spargo. “He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What’ll be +done with those papers?” he asked, turning to the officials. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London,” +replied the principal person in authority. “They will be quite safe, Mr. +Spargo; have no fear. We don’t know what they may reveal.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t, indeed!” said Spargo. “But I may as well +tell you that I have a strong belief that they’ll reveal a good deal that +nobody dreams of, so take the greatest care of them.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried Breton out +of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, Breton!” he commanded. “Out with it!” +</p> + +<p> +“With what?” +</p> + +<p> +“You promised to tell me something—a great deal, you said—if +we found that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on—quick!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be found. +That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“All! It’s enough. Where, then, in heaven’s name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go +fishing—right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire moors. +I expect they’ve gone there. Nobody knows even their names +there—they could go and lie quiet there for—ages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know the way to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do—I’ve been there.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo motioned him to hurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then,” he said. “We’re going there by the +very first train out of this. I know the train, too—we’ve just time +to snatch a mouthful of breakfast and to send a wire to the <i>Watchman</i>, +and then we’ll be off. Yorkshire!—Gad, Breton, that’s over +three hundred miles away!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE<br/> +FORESTALLED</h2> + +<p> +Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of England to +the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo and Breton came late +at night to Hawes’ Junction, on the border of Yorkshire and Westmoreland, +and saw rising all around them in the half-darkness the mighty bulks of the +great fells which rise amongst that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that +hour of the night and amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of +some adjacent waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to +Spargo as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of human +life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he saw a light, +but such lights were few and far between; even as he looked some of them +twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and Breton were presently to be +alone with the night. +</p> + +<p> +“How far?” he asked Breton as they walked away from the station. +</p> + +<p> +“We’d better discuss matters,” answered Breton. “The +place is in a narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away +across these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish +for. It’s half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good two +and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is—Do we go +straight there, or do we put up for the night? There’s an inn here at +this junction: there’s the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the road +which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the fells. It’s +going to be a black night—look at those masses of black cloud gathering +there!—and possibly a wet one, and we’ve no waterproofs. But +it’s for you to say—I’m game for whatever you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I +remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find my way. +But it’s rough walking.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every +minute’s precious. But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese +and a glass of ale first?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, +while we’re on this firm road, step it out lively.” +</p> + +<p> +The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was +scarcely a soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted +parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of +recognition. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last +year,” replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here +again—Tom Summers was coming across that way this morning, and said +he’d seen ’em at the little cottage. Going to join ’em, I +reckon, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton kicked Spargo under the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he +answered. “Just to get a breath of your moorland air.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, +gentlemen,” said the landlord. “There’s going to be a storm. +And it’s a stiffish way to make out at this time o’night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly. “I know +the way, and we’re not afraid of a wet skin.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his arms and +scratched his elbows. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a gentleman—London gentleman by his tongue—came in +here this afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed. +“He’ll be there long since—he’d have daylight for his +walk. Happen he’s one of your party?—he asked where the old +gentlemen’s little cottage was.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. “One of their +friends, perhaps,” answered Breton. “What was he like?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was conscious of the +fact. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said. +“Stranger hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit—something +like your friend’s there. Yes—he took some bread and cheese with +him when he heard what a long way it was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wise man,” remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and +cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. “Come on,” he +said, “let’s be stepping.” +</p> + +<p> +Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm. +“Who’s the man?” he said. “Can you think, +Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t,” answered Spargo. “I was trying to, while that +chap was talking. But—it’s somebody that’s got in before us. +Not Rathbury, anyhow—he’s not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, +however are you going to find your way in this darkness?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up +the fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see +Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—they’re both well over two +thousand feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear +between them. But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!” +</p> + +<p> +“Go ahead!” said Spargo. “It’s the first time in my +life I ever did anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us +all night. I couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard +there’s somebody ahead of us. Go first, old chap, and I’ll +follow.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but when he +turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what was obviously +no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began. It seemed to him +that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw was magnified and +heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint outlines of the towering hills; +the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the figure of Breton forging stolidly and +surely ahead. Now the ground was soft and spongy under his feet; now it was +stony and rugged; more than once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather +and tripped, bruising his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping +his eye on Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his +footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval +of silence. “Do you mean to say those two—Elphick and +Cardlestone—would take this way?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is another way—down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and +Hardraw,” answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round. +This is a straight cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful +walk. But at night—Gad!—here’s the rain, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a suddenness that +was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey night was blotted out; +Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a vast solitude and was being +gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight was keener, and who had more +knowledge of the situation dragged his companion into the shelter of a group of +rocks. He laughed a little as they huddled closely together. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet +Street, Spargo,” he said. “You would come on, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” +answered Spargo. “I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor +Cock’ overnight if we hadn’t heard of that chap in front. If +he’s after those two he’s somebody who knows something. What I +can’t make out is—who he can be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” said Breton. “I can’t think of anybody who +knows of this retreat. But—has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody +beside yourself may have been investigating?” +</p> + +<p> +“Possible,” replied Spargo. “One never knows. I only wish +we’d been a few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with +those two.” +</p> + +<p> +The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the heavens +cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they were then +crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away below them. +</p> + +<p> +“You see that?” he said. “That’s a sheet of water lying +between us and Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell +beyond it, drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come +down into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There’s a good two hours and a half +stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo set his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing his +shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London lights, the +well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even the humble omnibus, +plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him that they had walked for ages +and had traversed a whole continent of mountains and valley when at last +Breton, halting on the summit of a wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his +companion’s shoulder and pointed downward with the other. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” he said. “There!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to be a +considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a light—a +mere spark of a light. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the cottage,” said Breton, “Late as it is, you +see, they’re up. And here’s the roughest bit of the journey. +It’ll take me all my time to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so +step carefully after me—there are bogs and holes hereabouts.” +</p> + +<p> +Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the guiding +light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the ground; always, +when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer to it. And now when +they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that he found himself in one of +the loneliest places he had ever been capable of imagining—so lonely and +desolate a spot he had certainly never seen. In the dim light he could see a +narrow, crawling stream, making its way down over rocks and stones from the +high ground of Great Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, +on the edge of the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by +a ring of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small +building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built by some +shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more than one storey in +height, but of some length; a considerable part of it was hidden by shrubs and +brushwood. And from one uncurtained, blindless window the light of a lamp shone +boldly into the fading darkness without. +</p> + +<p> +Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got to get across there, Spargo,” he said. “But +as we’re already soaked to the knee it doesn’t matter about getting +another wetting. Have you any idea how long we’ve been walking?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hours—days—years!” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say quite four hours,” said Breton. “In that case, +it’s well past two o’clock, and the light will be breaking in +another hour or so. Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?” +</p> + +<p> +“What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they’ve got a +light, I take it that they’re up. Look there!” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the light. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone,” said Spargo. +“They’re medium-heighted men. That’s a tallish man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s the man the landlord of the ‘Moor Cock’ told +us about,” said Breton. “Now, look here—I know every inch of +this place. When we’re across let me go up to the cottage, and I’ll +take an observation through that window and see who’s inside. Come +on.” +</p> + +<p> +He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of boulders made +a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the bank to the cottage. +Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past the shrubs and undergrowth +until he came to a great bush which stood between the lighted window and the +projecting porch of the cottage. He lingered in the shadow of this bush but for +a short moment; then came swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His +hand fell on Spargo’s arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo!” he whispered. “Who on earth do you think the other +man is?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR<br/> +THE WHIP HAND</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the objects of +his long journey, shook off Breton’s hand with a growl of resentment. +</p> + +<p> +“And how on earth can I waste time guessing?” he exclaimed. +“Who is he?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton laughed softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, Spargo, steady!” he said. “It’s +Myerst—the Safe Deposit man. Myerst!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo started as if something had bitten him. +</p> + +<p> +“Myerst!” he almost shouted. “Myerst! Good Lord!—why +did I never think of him? Myerst! Then——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know why you should have thought of him,” said +Breton. “But—he’s there.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” he said. “We’ve got to discuss this. I’d +better tell you what they’re doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they doing, then?” demanded Spargo impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” answered Breton. “They’re going through a +quantity of papers. The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. +Myerst is evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. +I’ve formed a notion, Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“What notion?” +</p> + +<p> +“Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he’s +followed them down here to blackmail them. That’s my notion.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay you’re right,” he said. “Now, what’s +to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton, too, considered matters. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish,” he said at last, “I wish we could get in there and +overhear what’s going on. But that’s impossible—I know that +cottage. The only thing we can do is this—we must catch Myerst unawares. +He’s here for no good. Look here!” +</p> + +<p> +And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning revolver and +wagged it in his hand with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a useful thing to have, Spargo,” he remarked. +“I slipped it into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did +it. Now it’ll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be +armed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will, Myerst, +when he’s got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get where I did +just now, behind that bush, and I’ll station myself in the doorway. You +can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I’ll cover him. Come on, +Spargo; it’s beginning to get light already.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such cover as +the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made their way to the +front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton posted himself in the porch, +motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the bushes and to look through the +window. And Spargo noiselessly followed his directions and slightly parting the +branches which concealed him looked in through the uncurtained glass. +</p> + +<p> +The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the extreme. +There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough chairs and tables, +plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a corner; some food set out on a +side table. At the table in the middle of the floor the three men sat. +Cardlestone’s face was in the shadow; Myerst had his back to the window; +old Elphick bending over the table was laboriously writing with shaking +fingers. And Spargo twisted his head round to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Elphick,” he said, “is writing a cheque. Myerst has another +cheque in his hand. Be ready!—when he gets that second cheque I guess +he’ll be off.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again. +</p> + +<p> +“Look out, Breton! He’s coming.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his protecting +bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they heard Myerst’s +voice, threatening, commanding in tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, remember all I’ve said! And don’t you +forget—I’ve the whip hand of both of you—the whip +hand!” +</p> + +<p> +Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light—to find himself +confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly revolver +within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a remarkably firm and steady +grip. Another glance showed him the figure of a second business-like looking +young man at his side, whose attitude showed a desire to grapple with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Mr. Myerst,” said Breton with cold and ironic +politeness. “We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And—I must +trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but a +sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his head, +whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s wise, Mr. Myerst,” he said, keeping his revolver +steadily pointed at his prisoner’s nose. “Discretion will certainly +be the better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo—may I trouble +you to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them carefully. +Not for papers or documents—just now. We can leave that +matter—we’ve plenty of time. See if he’s got a weapon of any +sort on him, Spargo—that’s the important thing.” +</p> + +<p> +Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of searching a +man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing what the prisoner +carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a revolver, while Myerst, +finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily and with profusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent!” said Breton, laughing again. “Sure he’s +got nothing else on him that’s dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. +Myerst, right about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there +are two revolvers behind your back. March!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked into the +cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a glance at the two +old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying back in his chair; Elphick, +scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was coming forward with trembling limbs. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a moment,” said Breton, soothingly. “Don’t alarm +yourself. We’ll deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit +down in that chair—it’s the heaviest the place affords. Into it, +now! Spargo, you see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up—hand and +foot—to that chair. And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, +and behind him.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst suddenly laughed. “You damned young bully!” he exclaimed. +“If you put a rope round me, you’re only putting ropes round the +necks of these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that later,” answered Breton. He kept Myerst +covered while Spargo made play with the rope. “Don’t be afraid of +hurting him, Spargo,” he said. “Tie him well and strong. He +won’t shift that chair in a hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done credit to +a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand or foot, and +Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains. “That’ll +do,” said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his pocket and +turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank into a chair in +the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook as with palsy and +muttered words which the two young men could not catch. “Guardian,” +continued Breton, “don’t be frightened! And don’t you be +frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There’s nothing to be afraid of, +just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me that Mr. Spargo and I +came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this fellow after?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge of tears; +as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was completely gone. And +Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you’ll find +whisky in there. Give them both a stiff dose: they’ve broken up. Now, +guardian,” he continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, +“what was he after? Shall I suggest it? Was it—blackmail?” +</p> + +<p> +Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. “Yes, yes!” +he muttered. “Blackmail! That was it—blackmail. He—he got +money—papers—from us. They’re on him.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought as much, Mr. Myerst,” he said. “Spargo, +let’s see what he has on him.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo began to search the prisoner’s pockets. He laid out everything on +the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated some sort +of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of loose gold; a number +of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated denominations; various foreign +securities, realizable in Paris. And there was an open cheque, signed by +Cardlestone for ten thousand pounds, and another, with Elphick’s name at +the foot, also open, for half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as +Spargo handed them out. He turned to old Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“Guardian,” he said, “why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given +this man these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face on his +ward. +</p> + +<p> +“He—he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!” he +faltered. “We—we didn’t see that we had a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection with +it?” demanded Breton. “Come—tell me the truth now.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been investigating—so he says,” answered Elphick. +“He lives in that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor +rooms above Cardlestone’s. And—and he says he’s the fullest +evidence against Cardlestone—and against me as an accessory after the +fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—it’s a lie?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“A lie!” answered Elphick. “Of course, it’s a lie. +But—he’s so clever that—that——” +</p> + +<p> +“That you don’t know how you could prove it otherwise,” said +Breton. “Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does +he? That may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police +here.” He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. +“Look here, Spargo,” he continued. “I’m going to write +a note to the superintendent of police at Hawes—there’s a farm half +a mile from here where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. +Now, if you want to send a wire to the <i>Watchman</i>, draft it out, and +he’ll take it with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick began to move in his corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Must the police come?” he said. “Must——” +</p> + +<p> +“The police must come,” answered Breton firmly. “Go ahead +with your wire, Spargo, while I write this note.” +</p> + +<p> +Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm, he sat +down at Elphick’s side and laid his hand on the old man’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, guardian,” he said, quietly, “you’ve got to tell +us the truth.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE<br/> +MYERST EXPLAINS</h2> + +<p> +It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the cottage, +that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and fright: Cardlestone +still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he looked incapable of +explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more fitted to speak. And when Breton +issued his peremptory invitation to his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo +intervened. +</p> + +<p> +“Far better leave him alone, Breton,” he said in a low voice. +“Don’t you see the old chap’s done up? They’re both +done up. We don’t know what they’ve gone through with this fellow +before we came, and it’s certain they’ve had no sleep. Leave it all +till later—after all, we’ve found them and we’ve found +him.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Myerst’s direction, +and Breton involuntarily followed the movement. He caught the prisoner’s +eye, and Myerst laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever,” he said +sneeringly. “Don’t you, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve been clever enough to catch you, anyway,” retorted +Breton. “And now we’ve got you we’ll keep you till the police +can relieve us of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. “And on what +charge do you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you’ll +have some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well see about that later,” said Breton. “You’ve +extorted money by menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I? How do you know they didn’t entrust me with these cheques +as their agent?” exclaimed Myerst. “Answer me that! Or, rather, let +them answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick—didn’t +you give me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of +Myerst’s voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Breton,” he said, whispering, “this +scoundrel’s got some hold on these two old chaps—they’re +frightened to death of him. Leave them alone: it would be best for them if they +could get some rest. Hold your tongue, you!” he added aloud, turning to +Myerst. “When we want you to speak we’ll tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Myerst laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the <i>Watchman</i>!” he +sneered. “You’re another of the cock-sure lot. And you’re +very clever, but not clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt his +hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern. +</p> + +<p> +“I say!” he exclaimed. “He’s more than +frightened—he’s ill! What’s to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them,” answered +Breton. “In the meantime, let’s put him to bed—there are beds +in that inner room. We’ll get him to bed and give him something hot to +drink—that’s all I can think of for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo, with a +happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot bottles to his feet. +When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie down in the inner room. +Presently both old men fell asleep, and then Breton and Spargo suddenly +realized that they themselves were hungry and wet and weary. +</p> + +<p> +“There ought to be food in the cupboard,” said Breton, beginning to +rummage. “They’ve generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here +we are, Spargo—these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while +I open one of these tins.” +</p> + +<p> +The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast with eyes +that eventually began to glisten. +</p> + +<p> +“I may remind you that I’m hungry, too,” he said as Spargo +set the coffee on the table. “And you’ve no right to starve me, +even if you’ve the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something +to eat, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shan’t starve,” said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample +supply of bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate +before Myerst. “Untie his right arm, Spargo,” he continued. +“I think we can give him that liberty. We’ve got his revolver, +anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst pushed his +plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors. “Look +here!” he said. “You think you know a lot about all this affair, +Spargo, but there’s only one person who knows all about it. That’s +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re taking that for granted,” said Spargo. “We +guessed as much when we found you here. You’ll have ample opportunity for +explanation, you know, later on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll explain now, if you care to hear,” said Myerst with +another of his cynical laughs. “And if I do, I’ll tell you the +truth. I know you’ve got an idea in your heads that isn’t +favourable to me, but you’re utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look +here!—I’ll make you a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case +there—give me one, and mix me a drink of that whisky—a good +’un—and I’ll tell you what I know about this matter. Come +on!—anything’s better than sitting here doing nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. “Let him talk +if he likes,” he said. “We’re not bound to believe him. And +we may hear something that’s true. Give him his cigar and his +drink.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo presently +set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of his cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“As it happens, you’ll hear nothing but the truth,” he +observed. “Now that things are as they are, there’s no reason why I +shouldn’t tell the truth. The fact is, I’ve nothing to fear. You +can’t give me in charge, for it so happens that I’ve got a power of +attorney from these two old chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the +money they entrusted me with. It’s in an inside pocket of that +letter-case, and if you look at it, Breton, you’ll see it’s in +order. I’m not even going to dare you to interfere with or destroy +it—you’re a barrister, and you’ll respect the law. But +that’s a fact—and if anybody’s got a case against anybody, I +have against you two for assault and illegal detention. But I’m not a +vindictive man, and——” +</p> + +<p> +Breton took up Myerst’s letter-case and examined its contents. And +presently he turned to Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s right!” he whispered. “This is quite in +order.” He turned to Myerst. “All the same,” he said, +addressing him, “we shan’t release you, because we believe +you’re concerned in the murder of John Marbury. We’re justified in +holding you on that account.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, my young friend,” said Myerst. “Have your own +stupid way. But I said I’d tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain +truth is that I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know +of what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed John +Maitland. That’s a fact! It may have been the old man in there +who’s already at his own last gasp, or it mayn’t. I tell you I +don’t know—though, like you, Spargo, I’ve tried hard to find +out. That’s the truth—I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You expect us to believe that?” exclaimed Breton incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“Believe it or not, as you like—it’s the truth,” +answered Myerst. “Now, look here—I said nobody knew as much of this +affair as I know, and that’s true also. And here’s the truth of +what I know. The old man in that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, +is in reality Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name +was so freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That’s another +fact!” +</p> + +<p> +“How,” asked Breton, sternly, “can you prove it? How do you +know it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, “I helped to +carry out his mock death and burial—I was a solicitor in those days, and +my name was—something else. There were three of us at it: +Chamberlayne’s nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried +it out very cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for +our trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well paid +for my help. The first time was in connection with the Cloudhampton Hearth and +Home Mutual Benefit Society affair—Aylmore, or Ainsworth, was as innocent +as a child in that!—Chamberlayne was the man at the back. But, +unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn’t profit—he lost all he got by it, +pretty quick. That was why be transferred his abilities to Market +Milcaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can prove all this, I suppose?” remarked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Every word—every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: +Your father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all +the money that was got from the bank. He had—and he engineered that mock +death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who helped him +generously, as I’ve told you. The thing couldn’t have been better +done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor disappeared; +Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck—to tell you the truth, I was +struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed my name and became +Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was not until three years ago +that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in this way: After I became secretary to +the Safe Deposit Company, I took chambers in the Temple, above +Cardlestone’s. And I speedily found out who he was. Instead of going +abroad, the old fox—though he was a comparatively young ’un, +then!—had shaved off his beard, settled down in the Temple and given +himself up to his two hobbies, collecting curiosities and stamps. There +he’d lived quietly all these years, and nobody had ever recognized or +suspected him. Indeed, I don’t see how they could; he lived such a quiet, +secluded life, with his collections, his old port, and his little whims and +fads. But—I knew him!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you doubtless profited by your recognition,” suggested Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to hold +my tongue,” replied Myerst, “and I was glad to take it and, +naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one +friend—Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I’ll tell you about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him,” said Breton +sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to +have married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took you +and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of your +father’s disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that Cardlestone +is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have friends—Elphick’s +very fond of Cardlestone. He——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned sharply on Myerst. +</p> + +<p> +“You say Elphick didn’t know until last night!” he exclaimed. +“Why, then, this running away? What were they running from?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no more notion than you have, Spargo,” replied Myerst. +“I tell you one or other of them knows something that I don’t. +Elphick, I gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone—then +they both vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland—I +don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I know about the actual +murder—for I do know a good deal about it, though, as I say, I +don’t know who killed Maitland. Now, first, you know all that about +Maitland’s having papers and valuables and gold on him? Very +well—I’ve got all that. The whole lot is locked +up—safely—and I’m willing to hand it over to you, Breton, +when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given—as it will +be—that you’re Maitland’s son.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when he saw +the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers’ faces. +</p> + +<p> +“And still more,” he continued, “I’ve got all the +contents of that leather box which Maitland deposited with +me—that’s safely locked up, too, and at your disposal. I took +possession of that the day after the murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I +went to Scotland Yard, as Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a +game—and it required some ingenuity.” +</p> + +<p> +“A game!” exclaimed Breton. “Good heavens—what +game?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury was +Maitland of Market Milcaster,” answered Myerst. “When I did know +then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line, independent of +everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland’s papers and possessions, by +that time—except one thing. That packet of Australian stamps. And—I +found out that those stamps were in the hands of—Cardlestone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.<br/> +THE FINAL TELEGRAM</h2> + +<p> +Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two amazed +listeners with a smile of conscious triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“In the hands of Cardlestone,” he repeated. “Now, what did I +argue from that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone’s +rooms that night. Wasn’t he found lying dead at the foot of +Cardlestone’s stairs? Aye—but who found him? Not the +porter—not the police—not you, Master Spargo, with all your +cleverness. The man who found Maitland lying dead there that night +was—I!” +</p> + +<p> +In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what Myerst +said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his pockets sat +bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him seriously, could +not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and conceptions are being +rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he laughed, more sneeringly than +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s one for you, Spargo!” he said. “That surprises +you—that makes you think. Now what do you think?—if one may +ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Spargo, “that you are either a consummate +liar, or that this mystery is bigger than before.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can lie when it’s necessary,” retorted Myerst. “Just +now it isn’t necessary. I’m telling you the plain truth: +there’s no reason why I shouldn’t. As I’ve said before, +although you two young bullies have tied me up in this fashion, you can’t +do anything against me. I’ve a power of attorney from those two old men +in there, and that’s enough to satisfy anybody as to my possession of +their cheques and securities. I’ve the whip hand of you, my sons, in all +ways. And that’s why I’m telling you the truth—to amuse +myself during this period of waiting. The plain truth, my sons!” +</p> + +<p> +“In pursuance of which,” observed Breton, drily, “I think you +mentioned that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was. That is—as far as I can gather. I’ll tell you all +about it. As I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very +late—it was well past one o’clock. There was nobody about—as +a matter of fact, no one has residential chambers in that building but +Cardlestone and myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck +a match and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon—John +Marbury. Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can +be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra speed +just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of every article it +had on it—money, papers, everything. All these things are safely locked +up—they’ve never been tracked. Next day, using my facilities as +secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the things in that box. Then I +found out who the dead man really was. And then I deliberately set to work to +throw dust in the eyes of the police and of the newspapers, and particularly in +the eyes of young Master Spargo there. I had an object.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather, +Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it to +myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo, inserted +news in your paper—Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity of +Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore’s rooms that night, turned into our +building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met Cardlestone +accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick together—they +recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to expose Cardlestone, or, +rather, Chamberlayne—nobody, of course, could know what happened, but my +theory was that Chamberlayne killed him. There, at any rate, was the fact that +Maitland was found murdered at Chamberlayne’s very threshold. And, in the +course of a few days, I proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting +access to Chamberlayne’s rooms in his absence that Maitland had been +there, had been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne’s +desk, the rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was +proof positive.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know—that the +stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo’s breast pocket, where they +had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion of +Chamberlayne’s floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” asked Breton, after a pause, “why did you never accuse +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did! I have accused him a score of times—and Elphick, +too,” replied Myerst with emphasis. “Not at first, mind you—I +never let Chamberlayne know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my +own game to play. But at last—not so many days ago—I did. I accused +them both. That’s how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be +afraid—by that time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone’s +past as Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick’s fond of Cardlestone. +It’s queer, but he is. He—wants to shield him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did they say when you accused them?” asked Breton. +“Let’s keep to that point—never mind their feelings for one +another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, but that feeling’s a lot more to do with this mystery +than you think, my young friend,” said Myerst. “What did they say, +you ask? Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that +he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. But—they +know something about the murder. If those two old men can’t tell you +definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I’m certain that they +have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! They—” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and Spargo +started to their feet and made for the door. But before they could reach it +Elphick came out, white and shaking. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s gone!” he exclaimed in quavering accents. “My old +friend’s gone—he’s dead! I was—asleep. I woke suddenly +and looked at him. He——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton passed +quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s dead,” he said. “He evidently died in his +sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then his secret’s gone with him,” remarked Myerst, calmly. +“And now we shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he +didn’t. So that’s done with!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away from his +side. +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t kill John Maitland!” he cried angrily, attempting +to shake his fist at Myerst. “Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He +was as innocent as I am. You’ve tortured and tormented him to his death +with that charge, as you’re torturing me—among you. I tell you +he’d nothing to do with John Maitland’s death—nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Who had, then?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue!” commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He +sat down by Elphick’s side and laid his hand soothingly on the old +man’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Guardian,” he said, “why don’t you tell what you know? +Don’t be afraid of that fellow there—he’s safe enough. Tell +Spargo and me what you know of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, or whoever he is or was, now.” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give him +another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men with +something of an appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m badly shaken,” he said. “I’ve suffered much +lately—I’ve learnt things that I didn’t know. Perhaps I ought +to have spoken before, but I was afraid for—for him. He was a good +friend, Cardlestone, whatever else he may have been—a good friend. +And—I don’t know any more than what happened that night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us what happened that night,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with +Cardlestone. That was about ten o’clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came to +Cardlestone’s—she’d been to my rooms to find me—wanted +to see me particularly—and she’d come on there, knowing where I +should be. Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she +sat down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to twelve, a +knock came at Cardlestone’s door—his outer door was open, and of +course anybody outside could see lights within. 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. Upon my honour, we didn’t know him, either that +night or next day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What happened when he came in?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one had recognized him?” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. The +others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that they +did—if they did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell +us what you and Miss Baylis did?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d +forgotten something in Cardlestone’s lobby. As she was going out in to +Fleet Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own +rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And upon my +soul and honour that’s all I know!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and +bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got +it—at last! Breton—where’s the nearest telegraph office? +Hawes? Straight down this valley? Then, here’s for it! Look after things +till I’m back, or, when the police come, join me there. I shall catch the +first train to town, anyhow, after wiring.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton. +“Stop! What on earth——” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth down the +valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet and peaceful +telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a sleepy country post +office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling down a message in shaky +handwriting:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London.</i><br/> +<i>Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland.</i><br/> +<i>Coming straight to town with full evidence.</i><br/> + <i>Frank Spargo</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering operator set +the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent in his mad race +across the heather. And when it was got he set out again—to find the +station. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the Bow Street +dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way of being cleared of +the affair of twenty years before, found himself in a very quiet corner of the +Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, who, he discovered, was saying things +to him which he scarcely comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl +spoke freely and warmly. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will come—you will come today—and be properly +thanked,” she said. “You will—won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a +straight look into Jessie Aylmore’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want thanks,” he said. “It was all a lot of +luck. And if I come—today—it will be to see—just you!” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she whispered, “I think that is what I really +meant!” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10373 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/10373-h/images/cover.jpg b/10373-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..baccebc --- /dev/null +++ b/10373-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..94d3151 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #10373 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10373) diff --git a/old/10373-0.txt b/old/10373-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c9b8db1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10373-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9697 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Middle Temple Murder, by J.S. Fletcher + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Middle Temple Murder + +Author: J.S. Fletcher + +Release Date: December 3, 2003 [eBook #10373] +[Most recently updated: July 21, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Juliet Sutherland, Linda Cantoni and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Middle Temple Murder + +by J.S. Fletcher + +1919 + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + CHAPTER II. HIS FIRST BRIEF + CHAPTER III. THE CLUE OF THE CAP + CHAPTER IV. THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + CHAPTER V. SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + CHAPTER VI. WITNESS TO A MEETING + CHAPTER VII. MR. AYLMORE + CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + CHAPTER IX. THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + CHAPTER X. THE LEATHER BOX + CHAPTER XI. MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + CHAPTER XII. THE NEW WITNESS + CHAPTER XIII. UNDER SUSPICION + CHAPTER XIV. THE SILVER TICKET + CHAPTER XV. MARKET MILCASTER + CHAPTER XVI. THE “YELLOW DRAGON” + CHAPTER XVII. MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + CHAPTER XVIII. AN OLD NEWSPAPER + CHAPTER XIX. THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + CHAPTER XX. MAITLAND _alias_ MARBURY + CHAPTER XXI. ARRESTED + CHAPTER XXII. THE BLANK PAST + CHAPTER XXIII. MISS BAYLIS + CHAPTER XXIV. MOTHER GUTCH + CHAPTER XXV. REVELATIONS + CHAPTER XXVI. STILL SILENT + CHAPTER XXVII. MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS + CHAPTER XXVIII. OF PROVED IDENTITY + CHAPTER XXIX. THE CLOSED DOORS + CHAPTER XXX. REVELATION + CHAPTER XXXI. THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + CHAPTER XXXII. THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + CHAPTER XXXIII. FORESTALLED + CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WHIP HAND + CHAPTER XXXV. MYERST EXPLAINS + CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + + + +CHAPTER ONE +THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + + +As a rule, Spargo left the _Watchman_ office at two o’clock. The paper +had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to +a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was +responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the +machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, +until two o’clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of +June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had +charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram +which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was +interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. +Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the +office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold +the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. +In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first +grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of +St. Paul’s. + +Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every +night and every morning he walked to and from the _Watchman_ office by +the same route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He +came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed +the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he +encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his +pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he +saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, +looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. +Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He +moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face. + +“What is it?” asked Spargo. + +Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door +of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and +jacket. + +“He says,” answered Driscoll, “him, there—the porter—that there’s a man +lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he’s dead. +Likewise, he thinks he’s murdered.” + +Spargo echoed the word. + +“But what makes him think that?” he asked, peeping with curiosity +beyond Driscoll’s burly form. “Why?” + +“He says there’s blood about him,” answered Driscoll. He turned and +glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. +“You’re a newspaper man, sir?” he suggested. + +“I am,” replied Spargo. + +“You’d better walk down with us,” said Driscoll, with a grin. “There’ll +be something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there may +be.” Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane, +wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At +the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. + +“Come on!” he said shortly. “I’ll show you.” + +Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and +then turned to the porter. + +“How came you to find him, then?” he asked + +The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. + +“I heard that door slam,” he replied, irritably, as if the fact which +he mentioned caused him offence. “I know I did! So I got up to look +around. Then—well, I saw that!” + +He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his +outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man’s foot, booted, +grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand. + +“Sticking out there, just as you see it now,” said the porter. “I ain’t +touched it. And so—” + +He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant +thing. Driscoll nodded comprehendingly. + +“And so you went along and looked?” he suggested. “Just so—just to see +who it belonged to, as it might be.” + +“Just to see—what there was to see,” agreed the porter. “Then I saw +there was blood. And then—well, I made up the lane to tell one of you +chaps.” + +“Best thing you could have done,” said Driscoll. “Well, now then—” + +The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold +and formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having +glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; +something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested to +Spargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man whose foot projected +over the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his pose +certified to it. + +For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen +unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with +their fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully—Spargo +remembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put +his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. +Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human +wreckage which lay before him. + +“You’ll notice,” suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushed +voice, “You’ll notice that he’s lying there in a queer way—same as +if—as if he’d been put there. Sort of propped up against that wall, at +first, and had slid down, like.” + +Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at +his feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, +crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be +elderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a +good, well-made suit of grey check cloth—tweed—and the boots were good: +so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung +so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body; the other was +stretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted to +the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the +shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts and +stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a +finger at them. + +“Seems to me,” he said, slowly, “seems to me as how he’s been struck +down from behind as he came out of here. That blood’s from his +nose—gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?” The other policeman +coughed. + +“Better get the inspector here,” he said. “And the doctor and the +ambulance. Dead—ain’t he?” + +Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the +pavement. + +“As ever they make ’em,” he remarked laconically. “And stiff, too. +Well, hurry up, Jim!” + +Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the +hand-ambulance came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body +for transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man’s +face. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged the +limbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he came +to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other +things. There was some professionalism in Spargo’s curiosity, but there +was also a natural dislike that a fellow-being should have been so +unceremoniously smitten out of the world. + +There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man’s face. It was +that of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, +even homely of feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white +whisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and +the point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that it +was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles were many and deep around the +corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; this man, you would +have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mental +as well as physical. + +Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. +“Better come down to the dead-house,” he muttered confidentially. + +“Why?” asked Spargo. + +“They’ll go through him,” whispered Driscoll. “Search him, d’ye see? +Then you’ll get to know all about him, and so on. Help to write that +piece in the paper, eh?” + +Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night’s work, and until his +encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal +which would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which +he would subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a +man from the _Watchman_ to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in +his line now, now— + +“You’ll be for getting one o’ them big play-cards out with something +about a mystery on it,” suggested Driscoll. “You never know what lies +at the bottom o’ these affairs, no more you don’t.” + +That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for +getting news began to assert itself. + +“All right,” he said. “I’ll go along with you.” + +And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortège through the +streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected +on the unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was +the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a +principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to +whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surely— + +“My opinion,” said a voice at Spargo’s elbow, “my opinion is that it +was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. That’s what I say.” +Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was +accompanying the body. + +“Oh!” said Spargo. “You think—” + +“I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there,” said the +porter. “In somebody’s chambers, maybe. I’ve known of some queer games +in our bit of London! Well!—he never came in at my lodge last +night—I’ll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From +what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place.” + +“That’s what we shall hear presently,” said Spargo. “They’re going to +search him.” + +But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found +nothing. The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, +been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the +skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll’s opinion, +the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder. For there was +nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man +who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in +his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing +valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that +could lead to identification—no letters, no papers, nothing. It was +plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently +stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity +lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been +newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End. + +Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his +food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. +He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at +last that the morning’s event had destroyed his chance of rest; he +accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went +out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from +Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he +found that he had walked down to the police station near which the +unknown man’s body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just +going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. + +“You’re in luck,” he said. “’Tisn’t five minutes since they found a bit +of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor man’s waistcoat pocket—it +had slipped into a crack. Come in, and you’ll see it.” + +Spargo went into the inspector’s office. In another minute he found +himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an +address, scrawled in pencil:—Ronald Breton, Barrister, King’s Bench +Walk, Temple, London. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO +HIS FIRST BRIEF + + +Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. “I +know this man,” he said. + +The inspector showed new interest. + +“What, Mr. Breton?” he asked. + +“Yes. I’m on the _Watchman_, you know, sub-editor. I took an article +from him the other day—article on ‘Ideal Sites for Campers-Out.’ He +came to the office about it. So this was in the dead man’s pocket?” + +“Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn’t present myself. +It’s not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.” + +Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It +seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in +clubs; it had been torn roughly from the sheet. + +“What,” he asked meditatively, “what will you do about getting this man +identified?” + +The inspector shrugged his shoulders. + +“Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There’ll be publicity, you know. I suppose +you’ll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? Then +there’ll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. Somebody +will come forward to identify—sure to. And—” + +A man came into the office—a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly +attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a +stroll, and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his +desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper +which Spargo had just laid down. + +“I’ll go along to King’s Bench Walk and see Mr. Breton,” he observed, +looking at his watch. “It’s just about ten—I daresay he’ll be there +now.” + +“I’m going there, too,” remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself. +“Yes, I’ll go there.” + +The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The +inspector nodded at Spargo. + +“Journalist,” he said, “Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo was +there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton.” Then he nodded +from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. “This is Detective-Sergeant +Rathbury, from the Yard,” he said to Spargo. “He’s come to take charge +of this case.” + +“Oh?” said Spargo blankly. “I see—what,” he went on, with sudden +abruptness, “what shall you do about Breton?” + +“Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury. “He may know +the man and he mayn’t. Anyway, his name and address are here, aren’t +they?” + +“Come along,” said Spargo. “I’ll walk there with you.” + +Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor +Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed +that he was by nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until +the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in +King’s Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere +situate that Spargo spoke. + +“Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on +him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. + +“I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that +question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile. + +“Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily. “I suppose so. He might have had—nothing +on him, eh?” + +The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were +printed. + +“We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except that Mr. Breton +is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn’t long since he +was eating his dinner.” + +“Oh, he’s young—he’s quite young,” said Spargo. “I should say he’s +about four-and-twenty. I’ve met him only—” + +At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down +the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing—presently masculine +laughter mingled with the lighter feminine. + +“Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway,” +said Rathbury. “Mr. Breton’s chambers, too. And the door’s open.” + +The outer oak door of Ronald Breton’s chambers stood thrown wide; the +inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the +detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton’s +rooms. There, against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied +up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal +notabilities, they saw a pretty, vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a +chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was +haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, to the amusement of a young man +who had his back to the door, and of another girl who leant +confidentially against his shoulder. + +“I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury—I put it to you with +confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, +perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your +consciences do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, +the—the—” + +“Think of some more adjectives!” exclaimed the young man. “Hot and +strong ’uns—pile ’em up. That’s what they like—they—Hullo!” + +This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the +proceedings the detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his +head round its edge. Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the +chair, jumped hastily down; the other young lady withdrew from the +young man’s protecting arm; there was a feminine giggle and a feminine +swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald +Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter. + +“Come in, come in!” he exclaimed hastily. “I—” + +Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a +look of surprise. + +“Oh—Mr. Spargo?” he said. “How do you do?—we—I—we were just having a +lark—I’m off to court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. +Spargo?” + +He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and +turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The +detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a +tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, +perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a +general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these +matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may +take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned +and glanced at the journalist. + +“How do you do?” said Spargo slowly. “I—the fact is, I came here with +Mr. Rathbury. He—wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury—of New +Scotland Yard.” + +Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a +lesson. But he was watching the young barrister’s face. And Breton +turned to the detective with a look of surprise. + +“Oh!” he said. “You wish—” + +Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, +which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. “I +wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton,” he said. “This morning, about a +quarter to three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple +Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo +here—he was present when the body was found.” + +“Soon after,” corrected Spargo. “A few minutes after.” + +“When this body was examined at the mortuary,” continued Rathbury, in +his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, “nothing was found that could +lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was +nothing whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in +a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It’s got your name and +address on it, Mr. Breton. See?” + +Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted +brows. + +“By Jove!” he muttered. “So it has; that’s queer. What’s he like, this +man?” + +Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. + +“Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?” he said. +“It’s close by.” + +“Well—I—the fact is, I’ve got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow’s +court,” Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. “But it won’t be +called until after eleven. Will—” + +“Plenty of time, sir,” said Rathbury; “it won’t take you ten minutes to +go round and back again—a look will do. You don’t recognize this +handwriting, I suppose?” + +Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it +again, intently. + +“No!” he answered. “I don’t. I don’t know it at all—I can’t think, of +course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought +he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional +services, you know,” he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; “but, +three—three o’clock in the morning, eh?” + +“The doctor,” observed Rathbury, “the doctor thinks he had been dead +about two and a half hours.” + +Breton turned to the inner door. + +“I’ll—I’ll just tell these ladies I’m going out for a quarter of an +hour,” he said. “They’re going over to the court with me—I got my first +brief yesterday,” he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right and +left at his visitors. “It’s nothing much—small case—but I promised my +fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you know. A +moment.” + +He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all +the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very +particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the +butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice +that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been +similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than +of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and +about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. + +“Well, come on,” said Breton. “Let’s go straight there.” + +The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to +the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered +involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the +young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly +about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose +face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and +earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head. + +“No!” he said with decision. “Don’t know him—don’t know him from Adam. +Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of.” + +Rathbury replaced the cloth. + +“I didn’t suppose you would,” he remarked. “Well, I expect we must go +on the usual lines. Somebody’ll identify him.” + +“You say he was murdered?” said Breton. “Is that—certain?” + +Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. + +“The back of his skull is smashed in,” he said laconically. “The doctor +says he must have been struck down from behind—and a fearful blow, too. +I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Breton.” + +“Oh, all right!” said Breton. “Well, you know where to find me if you +want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr. Spargo.” + +The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the +journalist. + +“I didn’t expect anything from that,” he remarked. “However, it was a +thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?” + +Spargo nodded. + +“Well,” continued Rathbury, “I’ve sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, +where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information +from that quarter—it’s possible. If you like to meet me here at twelve +o’clock I’ll tell you anything I’ve heard. Just now I’m going to get +some breakfast.” + +“I’ll meet you here,” said Spargo, “at twelve o’clock.” + +He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set +off round another. He went to the _Watchman_ office, wrote a few lines, +which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out +again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before +he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the +Law Courts. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE +THE CLUE OF THE CAP + + +Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of +litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and +the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, +asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. +For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his +question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves. + +“Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?” +he suddenly asked. + +“Number seven,” replied the official. “What’s your case—when’s it +down?” + +“I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo. “I’m a pressman—reporter, you +know.” + +The official stuck out a finger. + +“Round the corner—first to your right—second on the left,” he said +automatically. “You’ll find plenty of room—nothing much doing there +this morning.” + +He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless +perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors. + +“Upon my honour!” he muttered. “Upon my honour, I really don’t know +what I’ve come up here for. I’ve no business here.” + +Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. +The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of +papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who +were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And +Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which +of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her +burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton +with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl +with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned +upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a +hope of seeing this girl again—why, he could not then think. + +Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted +his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a +question. + +“Yes,” said Spargo. “I—the fact is, I remembered that you said you were +coming up here, and I came after you. I want—when you’ve time—to have a +talk, to ask you a few questions. About—this affair of the dead man, +you know.” + +Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. + +“Look here,” he said. “When this case of mine is over, I can give you +as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a +favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—round there, and +up the stairs—and I’m a bit pressed for time—I’ve a solicitor waiting +for me. You take them—there’s a good fellow; then, when the case is +over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here—I’ll +introduce you all—no ceremony. Miss Aylmore—Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. +Spargo—of the _Watchman_. Now, I’m off!” Breton turned on the instant; +his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at +two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, +and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years. + +“That is very cool of Ronald,” observed the elder young lady. “Perhaps +his scheme doesn’t fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray don’t—” + +“Oh, it’s all right!” said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. +“I’ve nothing to do. But—where did Mr. Breton say you wished to be +taken?” + +“Into the gallery of number seven court,” said the younger girl +promptly. “Round this corner—I think I know the way.” + +Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving +that morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led +the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries +from which idlers and specially-interested spectators may see and hear +the proceedings which obtain in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks +wherein justice is dispensed at the Law Courts. There was no one else +in that gallery; the attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be +vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter it, and he presently +opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way down the stairs +to meet him. + +“Nothing much going on here this morning,” he whispered behind a raised +hand. “But there’s a nice breach case in number five—get you three good +seats there if you like.” + +Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He +had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and +her sister about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a +lucky dog to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an +equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss +Jessie Aylmore’s side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by +his surroundings. + +“I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?” he whispered. “Is this +really Mr. Breton’s first case?” + +“His very first—all on his own responsibility, any way,” replied +Spargo’s companion, smiling. “And he’s very nervous—and so’s my sister. +Aren’t you, now, Evelyn?” + +Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. + +“I suppose one’s always nervous about first appearances,” she said. +“However, I think Ronald’s got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, +it’s not much of a case: it isn’t even a jury case. I’m afraid you’ll +find it dull, Mr. Spargo—it’s only something about a promissory note.” + +“Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” replied Spargo, unconsciously falling +back on a favourite formula. “I always like to hear lawyers—they manage +to say such a lot about—about—” + +“About nothing,” said Jessie Aylmore. “But there—so do gentlemen who +write for the papers, don’t they?” + +Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that +point when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister’s attention to a man +who had just entered the well of the court. + +“Look, Jessie!” she observed. “There’s Mr. Elphick!” + +Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, +smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and +gowned, was slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that +charmed inner sanctum wherein only King’s Counsel are permitted to sit. +He dropped into this in a fashion which showed that he was one of those +men who loved personal comfort; he bestowed his plump person at the +most convenient angle and fitting a monocle in his right eye, glanced +around him. There were a few of his professional brethren in his +vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks in +conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But +the gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look +and cast his eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. +Thereupon he made a most gracious bow in their direction; his broad +face beamed in a genial smile, and he waved a white hand. + +“Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?” enquired the younger Miss +Aylmore. + +“I rather think I’ve seen him, somewhere about the Temple,” answered +Spargo. “In fact, I’m sure I have.” + +“His chambers are in Paper Buildings,” said Jessie. “Sometimes he gives +tea-parties in them. He is Ronald’s guardian, and preceptor, and +mentor, and all that, and I suppose he’s dropped into this court to +hear how his pupil goes on.” + +“Here is Ronald,” whispered Miss Aylmore. + +“And here,” said her sister, “is his lordship, looking very cross. Now, +Mr. Spargo, you’re in for it.” + +Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on +beneath him. The case which young Breton presently opened was a +commercial one, involving certain rights and properties in a promissory +note; it seemed to the journalist that Breton dealt with it very well, +showing himself master of the financial details, and speaking with +readiness and assurance. He was much more interested in his companions, +and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on how he +could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that +the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, +and that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald +Breton’s favour. + +In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two +sisters. + +“Very good—very good, indeed,” he said, absent-mindedly. “I thought he +put his facts very clearly and concisely.” + +Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. +He pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: +Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, +Spargo’s, connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke. + +“This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the _Watchman_.” Breton said. “Mr. +Elphick—Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, Spargo, that you +saw this poor man soon after he was found.” + +Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The +elderly barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole. + +“My dear sir!” he said. “You—saw this poor fellow? Lying dead—in the +third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, eh?” + +“Yes,” replied Spargo, simply. “I saw him. It was the third entry.” + +“Singular!” said Mr. Elphick, musingly. “I know a man who lives in that +house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until +nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton’s name +and address in his pocket?” + +Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then +he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. + +“Yes, that’s so,” he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton +significantly, he added, “If you can give me those few minutes, now—?” + +“Yes—yes!” responded Ronald Breton, nodding. “I understand. Evelyn—I’ll +leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must go.” + +Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. + +“My dear sir!” he said, eagerly. “Do you—do you think I could possibly +see—the body?” + +“It’s at the mortuary,” answered Spargo. “I don’t know what their +regulations are.” + +Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in +the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. + +“About what I wanted to say to you,” he said at last. “It was—this. +I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder +case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it—thoroughly, first +and last. And—I think you can help me.” + +“How do you know that it is a murder case?” asked Breton quietly. + +“It’s a murder case,” answered Spargo, stolidly. “I feel it. Instinct, +perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me—” + +He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. + +“It seems to me,” he presently continued, “that the clue lies in that +scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between +you and—somebody else.” + +“Possibly,” agreed Breton. “You want to find the somebody else?” + +“I want you to help me to find the somebody else,” answered Spargo. “I +believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t +believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet +Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?” + +Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and +wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came +out as they were stepping in. + +“Oh!” he said. “Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told +you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! Well, he’s just returned. +The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie’s yesterday +afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient +Hotel.” + +“Where is that?” asked Spargo. + +“Waterloo district,” answered Rathbury. “A small house, I believe. +Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?” + +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too.” + +“If I’m not in the way,” said Breton. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper,” he +observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR +THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + + +The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an +old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway +Station—a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially +mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early +days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern +ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to find in London, and +Ronald Breton said so as he and the others crossed the pavement. + +“And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to +and from Southampton in the old days,” remarked Rathbury. “And I +daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good +many years’ absence, still rush in here. You see, it’s close to the +station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place +when they’ve a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind +them. Look there, now!” They had crossed the threshold as the detective +spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, he made a +sidelong motion of his head towards a bar on the left, wherein stood or +lounged a number of men who from their general appearance, their +slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be Colonials, or at +any rate to have spent a good part of their time beneath Oriental +skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a Colonial accent in it; +an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and +Rathbury wagged his head sagely. “Lay you anything the dead man was a +Colonial, Mr. Spargo,” he remarked. “Well, now, I suppose that’s the +landlord and landlady.” + +There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and +woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge +on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a +fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at +some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured, +thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an +enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence. + +“You the landlord of this house, sir?” he asked. “Mr. Walters? Just +so—and Mrs. Walters, I presume?” + +The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. + +“What can I do for you, sir?” he enquired. + +“A little matter of business, Mr. Walters,” replied Rathbury, pulling +out a card. “You’ll see there who I am—Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of +the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald +Breton, a barrister.” + +The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side +door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying +her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour. +Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his +principal visitor. + +“What is it, Mr. Rathbury?” he enquired. “Anything wrong?” + +“We want a bit of information,” answered Rathbury, almost with +indifference. + +“Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly man, +grey hair, fresh complexion?” + +Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband. + +“There!” she exclaimed. “I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes—a Mr. +Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train +got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But—he didn’t use it last +night. He went out—very late—and he never came back.” + +Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair +and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. + +“What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma’am?” he asked. “Had +you noticed anything?” + +Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her +husband gave vent to a species of growl. + +“Nothing to notice,” he muttered. “Her way of speaking—that’s all.” + +“Well—why I said that was this,” said the landlady. “He happened to +tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn’t been in London for over twenty +years, and couldn’t remember anything about it, him, he said, never +having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he +went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought +something had happened to him, and that there’d be enquiries made.” + +“Just so—just so!” said Rathbury. “So you would, ma’am—so you would. +Well, something has happened to him. He’s dead. What’s more, there’s +strong reason to think he was murdered.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise +and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his +visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work +to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter +of course. + +“My respects,” he said, lifting his glass. “Well, now, perhaps you’ll +just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr. and +Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this +morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn’t anything on him but +his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman’s name and +address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I +traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter’s +yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel.” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Walters quickly, “that’s so. And he went out in that +cap last night. Well—we don’t know much about him. As I said, he came +in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked +Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a +bag—they’re in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at this +house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—that, of course, +was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book as John +Marbury.” + +“We’ll look at that, if you please,” said Rathbury. + +Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous +day’s entries. They all bent over the dead man’s writing. + +“‘John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,’” said Rathbury. “Ah—now +I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on the scrap +of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn’t—it’s quite different.” + +“Quite different,” said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting +with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it, +and asked another question. + +“Ever seen that writing before?” he suggested. + +“Never,” answered Breton. “And yet—there’s something very familiar +about it.” + +“Then the probability is that you have seen it before,” remarked +Rathbury. “Well—now we’ll hear a little more about Marbury’s doings +here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. Walters.” + +“My wife knows most,” said Walters. “I scarcely saw the man—I don’t +remember speaking with him.” + +“No,” said Mrs. Walters. “You didn’t—you weren’t much in his way. +Well,” she continued, “I showed him up to his room. He talked a +bit—said he’d just landed at Southampton from Melbourne.” + +“Did he mention his ship?” asked Rathbury. “But if he didn’t, it +doesn’t matter, for we can find out.” + +“I believe the name’s on his things,” answered the landlady. “There are +some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for +him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at +exactly one o’clock, saying to me that he expected he’d get lost, as he +didn’t know London well at any time, and shouldn’t know it at all now. +He went outside there—I saw him—looked about him and walked off towards +Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came for +him—from Fiskie’s. So, of course, I judged he’d been Piccadilly way. +But he himself never came in until ten o’clock. And then he brought a +gentleman with him.” + +“Aye?” said Rathbury. “A gentleman, now? Did you see him?” + +“Just,” replied the landlady. “They went straight up to 20, and I just +caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. A +tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far +as I could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his +throat, and carrying an umbrella.” + +“And they went to Marbury’s room?” said Rathbury. “What then?” + +“Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda,” continued +Mrs. Walters. “He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, +and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until +nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 +had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of +course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven.” + +“And the other gentleman?” asked Rathbury. + +“The other gentleman,” answered the landlady, “went out with him. The +hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the last +anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came +back.” + +“That,” observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, “that is quite certain, +ma’am? Well—I suppose we’d better see this Number 20 room, and have a +look at what he left there.” + +“Everything,” said Mrs. Walters, “is just as he left it. Nothing’s been +touched.” + +It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the +dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet—none of them of +any quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with +the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, +without ceremony, went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he +proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid +out on the bed every article they contained and examined each +separately and carefully. And he found nothing whereby he could gather +any clue to the dead owner’s identity. + +“There you are!” he said, making an end of his task. “You see, it’s +just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him. +There are no papers—there’s nothing to tell who he was, what he was +after, where he’d come from—though that we may find out in other ways. +But it’s not often that a man travels without some clue to his +identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought +in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and +money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma’am?” he asked, +suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. “Did he pull out his purse in your +presence, now?” + +“Yes,” answered the landlady, with promptitude. “He came into the bar +for a drink after he’d been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of +gold when he paid for it—a whole handful. There must have been some +thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns.” + +“And he hadn’t a penny piece on him—when found,” muttered Rathbury. + +“I noticed another thing, too,” remarked the landlady. “He was wearing +a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left +hand—little finger—gold, with a big diamond in it.” + +“Yes,” said the detective, thoughtfully, “I noticed that he’d worn a +ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well—now there’s only +one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn +paper around—tore any letters up, or anything like that?” + +But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on +the contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy +indeed. So Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing +further to say, just then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the +Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and went away, followed by the two +young men. + +“What next?” asked Spargo, as they gained the street. + +“The next thing,” answered Rathbury, “is to find the man with whom +Marbury left this hotel last night.” + +“And how’s that to be done?” asked Spargo. + +“At present,” replied Rathbury, “I don’t know.” + +And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE +SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + + +The barrister and the journalist, left thus unceremoniously on a +crowded pavement, looked at each other. Breton laughed. + +“We don’t seem to have gained much information,” he remarked. “I’m +about as wise as ever.” + +“No—wiser,” said Spargo. “At any rate, I am. I know now that this dead +man called himself John Marbury; that he came from Australia; that he +only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the +company last night of a man whom we have had described to us—a tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman.” + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +“I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in +London,” he remarked. + +“Exactly—so it would,” answered Spargo. “But we know that it was one of +the hundred thousand, or half-million, if you like. The thing is to +find that one—the one.” + +“And you think you can do it?” + +“I think I’m going to have a big try at it.” + +Breton shrugged his shoulders again. + +“What?—by going up to every man who answers the description, and saying +‘Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the Anglo——” + +Spargo suddenly interrupted him. + +“Look here!” he said. “Didn’t you say that you knew a man who lives in +that block in the entry of which Marbury was found?” + +“No, I didn’t,” answered Breton. “It was Mr. Elphick who said that. All +the same, I do know that man—he’s Mr. Cardlestone, another barrister. +He and Mr. Elphick are friends—they’re both enthusiastic +philatelists—stamp collectors, you know—and I dare say Mr. Elphick was +round there last night examining something new Cardlestone’s got hold +of. Why?” + +“I’d like to go round there and make some enquiries,” replied Spargo. +“If you’d be kind enough to——” + +“Oh, I’ll go with you!” responded Breton, with alacrity. “I’m just as +keen about this business as you are, Spargo! I want to know who this +man Marbury is, and how he came to have my name and address on him. +Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, why—” + +“Yes,” said Spargo, as they got into a cab, “yes, that would have +explained a lot. It seems to me that we’ll get at the murderer through +that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury’s line. Yes, +that’s what I think.” + +Breton looked at his companion with interest. + +“But—you don’t know what Rathbury’s line is,” he remarked. + +“Yes, I do,” said Spargo. “Rathbury’s gone off to discover who the man +is with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last night. That’s his +line.” + +“And you want——?” + +“I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who +wrote it,” answered Spargo. “I want to know why that old man was coming +to you when he was murdered.” + +Breton started. + +“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I—I never thought of that. You—you really +think he was coming to me when he was struck down?” + +“Certain. Hadn’t he got an address in the Temple? Wasn’t he in the +Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you.” + +“But—the late hour?” + +“No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I +think he was asking his way. That’s why I want to make some enquiries +in this block.” + +It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of +the office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the +dead man. Being luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the +body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the +sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though +there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had +lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry +than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so +great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a +policeman to move the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion +presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as +to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and +old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously +greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion. + +“Drive them all out into the street!” exclaimed this personage. “Drive +them all away, constable—into Fleet Street or upon the +Embankment—anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a +disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a——” + +“That’s old Cardlestone,” whispered Breton. “He’s always irascible, and +I don’t suppose we’ll get anything out of him. Mr. Cardlestone,” he +continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now +retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as +himself. “I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a +journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He——” + +“I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. +Cardlestone. “And I never talk to journalists—a pack of busybodies, +sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been +committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office +boys and street loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down +these steps and broke his neck—drunk, most likely.” + +He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring +smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first +landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels. + +“Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last +evening, Mr. Cardlestone,” he said. “Of course, neither of you heard +anything suspicious?” + +“What should we hear that was suspicious in the Temple, sir?” demanded +Mr. Cardlestone, angrily. “I hope the Temple is free from that sort of +thing, young Mr. Breton. Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet +evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away all was +as quiet as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above +and around me I know not! Fortunately, our walls are thick, +sir—substantial. I say, sir, the man probably fell down and broke his +neck. What he was doing here, I do not presume to say.” + +“Well, it’s guess, you know, Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Breton, again +winking at Spargo. “But all that was found on this man was a scrap of +paper on which my name and address were written. That’s practically all +that was known of him, except that he’d just arrived from Australia.” + +Mr. Cardlestone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, +acute glance. + +“Eh?” he exclaimed. “What’s this? You say this man had your name and +address on him, young Breton!—yours? And that he came from—Australia?” + +“That’s so,” answered Breton. “That’s all that’s known.” + +Mr. Cardlestone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandanna +handkerchief of strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective +fashion. + +“That’s a mysterious thing,” he observed. “Um—does Elphick know all +that?” + +Breton looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of +Mr. Cardlestone’s altered manner. And Spargo took up the conversation. + +“No,” he said. “All that Mr. Elphick knows is that Mr. Ronald Breton’s +name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. Mr. +Elphick”—here Spargo paused and looked at Breton—“Mr. Elphick,” he +presently continued, slowly transferring his glance to the old +barrister, “spoke of going to view the body.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone, eagerly. “It can be seen? Then I’ll go +and see it. Where is it?” + +Breton started. + +“But—my dear sir!” he said. “Why?” + +Mr. Cardlestone picked up his umbrella again. + +“I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very +door,” he said. “Also, I have known more than one man who went to +Australia. This might—I say might, young gentlemen—might be a man I had +once known. Show me where this body is.” + +Breton looked helplessly at Spargo: it was plain that he did not +understand the turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to +seize an opportunity. In another minute he was conducting Mr. +Cardlestone through the ins and outs of the Temple towards Blackfriars. +And as they turned into Tudor Street they encountered Mr. Elphick. + +“I am going to the mortuary,” he remarked. “So, I suppose, are you, +Cardlestone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?” + +Spargo tried a chance shot—at what he did not know. “The man’s name was +Marbury,” he said. “He was from Australia.” + +He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elphick, but he failed to see that Mr. +Elphick showed any of the surprise which Mr. Cardlestone had exhibited. +Rather, he seemed indifferent. + +“Oh?” he said—“Marbury? And from Australia. Well—I should like to see +the body.” + +Spargo and Breton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder +gentlemen went in. There was nothing to be learnt from either when they +reappeared. + +“We don’t know the man,” said Mr. Elphick, calmly. “As Mr. Cardlestone, +I understand, has said to you already—we have known men who went to +Australia, and as this man was evidently wandering about the Temple, we +thought it might have been one of them, come back. But—we don’t +recognize him.” + +“Couldn’t recognize him,” said Mr. Cardlestone. “No!” + +They went away together arm in arm, and Breton looked at Spargo. + +“As if anybody on earth ever fancied they’d recognize him!” he said. +“Well—what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must go.” + +Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the +pavement, came out of a fit of abstraction. + +“I?” he said. “Oh—I’m going to the office.” And he turned abruptly +away, and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at the +_Watchman_, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the +editor. “Try to get me a few minutes with the chief,” he said. + +The private secretary looked up. + +“Really important?” he asked. + +“Big!” answered Spargo. “Fix it.” + +Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty +well by that time, Spargo lost no time. + +“You’ve heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane?” he suggested. + +“The mere facts,” replied the editor, tersely. + +“I was there when the body was found,” continued Spargo, and gave a +brief résumé of his doings. “I’m certain this is a most unusual +affair,” he went on. “It’s as full of mystery as—as it could be. I want +to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can make such +a story of it as we haven’t had for some time—ages. Let me have it. And +to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. I’ll make +it—big!” + +The editor looked across his desk at Spargo’s eager face. + +“Your other work?” he said. + +“Well in hand,” replied Spargo. “I’m ahead a whole week—both articles +and reviews. I can tackle both.” + +The editor put his finger tips together. + +“Have you got some idea about this, young man?” he asked. + +“I’ve got a great idea,” answered Spargo. He faced the great man +squarely, and stared at him until he had brought a smile to the +editorial face. “That’s why I want to do it,” he added. “And—it’s not +mere boasting nor over-confidence—I know I shall do it better than +anybody else.” + +The editor considered matters for a brief moment. + +“You mean to find out who killed this man?” he said at last. + +Spargo nodded his head—twice. + +“I’ll find that out,” he said doggedly. + +The editor picked up a pencil, and bent to his desk. + +“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. You shall have your two columns.” + +Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got hold of a +block of paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do +things. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX +WITNESS TO A MEETING + + +Ronald Breton walked into the _Watchman_ office and into Spargo’s room +next morning holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved +it at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. + +“I say!” he exclaimed. “That’s the way to do it, Spargo! I congratulate +you. Yes, that’s the way—certain!” + +Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. + +“What way?” he asked indifferently. + +“The way you’ve written this thing up,” said Breton. “It’s a hundred +thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried account of a murder. +It’s—it’s like a—a romance!” + +“Merely a new method of giving news,” said Spargo. He picked up a copy +of the _Watchman_, and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow +managed to make themselves into three, viewing the displayed lettering, +the photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle +Temple Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grey paper, with a +critical eye. “Yes—merely a new method,” he continued. “The question +is—will it achieve its object?” + +“What’s the object?” asked Breton. + +Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it +over to his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put +his feet on his desk. + +“The object?” he said, drily. “Oh, well, the object is the ultimate +detection of the murderer.” + +“You’re after that?” + +“I’m after that—just that.” + +“And not—not simply out to make effective news?” + +“I’m out to find the murderer of John Marbury,” said Spargo +deliberately slow in his speech. “And I’ll find him.” + +“Well, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of clues, so far,” +remarked Breton. “I see—nothing. Do you?” + +Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. + +“I want to know an awful lot,” he said. “I’m hungering for news. I want +to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with himself +between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive +and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with +his skull beaten in and dead. I want to know where he got that scrap of +paper. Above everything, Breton, I want to know what he’d got to do +with you!” + +He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Breton nodded. + +“Yes,” he said. “I confess that’s a corker. But I think——” + +“Well?” said Spargo. + +“I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, or +in prospect, and had been recommended to—me,” said Breton. + +Spargo smiled—a little sardonically. + +“That’s good!” he said. “You had your very first brief—yesterday. +Come—your fame isn’t blown abroad through all the heights yet, my +friend! Besides—don’t intending clients approach—isn’t it strict +etiquette for them to approach?—barristers through solicitors?” + +“Quite right—in both your remarks,” replied Breton, good-humouredly. +“Of course, I’m not known a bit, but all the same I’ve known several +cases where a barrister has been approached in the first instance and +asked to recommend a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me a good +turn may have given this man my address.” + +“Possible,” said Spargo. “But he wouldn’t have come to consult you at +midnight. Breton!—the more I think of it, the more I’m certain there’s +a tremendous mystery in this affair! That’s why I got the chief to let +me write it up as I have done—here. I’m hoping that this +photograph—though to be sure, it’s of a dead face—and this facsimile of +the scrap of paper will lead to somebody coming forward who can——” + +Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble +pillared vestibule of the _Watchman_ office came into the room with the +unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment. + +“I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is,” muttered +Spargo in an aside. “Well?” he said to the boy. “What is it?” + +The messenger came up to the desk. + +“Mr. Spargo,” he said, “there’s a man downstairs who says that he wants +to see somebody about that murder case that’s in the paper this +morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you.” + +“Who is the man?” asked Spargo. + +“Won’t say, sir,” replied the boy. “I gave him a form to fill up, but +he said he wouldn’t write anything—said all he wanted was to see the +man who wrote the piece in the paper.” + +“Bring him here,” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the boy +had gone, and he smiled. “I knew we should have somebody here sooner or +later,” he said. “That’s why I hurried over my breakfast and came down +at ten o’clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances of this +chap’s information proving valuable?” + +“Nothing,” replied Breton. “He’s probably some crank or faddist who’s +got some theory that he wants to ventilate.” + +The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger seemed from +preliminary and outward appearance to justify Breton’s prognostication. +He was obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, +yellow of hair, blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday-best array of +pearl-grey trousers and black coat, and sported a necktie in which were +several distinct colours. Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of +the _Watchman_ building, he had removed his hard billycock hat as he +followed the boy, and he ducked his bared head at the two young men as +he stepped on to the thick pile of the carpet which made luxurious +footing in Spargo’s room. His blue eyes, opened to their widest, looked +round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness of modern +newspaper-office accommodation. + +“How do you do, sir?” said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the +easy-chairs for which the _Watchman_ office is famous. “I understand +that you wish to see me?” + +The caller ducked his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the +chair, put his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to +hang it on his knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. + +“What I want to see, sir,” he observed in a rustic accent, “is the +gentleman as wrote that piece in your newspaper about this here murder +in Middle Temple Lane.” + +“You see him,” said Spargo. “I am that man.” + +The caller smiled—generously. + +“Indeed, sir?” he said. “A very nice bit of reading, I’m sure. And what +might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk free-er to a man when I +know what his name is.” + +“So can I,” answered Spargo. “My name is Spargo—Frank Spargo. What’s +yours?” + +“Name of Webster, sir—William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at +Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife,” continued Mr. Webster, again +smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, “is at +present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it—weather +and all.” + +“That’s right,” said Spargo. “And—you wanted to see me about this +murder, Mr. Webster?” + +“I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that’ll do +for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in +this fashion—happen you’ll be for me to tell it in my own way.” + +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I desire.” + +“Well, to be sure, I couldn’t tell it in no other,” declared Mr. +Webster. “You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was +waiting for my breakfast—they take their breakfasts so late in them +hotels—and when I’d read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to my +wife ‘As soon as I’ve had my breakfast,’ I says, ‘I’m going to where +they print this newspaper to tell ’em something.’ ‘Aye?’ she says, +‘Why, what have you to tell, I should like to know?’ just like that, +Mr. Spargo.” + +“Mrs. Webster,” said Spargo, “is a lady of businesslike principles. And +what have you to tell?” + +Mr. Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and +smiled knowingly. + +“Well, sir,” he continued, “Last night, my wife, she went out to a part +they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of +hers as lives there, and as they wanted to have a bit of woman-talk, +like, I didn’t go. So thinks I to myself, I’ll go and see this here +House of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all +you’d got to do was to tell the policeman at the door that you wanted +to see your own Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told ’em +that I wanted to see our M.P., Mr. Stonewood—you’ll have heard tell of +him, no doubt; he knows me very well—and they passed me, and I wrote +out a ticket for him, and they told me to sit down while they found +him. So I sat down in a grand sort of hall where there were a rare lot +of people going and coming, and some fine pictures and images to look +at, and for a time I looked at them, and then I began to take a bit of +notice of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, like myself. And as +sure as I’m a christened man, sir, the gentleman whose picture you’ve +got in your paper—him as was murdered—was sitting next to me! I knew +that picture as soon as I saw it this morning.” + +Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles on a block of paper, +suddenly looked at his visitor. + +“What time was that?” he asked. + +“It was between a quarter and half-past nine, sir,” answered Mr. +Webster. “It might ha’ been twenty past—it might ha’ been twenty-five +past.” + +“Go on, if you please,” said Spargo. + +“Well, sir, me and this here dead gentleman talked a bit. About what a +long time it took to get a member to attend to you, and such-like. I +made mention of the fact that I hadn’t been in there before. ‘Neither +have I!’ he says, ‘I came in out of curiosity,’ he says, and then he +laughed, sir—queer-like. And it was just after that that what I’m going +to tell you about happened.” + +“Tell,” commanded Spargo. + +“Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along, down this grand hall that +we were sitting in—a tall, handsome gentleman, with a grey beard. He’d +no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper and documents in his +hand, so I thought he was happen one of the members. And all of a +sudden this here man at my side, he jumps up with a sort of start and +an exclamation, and——” + +Spargo lifted his hand. He looked keenly at his visitor. + +“Now, you’re absolutely sure about what you heard him exclaim?” he +asked. “Quite sure about it? Because I see you are going to tell us +what he did exclaim.” + +“I’ll tell you naught but what I’m certain of, sir,” replied Webster. +“What he said as he jumped up was ‘Good God!’ he says, sharp-like—and +then he said a name, and I didn’t right catch it, but it sounded like +Danesworth, or Painesworth, or something of that sort—one of them +there, or very like ’em, at any rate. And then he rushed up to this +here gentleman, and laid his hand on his arm—sudden-like.” + +“And—the gentleman?” asked Spargo, quietly. + +“Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the +man. Then they shook hands. And then, after they’d spoken a few words +together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no +more of ’em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that +picture in it, I said to myself ‘That’s the man I sat next to in that +there hall at the House of Commons!’ Oh, there’s no doubt of it, sir!” + +“And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey +beard?” suggested Spargo. “Could you recognize him from that?” + +“Make no doubt of it, sir,” answered Mr. Webster. “I observed him +particular.” + +Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, +the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes. + +“Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,” he said. + +The farmer went across the room. + +“There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of +Commons here,” said Spargo. “Now, pick out the one you saw. Take your +time—and be sure.” + +He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton. + +“There!” he whispered. “Getting nearer—a bit nearer—eh?” + +“To what?” asked Breton. “I don’t see—” + +A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark. + +“This is him, sir!” answered Mr. Webster. “That’s the gentleman—know +him anywhere!” + +The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby +finger to a photograph, beneath which was written _Stephen Aylmore, +Esq., M.P. for Brookminster_. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN +MR. AYLMORE + + +Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton +start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere +glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. + +“Oh!” he said. “That he?” + +“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster. “Done to the life, that +is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.” + +“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo. “There are a lot of men in +the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards +are grey.” + +But Webster wagged his head. + +“That’s him, sir!” he repeated. “I’m as sure of that as I am that my +name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw talking to him whose +picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no more, sir.” + +“Very good,” said Spargo. “I’m much obliged to you. I’ll see Mr. +Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How long do you +remain in town?” + +“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be +there for another week,” answered the farmer. “Hope I’ve been of some +use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife——” + +Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He +turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. + +“There!—what did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I say I should get some +news? There it is.” + +Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. + +“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I say, Spargo!” + +“Well?” + +“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.” + +“Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his daughters—only +yesterday?” + +“But—how did you know they were his daughters?” + +Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. + +“Instinct—intuition,” he answered. “However, never mind that, just now. +Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if that is the dead man’s real +name, and anyway, it’s all we know him by—was in the company of Mr. +Aylmore that night. Good!” + +“What are you going to do about it?” asked Breton. + +“Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course.” + +He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand +had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. + +“Look here,” said Breton. “I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be +found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and Pacific +Club, you know, in St. James’s. If you like, I’ll go with you.” + +Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. + +“All right,” he said. “Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve something to do. I’ll +meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon.” + +“I’ll be there,” agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand +on it, turned. “What do you expect from—from what we’ve just heard?” he +asked. + +Spargo shrugged his shoulders. + +“Wait—until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say,” he answered. “I +suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.” + +Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to +mutter to himself. + +“Good God!” he says. “Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one +of the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much +observation. Ah!—and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized as +Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. +Stephen Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?” + +Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of +reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness +to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud: + +“AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, +St. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member +Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South +American enterprise.” + +“Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s not very +illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now we’ll make +another.” + +Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of +Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, +leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take +him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he +had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. + +Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the +hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. + +“I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the detective—Mr. +Rathbury.” + +“Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo. + +“Not since,” replied Mrs. Walters. “No—and I was wondering if he’d be +coming round, because——” She paused there and looked at Spargo with +particular enquiry—“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” she asked. “I +suppose you know as much as he does—about this?” + +“He and I,” replied Spargo, with easy confidence, “are working this +case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell him.” + +The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an +inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in +tissue paper. + +“Well,” she said, unwrapping the paper, “we found this in Number 20 +this morning—it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl that found +it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but Walters, +he says as how he shouldn’t be surprised if it’s a diamond. And since +we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after Mr. Marbury +came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he went into +the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of things like +this. So there?” + +Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. + +“That’s a diamond—right enough,” he said. “Put it away, Mrs. Walters—I +shall see Rathbury presently, and I’ll tell him about it. Now, that +other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you recognize him—I +mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?” + +Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters’ face that she had no +more doubt than Webster had. + +“Oh, yes!” she said. “That’s the gentleman who came in with Mr. +Marbury—I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would recognize +him from that—perhaps you’d let our hall-porter and the waiter I +mentioned just now look at it?” + +“I’ll see them separately and see if they’ve ever seen a man who +resembles this,” replied Spargo. + +The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, +and Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the +Atlantic and Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the +steps. He made no reference to his recent doings, and together they +went into the house and asked for Mr. Aylmore. + +Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently +came to them in the visitors’ room. He was already familiar with Mr. +Aylmore’s photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; +the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of +legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and +unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest +of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or +seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met +him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalist had +expected—a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, who looked as if +he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and taught not +to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interests +in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite +expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation +—purposely shortened—of his object in calling upon him. + +“Yes,” he said indifferently. “Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury +and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke +of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much +surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for—I really don’t know how +many years.” + +He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or +not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And +presently Mr. Aylmore went on. + +“I read your account in the _Watchman_ this morning,” he said. “I was +wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with you or +with the police. The fact is—I suppose you want this for your paper, +eh?” he continued after a sudden breaking off. + +“I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print,” answered +Spargo. “If you care to give me any information——” + +“Oh, well!” said Mr. Aylmore. “I don’t mind. The fact is, I knew next +to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some—well, business +relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty +years—perhaps more—since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me in +the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to recall +him. He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, and as +there was little doing in the House that night, and as he had once +been—almost a friend—I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. He told +me that he had only landed from Australia that morning, and what he +wanted my advice about, principally, was—diamonds. Australian +diamonds.” + +“I was unaware,” remarked Spargo, “that diamonds were ever found in +Australia.” + +Mr. Aylmore smiled—a little cynically. + +“Perhaps so,” he said. “But diamonds have been found in Australia from +time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and in the +opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. +Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed +them to me at his hotel—a number of them. We examined them in his +room.” + +“What did he do with them—afterwards?” asked Spargo. + +“He put them in his waistcoat pocket—in a very small wash-leather bag, +from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty +stones—not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some +expert—I mentioned Streeter’s to him. Now, I can tell you how he got +hold of Mr. Breton’s address.” + +The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened +his hold on the pencil with which he was making notes. + +“He got it from me,” continued Mr. Aylmore. “The handwriting on the +scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As +I knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. +Breton, Mr. Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp +solicitor. I wrote down Mr. Breton’s address for him, on a scrap of +paper which he tore off a letter that he took from his pocket. By the +by, I observe that when his body was found there was nothing on it in +the shape of papers or money. I am quite sure that when I left him he +had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a breast-pocket full of +letters.” + +“Where did you leave him, sir?” asked Spargo. “You left the hotel +together, I believe?” + +“Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much +to talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge +and very shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. +My own impression——” He paused for a moment and Spargo waited silently. + +“My own impression—though I confess it may seem to have no very solid +grounds—is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was +robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. +There is the fact that he was robbed, at any rate.” + +“I’ve had a notion,” said Breton, diffidently. “Mayn’t be worth much, +but I’ve had it, all the same. Some fellow-passenger of Marbury’s may +have tracked him all day—Middle Temple Lane’s pretty lonely at night, +you know.” + +No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at +Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door. + +“Well, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “You see, it’s +not much, after all. Of course, there’ll be an inquest on Marbury, and +I shall have to re-tell it. But you’re welcome to print what I’ve told +you.” + +Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards +New Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news—now he +had some to communicate. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT +THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + + +Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal +apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of +its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain +writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much +discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in +the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of +reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was +seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the +apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He +looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand. + +“Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the _Watchman_ this +morning,” he said. “Made extra good reading, I thought. They did right +to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I +suppose, Mr. Spargo?” + +Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury’s right hand. He +lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his +head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his +question answered in the affirmative. + +“Look here,” he said. “We settled yesterday, didn’t we, that you and I +are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? That’s all +right,” he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. “Very well—have +you made any further progress?” + +Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning +back in his chair, shook his head. + +“Frankly, I haven’t,” he replied. “Of course, there’s a lot being done +in the usual official-routine way. We’ve men out making various +enquiries. We’re enquiring about Marbury’s voyage to England. All that +we know up to now is that he was certainly a passenger on a liner which +landed at Southampton in accordance with what he told those people at +the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way and was +understood to take the train to town—as he did. That’s all. There’s +nothing in that. We’ve cabled to Melbourne for any news of him from +there. But I expect little from that.” + +“All right,” said Spargo. “And—what are you doing—you, yourself? +Because, if we’re to share facts, I must know what my partner’s after. +Just now, you seemed to be—drawing.” + +Rathbury laughed. + +“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “when I want to work things +out, I come into this room—it’s quiet, as you see—and I scribble +anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, and—” + +“Do you see it?” asked Spargo, quickly. + +“Well—I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that hotel,” +replied Rathbury. “It seems to me—” + +Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. + +“I’ve found him,” he said. “That’s what I wrote that article for—to +find him. I knew it would find him. I’ve never had any training in your +sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. And it has got +him.” + +Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. + +“Good!” he said. “And—who is he?” + +“I’ll tell you the story,” answered Spargo, “and in a summary. This +morning a man named Webster, a farmer, a visitor to London, came to me +at the office, and said that being at the House of Commons last night +he witnessed a meeting between Marbury and a man who was evidently a +Member of Parliament, and saw them go away together. I showed him an +album of photographs of the present members, and he immediately +recognized the portrait of one of them as the man in question. I +thereupon took the portrait to the Anglo-Orient Hotel—Mrs. Walters also +at once recognized it as that of the man who came to the hotel with +Marbury, stopped with him a while in his room, and left with him. The +man is Mr. Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster.” + +Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. + +“I know him!” he said. “Of course—I remember Mrs. Walters’s description +now. But his is a familiar type—tall, grey-bearded, well-dressed. +Um!—well, we’ll have to see Mr. Aylmore at once.” + +“I’ve seen him,” said Spargo. “Naturally! For you see, Mrs. Walters +gave me a bit more evidence. This morning they found a loose diamond on +the floor of Number 20, and after it was found the waiter who took the +drinks up to Marbury and his guest that night remembered that when he +entered the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of +similar objects. So then I went on to see Mr. Aylmore. You know young +Breton, the barrister?—you met him with me, you remember?” + +“The young fellow whose name and address were found on Marbury,” +replied Rathbury. “I remember.” + +“Breton is engaged to Aylmore’s daughter,” continued Spargo. “Breton +took me to Aylmore’s club. And Aylmore gives a plain, straightforward +account of the matter which he’s granted me leave to print. It clears +up a lot of things. Aylmore knew Marbury over twenty years ago. He lost +sight of him. They met accidentally in the lobby of the House on the +evening preceding the murder. Marbury told him that he wanted his +advice about those rare things, Australian diamonds. He went back with +him to his hotel and spent a while with him; then they walked out +together as far as Waterloo Bridge, where Aylmore left him and went +home. Further, the scrap of grey paper is accounted for. Marbury wanted +the address of a smart solicitor; Aylmore didn’t know of one but told +Marbury that if he called on young Breton, he’d know, and would put him +in the way to find one. Marbury wrote Breton’s address down. That’s +Aylmore’s story. But it’s got an important addition. Aylmore says that +when he left Marbury, Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds +in a wash-leather bag, a lot of gold, and a breast-pocket full of +letters and papers. Now—there was nothing on him when he was found dead +in Middle Temple Lane.” + +Spargo stopped and lighted a fresh cigarette. + +“That’s all I know,” he said. “What do you make of it?” + +Rathbury leaned back in his chair in his apparently favourite attitude +and stared hard at the dusty ceiling above him. + +“Don’t know,” he said. “It brings things up to a point, certainly. +Aylmore and Marbury parted at Waterloo Bridge—very late. Waterloo +Bridge is pretty well next door to the Temple. But—how did Marbury get +into the Temple, unobserved? We’ve made every enquiry, and we can’t +trace him in any way as regards that movement. There’s a clue for his +going there in the scrap of paper bearing Breton’s address, but even a +Colonial would know that no business was done in the Temple at +midnight, eh?” + +“Well,” said Spargo, “I’ve thought of one or two things. He may have +been one of those men who like to wander around at night. He may have +seen—he would see—plenty of lights in the Temple at that hour; he may +have slipped in unobserved—it’s possible, it’s quite possible. I once +had a moonlight saunter in the Temple myself after midnight, and had no +difficulty about walking in and out, either. But—if Marbury was +murdered for the sake of what he had on him—how did he meet with his +murderer or murderers in there? Criminals don’t hang about Middle +Temple Lane.” + +The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making +more hieroglyphics. + +“What’s your theory, Mr. Spargo?” he asked suddenly. “I suppose you’ve +got one.” + +“Have you?” asked Spargo, bluntly. + +“Well,” returned Rathbury, hesitatingly, “I hadn’t, up to now. But +now—now, after what you’ve told me, I think I can make one. It seems to +me that after Marbury left Aylmore he probably mooned about by himself, +that he was decoyed into the Temple, and was there murdered and robbed. +There are a lot of queer ins and outs, nooks and corners in that old +spot, Mr. Spargo, and the murderer, if he knew his ground well, could +easily hide himself until he could get away in the morning. He might be +a man who had access to chambers or offices—think how easy it would be +for such a man, having once killed and robbed his victim, to lie hid +for hours afterwards? For aught we know, the man who murdered Marbury +may have been within twenty feet of you when you first saw his dead +body that morning. Eh?” + +Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the +room and whispered a few words in the detective’s ear. + +“Show him in at once,” said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the man +quitted the room and smiled significantly. “Here’s somebody wants to +tell something about the Marbury case,” he remarked. “Let’s hope it’ll +be news worth hearing.” + +Spargo smiled in his queer fashion. + +“It strikes me that you’ve only got to interest an inquisitive public +in order to get news,” he said. “The principal thing is to investigate +it when you’ve got it. Who’s this, now?” + +The official had returned with a dapper-looking gentleman in a +frock-coat and silk hat, bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp of the +city man, who inspected Rathbury with deliberation and Spargo with a +glance, and being seated turned to the detective as undoubtedly the +person he desired to converse with. + +“I understand that you are the officer in charge of the Marbury murder +case,” he observed. “I believe I can give you some valuable information +in respect to that. I read the account of the affair in the _Watchman_ +newspaper this morning, and saw the portrait of the murdered man there, +and I was at first inclined to go to the _Watchman_ office with my +information, but I finally decided to approach the police instead of +the Press, regarding the police as being more—more responsible.” + +“Much obliged to you, sir,” said Rathbury, with a glance at Spargo. +“Whom have I the pleasure of——” + +“My name,” replied the visitor, drawing out and laying down a card, “is +Myerst—Mr. E.P. Myerst, Secretary of the London and Universal Safe +Deposit Company. I may, I suppose, speak with confidence,” continued +Mr. Myerst, with a side-glance at Spargo. “My information +is—confidential.” + +Rathbury inclined his head and put his fingers together. + +“You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Myerst,” he answered. “If +what you have to tell has any real bearing on the Marbury case, it will +probably have to be repeated in public, you know, sir. But at present +it will be treated as private.” + +“It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say,” replied Mr. +Myerst. “Yes, I should decidedly say so. The fact is that on June 21st +at about—to be precise—three o’clock in the afternoon, a stranger, who +gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if +he could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to +deposit in such a safe a small leather box—which, by the by, was of +remarkably ancient appearance—that he had brought with him. I showed +him a safe such as he wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the +rules of the place, and he engaged the safe, paid the rent for one year +in advance, and deposited his leather box—an affair of about a foot +square—there and then. After that, having exchanged a remark or two +about the altered conditions of London, which, I understood him to say, +he had not seen for a great many years, he took his key and his +departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. +Marbury who was found murdered.” + +“None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst,” said Rathbury. “And I’m much +obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little more, +sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?” + +“No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of +it,” replied the secretary. + +“Didn’t give you any hint as to what was in it?” asked Rathbury. + +“None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not +be burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested,” replied Mr. Myerst. “He +appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible +for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe.” + +“Ah!” said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. “So he would, no doubt. And +Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?” + +Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question. + +“Mr. Marbury struck me,” he answered at last, “as a man who had +probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will +term, a remarkable remark. About—in fact, about his leather box.” + +“His leather box?” said Rathbury. “And what was it, sir?” + +“This,” replied the secretary. “‘That box,’ he said, ‘is safe now. But +it’s been safer. It’s been buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many +a year!’” + + + + +CHAPTER NINE +THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + + +“Buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year,” repeated Mr. +Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. “I consider that, +gentlemen, a very remarkable remark—very remarkable!” + +Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and +began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. +And with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo’s journalistic +instincts had been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off +on a new scent. + +“Remarkable—remarkable, Mr. Myerst!” he assented. “What do you say, Mr. +Spargo?” + +Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered +made a careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several +seconds; then Spargo spoke. + +“And what did you say to that?” he asked quietly. + +Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it +time to enlighten the caller. + +“I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst,” he said smilingly, “that this is +Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo wrote the article about the +Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you’ll +gather, is deeply interested in this matter—and he and I, in our +different capacities, are working together. So—you understand?” Myerst +regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. +Spargo repeated the question he had just put. + +“I said—What did you say to that?” + +Myerst hesitated. + +“Well—er—I don’t think I said anything,” he replied. “Nothing that one +might call material, you know.” + +“Didn’t ask him what he meant?” suggested Spargo. + +“Oh, no—not at all,” replied Myerst. + +Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. + +“Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!” he +said, half-sneeringly. “You might have heard such a story—” + +He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to +Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement. + +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Is it possible to get that box +opened?” + +“It’ll have to be opened,” answered Rathbury, rising. “It’s got to be +opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I’m going to ask Mr. +Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having +it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through +today, but at any rate we’ll have it done tomorrow morning.” + +“Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?” asked +Spargo. “You can—certain? That’s all right, Rathbury. Now I’m off, and +you’ll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I’ll do the +same by you.” + +And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly +returned to the _Watchman_ office. There the assistant who had been +told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a +business card. + +“This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” he +said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, +and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to his +place when you came in.” + +Spargo took the card and read: + +MR. JAMES CRIEDIR, +DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES, +2,021, STRAND. + + +Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, +wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call +himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He +went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and +his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might +have been done by Mr. 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. + +“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. Yes, I called on +you. I think, having read the _Watchman_ account of that Marbury +affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in your columns, +that I can give you a bit of information.” + +“Material?” asked Spargo, tersely. + +Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed +drily. + +“That’s for you to decide—when you’ve heard it,” he said. “I should +say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it’s this—I +kept open until yesterday—everything as usual, you know—stock in the +window and so on—so that anybody who was passing would naturally have +thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I’m +retiring—retired,” added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, “last night. 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. Criedir, “we’ll go on then. Yesterday afternoon the +man described as Marbury came into my shop. He—” + +“What time—exact time?” asked Spargo. + +“Two—to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock,” answered Mr. +Criedir. “I’d swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was precisely +as you’ve described him—dress, everything—I tell you I knew his photo +as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little box—” + +“What sort of box?” said Spargo. + +“A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box—a very miniature trunk, +in fact,” replied Mr. Criedir. “About a foot square; the sort of thing +you never see nowadays. It was very much worn; it attracted me for that +very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. ‘You’re a +dealer in stamps—rare stamps?’ he said. ‘I am,’ I replied. ‘I’ve +something here I’d like to show you,’ he said, unlocking the box. +‘It’s—’” + +“Stop a bit,” said Spargo. “Where did he take the key from with which +he unlocked the box?” + +“It was one of several which he carried on a split ring, and he took +the bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket,” replied Mr. Criedir. +“Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman! Well—he opened his box. It +seemed to me to be full of papers—at any rate there were a lot of +legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you +how I notice things I saw that the papers were stained with age, and +that the red tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink.” + +“Good—good!” murmured Spargo. “Excellent! Proceed, sir.” + +“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. ‘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. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from +business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single +deal, and that, therefore, I couldn’t do anything. ‘No matter,’ he +says, ‘I daresay there are lots of men in your line of trade—perhaps +you can recommend me to a good firm?’ ‘I could recommend you to a dozen +extra-good firms,’ I answered. ‘But I can do better for you. I’ll give +you the name and address of a private buyer who, I haven’t the least +doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from you and will give you a +big price.’ ‘Write it down,’ he says, ‘and thank you for your trouble.’ +So I gave him a bit of advice as to the price he ought to get, and I +wrote the name and address of the man I referred to on the back of one +of my cards.” + +“Whose name and address?” asked Spargo. + +“Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple Lane,” +replied Mr. Criedir. “Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most enthusiastic +and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he didn’t possess +that set of stamps.” + +“I know Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Spargo. “It was at the foot of his +stairs that Marbury was found murdered.” + +“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. “You think and argue on modern +lines—which are, of course, highly superior. But—how do you account for +my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone’s address and for his having +been found dead—murdered—at the foot of Cardlestone’s stairs a few +hours later?” + +“I don’t account for it,” said Spargo. “I’m trying to.” + +Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down +for a moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly +offered him a cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of +thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again. + +“Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to account. And I shall account. And I’m +much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you’ve told me. Now, then, +may I ask you a question or two?” + +“A thousand!” responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality. + +“Very well. Did Marbury say he’d call on Cardlestone?” + +“He did. Said he’d call as soon as he could—that day.” + +“Have you told Cardlestone what you’ve just told me?” + +“I have. But not until an hour ago—on my way back from your office, in +fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him.” + +“Had he received a call from Marbury?” + +“No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until +he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, +another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could +recognize it as any man they’d ever known, but they couldn’t.” + +“I know they did,” said Spargo. “I saw ’em at the mortuary. Um! +Well—one more question. 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. And what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over +again: + +“Six hours—six hours—six hours! Those six hours!” + +Next morning the _Watchman_ came out with four leaded columns of +up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the +four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:—WHO +SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY PRECEDING +HIS MURDER? + + + + +CHAPTER TEN +THE LEATHER BOX + + +Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline +would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he +kept to himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have +set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in +that headline was certain; the problem was—What particular owner or +owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why +should they remember him? Walters and his wife had reason to remember +him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so had Myerst; so had William +Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he left the London and +Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he sat down by +Webster’s side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody seemed to +have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he only +remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable +cloth cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had +come forward with any recollection of him. He must have gone West from +seeing Myerst, because he bought his cap at Fiskie’s; he must +eventually have gone South-West, because he turned up at Westminster. +But where else did he go? What did he do? To whom did he speak? No +answer came to these questions. + +“That shows,” observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away in +Spargo’s room at the _Watchman_ at that particular hour which is +neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, “that +shows how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that +had strayed into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices.” + +“You’d better go and read up a little elementary entomology, Breton,” +said Spargo. “I don’t know much about it myself, but I’ve a pretty good +idea that when an ant walks into the highways and byways of a colony to +which he doesn’t belong he doesn’t survive his intrusion by many +seconds.” + +“Well, you know what I mean,” said Breton. “London’s an ant-heap, isn’t +it? One human ant more or less doesn’t count. This man Marbury must +have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. He’d ride on +a ’bus—almost certain. He’d get into a taxi-cab—I think that’s much +more certain, because it would be a novelty to him. He’d want some +tea—anyway, he’d be sure to want a drink, and he’d turn in somewhere to +get one or the other. He’d buy things in shops—these Colonials always +do. He’d go somewhere to get his dinner. He’d—but what’s the use of +enumeration in this case?” + +“A mere piling up of platitudes,” answered Spargo. + +“What I mean is,” continued Breton, “that piles of people must have +seen him, and yet it’s now hours and hours since your paper came out +this morning, and nobody’s come forward to tell anything. And when you +come to think of it, why should they? Who’d remember an ordinary man in +a grey tweed suit?” + +“‘An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,’” repeated Spargo. “Good line. +You haven’t any copyright in it, remember. It would make a good +cross-heading.” + +Breton laughed. “You’re a queer chap, Spargo,” he said. “Seriously, do +you think you’re getting any nearer anything?” + +“I’m getting nearer something with everything that’s done,” Spargo +answered. “You can’t start on a business like this without evolving +something out of it, you know.” + +“Well,” said Breton, “to me there’s not so much mystery in it. Mr. +Aylmore’s explained the reason why my address was found on the body; +Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained—” + +Spargo suddenly looked up. + +“What?” he said sharply. + +“Why, the reason of Marbury’s being found where he was found,” replied +Breton. “Of course, I see it all! Marbury was mooning around Fleet +Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see +where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The +thing’s plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it.” + +“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Spargo. “That’s it.” He turned over the leaves +of the diary which lay on his desk. “By the by,” he said, looking up +with some interest, “the adjourned inquest is at eleven o’clock +tomorrow morning. Are you going?” + +“I shall certainly go,” answered Breton. “What’s more, I’m going to +take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details were over at +the first sitting, and as there’ll be nothing but this new evidence +tomorrow, and as they’ve never been in a coroner’s court——” + +“Mr. Aylmore’ll be the principal witness tomorrow,” interrupted Spargo. +“I suppose he’ll be able to tell a lot more than he told—me.” + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +“I don’t see that there’s much more to tell,” he said. “But,” he added, +with a sly laugh, “I suppose you want some more good copy, eh?” + +Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. “I’ll tell +you what I want,” he said. “I want to know who John Marbury was. That +would make good copy. Who he was—twenty—twenty-five—forty years ago. +Eh?” + +“And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?” asked Breton. + +“Mr. Aylmore,” answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, “is the +only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John +Marbury in the—past. But he didn’t tell me—much. Perhaps he’ll tell the +coroner and his jury—more. Now, I’m off Breton—I’ve an appointment.” + +And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped +into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. +At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. + +“Well?” said Spargo, as he sprang out: “How is it?” + +“It’s all right,” answered Rathbury. “You can be present: I got the +necessary permission. As there are no relations known, there’ll only be +one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit people, and myself. +Come on—it’s about time.” + +“It sounds,” observed Spargo, “like an exhumation.” + +Rathbury laughed. “Well, we’re certainly going to dig up a dead man’s +secrets,” he said. “At least, we may be going to do so. In my opinion, +Mr. Spargo, we’ll find some clue in this leather box.” + +Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room +where were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to +be the chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had +spoken. And in another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that +the company possessed duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper +authorization having been received from the proper authorities, those +present would now proceed to the safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. +John Marbury, and take from it the property which he himself had +deposited there, a small leather box, which they would afterwards bring +to that room and cause to be opened in each other’s presence. + +It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and +bars before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so +recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. +And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it +seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any +importance. In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden +locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it reminded Spargo +irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept +his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake +smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury’s name had been newly painted +upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door—the front +door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened +by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and +expectation still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders. + +“The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please,” commanded the chairman, +“the duplicate key!” + +Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a +curious-looking key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about +to christen a battleship: the steel door swung slowly back. And there, +in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box. + +It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary’s room that the +procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the +chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary +authorization from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying +the box: followed two other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with +watching official and police interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up +the rear. He whispered something of his notions to the detective; +Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. + +“Let’s hope we’re going to see—something!” he said. + +In the secretary’s room a man waited who touched his forelock +respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box +on the table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members +of the procession gathered round. + +“As we naturally possess no key to this box,” announced the chairman in +grave tones, “it becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in +opening it. Jobson!” + +He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity. +He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see +that he was anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, +Spargo looked at the box. It was pretty much what it had been described +to him as being; a small, square box of old cow-hide, very strongly +made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the +lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for +many a long day. + +There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back. + +“That’s it, if you please, sir,” he said. + +The chairman motioned to the high official. + +“If you would be good enough to open the box, sir,” he said. “Our duty +is now concluded.” + +As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered +round with craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted: +somebody sighed deeply. And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. + +The box was empty! + +Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there +was literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of +a plain, time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned +chintz stuff, such as our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar +with, and containing—nothing. + +“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the chairman. “This is—dear me!—why, +there is nothing in the box!” + +“That,” remarked the high official, drily, “appears to be obvious.” + +The chairman looked at the secretary. + +“I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst,” he said, with the +half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of +an exceptionally fine treat. “Valuable!” + +Myerst coughed. + +“I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin,” he +answered. “The—er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of +great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he +placed it in the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest +value.” + +“But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the +_Watchman_ newspaper, that it was full of papers and—and other +articles,” said the chairman. “Criedir saw papers in it about an hour +before it was brought here.” + +Myerst spread out his hands. + +“I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin,” he answered. “I +know nothing more.” + +“But why should a man deposit an empty box?” began the chairman. “I—” + +The high official interposed. + +“That the box is empty is certain,” he observed. “Did you ever handle +it yourself, Mr. Myerst?” + +Myerst smiled in a superior fashion. + +“I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered +this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he +rented, the box was never out of his hands,” he replied. + +Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the +chairman. + +“Very well,” he said. “We’ve made the enquiry. Rathbury, take the box +away with you and lock it up at the Yard.” + +So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if +mystifying, material for the article which had already become the daily +feature of his paper. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN +MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + + +It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the +adjourned inquest next day that the whole story of what was now +world-famous as the Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated +before him for the thousandth time. There was not a detail of the story +with which he had not become familiar to fulness. The first proceeding +before the coroner had been of a merely formal nature; these were +thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and twelve +good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find +out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John +Marbury came by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo +found himself tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and +noting how each successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter +to the story. The story itself ran quite easily, naturally, +consecutively—you could make it in sections. And Spargo, sitting merely +to listen, made them: + +1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the +body. + +2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death—the man had +been struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow—from some heavy +instrument, and had died immediately. + +3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was +examined nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of +grey paper. + +4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man’s new fashionable +cloth cap, bought at Fiskie’s well-known shop in the West-End, he +traced Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. + +5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there. + +6. The purser of the ss. _Wambarino_ proved that Marbury sailed from +Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved +himself like any other well-regulated passenger, and left the +_Wambarino_ at Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the +last day of his life in just the ordinary manner. + +7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the +matter of the stamps. + +8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury’s visit to the Safe Deposit, and further +proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official +examination, to be empty. + +9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in +one of the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing +the meeting between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to +be Mr. Aylmore, a Member of Parliament. + +All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the +witness-box. And Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for +which the crowded court was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and +realistic specials in the _Watchman_, everybody there had already +become well and thoroughly acquainted with the mass of evidence +represented by the nine witnesses who had been in the box before Mr. +Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with the facts which Mr. +Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview at the club, +which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary interest +which the Member of Parliament’s appearance aroused? For everybody was +extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the last man +who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the +public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who +met Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his +hotel with him, hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the +hotel with him for a stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo +knew well why the interest was so keen—everybody knew that Aylmore was +the only man who could tell the court anything really pertinent about +Marbury; who he was, what he was after; what his life had been. + +He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the +witness-box—a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was +only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a +well-drilled soldier’s, who carried about him an air of conscious +power. Aylmore’s two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite +Spargo, with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had +encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given +him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time; it +was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of +entertainment; they might have been idlers in some Eastern bazaar, +listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional +tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at +them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in +their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. + +“All that they feel,” he thought, “is a bit of extra excitement at the +idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful mystery. Um! +Well—now how much is he mixed up?” + +And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his +eyes off the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the +witness which he was anxious to develop. + +The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. +Aylmore’s evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and +asked a question or two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell, +in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair; +and having received that permission, he went on in a calm, +unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It +sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years +ago. He had lost sight of him for—oh, quite twenty years. He had met +him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on +the evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having +no particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn, +he had gone back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained +awhile with him in his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had +afterwards gone out with him. He had given him the advice he wanted; +they had strolled across Waterloo Bridge; shortly afterwards they had +parted. That was all he knew. + +The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. +It had been in print, under a big headline, in the _Watchman_. Aylmore +had now told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his +next step was to leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory +question or two from the Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a +motion as if to step down. But Spargo, who had been aware since the +beginning of the enquiry of the presence of a certain eminent counsel +who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in that gentleman’s +direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his well-known, +apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, and +glance at the tall figure in the witness-box. + +“The fun is going to begin,” muttered Spargo. + +The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made +a jerky bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He +looked like a man who is going to ask indifferent questions about the +state of the weather, or how Smith’s wife was last time you heard of +her, or if stocks are likely to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this +man before, and he knew many signs of his in voice and manner and +glance. + +“I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your +acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some +time ago?” began the suave, seemingly careless voice. + +“A considerable time ago,” answered Aylmore. + +“How long—roughly speaking?” + +“I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years.” + +“Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way +you have described to us?” + +“Never.” + +“Ever heard from him?” + +“No.” + +“Ever heard of him?” + +“No.” + +“But when you met, you knew each other at once?” + +“Well—almost at once.” + +“Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each +other twenty or twenty-two years ago?” + +“We were—yes, well known to each other.” + +“Close friends?” + +“I said we were acquaintances.” + +“Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?” + +“His name? It was—Marbury.” + +“Marbury—the same name. Where did you know him?” + +“I—oh, here in London.” + +“What was he?” + +“Do you mean—what was his occupation?” + +“What was his occupation?” + +“I believe he was concerned in financial matters.” + +“Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?” + +“Well, yes—on occasions.” + +“What was his business address in London?” + +“I can’t remember that.” + +“What was his private address?” + +“That I never knew.” + +“Where did you transact your business with him?” + +“Well, we met, now and then.” + +“Where? What place, office, resort?” + +“I can’t remember particular places. Sometimes—in the City.” + +“In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or +St. Paul’s Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?” + +“I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange.” + +“Oh! Was he a member of that institution?” + +“Not that I know of.” + +“Were you?” + +“Certainly not!” + +“What were the dealings that you had with him?” + +“Financial dealings—small ones.” + +“How long did your acquaintanceship with him last—what period did it +extend over?” + +“I should say about six months to nine months.” + +“No more?” + +“Certainly no more.” + +“It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?” + +“Oh, quite!” + +“And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for +over twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?” + +“Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he +told me the other evening.” + +“I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or +two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men +are more or less public property. You are represented in this work of +popular reference as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina, +where you made a considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that +you were in London, acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890 +to 1892. Did you then leave England soon after knowing Marbury?” + +“I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892—I am not sure which.” + +“We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want +to solve the important question—who is, who was John Marbury, and how +did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who +knows anything about him. What was your business before you left +England?” + +“I was interested in financial affairs.” + +“Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?” + +“In London, of course.” + +“At what address?” + +For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His +brow had flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared +his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly. + +“I resent these questions about my private affairs!” he snapped out. + +“Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question.” + +“And I refuse to answer it.” + +“Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you +are telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?” + +“I refuse to answer that question also!” + +The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE +THE NEW WITNESS + + +The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. +He was addressing the witness. + +“I am sure, Mr. Aylmore,” he said, “there is no wish to trouble you +with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of this +matter of John Marbury’s death, and as you are the only witness we have +had who knew him personally—” + +Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner. + +“I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!” he exclaimed. “And +I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I +met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private +affairs of twenty years ago—I very much resent it! Any question that is +really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that +seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry.” + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, +and Spargo again became keenly attentive. + +“Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not +yield him offence,” he remarked drily. He turned once more to the +witness, regarding him as if with interest. “Can you tell us of any +person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under +discussion—twenty to twenty-two or three years ago?” he asked. + +Aylmore shook his head angrily. + +“No, I can’t,” he replied. + +“And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at +that time who knew you both!” + +“Possibly—at that time. But when I returned to England my business and +my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don’t know +of anybody who knew Marbury then—anybody.” + +The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; +Spargo saw the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the +door of the court. The Counsel looked again at the witness. + +“One more question. You told the court a little time since that you +parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of +Waterloo Bridge—at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve.” + +“About that time.” + +“And at that place?” + +“Yes.” + +“That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore—just now,” said the +Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. “I am going to ask you, sir, at this +point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the +police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important +nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be +given to you and the jury. If you would be pleased to direct that David +Lyell be called—” + +Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had +sat behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into +view, ushered by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident +young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being +called, stepped jauntily and readily into the place which the member of +Parliament just vacated. He took the oath—Scotch fashion—with the same +readiness and turned easily to the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, +glancing quickly round, saw that the court was breathless with +anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was +going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by +Aylmore. + +“Your name is David Lyell?” + +“That is my name, sir.” + +“And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?” + +“I do.” + +“What are you, Mr. Lyell?” + +“Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & Soutar, +distillers, of Kilmarnock.” + +“Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?” + +“They do—once every six weeks I go to Paris.” + +“On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to +Paris?” + +“I was.” + +“I believe you stayed at De Keyser’s Hotel, at the Blackfriars end of +the Embankment?” + +“I did—it’s handy for the continental trains.” + +“About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go +along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?” + +“I did, sir. I’m a bad sleeper, and it’s a habit of mine to take a walk +of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed.” + +“How far did you walk?” + +“As far as Waterloo Bridge.” + +“Always on the Temple side?” + +“Just so, sir—straight along on that side.” + +“Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody +you knew?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament.” + +Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder’s head +was averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And +Breton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining +silk hat. + +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament,” repeated the Counsel’s suave, +clear tones. “Oh! And how did you come to recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member +of Parliament?” + +“Well, sir, in this way. At home, I’m the secretary of our Liberal Ward +Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to +arrange with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and +speak, and naturally I met him several times, in London and in +Scotland.” + +“So that you knew him quite well?” + +“Oh yes, sir.” + +“Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?” + +Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. + +“Why, of course!” he answered. “There is Mr. Aylmore.” + +“There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore +close to Waterloo Bridge? How close?” + +“Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the +bridge on to the Embankment.” + +“Alone?” + +“No.” + +“Who was with him?” + +“A man, sir.” + +“Did you know the man?” + +“No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I haven’t +forgotten his face.” + +“You haven’t forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell—has anything recalled that +face to you within this last day or two?” + +“Yes, sir, indeed!” + +“What?” + +“The picture of the man they say was murdered—John Marbury.” + +“You’re sure of that?” + +“I’m as certain, sir, as that my name’s what it is.” + +“It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied +by the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?” + +“It is, sir!” + +“Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did +you do?” + +“Oh, I just turned and walked after them.” + +“You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?” + +“They were walking by the way I’d come.” + +“You followed them eastward?” + +“I did—I was going back to the hotel, you see.” + +“What were they doing?” + +“Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir.” + +“How far did you follow them?” + +“I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle +Temple Lane, sir.” + +“And then?” + +“Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De Keyser’s, +and to my bed.” + +There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other +period of the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen +voice put the next question. + +“You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion +into the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the +occasion in question?” + +“I do! I could swear no other, sir.” + +“Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?” + +“Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve.” + +The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a +whispered conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the +witness. + +“You have only just given this information to the police, I +understand?” he said. + +“Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by +this morning’s boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the +papers—the English papers—and seen the dead man’s photographs I +determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland +Yard as soon as I got to London this morning.” + +Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped +down. And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the +Coroner’s attention. + +“May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?” he began. “I—” + +But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and +implacable. “I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in +the box, and that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or +even to answer questions,” he said. “And before you allow him to make +any explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to +interpose at this stage. That witness is——” + +Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner. + +“After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be +heard at once!” he said with emphasis. “As matters stand at present, it +looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I am +allowed to make an explanation—” + +“I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any +explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard,” said the +Treasury Counsel sternly. “There are weighty reasons.” + +“I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give +an explanation,” said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. “Who is +this other witness?” he asked. + +Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two +daughters was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no +distrust of her father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly +turned to the next witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment +lodge of Middle Temple Lane. The Treasury Counsel put a straight +question to him at once. + +“You see that gentleman,” he said, pointing to Aylmore. “Do you know +him as an inmate of the Temple?” + +The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused. + +“Why, certainly, sir!” he answered. “Quite well, sir.” + +“Very good. And now—what name do you know him by?” + +The man grew evidently more bewildered. + +“Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!” he replied. “Mr. Anderson!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN +UNDER SUSPICION + + +A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed +court as this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified +many things—that there were people present who had expected some such +dramatic development; that there were others present who had not; that +the answer itself was only a prelude to further developments. And +Spargo, looking narrowly about him, saw that the answer had aroused +different feelings in Aylmore’s two daughters. The elder one had +dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the younger was sitting +bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine bewilderment. +And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her. + +But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no +stopping the Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in +his own merciless fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the +Coroner, had whispered a word to the solicitor who sat close by him, +and now he turned again to the witness. + +“So you know that gentleman—make sure now—as Mr. Anderson, an inmate of +the Temple?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You don’t know him by any other name?” + +“No, sir, I don’t.” + +“How long have you known him by that name?” + +“I should say two or three years, sir.” + +“See him go in and out regularly?” + +“No, sir—not regularly.” + +“How often, then?” + +“Now and then, sir—perhaps once a week.” + +“Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson’s goings-in-and-out.” + +“Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn’t see him +again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir.” + +“You say ‘nights.’ Do I understand that you never see Mr. Anderson +except at night?” + +“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen him except at night. Always about the same +time, sir.” + +“What time?” + +“Just about midnight, sir.” + +“Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?” + +“I do, sir.” + +“Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?” + +“Yes, sir, just after twelve.” + +“Was he alone?” + +“No, sir; there was another gentleman with him.” + +“Remember anything about that other gentleman?” + +“Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the +other gentleman had grey clothes on.” + +“Had grey clothes on. You didn’t see his face?” + +“Not to remember it, sir. I don’t remember anything but what I’ve told +you, sir.” + +“That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr. +Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they’d passed +through?” + +“Straight up the Lane, sir.” + +“Do you know where Mr. Anderson’s rooms in the Temple are?” + +“Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court.” + +“Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your +lodge?” + +“No, sir.” + +“You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple +Lane next morning?” + +“I did, sir.” + +“Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?” + +“No, sir, I didn’t. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen who +live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the +matter any particular thought.” + +“Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to +come here?” + +“No, sir, never, to anybody.” + +“And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but +Mr. Anderson?” + +“No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson.” + +The Coroner glanced at the Counsel. + +“I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give +the explanation he offered a few minutes ago,” he said. “Do you suggest +anything?” + +“I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he +should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination +again on his oath,” replied the Counsel. “The matter is in your hands.” + +The Coroner turned to Aylmore. + +“Do you object to that?” he asked. + +Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. + +“I object to nothing,” he said in clear tones, “except to being asked +to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and +cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you +like, arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will +answer them so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me +questions about matters of twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or +not as I see fit. And I may as well say that I will take all the +consequences of my silence or my speech.” + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. + +“Very well, Mr. Aylmore,” he said. “I will put certain questions to +you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?” + +“I did.” + +“Was that quite true as regards yourself?” + +“Quite true—absolutely true.” + +“And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!” + +“Equally true.” + +“Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these +witnesses came on the scene, was not true?” + +“No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true.” + +“True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on +Waterloo Bridge!” + +“Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the +Anglo-Orient Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly +afterwards we parted—I did not say where we parted. I see there is a +shorthand writer here who is taking everything down—ask him if that is +not exactly what I said?” + +A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the +Treasury Counsel showed plain annoyance. + +“Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of +ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open +streets after crossing Waterloo Bridge,” he said. “Now—?” + +Aylmore smiled. + +“I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten +any more than I am for your understanding,” he said, with a sneer. “I +said what I now repeat—Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, and +shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth.” + +“Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have +admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely +correct, perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did +part?” + +“I will—willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain +Court.” + +“Then—to reiterate—it was you who took Marbury into the Temple that +night?” + +“It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night.” + +There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate +was fact—solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible +course of events which he had not anticipated. + +“That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain +danger to yourself in making it.” + +“I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it.” + +“Very good. Why did you not make it before?” + +“For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for +the purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I +asked to be allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as +soon as Mr. Lyell had left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am +willing to make it now.” + +“Make it then.” + +“It is simply this,” said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. “I have +found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set +of chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally—very +occasionally, as a rule—go late at night. I also found it convenient, +for my own reasons—with which, I think, no one has anything to do—to +rent those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my +chambers that Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight +with which we are dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at +the very outside: I parted from him at my outer door, and I understood +that he would leave the Temple by the way we had entered and would +drive or walk straight back to his hotel. That is the whole truth. I +wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told all this at first. I had +reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered necessary, that I +parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after midnight.” + +“What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all +this at first?” asked the Treasury Counsel. + +“Reasons which are private to me.” + +“Will you tell them to the court?” + +“No!” + +“Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in +Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?” + +“Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for +him for twenty years or more.” + +“A document of importance?” + +“Of very great importance.” + +“He would have it on him when he was—as we believe he was—murdered and +robbed?” + +“He had it on him when he left me.” + +“Will you tell us what it was?” + +“Certainly not!” + +“In fact, you won’t tell us any more than you choose to tell?” + +“I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night.” + +“Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact +that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told +this court?” + +“That I shall not answer.” + +“Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more +about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years +ago?” + +“I also decline to answer that.” + +The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned +to the Coroner. + +“I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry,” he said +quietly. + +“For a week,” assented the Coroner, turning to the jury. + +The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming— +spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all +mixed up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily +reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the +day’s work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found +himself gazing at Jessie Aylmore. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN +THE SILVER TICKET + + +With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl +aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a +quiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering her +breath. + +“Yes?” he said quietly. + +Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. + +“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to you.” + +“Yes,” said Spargo. “But—the others? Your sister?—Breton?” + +“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered. “They knew I +did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself.” + +Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with +him. + +“Tea,” he said, “is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place +close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and +have some.” + +Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo +said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat +pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had +installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old +tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot +tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her. + +“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.” + +“Yes,” she answered. “I do.” + +“Why?” asked Spargo. + +The girl gave him a searching look. + +“Ronald Breton says you’re the man who’s written all those special +articles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case,” she answered. “Are +you?” + +“I am,” said Spargo. + +“Then you’re a man of great influence,” she went on. “You can stir the +public mind. Mr. Spargo—what are you going to write about my father and +today’s proceedings?” + +Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He +seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, +and bit a great lump out of it. + +“Frankly,” he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, “frankly, I don’t +know. I don’t know—yet. But I’ll tell you this—it’s best to be candid—I +shouldn’t allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making up my +conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?” + +Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the +unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners. + +“I’m not wanting to prejudice or bias you,” she said. “All I want is +that you should be very sure before you say—anything.” + +“I’ll be sure,” said Spargo. “Don’t bother. Is the tea all right?” + +“Beautiful!” she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her +again. “Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think about—about +what has just happened?” + +Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally +ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy +hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea. + +“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I’m no great hand at talking. I can +write pretty decently when I’ve a good story to tell, but I don’t talk +an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I’ve got a +pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When +I write my article this evening, I’ll get all these things marshalled +in proper form, and I shall write clearly about ’em. But I’ll tell you +one thing I do think—I wish your father had made a clean breast of +things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told +everything when he first went into that box.” + +“Why?” she asked. + +“Because he’s now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around +himself. People’ll think—Heaven knows what they’ll think! They already +know that he knows more about Marbury than he’ll tell, that—” + +“But does he?” she interrupted quickly. “Do you think he does?” + +“Yes!” replied Spargo, with emphasis. “I do. A lot more! If he had only +been explicit at first—however, he wasn’t. Now it’s done. As things +stand—look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very +serious position?” + +“Serious?” she exclaimed. + +“Dangerous! Here’s the fact—he’s admitted that he took Marbury to his +rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury’s found +robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!” + +“Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of +robbing him of whatever he had on him?” she laughed scornfully. “My +father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo.” + +“May be,” answered Spargo. “But millionaires have been known to murder +men who held secrets.” + +“Secrets!” she exclaimed. + +“Have some more tea,” said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. “Look +here—this way it is. The theory that people—some people—will build up +(I won’t say that it hasn’t suggested itself to me) is this:—There’s +some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, connection, call +it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty odd years ago. Must +be. There’s some mystery about your father’s life, twenty odd years +ago. Must be—or else he’d have answered those questions. Very well. +‘Ha, ha!’ says the general public. ‘Now we have it!’ ‘Marbury,’ says +the general public, ‘was a man who had a hold on Aylmore. He turned up. +Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him to preserve his own +secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a blind.’ Eh?” + +“You think—people will say that?” she exclaimed. + +“Cock-sure! They’re saying it. Heard half a dozen of ’em say it, in +more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, +they’ll say it. Why, what else could they say?” + +For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then +she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new +interest in what remained of the tea-cakes. + +“Is that what you’re going to say in your article tonight?” she asked, +quietly. + +“No!” replied Spargo, promptly. “It isn’t. I’m going to sit on the +fence tonight. Besides, the case is _sub judice_. All I’m going to do +is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest.” + +The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on +Spargo’s big fist. + +“Is it what you think?” she asked in a low voice. + +“Honour bright, no!” exclaimed Spargo. “It isn’t—it isn’t! I don’t +think it. I think there’s a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of +Marbury’s death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about +Marbury that he won’t tell, but I’m certain sure that he neither killed +Marbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I’m out to +clear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing’ll make me more glad +than to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We’ll +have fresh ones—and fresh tea.” + +“No, thank you,” she said smiling. “And thank you for what you’ve just +said. I’m going now, Mr. Spargo. You’ve done me good.” + +“Oh, rot!” exclaimed Spargo. “Nothing—nothing! I’ve just told you what +I’m thinking. You must go?…” + +He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood +vacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the +shoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him. + +“All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!” he said. “Well, it’s a pleasant +change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look +here, are you going to start your writing just now?” + +“I’m not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I’ve +dined at seven o’clock and given myself time to digest my modest +dinner,” answered Spargo. “What is it?” + +“Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box,” +said Rathbury. “I’ve got it in my room, and I’d like to examine it for +myself. Come on!” + +“The thing’s empty,” said Spargo. + +“There might be a false bottom in it,” remarked Rathbury. “One never +knows. Here, jump into this!” + +He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the +driver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and +himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen him +before. + +“What d’ye think of today’s doings, Spargo?” he asked, as he proceeded +to unlock a cupboard. + +“I think,” said Spargo, “that some of you fellows must have had your +ears set to tingling.” + +“That’s so,” assented Rathbury. “Of course, the next thing’ll be to +find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a man +won’t tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was exactly +doing, what his precise relationship with another man was—why, then, +you’ve just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work on +the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already—you bet! Well, +now, Spargo, here’s the famous box.” + +The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which +he had been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the +lid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against the +exterior lines. + +“No false bottom in that, Rathbury,” he said. “There’s just the outer +leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, and +that’s all. There’s no room for any false bottom or anything of that +sort, d’you see?” + +Rathbury also sized up the box’s capacity. + +“Looks like it,” he said disappointedly. “Well, what about the lid, +then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother’s +farmhouse, where I was reared—there was a pocket in the lid. Let’s see +if there’s anything of the sort here?” + +He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the +tips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a +sharp exclamation. + +“By George, Spargo!” he said. “I don’t know about any pocket, but +there’s something under this lining. Feels like—here, you feel. +There—and there.” + +Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. + +“Yes, that’s so,” he agreed. “Feels like two cards—a large and a small +one. And the small one’s harder than the other. Better cut that lining +out, Rathbury.” + +“That,” remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, “is just what I’m +going to do. We’ll cut along this seam.” + +He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining +of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects +which he dropped on his blotting pad. + +“A child’s photograph,” he said, glancing at one of them. “But what on +earth is that?” + +The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, +much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it +was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost +obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction, +was the figure of a horse. + +“That’s a curious object,” remarked Spargo, picking it up. “I never saw +anything like that before. What can it be?” + +“Don’t know—I never saw anything of the sort either,” said Rathbury. +“Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah—you see, the +photographer’s name and address have been torn away or broken +off—there’s nothing left but just two letters of what’s apparently been +the name of the town—see. Er—that’s all there is. Portrait of a baby, +eh?” + +Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a +casual glance at the baby’s portrait. He picked up the silver ticket +again and turned it over and over. + +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Let me take this silver thing. I know +where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.” + +“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest care of it, +and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No +connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.” + +“Oh, all right,” said Spargo. “Trust me.” + +He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, +wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article +that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street +intent on seeking peculiar information. + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN +MARKET MILCASTER + + +The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned +out of the _Watchman_ office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and +knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not +elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of +course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the +simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of +congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and +acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name +of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your +means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, +and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what +you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a +small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about +Fleet Street bars. + +The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the +Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and +Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate +you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. +You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as +if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. +Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a +small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer’s ink in +your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made +another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, +crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a +few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past +various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After +a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and +found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself +in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted—the whole and sole +work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of +lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you +saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal +legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you +were a member you went in, and if you weren’t a member you tinkled an +electric bell and asked to see a member—if you knew one. + +Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the +bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a +young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly +hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course +and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled. + +“Had we known you were coming,” said Mr. Starkey, “we’d have had a +brass band on the stairs.” + +“I want to come in,” remarked Spargo. + +“Sure!” said Mr. Starkey. “That’s what you’ve come for.” + +“Well, stand out of the way, then, and let’s get in,” said Spargo. +“Look here,” he continued when they had penetrated into a small +vestibule, “doesn’t old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every +night?” + +“Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his +nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily +column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects +of their spotting a winner tomorrow,” answered Mr. Starkey. “It’s five +minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?” + +“A word with him,” answered Spargo. “A mere word—or two.” + +He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and +sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But +the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the +canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting +around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the +great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of +their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a +small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. + +“Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi very extra +special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?” + +“I’ll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal +regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a +route-map of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his +glass. “Phew!—what an atmosphere!” + +“We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. “I’m on the house +committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. +But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_—you know Templeson—he says what we +want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard—says no club is +proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap—second-hand +dealer, don’t you know—what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield +plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would +you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You see—” + +“There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, Starkey, before +anybody else collars him.” + +Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously +came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. +He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a +big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and +beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from +beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; +his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he +looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his +flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive +cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their +wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye. + +“Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. “Crowfoot, +Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see you!” + +“Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said Spargo. “Here, I’ll +get him myself.” + +He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. + +“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like a +pandemonium.” + +Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. + +“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s companionable. What +is it, Spargo?” + +Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I +should say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as +any man writing about ’em?” + +“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot. + +“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo. + +“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden flash +of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you +know.” + +“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just now, +anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with old sporting +affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to +be the only man I know of that could tell anything.” + +“Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot. + +Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up +silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on +Crowfoot’s outstretched palm. + +“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked. + +Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly +turned the silver ticket over. + +“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?” + +“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it is?” + +“Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of these +things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a +young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young ’un!” + +“But what is it?” asked Spargo. + +Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic +device was almost worn away. + +“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at +Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s what it is. One of the +old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market +Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the +obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! +Bless me!—most interesting.” + +“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. “Don’t know it.” + +“Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket +over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in +Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got +gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in +June every year. It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell +through. I went to it often when I was a lad—often!” + +“And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo. + +“This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like +to call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses +of the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a +great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its +possessor—for life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, +anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on +earth did you get this, Spargo?” + +Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting +it in his purse. + +“I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The fact is, I can’t +tell you where I got it just now, but I’ll promise you that I will tell +you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue’s free to do so.” + +“Some mystery, eh?” suggested Crowfoot. + +“Considerable,” answered Spargo. “Don’t mention to anyone that I showed +it to you. You shall know everything eventually.” + +“Oh, all right, my boy, all right!” said Crowfoot. “Odd how things turn +up, isn’t it? Now, I’ll wager anything that there aren’t half a dozen +of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. As I said, there +were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. They +were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I’ve been +in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I’ve seen +these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces—oh, yes!” + +Spargo caught at a notion. + +“How do you get to Market Milcaster?” he asked. + +“Paddington,” replied Crowfoot. “It’s a goodish way.” + +“I wonder,” said Spargo, “if there’s any old sporting man there who +could remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?” + +“Old sporting man!” exclaimed Crowfoot. “Egad!—but no, he must be +dead—anyhow, if he isn’t dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old +Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare +sportsman.” + +“I may go down there,” said Spargo. “I’ll see if he’s alive.” + +“Then, if you do go down,” suggested Crowfoot, “go to the old ‘Yellow +Dragon’ in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage’s place of +business and his private house were exactly opposite the ‘Dragon.’ But +I’m afraid you’ll find him dead—it’s five and twenty years since I was +in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let’s see, now. If +Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he’ll be ninety years of age!” + +“Well, I’ve known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit of +experience,” said Spargo. “I know one—now—my own grandfather. Well, the +best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I’ll tell you all about it some day.” + +“Have another drink?” suggested Crowfoot. + +But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; +he still had something to do. And he got himself away from the +Octoneumenoi, in spite of Starkey, who wished to start a general debate +on the wisest way of expending the club’s ready money balance, and went +back to the _Watchman_, and there he sought the presence of the editor, +and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, saw +him and remained closeted with him for the extraordinary space of ten +minutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed. + +But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at +Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market +Milcaster, and in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an +old-fashioned bedroom looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And +there, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick, +ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the +name, _Benjamin Quarterpage_. + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN +THE “YELLOW DRAGON” + + +Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in +that old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in further +speculations on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no +particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was that in +the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury had +deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he and +Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market +Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market +Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to +trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task? + +“The first thing,” said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, “is to +have a look round. That’ll be no long job.” + +For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from +the station to the “Yellow Dragon” Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a +very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide +thoroughfare—the High Street—with smaller streets leading from it on +either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town +could show—the ancient parish church, the town hall, the market cross, +the principal houses and shops, the bridge, beneath which ran the river +whereon ships had once come up to the town before its mouth, four miles +away, became impassably silted up. It was a bright, clean, little town, +but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo had been quick to +notice that in the “Yellow Dragon,” a big, rambling old hostelry, +reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be little doing. +He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his +arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and +fifty people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, +evidently tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like +an artist, and an unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in +it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo’s +windows; little passage of people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a +countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along; there a farmer in his +light cart sat idly chatting with an aproned tradesman, who had come +out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the +sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open windows stole a +faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows outside the +old houses. + +“A veritable Sleepy Hollow,” mused Spargo. “Let’s go down and see if +there’s anybody to talk to. Great Scott!—to think that I was in the +poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!” + +Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally +landed in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure +instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he +entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed +apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and +ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There +were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had +certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a +century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, +and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; +there were foxes’ masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case +on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and +an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, +old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young +woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy +needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have +looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo, +treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany +it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair. + +“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears to me to +be a very quiet place.” + +“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?” + +“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see +that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of +emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, +that the place is undoubtedly quiet.” + +The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a +new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and +coming out into the room took a chair near his own. + +“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked. +“It’s about all that one ever does see.” + +“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much of +inanition?” + +The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. + +“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you can. Nothing ever happens +here. This place is a back number.” + +“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured +Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in +this town, then?” he added in a louder voice. + +“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I came here from +Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you +see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months.” + +“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dulness. You must +have an antidote.” + +“Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word for Market +Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in here of a +morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in—perhaps during +the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end +of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!—what they want +in Market Milcaster is new times.” + +Spargo pricked up his ears. + +“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old +times,” he said. “I love it!” + +“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked the +barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if you +don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you +did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen +drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that +they couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about +old days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!” + +“Very old men?” asked Spargo. + +“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. Quarterpage, across +the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do any business +now—they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you wouldn’t take him for +more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, further down the street—he’s +eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye—they’re regular patriarchs. +I’ve sat here and listened to them till I believe I could write a +history of Market Milcaster since the year One.” + +“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” said +Spargo. + +He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the +barmaid’s spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town +until seven o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no more +people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo +was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the +bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred +part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit. + +“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the barmaid, +warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their special +pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if +anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and you’ll +hear all they’ve got to say.” + +To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, +twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, +the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow +Dragon” at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the +eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell +began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old +gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo’s eye, gave him a +glance which showed that the play was about to begin. + +“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re first tonight.” + +“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and +became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black +clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe +of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times +round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined +to look on life severely. “Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No, +but here’s Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid. + +Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a +little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting +cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a +flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish +angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian +swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and +gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These +two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed +to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly +as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. + +“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s a symposium.” + +“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. “Grandpa’ll be +here in a minute. We’ll start fair.” + +The barmaid glanced out of the window. + +“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she announced. +“Shall I put the things on the table?” + +“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. “Have +all in readiness.” + +The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, +set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for +making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she +had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse +when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old +men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the +venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he +took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his +friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight +which were positively boyish. + +Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety—a middle-sized, +sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, +clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was +ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his +hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were +smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a +fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease +of life before him even at his age. + +Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began +their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them—the five +had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the +punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each +man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. +Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of anything +but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped +in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in the +presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as for +the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. + +Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when +she said that she believed she could write a history of Market +Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local +events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to +reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident +upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of +racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a +bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the +silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device +uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a +polite bow, said quietly: + +“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?” + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN +MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + + +If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch—the second of the +evening—or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could +scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon +them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of +conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his +cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was +sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the +interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his +outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to +whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing +with great _empressement_ to the ticket. + +“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble +a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?” + +“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a little +with the matter. “You recognize it?” + +“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and so does +every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a +stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, +young gentleman, in this town.” + +“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should I get it +in this town if I’m a stranger?” + +“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot conceive +how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those—what +shall we call them—heirlooms?—yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could +possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again—Where +did you get that, young gentleman?” + +“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent +sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you will +tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, +much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings +of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. +But—what is it?” + +The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous +grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke. + +“It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, +young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges +in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now +unfortunately a thing of the past,” he added. “Fifty—aye, forty!—years +ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was—was—” + +“A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen. + +“Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It was a grand thing—a +very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured—are treasured. And +yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir—” + +Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. + +“I found this ticket—under mysterious circumstances—in London,” he +answered. “I want to trace it. I want to know who its original owner +was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.” + +Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. + +“Wonderful!” he said. “Wonderful! He found this ticket—one of our +famous fifty—in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wants to +trace it—he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he has come +to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal to you if +this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in Market +Milcaster for—I don’t know how many years?” + +There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody +looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the +whole town. + +“But—why?” he asked, showing great surprise. “Why?” + +“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Why? He asks—why? Because, young +gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of +mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our fifty +tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families +to whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most +unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market +Milcaster family.” + +“No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until the +previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he +wisely refrained. “No, I’m certainly not,” he added. + +Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe. + +“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not drawing +to a close—it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young +gentleman—I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, +give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the +race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!” + +“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud suit. “Never +was such a memory as yours, never!” + +“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said the +fat man. “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.” + +“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It’s the greatest blessing +I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a +little thought. And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty +families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or +if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out +how this young gentleman—from London, did you say, sir?” + +“From London,” answered Spargo. + +“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of +our tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “It is—wonderful! But I tell +you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to +breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books +and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of +that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage—Benjamin Quarterpage—and +I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my +breakfast hour is nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily +welcome!” + +Spargo made his best bow. + +“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I +shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment.” + +Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself +in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay +with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, +to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior—a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always +referred to by his father as something quite juvenile—and to Miss +Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than +her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the +choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and +rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a +man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a +vigorous and healthy appetite. + +Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo’s possession +of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. +Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had +judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had +exhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ had +furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he +had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no +mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr. +Quarterpage’s revelations would lead him. + +“You have no idea, Mr. Spargo,” said the old gentleman, when, breakfast +over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which +were abundant evidences of the host’s taste in sporting matters; “you +have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one +of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and +just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my +dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the +year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose +great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were +distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept +in their families for ever—nobody ever anticipated in those days that +our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great +privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and +female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder +himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand +race banquet—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has +been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the +holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody.” + +“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What then?” + +“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as +heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They +were dealt with as I dealt with mine—framed on velvet, and hung up—or +locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care +of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the ‘Dragon,’ that I could +repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can. +But here”—the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a +parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence—“here is a +little volume of my own handwriting—memoranda relating to Market +Milcaster Races—in which is a list of the original holders, together +with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were +given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the +second list, I could trace every ticket—except the one you have in your +purse.” + +“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise. + +“Every one! For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “the +families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people here in +Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re just outside +the town, or they’re not far away. I can’t conceive how the ticket you +have—and it’s genuine enough—could ever get out of possession of one of +these families, and—” + +“Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of possession. I +told you it was found in the lining of a box—that box belonged to a +dead man.” + +“A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “A dead man! Who could—ah! +Perhaps—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!—an idea. I remember something now +that I had never thought of.” + +The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and +turned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. +He pointed this out to Spargo. + +“There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the +race-meetings came to an end,” he said. “If you were acquainted with +this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known +inhabitants—all, of course, burgesses. There’s mine, you +see—Quarterpage. There’s Lummis, there’s Kaye, there’s Skene, there’s +Templeby—the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names. +They all are—on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holders +of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the +tickets. Yes—and now that I think of it, there’s only one man who held +a ticket when this list was made about whom I don’t know anything—at +least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you’ve found must +have been his. But I thought—I thought somebody else had it!” + +“And this man, sir? Who was he?” asked Spargo, intuitively conscious +that he was coming to news. “Is his name there?” + +The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. + +“There it is!” he said. “John Maitland.” + +Spargo bent over the fine writing. + +“Yes, John Maitland,” he observed. “And who was John Maitland?” + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many +drawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old +newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up. + +“If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. +Spargo,” he said, “you would have known who John Maitland was. For some +time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place—aye, and in this +corner of the world. But—aye, here it is—the newspaper of October 5th, +1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’ll find in this old newspaper who John +Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ve +just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day’s business +over with my son—you take this newspaper out into the garden there with +one of these cigars, and read what’ll you find in it, and when you’ve +read that we’ll have some more talk.” + +Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN +AN OLD NEWSPAPER + + +As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the +middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar +and settled down to read. + +“MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS +“TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND + + +“The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on +Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the +Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on +the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman +Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton, +M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais +Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other +magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the public +in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of the Market +Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were filled with +the _élite_ of the town and neighbourhood, including a considerable +number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in the +proceedings. + +“The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the +very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the +occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster—he +referred to the fact that on both those occasions his friend the +Worshipful Mayor had been able to present him with a pair of white +gloves—was not to be repeated on the present occasion. It would be +their sad and regrettable lot to have before them a fellow-townsman +whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position in the +life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the +most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the +offence of embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many +years been the trusted manager, and with which he had been connected +all his life since his school days. He understood that the prisoner who +would shortly be put before the court on his trial was about to plead +guilty, and there would accordingly be no need for him to direct the +gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this matter—what he had to say +respecting the gravity and even enormity of the offence he would +reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury on the +merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later +period of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally +returned a true bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen +from well-known burgesses of the town having been duly sworn. + +“JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street, +Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd, +1891, the sum of £4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, the +Market Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to his +own use. The prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most acutely, +and who looked very pale and much worn, was represented by Mr. Charles +Doolittle, the well-known barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. Stephens, K.C., +appeared on behalf of the prosecution. + +“Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty. + +“Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any +desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think, +had taken a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular +count in the indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, in +the interests of justice, to set forth to the Court some particulars of +the defalcations which had arisen through the prisoner’s much lamented +dishonesty. He proposed to offer a clear and succinct account of the +matter. The prisoner, John Maitland, was the last of an old Market +Milcaster family—he was, in fact, he believed, with the exception of +his own infant son, the very last of the race. His father had been +manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself had entered the +service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he left the local +Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at the age of +thirty-two; he had therefore occupied this highest position of trust +for ten years. His directors had the fullest confidence in him; they +relied on his honesty and his honour; they gave him discretionary +powers such as no bank-manager, probably, ever enjoyed or held before. +In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all intents and purposes, +the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other words he was allowed +full control over everything, and given full licence to do what he +liked. Whether the directors were wise in extending such liberty to +even the most trusted servant, it was not for him (Mr. Stephens) to +say; it was some consolation, under the circumstances, to know that the +loss would fall upon the directors, inasmuch as they themselves held +nearly the whole of the shares. But he had to speak of the loss—of the +serious defalcations which Maitland had committed. The prisoner had +wisely pleaded guilty to the first count of the indictment. But there +were no less than seventeen counts in the indictment. He had pleaded +guilty to embezzling a sum of £4,875 odd. But the total amount of the +defalcations, comprised in the seventeen counts, was no less—it seemed +a most amazing sum!—than £221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the fact—the +banking company had been robbed of over two hundred thousand pounds by +the prisoner in the dock before a mere accident, the most trifling +chance, had revealed to the astounded directors that he was robbing +them at all. And the most serious feature of the whole case was that +not one penny of this money had been, or ever could be, recovered. He +believed that the prisoner’s learned counsel was about to urge upon the +Court that the prisoner himself had been tricked and deceived by +another man, unfortunately not before the Court—a man, he understood, +also well known in Market Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore +could not be called, but whether he was so tricked or deceived was no +excuse for his clever and wholesale robbing of his employers. He had +thought it necessary to put these facts—which would not be +denied—before the Court, in order that it might be known how heavy the +defalcations really had been, and that they should be considered in +dealing with the prisoner. + +“The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part +of the vast sum concerned. + +“Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the +remotest chance—the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting on +his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom he +had just made reference. + +“Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few +words to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens +for the considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had +outlined the main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the +prisoner’s guilt. But, on prisoner’s behalf, he desired to tell the +true story as to how these things came to be. Until as recently as +three years previously the prisoner had never made the slightest +deviation from the straight path of integrity. Unfortunately for him, +and, he believed, for some others in Market Milcaster, there came to +the town three years before the present proceedings, a man named +Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a +stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible +manners, Chamberlayne attracted a good many people—amongst them his +unfortunate client. It was matter of common knowledge that Chamberlayne +had induced numerous persons in Market Milcaster to enter into +financial transactions with him; it was matter of common repute that +those transactions had not always turned out well for Chamberlayne’s +clients. Unhappily for himself, Maitland had great faith in +Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions with him in a large +way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was involved to +vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and his methods, he +had entrusted him with very large sums of money. + +“The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was +to understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner’s own +money. + +“Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred to +were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in +Chamberlayne that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and +that these sums would be repaid, and that a vast profit would result +from their use. + +“The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put +the profit into his own pockets. + +“Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the +two hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question, +Chamberlayne had had the immediate handling of at least two hundred +thousand, and he, the prisoner, had not the ghost of a notion as to +what Chamberlayne had done with it. Unfortunately for everybody, for +the bank, for some other people, and especially for his unhappy client, +Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as these proceedings were +instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible to trace +anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious +circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs. + +“The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr. +Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder, +might think fit to pass. + +“Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few remarks +as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the unfortunate man in +the dock was that until three years ago he had borne a most exemplary +character, and had never committed a dishonest action. It had been his +misfortune, his folly, to allow a plausible man to persuade him to +these acts of dishonesty. That man had been called to another account, +and the prisoner was left to bear the consequences of his association +with him. It seemed as if Chamberlayne had made away with the money for +his own purposes, and it might be that it would yet be recovered. He +would only ask the Court to remember the prisoner’s antecedents and his +previous good conduct, and to bear in mind that whatever his near +future might be he was, in a commercial sense, ruined for life. + +“The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a single +word of valid excuse for Maitland’s conduct. Such dishonesty must be +punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go to penal +servitude for ten years. + +“Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town +later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester.” + +Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain +points in it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the +house—to see old Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window. + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN +THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + + +“I perceive, sir,” said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the library, +“that you have read the account of the Maitland trial.” + +“Twice,” replied Spargo. + +“And you have come to the conclusion that—but what conclusion have you +come to?” asked Mr. Quarterpage. + +“That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland’s property,” said +Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once. + +“Just so,” agreed the old gentleman. “I think so—I can’t think anything +else. But I was under the impression that I could have accounted for +that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the other forty-nine.” + +“Yes—and how?” asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a +decanter and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully +polished the glasses with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set +glasses and decanter on a table in the window, motioning Spargo to take +a chair in proximity thereto. He himself pulled up his own elbow-chair. + +“We’ll take a glass of my old brown sherry,” he said. “Though I say it +as shouldn’t, as the saying goes, I don’t think you could find better +brown sherry than that from Land’s End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr. +Spargo—no, nor further north either, where they used to have good taste +in liquor in my young days! Well, here’s your good health, sir, and +I’ll tell you about Maitland.” + +“I’m curious,” said Spargo. “And about more than Maitland. I want to +know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper report. I want +to know something about the man referred to so much—the stockbroker, +Chamberlayne.” + +“Just so,” observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. “I thought that would +touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when +Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then +about two years old. The child’s mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss +Baylis, appeared on the scene—Maitland had married his wife from a +distance—and took possession of the child and of Maitland’s personal +effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, and +all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small +personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket. +And she may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she +took the child away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in +Market Milcaster. Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things +removed to Dartmoor, and there he served his term. There were people +who were very anxious to get hold of him when he came out—the bank +people, for they believed that he knew more about the disposition of +that money than he’d ever told, and they wanted to induce him to tell +what they hoped he knew—between ourselves, Mr. Spargo, they were going +to make it worth his while to tell.” + +Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old +gentleman talked. + +“Then they didn’t believe what his counsel said—that Chamberlayne got +all the money?” he asked. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +“No—nor anybody else!” he answered. “There was a strong idea in the +town—you’ll see why afterwards—that it was all a put-up job, and that +Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that there was a +nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the bank +people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special agent +to meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some +mistake arose—when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody’s +ever heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis +has.” + +“Where does this Miss Baylis live?” asked Spargo. + +“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “She did live in +Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I +have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after +Maitland’s release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to +trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in +Brighton, she’d completely disappeared, with the child, five years +before. So there wasn’t a clue to Maitland. He served his time—made a +model prisoner—they did find that much out!—earned the maximum +remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there’s +a theory about him in this very town to this very day!” + +“What?” asked Spargo. + +“This. That he’s now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he +got from the bank,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They say that the +sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the +child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland, +and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?” + +“I suppose that was possible,” said Spargo. + +“Quite possible, sir. But now,” continued the old gentleman, +replenishing the glasses, “now we come on to the Chamberlayne story. +It’s a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at +first sight, I’ll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions. +Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster—I don’t know from +where—in 1886—five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then +about Maitland’s age—a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk +to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas’s place is +still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though +old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this +Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old +Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he +married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he’d +been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a +year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne +threw up his post at Vallas’s, and started business as a +stock-and-share broker. He’d been a saving man; he’d got a nice bit of +money with his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his +own, and he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible +manners: he’d have coaxed butter out of a dog’s throat if he’d wanted +to. The moneyed men of the town believed in him—I believed in him +myself, Mr. Spargo—I’d many a transaction with him, and I never lost +aught by him—on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for +most of his clients—there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the +whole he satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, nobody +ever knew what was going on between him and Maitland.” + +“I gather from this report,” said Spargo, “that everything came out +suddenly—unexpectedly?” + +“That was so, sir,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Sudden? Unexpected? Aye, +as a crack of thunder on a fine winter’s day. Nobody had the ghost of a +notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected in the +town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can +assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on +that grand jury as I did—I was its foreman, sir,—and hear a man +sentenced that you’d regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!” + +“How was the thing discovered?” asked Spargo, anxious to get at facts. + +“In this way,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “The Market Milcaster Bank is +in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the +town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father, +a young Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a +shrewd, keen young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about +Maitland, and he insisted on the other partners consenting to a special +investigation, and on their making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught +before he had a chance. But we’re talking about Chamberlayne.” + +“Yes, about Chamberlayne,” agreed Spargo. + +“Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening,” continued Mr. +Quarterpage. “Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town +like wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time—aye, and +had been for years—a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don’t +think there could have been more surprise if we’d heard that the Vicar +had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all +over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear +that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often +remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland’s arrest +nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again. +After his wife’s death he’d taken to spending an hour or so of an +evening across there at the ‘Dragon,’ where you saw me and my friends +last night, but on that night he didn’t go to the ‘Dragon.’ And next +morning he caught the eight o’clock train to London. He happened to +remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected +to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. +But Chamberlayne didn’t come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn’t +come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back +it was in a coffin!” + +“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo. “That was sudden!” + +“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, sir, he came back in his +coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he’d spoken of +being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died very +suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his +brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler—you’ll find him down the +street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew +of Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, +and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that +telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne +had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d +died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and +friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that +there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a +wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And +next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest +would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify +the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the +funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our +cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him +in it, with her.” + +Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and +theories; he was taking everything in. + +“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after that, they +brought Chamberlayne’s body down. Three of ’em came with it—Stephen +Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a solicitor. +Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As Chamberlayne +had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the +body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of +us who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he +had come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s +account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet +him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him +there when he arrived, and they had lunch together. After that, they +got to their business in a private room. Towards the end of the +afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a +doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The doctor said he’d a +diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death, +so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you.” + +The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at +some reminiscence which occurred to him. + +“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came all the +Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne +had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely +certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But +Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing. All that could +be traced was about three or four thousand pounds. He’d left everything +to his nephew, Stephen. There wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums +with which Maitland had entrusted him. And then people began to talk, +and they said what some of them say to this very day!” + +“What’s that?” asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm. + +“That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted +with lead!” he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY +MAITLAND _ALIAS_ MARBURY + + +This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in +Spargo’s mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his +imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his +informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor’s surprise. + +“Do you mean to tell me,” said Spargo at last, “that there are people +in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery which +is said to contain Chamberlayne’s body contains—lead?” + +“Lots of ’em, my dear sir!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Lots of ’em! Go +out in the street and ask the first six men you meet, and I’ll go bail +that four out of the six believe it.” + +“Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take +steps to make certain?” asked Spargo. “Why didn’t they get an order for +exhumation?” + +“Because it was nobody’s particular business to do so,” answered Mr. +Quarterpage. “You don’t know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns +like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they’re +always slow to do anything. It’s a case of who’ll start first—of +initiative. And if they see it’s going to cost anything—then they’ll +have nothing to do with it.” + +“But—the bank people?” suggested Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +“They’re amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die,” he +said. “They’re very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the +Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the +nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now I’ll tell you +something about those three. There was a man here in the town, a +gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper you’ve +got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and he +began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some good—what +do you call it?” + +“I suppose he’d call it ‘copy,’” said Spargo. + +“‘Copy’—that was his term,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Well, he took the +trouble to go to London to ask some quiet questions of the nephew, +Stephen. That was just twelve months after Chamberlayne had been +buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left England—months +before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they didn’t know +which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the doctor—couldn’t be +traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical Register. What do you +think of all that, Mr. Spargo?” + +“I think,” answered Spargo, “that Market Milcaster folk are +considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired +into. The whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy.” + +“Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody’s business,” said Mr. Quarterpage. +“The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, but it was no +good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is.” + +“Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo, “what’s your own honest opinion?” + +The old gentleman smiled. + +“Ah!” he said. “I’ve often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I really have an +opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about the +whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it. +But we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old +silver ticket which you’ve got in your purse. Now——” + +“No!” said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag of +his forefinger. “No! I think we’re coming nearer to it. Now you’ve +given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a lot, +and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I’m going to show you +something.” + +And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph +of John Marbury—the original of the process-picture which he had had +made for the _Watchman_. He handed it over. + +“Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?” he +asked. “Look at it well and closely.” + +Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the +photograph from several points of view. + +“No, sir,” he said at last with a shake of the head. “I don’t recognize +it at all.” + +“Can’t see in it any resemblance to any man you’ve ever known?” asked +Spargo. + +“No, sir, none!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “None whatever.” + +“Very well,” said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table between +them. “Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was like +when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was +when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course, +quite well?” + +Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door. + +“I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you photographs of +both men as they were just before Maitland’s trial. I have a photograph +of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken at a +municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. It’s +been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, and +I’ve no doubt it’s as fresh as when it was taken.” + +He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph +which he laid on the table before his visitor. + +“There you are, sir,” he said. “Quite fresh, you see—it must be getting +on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that it’s +been kept in. Now, that’s Maitland. And that’s Chamberlayne.” + +Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an +ivy-covered wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange +masses of sitters. He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated +by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built +men about whom there was nothing very specially noticeable. + +“Um!” he said, musingly. “Both bearded.” + +“Yes, they both wore beards—full beards,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. +“And you see, they weren’t so much alike. But Maitland was a much +darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while +Chamberlayne’s were rather a bright blue.” + +“The removal of a beard makes a great difference,” remarked Spargo. He +looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with +that of Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. “And twenty years +makes a difference, too,” he added musingly. + +“To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir,” said the +old gentleman. “To others it makes none—I haven’t changed much, they +tell me, during the past twenty years. But I’ve known men change—age, +almost beyond recognition!—in five years. It depends, sir, on what they +go through.” + +Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his +pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I’m after, Mr. +Quarterpage. I’m sure you’ve heard all about what’s known as the Middle +Temple Murder—the Marbury case?” + +“Yes, I’ve read of it,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the _Watchman_?” asked +Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +“I’ve only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man,” he +replied. “I take the _Times_, sir—we always took it, aye, even in the +days when newspapers were taxed.” + +“Very good,” said Spargo. “But perhaps I can tell you a little more +than you’ve read, for I’ve been working up that case ever since the +body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if you’ll just +give me your attention, I’ll tell you the whole story from that moment +until—now.” + +And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case +from the first instant of his own connection with it until the +discovery of the silver ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt +attention, nodding his head from time to time as the younger man made +his points. + +“And now, Mr. Quarterpage,” concluded Spargo, “this is the point I’ve +come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient Hotel as +John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane +that night, was John Maitland—I haven’t a doubt about it after learning +what you tell me about the silver ticket. I’ve found out a great deal +that’s valuable here, and I think I’m getting nearer to a solution of +the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered John +Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne +affair has led me to think this—there may have been people, or a +person, in London, who was anxious to get Marbury, as we’ll call him, +out of the way, and who somehow encountered him that night—anxious to +silence him, I mean, because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I +wondered, as there is so much mystery about him, and as he won’t give +any account of himself, if this man Aylmore was really Chamberlayne. +Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore’s a tall, finely-built man, quite six +feet in height, and his beard, though it’s now getting grizzled, has +been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, was a medium-sized, fair +man, with blue eyes.” + +“That’s so, sir,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, a middling-sized man, +and fair—very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!—this is a revelation. And you +really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury are one and the +same person?” + +“I’m sure of it, now,” said Spargo. “I see it in this way. Maitland, on +his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At last he +comes back, evidently well-to-do. He’s murdered the very day of his +arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him—Aylmore +won’t tell all he knows; that’s flat. But Aylmore’s admitted that he +knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three +years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That’s a +vague term. He won’t say where—he won’t say anything definite—he won’t +even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those days. Do you recollect +anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see Maitland, Mr. +Quarterpage?” + +“I don’t,” answered Mr. Quarterpage. “Maitland was a very quiet, +retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I +never remember that he had visitors; certainly I’ve no recollection of +such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, +would be at that time.” + +“Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?” asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +“Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have,” he said, “I’ll tell +you of something that occurred across there at the ‘Dragon’ only a few +months before the Maitland affair came out. There were some of us in +there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland came in with +Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up to +town next day—he was always to and fro—and we got talking about London. +And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed he was +about the only man of his age in England—and, of course, he meant of +his class and means—who’d never even seen London! And I don’t think he +ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I’m sure he +didn’t, for if he had, I should have heard of it.” + +“Well, that’s queer,” remarked Spargo. “It’s very queer. For I’m +certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. My theory +about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully planted +before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that +he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; +and that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in +it all these years. Now——” + +At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid +looked in at her master. + +“There’s the boots from the ‘Dragon’ at the front door, sir,” she said. +“He’s brought two telegrams across from there for Mr. Spargo, thinking +he might like to have them at once.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE +ARRESTED + + +Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots +of the “Dragon,” and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages +hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Here’s important news,” he said as he closed the library door and +resumed his seat. “I’ll read these telegrams to you, sir, and then we +can discuss them in the light of what we’ve been talking about this +morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to +Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he +hailed from—Coolumbidgee. That report’s just reached the _Watchman_, +and they’ve wired it on to me. It’s from the chief of police at +Coolumbidgee to the editor of the _Watchman_, London:— + +“John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was +unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable +means and bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, +Andrew Robertson, who is still here, and who says that Marbury never +told him anything about himself except that he had emigrated for health +reasons and was a widower. He mentioned that he had had a son who was +dead, and was now without relations. He lived a very quiet, steady life +on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. About six months +ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning told +Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of +some news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the +farm. Robertson bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and +Marbury shortly afterwards left for Melbourne. From what we could +gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was probably in command of five or six +thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a +man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not +say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly +the luggage he brought with him when he came—a stout portmanteau and a +small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at +Coolumbidgee.” + + +“That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the +table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here’s more +startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that +I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage—he promised, you know, to keep me posted +in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says: + +“Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. +Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry +back if you want material for to-morrow’s paper.” + + +Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman +glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. + +“Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I looked the +trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20 +to Paddington—that’ll get me in before half-past four. I’ve an hour +yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That’s +the photographer—or a photographer. You remember I told you of the +photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m calculating that +that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took +it—if he’s alive and I can find him.” + +Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. + +“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, “and he’s +been here for a good many years—Cooper. I’ll take you to him—it’s only +a few doors away.” + +Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. +He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper—an elderly man. + +“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the +bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr. +Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to +ask a few questions. + +“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper. “As well as if it had been +yesterday.” + +“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo. + +But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down +one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he +laid it on his table before his callers. + +“There you are, sir,” he said. “That’s the child!” + +Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. +“Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s the same photograph we found in +the leather box with the silver ticket. I’m obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. +Now, there’s just one more question I want to ask. Did you ever supply +any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland +affair?—that is; after the family had left the town?” + +“Yes,” replied the photographer. “I supplied half a dozen copies to +Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him +here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, too,” he +continued, beginning to turn over another old file. “I have it +somewhere.” + +Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo. + +“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked. “As I told you, +she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after +Maitland’s release.” + +“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper. “I sent six copies of that photograph +to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester +Square, Bayswater, W.” + +Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for +his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he +turned to the old gentleman with a smile. + +“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he exclaimed. +“Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m as certain +of that as that I see your Town Hall there.” + +“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage. + +“Thank you—as I do—for all your kindness and assistance, and get off to +town by this 1.20,” replied Spargo. “And I shan’t fail to let you know +how things go on.” + +“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, “do +you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?” + +“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis. “I don’t! And I think we’ve got a +good deal to do before we find out who did.” + +Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his +journey to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his +neighbours; it was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to +something else than the theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so +many days. But at Reading the newspaper boys were shouting the news of +the arrest of a Member of Parliament, and Spargo, glancing out of the +window, caught sight of a newspaper placard: + +THE MARBURY MURDER CASE +ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE + + +He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding +it, found a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press +news: + +“Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o’clock this afternoon, +on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned in +the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June +21st last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten +o’clock tomorrow morning.” + + +Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. +He met Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the +detective turned back. + +“Well, so there you are!” he said. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?” + +Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair. + +“What led to it?” he asked abruptly. “There must have been something.” + +“There was something,” he replied. “The thing—stick, bludgeon, whatever +you like to call it, some foreign article—with which Marbury was struck +down was found last night.” + +“Well?” asked Spargo. + +“It was proved to be Aylmore’s property,” answered Rathbury. “It was a +South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain Court.” + +“Where was it found?” asked Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever +he was!” he replied. “Do you know, it had been dropped into a +sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane—actually! Perhaps the murderer thought +it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of course, +it was bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday evening, +and it was quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for Aylmore as +having been in his rooms ever since she knew them.” + +“What does Aylmore say about it?” asked Spargo. “I suppose he’s said +something?” + +“Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought it from +South America with him,” announced Rathbury; “but that he doesn’t +remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks that it was +stolen from them.” + +“Um!” said Spargo, musingly. “But—how do you know that was the thing +that Marbury was struck down with?” + +Rathbury smiled grimly. + +“There’s some of his hair on it—mixed with blood,” he answered. “No +doubt about that. Well—anything come of your jaunt westward?” + +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Lots!” + +“Good?” asked Rathbury. + +“Extra good. I’ve found out who Marbury really was.” + +“No! Really?” + +“No doubt, to my mind. I’m certain of it.” + +Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention. + +“And who was he?” he asked. + +“John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster,” replied Spargo. “Ex-bank +manager. Also ex-convict.” + +“Ex-convict!” + +“Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in +autumn, 1891, to ten years’ penal servitude, for embezzling the bank’s +money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his term +at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. +That’s who Marbury was—Maitland. Dead—certain!” + +Rathbury still stared at his caller. + +“Go on!” he said. “Tell all about it, Spargo. Let’s hear every detail. +I’ll tell you all I know after. But what I know’s nothing to that.” + +Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, +and the detective listened with rapt attention. + +“Yes,” he said at the end. “Yes—I don’t think there’s much doubt about +that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn’t it?” + +Spargo yawned. + +“Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there,” he said. “I haven’t so +much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all in +Aylmore.” + +Rathbury nodded. + +“Yes,” he said. “The thing to find out is—who is Aylmore, or who was +he, twenty years ago?” + +“Your people haven’t found anything out, then?” asked Spargo. + +“Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he +returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since,” +answered Rathbury, smiling. “They’ve no previous dates to go on. What +are you going to do next, Spargo?” + +“Seek out that Miss Baylis,” replied Spargo. + +“You think you could get something there?” asked Rathbury. + +“Look here!” said Spargo. “I don’t believe for a second Aylmore killed +Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what I call +the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something—if she’s +alive. Well, now I’m going to report at the office. Keep in touch with +me, Rathbury.” + +He went on then to the _Watchman_ office, and as he got out of his +taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore’s +daughters. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO +THE BLANK PAST + + +Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the +elder girl hung back diffidently. + +“May we speak to you?” said Jessie. “We have come on purpose to speak +to you. Evelyn didn’t want to come, but I made her come.” + +Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both +to follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed +them in his easiest chairs before he addressed them. + +“I’ve only just got back to town,” he said abruptly. “I was sorry to +hear the news about your father. That’s what’s brought you here, of +course. But—I’m afraid I can’t do much.” + +“I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie,” said +Evelyn Aylmore. “What can he do to help us?” + +Jessie shook her head impatiently. + +“The _Watchman’s_ about the most powerful paper in London, isn’t it?” +she said. “And isn’t Mr. Spargo writing all these articles about the +Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!” + +Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and +papers which had accumulated during his absence. + +“To be absolutely frank with you,” he said, presently, “I don’t see how +anybody’s going to help, so long as your father keeps up that mystery +about the past.” + +“That,” said Evelyn, quietly, “is exactly what Ronald says, Jessie. But +we can’t make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as innocent as +we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don’t know why he +wouldn’t answer the questions put to him at the inquest. And—we know no +more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have begged my father +to speak, he won’t say a word. We saw his danger: Ronald—Mr. +Breton—told us, and we implored him to tell everything he knew about +Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he had +anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and now——” + +“And now he’s locked up,” said Spargo in his usual matter-of-fact +fashion. “Well, there are people who have to be saved from themselves, +you know. Perhaps you’ll have to save your father from the consequences +of his own—shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between ourselves, +how much do you know about your father’s—past?” + +The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo. + +“Nothing,” said the elder. + +“Absolutely nothing!” said the younger. + +“Answer a few plain questions,” said Spargo. “I’m not going to print +your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I’m only asking the +questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in +England?” + +“None that we know of,” replied Evelyn. + +“Nobody you could go to for information about the past?” asked Spargo. + +“No—nobody!” + +Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard. + +“How old is your father?” he asked suddenly. + +“He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago,” answered Evelyn. + +“And how old are you, and how old is your sister?” demanded Spargo. + +“I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen.” + +“Where were you born?” + +“Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San José province of +Argentina, north of Monte Video.” + +“Your father was in business there?” + +“He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There’s no secret +about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to +France—skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That’s how he made his +money.” + +“You don’t know how long he’d been there when you were born?” + +“No.” + +“Was he married when he went out there?” + +“No, he wasn’t. We do know that. He’s told us the circumstances of his +marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from England to +Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was like +himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to +Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each +other, and they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer +arrived.” + +“And your mother is dead?” + +“My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and +Jessie six, then.” + +“And you came to England—how long after that?” + +“Two years.” + +“So that you’ve been in England ten years. And you know nothing +whatever of your father’s past beyond what you’ve told me?” + +“Nothing—absolutely nothing.” + +“Never heard him talk of—you see, according to your account, your +father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina. +He must have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never +heard him speak of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that +sort of thing?” + +“I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to +his marriage,” replied Evelyn. + +“I once asked him a question about his childhood.” said Jessie. “He +answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that he +had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything again.” + +“So that it really comes to this,” remarked Spargo. “You know nothing +whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond +what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe? +That’s about it, isn’t it?” + +“I should say that that is exactly it,” answered Evelyn. + +“Just so,” said Spargo. “And therefore, as I told your sister the other +day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind +him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed +him in order to silence him. That isn’t my view. I not only believe +your father to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no +more than a child unborn of Marbury’s murder, and I’m doing my best to +find out who that murderer was. By the by, since you’ll see all about +it in tomorrow morning’s _Watchman_, I may as well tell you that I’ve +found out who Marbury really was. He——” + +At this moment Spargo’s door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He +shook his head at sight of the two sisters. + +“I thought I should find you here,” he said. “Jessie said she was +coming to see you, Spargo. I don’t know what good you can do—I don’t +see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My +God!—everything’s about as black as ever it can be. Mr. Aylmore—I’ve +just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and I have been with +him for an hour—is obstinate as ever—he will not tell more than he has +told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he won’t speak about that +knowledge of Marbury which he must have?” + +“Oh, well!” said Spargo. “Perhaps we can give him some information +about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it’s not such a difficult +thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as I +was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who +Marbury really was.” + +Breton started. + +“You have? Without doubt?” he exclaimed. + +“Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict.” + +Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls +showed no sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received +the news with as much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury +was a famous musician. But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to +Spargo that he saw a sense of suspicion dawn in his eyes. + +“Marbury—an ex-convict!” he exclaimed. “You mean that?” + +“Read your _Watchman_ in the morning,” said Spargo. “You’ll find the +whole story there—I’m going to write it tonight when you people have +gone. It’ll make good reading.” + +Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo’s hint and went away, Spargo +seeing them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their +father’s innocence and his determination to hunt down the real +criminal. Ronald Breton went down with them to the street and saw them +into a cab, but in another minute he was back in Spargo’s room as +Spargo had expected. He shut the door carefully behind him and turned +to Spargo with an eager face. + +“I say, Spargo, is that really so?” he asked. “About Marbury being an +ex-convict?” + +“That’s so, Breton. I’ve no more doubt about it than I have that I see +you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of +Market Milcaster, who got ten years’ penal servitude in 1891 for +embezzlement.” + +“In 1891? Why—that’s just about the time that Aylmore says he knew +him!” + +“Exactly. And—it just strikes me,” said Spargo, sitting down at his +desk and making a hurried note, “it just strikes me—didn’t Aylmore say +he knew Marbury in London?” + +“Certainly,” replied Breton. “In London.” + +“Um!” mused Spargo. “That’s queer, because Maitland had never been in +London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may have +done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to +South America long before that. Look here, Breton,” he continued, +aloud, “have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before +he’s brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?” + +“Yes,” answered Breton. “I can see him with his solicitor.” + +“Then listen,” said Spargo. “Tomorrow morning you’ll find the whole +story of how I proved Marbury’s identity with Maitland in the +_Watchman_. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore +as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he’s brought +up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters’ peace of +mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows +about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. +Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in—they +know absolutely nothing of their father’s history previous to the time +when they began to understand things! Don’t you see that Aylmore’s +career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!” + +“I know—I know!” said Breton. “Yes—although I’ve gone there a great +deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his +Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he +went out there.” + +“Thirty-seven or eight, at least,” remarked Spargo. “Well, Aylmore’s +more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life +hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?” + +“My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland,” answered +Breton. “We kept up the acquaintance after our return.” + +“Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?” asked +Spargo. + +“Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs +the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of +little else,” said Breton. + +“And their theory—” + +“Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!” replied Breton. “Old +Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his +very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every +tenant of the Temple.” + +“Longish business that,” observed Spargo. “Well, run away now, Breton—I +must write.” + +“Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?” asked Breton as he moved +to the door. “It’s to be at ten-thirty.” + +“No, I shan’t!” replied Spargo. “It’ll only be a remand, and I know +already just as much as I should hear there. I’ve got something much +more important to do. But you’ll remember what I asked of you—get +Aylmore to read my story in the _Watchman_, and beg him to speak out +and tell all he knows—all!” + +And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: “All +he knows—all!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE +MISS BAYLIS + + +Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those +pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely +given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and +boarding-house keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with +their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their +pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into +them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the +residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but +in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that +young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in +more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the +country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but +others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters +whose linen might be cleaner. + +Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as +the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and +bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of +overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid +to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there +was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged +person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of +false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air +and smile which in its wearer—under these circumstances—always means +that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or +whether she will be able to see you. + +“You wish to see Miss Baylis?” said this person, examining Spargo +closely. “Miss Baylis does not often see anybody.” + +“I hope,” said Spargo politely, “that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?” + +“No, she’s not an invalid,” replied the landlady; “but she’s not as +young as she was, and she’s an objection to strangers. Is it anything I +can tell her?” + +“No,” said Spargo. “But you can, if you please, take her a message from +me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask +her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I +should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes.” + +“Perhaps you will sit down,” said the landlady. She led Spargo into a +room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, +evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with +them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the +papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and +if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would +do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door +opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her, +decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as +she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance +lengthen into a look of steady inspection. + +The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable +appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in +height; she was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and +athletic. What at once struck Spargo about her face was the strange +contrast between her dark eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in +abundant coils round a well-shaped head, was of the most snowy +whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as were also the eyebrows +above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking firmness; the +jaw square and determined. And Spargo’s first thought on taking all +this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be +a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an +unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract +anything out of those firmly-locked lips. + +Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded +to order him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her +that he made a profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his +tongue. + +“Mr. Spargo?” she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly suited +to her. “Of, I see, the _Watchman_? You wish to speak to me?” + +Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which +they were standing. + +“Open the casement, if you please,” she commanded him. “We will walk in +the garden. This is not private.” + +Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened +window and he followed her. It was not until they had reached the +bottom of the garden that she spoke again. + +“I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John +Maitland, of Market Milcaster?” she said. “Before you put it. I must +ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for +publication?” + +“Not without your permission,” replied Spargo. “I should not think of +publishing anything you may tell me except with your express +permission.” + +She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good +faith, and nodded her head. + +“In that case,” she said, “what do you want to ask?” + +“I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John +Maitland,” answered Spargo. “I suppose you read the newspapers and +possibly the _Watchman_, Miss Baylis?” + +But Miss Baylis shook her head. + +“I read no newspapers,” she said. “I have no interest in the affairs of +the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole +devotion to it.” + +“Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury +case—a case of a man who was found murdered?” asked Spargo. + +“I have not,” she answered. “I am not likely to hear such things.” + +Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as +great nor as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and +that there actually are, even in London, people who can live quite +cheerfully without a newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went +on. + +“Well,” he said, “I believe that the murdered man, known to the police +as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John Maitland. +In fact, Miss Baylis, I’m absolutely certain of it!” + +He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern +companion to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign +of being impressed. + +“I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo,” she said coldly. “It is no +surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a +thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible +disgrace on those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was +likely to die a bad man’s death.” + +“I may ask you a few questions about him?” suggested Spargo in his most +insinuating manner. + +“You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers,” she +replied. “But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being +John Maitland’s sister-in-law?” + +“I found that out at Market Milcaster,” said Spargo. “The photographer +told me—Cooper.” + +“Ah!” she exclaimed. + +“The questions I want to ask are very simple,” said Spargo. “But your +answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to prison, +of course?” + +Miss Baylis laughed—a laugh of scorn. + +“Could I ever forget it?” she exclaimed. + +“Did you ever visit him in prison?” asked Spargo. + +“Visit him in prison!” she said indignantly. “Visits in prison are to +be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to scoundrels +who are hardened in their sin!” + +“All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?” + +“I saw him, for he forced himself upon me—I could not help myself. He +was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released.” + +“What did he come for?” asked Spargo. + +“To ask for his son—who had been in my charge,” she replied. + +“That’s a thing I want to know about,” said Spargo. “Do you know what a +certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss +Baylis?—they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you +had a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went +to prison, you took the child away, first to Brighton, then +abroad—disappeared with him—and that you made a home ready for Maitland +when he came out. That’s what’s said by some people in Market +Milcaster.” + +Miss Baylis’s stern lips curled. + +“People in Market Milcaster!” she exclaimed. “All the people I ever +knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that +cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would +have seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have +given him a crust of dry bread!” + +“You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man,” observed Spargo, +astonished at her vehemence. + +“I had—and I have,” she answered. “He tricked my sister into a marriage +with him when he knew that she would rather have married an honest man +who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal cruelty; he +robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left us.” + +“Ah!” said Spargo. “Well, so you say Maitland came to you, when he came +out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?” + +“No—the boy was dead.” + +“Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?” + +Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh. + +“I showed him the door!” she said. + +“Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?” enquired +Spargo. + +“I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. Spargo,” +she answered. + +“Then, in short,” said Spargo, “you never heard of him again?” + +“I never heard of him again,” she declared passionately, “and I only +hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was +Maitland!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR +MOTHER GUTCH + + +Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out +on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, +when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that +formidable lady. + +“I’ve just thought of something else,” he said. “I told you that I’m +certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end—murdered.” + +“And I’ve told you,” she replied scornfully, “that in my opinion no end +could be too bad for him.” + +“Just so—I understand you,” said Spargo. “But I didn’t tell you that he +was not only murdered but robbed—robbed of probably a good deal. +There’s good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes, +loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount. +He’d several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South +Wales, where he’d lived quietly for some years.” + +Miss Baylis smiled sourly. + +“What’s all this to me?” she asked. + +“Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be +recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be +somebody who’s entitled to the lot. It’s worth having, Miss Baylis, and +there’s strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up.” + +This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its +effect with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as +scornful as ever. + +“I say again what’s all that to me?” she exclaimed. + +“Well, but hadn’t the dead boy any relatives on his father’s side?” +asked Spargo. “I know you’re his aunt on the mother’s side, and as +you’re indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side. It’s +very easy to find all these things out, you know.” + +Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and +majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the +interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and +glared at the young journalist. + +“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated. + +Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He +was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose. + +“Oh, easy enough!” he said. “I could find out all about Maitland’s +family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!” + +Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. “How?” she +demanded. + +“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. “It is, of course, +the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I +suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and +you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, +Miss Baylis?” + +But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house. + +“I shall tell you nothing more,” she said angrily. “I’ve told you too +much already, and I believe all you’re here for is to get some news for +your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this—when Maitland went to +prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he’d have had +to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn’t a single relation in the +world but me, on either father’s or mother’s side. And even at my age, +old woman as I am, I’d rather beg my bread in the street, I’d rather +starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John +Maitland! That’s all.” + +Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, +she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing +no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling +sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a +queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said +distinctly and yet in a whisper: + +“Young man!” + +Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick +and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he +saw a nondescript shape behind. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Somebody +listening?” + +There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the +cracked, husky voice spoke again. + +“Young man, don’t you move or look as if you were talking to anybody. +Do you know where the ‘King of Madagascar’ public-house is in this +quarter of the town, young man?” + +“No!” answered Spargo. “Certainly not!” + +“Well, anybody’ll tell you when you get outside, young man,” continued +the queer voice of the unseen person. “Go there, and wait at the corner +by the ‘King of Madagascar,’ and I’ll come there to you at the end of +half an hour. Then I’ll tell you something, young man—I’ll tell you +something. Now run away, young man, run away to the ‘King of +Madagascar’—I’m coming!” + +The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel +queer. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he +immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the +privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let +himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a +policeman and asked him if he knew where the “King of Madagascar” was. + +“First to the right, second to the left,” answered the policeman +tersely. “You can’t miss it anywhere round there—it’s a landmark.” + +And Spargo found the landmark—a great, square-built tavern—easily, and +he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and +intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its +suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an +old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize +how dreadful old age may be. + +Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was +dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her +bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was +evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle; +the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a +sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear +what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt. + +“Well?” he said, almost roughly. “Well?” + +“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance. “Let us go +inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a lady can sit +and take her drop of gin—I’ll show you. And if you’re good to me, I’ll +tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now. +But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old +ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little +comforts.” + +Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; +the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at +her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which +was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her +curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little +of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest +which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw +a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew +clearer with every sound she made. + +“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that +made Spargo long to get up and fly. “I wanted that! It’s done me good. +When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for me—and perhaps +another? They’ll do me still more good. And you’ll give me a little +matter of money, won’t you, young man?” + +“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo. + +“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if it’s made +worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about +Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I’m not going to tell you that +now, young man—I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket what I shall +want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I’m only going to show +you that I have the secret. Eh?” + +“Who are you?” asked Spargo. + +The woman leered and chuckled. “What are you going to give me, young +man?” she asked. + +Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two +half-sovereigns. + +“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if you can tell +me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now. +And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!” + +The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand. + +“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored. “Let me hold +one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I +hold one of them. Let me—there’s a good young gentleman.” + +Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, +whatever it might be. + +“You won’t get the other unless you tell something,” he said. “Who are +you, anyway?” + +The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the +half-sovereign, grinned horribly. + +“At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch,” +she answered; “but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a +time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went +to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came +to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to +bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?” + +“Heaven knows!” answered Spargo. + +“Because I’ve got a hold on her, young man—I’ve got a secret of hers,” +continued Mother Gutch. “She’d be scared to death if she knew I’d been +behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she’d be more +than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she’s +grown hard and near with me, and she won’t give me a penny to get a +drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her +little comforts, and if you’ll buy the secret, young man, I’ll split on +her, there and then, when you pay the money.” + +“Before I talk about buying any secret,” said Spargo, “you’ll have to +prove to me that you’ve a secret to sell that’s worth my buying.” + +“And I will prove it!” said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. “Touch +the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I’ll tell you. Now,” +she went on, more quietly—Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the +more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength +and her whole appearance to be improved—“now, you came to her to find +out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn’t +you?” + +“Well?” demanded Spargo. + +“And about that boy of his?” she continued. + +“You heard all that was said,” answered Spargo. “I’m waiting to hear +what you have to say.” + +But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her +questions: + +“And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that +she told him the boy was dead, didn’t she?” she went on. + +“Well?” said Spargo despairingly. “She did. What then?” + +Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled +knowingly. “What then?” she chuckled. “All lies, young man, the boy +isn’t dead—any more than I am. And my secret is—” + +“Well?” demanded Spargo impatiently. “What is it?” + +“This!” answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, “I +know what she did with him!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE +REVELATIONS + + +Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his +journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since +entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear anything +material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that +this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of +extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of +getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother +Gutch’s unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only +saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her +eagerly. + +“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he exclaimed. + +“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch. + +“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo. + +Mother Gutch shook her head. + +“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she replied. “I said +I knew what she did with him.” + +“What, then?” demanded Spargo. + +Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and +favoured Spargo with a look. + +“That’s the secret, young man,” she said. “I’m willing to sell that +secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold +gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I +was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth +something.” + +Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an +unexpected result of it. + +“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” continued Mother +Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That’s plain +language, young man.” + +Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could +this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret +which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple +Murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the _Watchman_ if the +clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the +_Watchman_ was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying +out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent money like water on +much less serious matters than this. + +“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning to +his companion. + +Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really +wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan +had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver +and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite +form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them; +secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most +extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of +her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke. + +“Well, young man,” she said, “having considered matters, and having a +right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have +would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid +weekly—none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and punctual, +every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient to the +parties concerned—but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies +in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it’s a great comfort to +have ’em paid weekly.” + +It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her +weekly dole on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be +Monday or Saturday, but that, after all, was no concern of his, so he +came back to first principles. + +“Even now you haven’t said how much,” he remarked. + +“Three pound a week,” replied Mother Gutch. “And cheap, too!” + +Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might—might!—lead to +something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to +death within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was +nothing to the _Watchman_. He glanced at his watch. At that hour—for +the next hour—the great man of the _Watchman_ would be at the office. +He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. + +“Here, I’ll take you to see my principals,” he said. “We’ll run along +in a taxi-cab.” + +“With all the pleasure in the world, young man,” replied Mother Gutch; +“when you’ve given me that other half-sovereign. As for principals, I’d +far rather talk business with masters than with men—though I mean no +disrespect to you.” + +Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second +half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. But when +that came round he had to wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a third glass +of gin and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in her pocket. +At last he got her off, and in due course to the _Watchman_ office, +where the hall-porter and the messenger boys stared at her in +amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, and he got +her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the presence +of the mighty. + +What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the +fortunes and workings of the _Watchman_ he never knew. It was probably +fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the +facts of the Middle Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an +advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the +conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, +intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up +there. + +Spargo’s room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was +soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and +editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before +going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing +with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of +truth there was in her, but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his +own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room. + +“We’ll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,” he said. +“She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest +importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as +Spargo says, she’ll probably drink herself to death in about as short a +time as possible. Come back—let’s hear her story.” So they returned to +the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by +which the proprietor of the _Watchman_ bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch +the sum of three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the +insertion of the words “every Saturday morning, punctual and regular”) +and then Mrs. Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch +settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for +word. + +“Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a +monkey’s tail nor so short as a Manx cat’s, gentlemen,” said Mrs. +Gutch; “but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland +affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane +Baylis at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and +close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and +had saved a nice bit, and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a +little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican +here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in +this here Maitland’s hands, every penny. I very well remember the day +when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss +Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and +before she’d seen it an hour she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up +to the station with her, and she told me then before she got in the +train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her +sister’s, his wife’s, too, and that she feared all would be lost.” + +“Mrs. Maitland was then dead,” observed Spargo without looking up from +his writing-block. + +“She was, young man, and a good thing, too,” continued Mrs. Gutch. +“Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly +a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with her—which +was Maitland’s. And she told me that night that she’d lost every penny +she had in the world, and that her sister’s money, what ought to have +been the child’s, was gone, too, and she said her say about Maitland. +However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have seen better. And +very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her +and me talked about things. ‘What’s the use,’ says I to her, ‘of your +letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking after it as you +do, and educating it, and so on?’ I says. ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘’Tisn’t +yours,’ I says, ‘you haven’t no right to it,’ I says. ‘As soon as ever +its father comes out,’ says I,’ he’ll come and claim it, and you can’t +do nothing to stop him.’ Well, gentlemen, if you’ll believe me, never +did I see a woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and +swore that Maitland should never see or touch the child again—not under +no circumstances whatever.” + +Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, +with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, +presently, apparently refreshed. + +“Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland’s taking the child away +from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times +about it, always saying the same thing—that Maitland should never have +him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers +about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and +a day or two afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a +lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again, until +one day she came to me, and she says, ‘You don’t know who that +gentleman is that’s come so much lately?’ she says. ‘Not I,’ I says, +‘unless he’s after you.’ ‘After me!’ she says, tossing her head: +‘That’s the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister if that +scoundrel Maitland hadn’t tricked her into throwing him over!’ ‘You +don’t say so!’ I says. ‘Then by rights he ought to have been the +child’s pa!’ ‘He’s going to be a father to the boy,’ she says. ‘He’s +going to take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a +gentleman of him,’ she says, ‘for his mother’s sake.’ ‘Mercy on us!’ +says I. ‘What’ll Maitland say when he comes for him?’ ‘Maitland’ll +never come for him,’ she says, ‘for I’m going to leave here, and the +boy’ll be gone before then. This is all being done,’ she says, ‘so that +the child’ll never know his father’s shame—he’ll never know who his +father was.’ And true enough, the boy was taken away, but Maitland came +before she’d gone, and she told him the child was dead, and I never see +a man so cut up. However, it wasn’t no concern of mine. And so there’s +so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if I ain’t +giving good value.” + +“Very good,” said the proprietor. “Go on.” But Spargo intervened. + +“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy away?” he +asked. + +“Yes, I did,” replied Mrs. Gutch. “Of course I did. Which it was +Elphick.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX +STILL SILENT + + +Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that +made Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her +nerves to be none of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of +them with angry malevolence. + +“Don’t do that again, young man!” she exclaimed sharply. “I can’t +a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it’s bad manners. I observed +that the gentleman’s name was Elphick.” + +Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor—a +glance which came near to being a wink. + +“Just so—Elphick,” he said. “A law gentleman I think you said, Mrs. +Gutch?” + +“I said,” answered Mrs. Gutch, “as how he looked like a lawyer +gentleman. And since you’re so particular, young man, though I wasn’t +addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One of +the sort that wears wigs and gowns—ain’t I seen his picture in Jane +Baylis’s room at the boarding-house where you saw her this morning?” + +“Elderly man?” asked Spargo. + +“Elderly he will be now,” replied the informant; “but when he took the +boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age,” she added, pointing +to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the +proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; “and not so very unlike him +neither, being one as had no hair on his face.” + +“Ah!” said Spargo. “And where did this Mr. Elphick take the boy, Mrs. +Gutch?” + +But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. + +“Ain’t no idea,” she said. “He took him. Then, as I told you, Maitland +came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And after that +she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight tongue. +Once or twice I asked her, and she says, ‘Never you mind,’ she says; +‘he’s all right for life, if he lives to be as old as Methusalem.’ And +she never said more, and I never said more. But,” continued Mrs. Gutch, +whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears away, “she’s +treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a little comfort +such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two of you +a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, +‘Now’s the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!’ And I hope I +done it.” + +Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head +slightly. He meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted +from Mother Gutch. + +“What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?” he asked. +“You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you like.” + +“Which I shall be obliged for, young man,” said Mrs. Gutch, “and +likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every +Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a +Friday, whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first +week in my purse, and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes +and go to a friend of mine where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the +dust of my feet off against Jane Baylis and where I’ve been living with +her.” + +“Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch,” said Spargo, with some anxiety, “if you go back +there tonight, you’ll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis that +you’ve been here and told us all this?” + +Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. + +“Young man,” she said, “you mean well, but you ain’t used to dealing +with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I like. I +wouldn’t tell Jane Baylis my affairs—my new affairs, gentlemen, thanks +to you—not for two annuities, paid twice a week!” + +“Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then +come to my room,” said the editor. “And don’t you forget, Mrs. +Gutch—keep a quiet tongue in your head—no more talk—or there’ll be no +annuities on Saturday mornings.” + +So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier’s department and paid her +her first week’s money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and +saw her depart, and then he went to the editor’s room, strangely +thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they +stopped when Spargo entered and looked at him eagerly. “I think we’ve +done it,” said Spargo quietly. + +“What, precisely, have we found out?” asked the editor. + +“A great deal more than I’d anticipated,” answered Spargo, “and I don’t +know what fields it doesn’t open out. If you look back, you’ll remember +that the only thing found on Marbury’s body was a scrap of grey paper +on which was a name and address—Ronald Breton, King’s Bench Walk.” + +“Well?” + +“Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit—I have accepted two +or three articles of his for our literary page.” + +“Well?” + +“Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of +Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street +today with the murder of Marbury.” + +“I know. Well, what then, Spargo?” + +“But the most important matter,” continued Spargo, speaking very +deliberately, “is this—that is, taking that old woman’s statement to be +true, as I personally believe it is—that Breton, as he has told me +himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian. +That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister.” + +The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore +the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the +same conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a +sharp interrogation: “You think then——” + +Spargo nodded. + +“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is +the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered. + +The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace +the room. + +“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the mystery deepens. What do +you propose to do, Spargo?” + +“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling him +anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and +get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse +for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands—” + +“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand. “Leave it entirely in +Spargo’s hands.” + +“Keep me informed,” said the editor. “Do what you think. It strikes me +you’re on the track.” + +Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still +faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the +reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up +that morning. There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked +for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said +nothing fresh to anybody. + +Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers. He +found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking +unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from +his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into +an inner room. + +“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair. +“This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told +me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?” + +“To get him to tell all?—Yes,” said Spargo. + +Breton shook his head. + +“Stratton—his solicitor, you know—and I saw him this morning before the +police-court proceedings,” he continued. “I told him of my talk with +you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been to +the _Watchman_ office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your +advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private +feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence +against him; how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth +at once; how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion +against himself; how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could +scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo!” + +“He won’t say anything?” + +“He’ll say no more. He was adamant. ‘I told the entire truth in respect +to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the +inquest,’ he said, over and over again, ‘and I shall say nothing +further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man +on such evidence as that, let it!’ And he persisted in that until we +left him. Spargo, I don’t know what’s to be done.” + +“And nothing happened at the police-court?” + +“Nothing—another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he was +removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark—‘If you all want to +prove me innocent,’ he said, ‘find the guilty man.’” + +“Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that,” said +Spargo. + +“Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?” exclaimed +Breton. “Are you any nearer—is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the +slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?” + +Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, +apparently thinking. + +“Was Rathbury in court?” he suddenly asked. + +“He was,” replied Breton. “He was there with two or three other men who +I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in +Aylmore.” + +“If I don’t see Rathbury tonight I’ll see him in the morning,” said +Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down +again. “Look here,” he continued, “I don’t know how this thing stands +in law, but would it be a very weak case against Aylmore if the +prosecution couldn’t show some motive for his killing Marbury?” + +Breton smiled. + +“There’s no necessity to prove motive in murder,” he said. “But I’ll +tell you what, Spargo—if the prosecution can show that Aylmore had a +motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that it was to +Aylmore’s advantage to silence him—why, then, I don’t think he’s a +chance.” + +“I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has +been shown.” + +“I know of none.” + +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. Here”—and Breton scribbled a few words on +a card—“there’s his address and a word from me. I’ll tell you when you +can always find him in, five nights out of seven—at nine o’clock, after +he’s dined. I’d go with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore’s. The +two girls are in terrible trouble.” + +“Give them a message from me,” said Spargo as they went out together. +“Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN +MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS + + +Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o’clock, +asking himself over and over again two questions—the first, how much +does Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him? + +The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a +generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was +full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the +exact number of the set of chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander +about in what was a deserted building. So wandering, he suddenly heard +steps, firm, decisive steps coming up a staircase which he himself had +just climbed. He looked over the banisters down into the hollow +beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure of a tall, +veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening of +his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof +with Miss Baylis. + +Spargo’s mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his +extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that +Miss Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick—come, of course, to tell Mr. +Elphick that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was +on the track of the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it +before, for he had been busily engaged since the departure of Mother +Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis and Mr. Elphick would keep in +communication with each other. At any rate, here she was, and her +destination was, surely, Elphick’s chambers. And the question for him, +Spargo, was—what to do? + +What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, +where he was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman +did not look up. But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she +reached a landing, turned along a corridor with decision, and marched +forward. A moment later Spargo heard a sharp double knock on a door: a +moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; he knew then that Miss +Baylis had sought and gained admittance—somewhere. + +To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the +landing which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about—he had +not, in fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he +went along the corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He +knew that all the doors in that house were double ones, and that the +outer oak in each was solid and substantial enough to be sound proof. +Yet, as men will under such circumstances, he walked softly; he said to +himself, smiling at the thought, that he would be sure to start if +somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But no hand opened any door, +and at last he came to the end of the corridor and found himself +confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters on a +black ground, Mr. Elphick’s Chambers. + +Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back +as quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the +corridor from which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a +glimpse of the Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and +leaning on the sill looked out and considered matters. Should he go +and—if he could gain admittance—beard these two conspirators? Should he +wait until the woman came out and let her see that he was on the track? +Should he hide again until she went, and then see Elphick alone? + +In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things +slide for the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river +and the brown sails, and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten +minutes went by—twenty minutes—nothing happened. Then, as half-past +nine struck from all the neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a +second cigarette, marched straight down the corridor and knocked boldly +at Mr. Elphick’s door. + +Greatly to Spargo’s surprise, the door was opened before there was any +necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a +benevolent, yet somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and +placid face, stood Mr. Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled +smoking jacket over his dress shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. + +Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the +door well open, and motioned the journalist to enter. + +“Come in, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “I was expecting you. Walk forward into +my sitting-room.” + +Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room +into a handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In +spite of the fact that it was still very little past midsummer there +was a cheery fire in the grate, and on a table set near a roomy +arm-chair was set such creature comforts as a spirit-case, a syphon, a +tumbler, and a novel—from which things Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick +had been taking his ease since his dinner. But in another armchair on +the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding figure of Miss +Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She neither spoke +nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And Spargo +stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors, +touched him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat. + +“Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo,” he said, as he resumed his own +chair. “I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up +your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages +of which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss +Baylis told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this +morning I felt sure that it would not be more than a few hours before +you would come to me.” + +“Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at +all?” asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. + +“Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner +unexplored,” replied Mr. Elphick. “The curiosity of the modern pressman +is insatiable.” + +Spargo stiffened. + +“I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick,” he said. “I am charged by my paper +to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found +in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, and——” + +Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand. + +“My good young gentleman!” he said. “You exaggerate your own +importance. I don’t approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In +your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John +Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and +you have been trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into——” + +Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him +which, when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused +now. He looked the old barrister full in the face. + +“Mr. Elphick,” he said, “you are evidently unaware of all that I know. +So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, and I +will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs +of what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the +_Watchman_ tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know.” + +“Dear me—dear me!” said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. “We are so used to +ultra-sensational stories from the _Watchman_ that—but I am a curious +and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so perhaps you will tell me +in a word what it is you do know, eh?” + +Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table +and looked the old barrister straight in the face. + +“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know beyond doubt. I +know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without +doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is +his son, whom you took from that woman!” + +If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in +which Mr. Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more +ample one than that offered to him by the old barrister’s reception of +this news. Mr. Elphick’s face not only fell, but changed; his +expression of almost sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly +resembling abject terror; he dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, +recovered himself, gripped the chair’s arms, and stared at Spargo as if +the young man had suddenly announced to him that in another minute he +must be led to instant execution. And Spargo, quick to see his +advantage, followed it up. + +“That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall +know it tomorrow morning!” he said firmly. “Ronald Breton is the son of +the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the +daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is +not matter of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is +fact—fact!” + +Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few +words. + +“You—did—not—tell—me—this!” + +Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the +lips and as frightened as the man. + +“I—didn’t know!” she muttered. “He didn’t tell me. He only told me this +morning what—what I’ve told you.” + +Spargo picked up his hat. + +“Good-night, Mr. Elphick,” he said. + +But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his +chair and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at +him. He knew then that for some reason or other he had given Mr. +Septimus Elphick a thoroughly bad fright. + +“Well?” he growled. + +“My dear young gentleman!” implored Mr. Elphick. “Don’t go! I’ll—I’ll +do anything for you if you won’t go away to print that. I’ll—I’ll give +you a thousand pounds!” + +Spargo shook him off. + +“That’s enough!” he snarled. “Now, I am off! What, you’d try to bribe +me?” + +Mr. Elphick wrung his hands. + +“I didn’t mean that—indeed I didn’t!” he almost wailed. “I—I don’t know +what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, stay a little, and let us—let us +talk. Let me have a word with you—as many words as you please. I +implore you!” + +Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation. + +“If I stay,” he said, at last, “it will only be on the strict condition +that you answer—and answer truly—whatever questions I like to ask you. +Otherwise——” + +He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching +hands on him. + +“Stay!” he said. “I’ll answer anything you like!” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT +OF PROVED IDENTITY + + +Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked +at the two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced +such a curious effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that, +while they were both frightened, they were frightened in different +ways. Miss Baylis had already recovered her composure; she now sat +sombre and stern as ever, returning Spargo’s look with something of +indifferent defiance; he thought he could see that in her mind a +certain fear was battling with a certain amount of wonder that he had +discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she was +concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so +many words that now the secret was out he might do his worst. + +But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was +still trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair +and the hand with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the +glass rattled against his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The +half-contemptuous fashion of his reception of Spargo had now wholly +disappeared; he was a man who had received a shock, and a bad one. And +Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This man knows a great +deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that Marbury was +Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland’s son; he knows +something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly +believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had +buried something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as +astounded as he was frightened to find that it had been at last flung +up to the broad light of day. + +“I shall wait,” suddenly said Spargo, “until you are composed, Mr. +Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, that the +truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you +considerable—shall we say fear?” + +Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown +steadier, and the colour was coming back to his face. + +“If you will let me explain,” he said. “If you will hear what was done +for the boy’s sake—eh?” + +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I wish. I can tell you +this—I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to Mr. +Breton.” + +Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. “He says +that!” she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. “He says that, knowing +that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald +Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a +scoundrel, an ex-convict, a——” + +Elphick lifted his hand. + +“Hush—hush!” he said imploringly. “Mr. Spargo means well, I am sure—I +am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear me——” + +But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the +outer door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across +the room, walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A +boy’s voice penetrated into the sitting-room. + +“If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_, here? He left +this address in case he was wanted.” + +Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger +boys, and jumping up, went to the door. + +“What is it, Rawlins?” he asked. + +“Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There’s Mr. +Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly.” + +“All right,” answered Spargo. “I’m coming just now.” + +He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick. + +“I shall have to go,” he said. “I may be kept. Now, Mr. Elphick, can I +come to see you tomorrow morning?” + +“Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!” replied Elphick eagerly. “Tomorrow +morning, certainly. At eleven—eleven o’clock. That will do?” + +“I shall be here at eleven,” said Spargo. “Eleven sharp.” + +He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve. + +“A word—just a word!” he said. “You—you have not told the—the +boy—Ronald—of what you know? You haven’t?” + +“I haven’t,” replied Spargo. + +Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo’s sleeve. He looked into his face +beseechingly. + +“Promise me—promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won’t tell him until you +have seen me in the morning!” he implored. “I beg you to promise me +this.” + +Spargo hesitated, considering matters. + +“Very well—I promise,” he said. + +“And you won’t print it?” continued Elphick, still clinging to him. +“Say you won’t print it tonight?” + +“I shall not print it tonight,” answered Spargo. “That’s certain.” + +Elphick released his grip on the young man’s arm. + +“Come—at eleven tomorrow morning,” he said, and drew back and closed +the door. + +Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And +there, calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an +evening newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as +imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a +smile. + +“Well,” he said, “how’s things?” + +Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair. + +“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” he said. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“No,” he said, throwing the newspaper aside, “I didn’t. I came to tell +you my latest. You’re at full liberty to stick it into your paper +tonight: it may just as well be known.” + +“Well?” said Spargo. + +Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. + +“Aylmore’s identified,” he said lazily. + +Spargo sat up, sharply. + +“Identified!” + +“Identified, my son. Beyond doubt.” + +“But as whom—as what?” exclaimed Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +“He’s an old lag—an ex-convict. Served his time partly at Dartmoor. +That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D’ye see? Clear +as noontide now, Spargo.” + +Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were +fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard +the throbbing of the printing-machines far below. But what he really +saw was the faces of the two girls; what he really heard was the voices +of two girls … + +“Clear as noontide—as noontide,” repeated Rathbury with great +cheerfulness. + +Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. + +“What’s clear as noontide?” he asked sharply. + +“What? Why, the whole thing! Motive—everything,” answered Rathbury. +“Don’t you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is Ainsworth, by +the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just before +Aylmore’s release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes +back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In +time, Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes +back. The two meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or +threatens to let folk know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is +an ex-convict. Result—Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him. +Pooh!—the whole thing’s clear as noontide, as I say. As—noontide!” + +Spargo drummed his fingers again. + +“How?” he asked quietly. “How came Aylmore to be identified?” + +“My work,” said Rathbury proudly. “My work, my son. You see, I thought +a lot. And especially after we’d found out that Marbury was Maitland.” + +“You mean after I’d found out,” remarked Spargo. + +Rathbury waved his cigar. + +“Well, well, it’s all the same,” he said. “You help me, and I help you, +eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I thought—now, where +did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty or twenty-two +years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in +London—at any rate, before his trial, and we haven’t the least proof +that he was in London after. And why won’t Aylmore tell? Clearly +because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a +sudden, it flashed on me in a moment of—what do you writing fellows +call those moments, Spargo?” + +“Inspiration, I should think,” said Spargo. “Direct inspiration.” + +“That’s it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on me—why, +twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor—they must have met there! +And so, we got some old warders who’d been there at that time to come +to town, and we gave ’em opportunities to see Aylmore and to study him. +Of course, he’s twenty years older, and he’s grown a beard, but they +began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was the man +they thought he’d a certain birth-mark. And—he has!” + +“Does Aylmore know that he’s been identified?” asked Spargo. + +Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. + +“Know!” he said scornfully. “Know? He’s admitted it. What was the use +of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it tonight in my +presence. Oh, he knows all right!” + +“And what did he say?” + +Rathbury laughed contemptuously. + +“Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair—that +when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He’s +certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game.” + +“And of what was he convicted?” + +“Oh, of course, we know all about it—now. As soon as we found out who +he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or +Ainsworth (Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a +sort of what they call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up +in the North—Cloudhampton—some thirty years ago. He was nominally +secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the +working classes—Cloudhampton’s a purely artisan population—and they +stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly it +came to smash, and there was nothing. He—Ainsworth, or Aylmore—pleaded +that he was robbed and duped by another man, but the court didn’t +believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story you see, Spargo, when +it all comes out, eh?” + +“All stories are quite plain—when they come out,” observed Spargo. “And +he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn’t want his daughters to +know about his past?” + +“Just so,” agreed Rathbury. “And I don’t know that I blame him. He +thought, of course, that he’d go scot-free over this Marbury affair. +But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy—oh, yes!” + +Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few +minutes, Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last +Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder. + +“Look here, Rathbury!” he said. “It’s very evident that you’re now +going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?” + +Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment. + +“After evidence like that!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course. There’s the +motive, my son, the motive!” + +Spargo laughed. + +“Rathbury!” he said. “Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than you did!” + +The detective got up and put on his hat. + +“Oh!” he said. “Perhaps you know who did, then?” + +“I shall know in a few days,” answered Spargo. + +Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the +door. “Good-night!” he said gruffly. + +“Good-night, Rathbury,” replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. + +But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the _Watchman_. All he wrote +was a short telegram addressed to Aylmore’s daughters. There were only +three words on it—_Have no fear._ + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE +THE CLOSED DOORS + + +Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the _Watchman_ appeared +next day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple +Murder. The other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts +of the identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster +Division, as the _ci-devant_ Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a +time founder and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit +Society, the headquarters of which had been at Cloudhampton, in +Daleshire; the fall of which had involved thousands of honest working +folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. Most of them had +raked up Ainsworth’s past to considerable journalistic purpose: it had +been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall of the +Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble +investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy, +too, to set out again the history of Ainsworth’s arrest, trial, and +fate. There was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man +who by his financial ability had built up a great industrial insurance +society; had—as was alleged—converted the large sums entrusted to him +to his own purposes; had been detected and punished; had disappeared, +after his punishment, so effectually that no one knew where he had +gone; had come back, comparatively a few years later, under another +name, a very rich man, and had entered Parliament and been, in a modest +way, a public character without any of those who knew him in his new +career suspecting that he had once worn a dress liberally ornamented +with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of the morning +newspapers made a couple of columns of it. + +But the _Watchman_, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries +in keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection +with the Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement. +For after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and +his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them, and the result +of their talk had been that all the _Watchman_ thought fit to tell its +readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph: + +“We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the +murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last, +was yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen +Ainsworth, who was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection +with the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty +years ago.” + +Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily +along the front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a +man on an opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which +indicated derision. + +“Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my boy!” +he remarked elegantly. “Why, you’ve missed one of the finest +opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A +miserable paragraph!—why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! +What were you doing last night, old man?” + +“Sleeping,” said Spargo and went by with a nod. “Sleeping!” + +He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple +Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to +Mr. Elphick’s chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer +door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that +hour, but Elphick’s door was closed fast enough. The night before it +had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo’s first +knock, nor to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he +murmured aloud: “Elphick’s door is closed!” + +It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that +Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because +Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked +slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the +stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at +sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him. As if with a +mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands. + +“I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines in the +_Watchman_ this morning,” said Breton. “It was—considerate. As for the +other papers!—Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he did +serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough! He was scapegoat +for another man who disappeared.” + +Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: + +“And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the +two girls last night—it was good of you. They want all the comfort they +can get, poor things! But—what are you doing here, Spargo?” + +Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. + +“I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick—an +appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at +nine o’clock. The appointment—a most important one—was for eleven +o’clock.” + +Breton glanced at his watch. + +“Come on, then,” he said. “It’s well past that now, and my guardian’s a +very martinet in the matter of punctuality.” + +But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton +with troubled eyes. + +“So am I,” he answered. “I was trained to it. Your guardian isn’t +there, Breton.” + +“Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense—I never knew +him miss an appointment!” + +“I knocked three times—three separate times,” answered Spargo. + +“You should have knocked half a dozen times—he may have overslept +himself. He sits up late—he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the +night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton. “Come on—you’ll +see!” + +Spargo shook his head again. + +“He’s not there, Breton,” he said. “He’s gone!” + +Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had +seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He +seized Spargo’s elbow. + +“Come on!” he said. “I have a key to Mr. Elphick’s door, so that I can +go in and out as I like. I’ll soon show you whether he’s gone or not.” + +Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor. + +“All the same,” he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the +latch, “he’s not there, Breton. He’s—off!” + +“Good heavens, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” exclaimed +Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. “Off! Where on +earth should he be off to, when he’s made an appointment with you for +eleven, and—Hullo!” + +He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and +Miss Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself +up on the threshold with a sharp exclamation. + +“Good God!” he cried. “What—what’s all this?” + +Spargo quietly looked over Breton’s shoulder. It needed but one quick +glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he +had quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he +had left Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a +hurried hand, was the little table with its spirit case, its syphon, +its glass, in which stale liquid still stood; there was the novel, +turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, was Elphick’s pipe. But +the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The drawers of a bureau had +been pulled open and never put back; papers of all descriptions, old +legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the centre-table and the +floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had been opened, +its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the grate, +and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred paper; +it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, wherever he +might have disappeared to, had spent some time before his disappearance +in destroying a considerable heap of documents and papers, and in such +haste that he had not troubled to put matters straight before he went. + +Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then +he made one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. +Together they entered an inner room—a sleeping apartment. There was no +one in it, but there were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily +packed a bag as he had destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo +had seen him wearing the previous evening were flung here, there, +everywhere: the gorgeous smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in +one corner, a dress-shirt, in the bosom of which valuable studs still +glistened, in another. One or two suitcases lay about, as if they had +been examined and discarded in favour of something more portable; here, +too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, had been +torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, +revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around +him, seemed to see all that had happened—the hasty, almost frantic +search for and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of +clothing, of packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and +then the flight the getting away, the—— + +“What on earth does all this mean?” exclaimed Breton. “What is it, +Spargo?” + +“I mean exactly what I told you,” answered Spargo. “He’s off! Off!” + +“Off! But why off? What—my guardian!—as quiet an old gentleman as there +is in the Temple—off!” cried Breton. “For what reason, eh? It +isn’t—good God, Spargo, it isn’t because of anything you said to him +last night!” + +“I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him +last night,” replied Spargo. “I was a fool ever to let him out of my +sight.” + +Breton turned on his companion and gasped. + +“Out—of—your—sight!” he exclaimed. “Why—why—you don’t mean to say that +Mr. Elphick has anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God’s +sake, Spargo——” + +Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister’s shoulder. + +“I’m afraid you’ll have to hear a good deal, Breton,” he said. “I was +going to talk to you today in any case. You see——” + +Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which +denote the charwoman’s profession, entered the room and immediately +cried out at what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely. + +“Here, you!” he said. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick this +morning?” + +The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. + +“Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before +half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his +breakfast. I see him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his +usual state of good health, sir, if any thing’s the matter with him +now. No, sir, I ain’t seen nothing of him.” + +Breton let out another exclamation of impatience. + +“You’d better leave all this,” he said. “Mr. Elphick’s evidently gone +away in a hurry, and you mustn’t touch anything here until he comes +back. I’m going to lock up the chambers: if you’ve a key of them give +it to me.” + +The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the +rooms, and vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo. + +“What do you say?” he demanded. “I must hear—a good deal! Out with it, +then, man, for Heaven’s sake.” + +But Spargo shook his head. + +“Not now, Breton,” he answered. “Presently, I tell you, for Miss +Aylmore’s sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on your +guardian’s track. We must—must, I say!—and at once.” + +Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit +his own senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. + +“Come on!” he said. “I know who’ll know where he is, if anybody does.” + +“Who, then?” asked Spargo, as they hurried out. + +“Cardlestone,” answered Breton, grimly. “Cardlestone!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY +REVELATION + + +There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as +ever manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry +into which Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was +Breton paused at the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and +at the wall at its side. + +“Wasn’t it there?” he said in a low voice, pointing at the place he +looked at. “Wasn’t it there, Spargo, just there, that Marbury, or, +rather, Maitland, was found?” + +“It was just there,” answered Spargo. + +“You saw him?” + +“I saw him.” + +“Soon—afterwards?” + +“Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you +ask now?” + +Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his +eyes on walking into the entry, shook his head. + +“Don’t know,” he answered. “I—but come on—let’s see if old Cardlestone +can tell us anything.” + +There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside +Cardlestone’s door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was +evident to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she +opened the door. + +“I don’t think Mr. Cardlestone’ll be in, sir,” she said. “He’s +generally gone out to breakfast at this time—him and Mr. Elphick goes +together.” + +“Just see,” said Breton. “I want to see him if he is in.” The charwoman +entered the chambers and immediately screamed. + +“Quite so,” remarked Spargo. “That’s what I expected to hear. +Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also—off!” + +Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in +close attendance. + +“Good God—another!” groaned Breton. + +If the confusion in Elphick’s rooms had been bad, that in Cardlestone’s +chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene +were repeated—drawers had been torn open, papers thrown about; the +hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and sevens. +An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like +Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his +clothes, and had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any +corner. Spargo began to realize what had taken place—Elphick, having +made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had +expedited him, and they had fled together. But—why? + +The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob; +Breton strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous +objects tossed aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the +inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of +something lying on the floor at which he made a sharp clutch. He had +just secured it and hurried it into his pocket when Breton came back. + +“I don’t know what all this means, Spargo,” he said, almost wearily. “I +suppose you do. Look here,” he went on, turning to the charwoman, “stop +that row—that’ll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr. Cardlestone’s gone +away in a hurry. You’d better—what had she better do, Spargo?” + +“Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as you’re +a friend of Mr. Cardlestone’s give you the key,” answered Spargo, with +a significant glance. “Do that, now, and let’s go—I’ve something to +do.” + +Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned to +Breton. + +“I’ll tell you all I know, presently, Breton,” he said. “In the +meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick or Mr. +Cardlestone leave. I must know where they’ve gone—if I can only find +out. I don’t suppose they went on foot.” + +“All right,” responded Breton, gloomily. “We’ll go and ask. But this is +all beyond me. You don’t mean to say——” + +“Wait a while,” answered Spargo. “One thing at once,” he continued, as +they walked up Middle Temple Lane. “This is the first thing. You ask +the porter if he’s seen anything of either of them—he knows you.” + +The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. + +“Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?” he answered. +“Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early +this morning—soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to +Paris, and they’d breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left.” + +“Say when they’d be back?” asked Breton, with an assumption of entire +carelessness. + +“No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn’t,” answered the porter. “But I should say +they wouldn’t be long because they’d only got small suit-cases with +them—such as they’d put a day or two’s things in, sir.” + +“All right,” said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already +moved off. “What next?” he asked. “Charing Cross, I suppose!” + +Spargo smiled and shook his head. + +“No,” he answered. “I’ve no use for Charing Cross. They haven’t gone to +Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let’s go back to your +chambers. Then I’ll talk to you.” + +Once within Breton’s inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo +dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with +earnest attention. + +“Breton!” he said. “I believe we’re coming in sight of land. You want +to save your prospective father-in-law, don’t you?” + +“Of course!” growled Breton. “That goes without saying. But——” + +“But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it,” said +Spargo. “You see——” + +“Sacrifices!” exclaimed Breton. “What——” + +“You may have to sacrifice some ideas—you may find that you’ll not be +able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought +of them in the past. For instance—Mr. Elphick.” + +Breton’s face grew dark. + +“Speak plainly, Spargo!” he said. “It’s best with me.” + +“Very well,” replied Spargo. “Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way +connected with this affair.” + +“You mean the—murder?” + +“I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I’m now dead certain. +And that’s why they’re off. I startled Elphick last night. It’s evident +that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a +rapid exit. Why?” + +“Why? That’s what I’m asking you! Why? Why? Why?” + +“Because they’re afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, +their first instinct is to—run. They’ve run at the first alarm. +Foolish—but instinctive.” + +Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped +to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad. + +“Spargo!” he exclaimed. “Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian +and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone, of being—murderers?” + +“Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of +knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I +am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all +about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he +knew this dead man to be John Maitland.” + +“You did!” + +“I did. And now, Breton, since it’s got to come out, we’ll have the +truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for you’ll have to +stand a shock or two. But I know what I’m talking about—I can prove +every word I’m going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few +questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?” + +“Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me.” + +“And what was that?” + +“That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me +unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me.” + +“And he’s never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove +the truth of that story?” + +“Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?” + +“You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person who +was particularly near you in your childhood?” + +“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three +years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, +a tall, dark woman, I think, before that.” + +“Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself. “All right, Breton,” he went on +aloud. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ll tell it to you straight +out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not +Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you’re the only child of +the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone’s staircase!” + +Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at +him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he +do?—what would he say?—what—— + +Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the +eyes. + +“Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. +“Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!” + +Spargo nodded. + +“I will—every word,” he answered. “It’s the right thing. Listen, then.” + +It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the +clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought +it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest +attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a +brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him. + +“That’s all,” said Spargo at last. + +“It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically. + +He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. +“What do you really think?” he asked. + +“About—what?” said Spargo. + +“This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.” + +“I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be +forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw +Elphick in last night. And it’s evident that Cardlestone shares in that +fright, or they wouldn’t have gone off in this way together.” + +“Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?” + +Spargo shook his head. + +“I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look here!” + +Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which +he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. + +“What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?” + +“That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of +those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. +I picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking +into his bedroom.” + +“But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical +stamps. And whether they are or not——” + +“What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I believe +that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had on him, and I +want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. And I will +know.” + +Breton handed the stamps back. + +“But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they didn’t murder—I +can’t realize the thing yet!—my father——” + +“If they didn’t murder your father, they know who did!” exclaimed +Spargo. “Now, then, it’s time for more action. Let Elphick and +Cardlestone alone for the moment—they’ll be tracked easily enough. I +want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an +authority from the Government to open a grave?” + +“Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by +showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made.” + +“Good! We’ll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened.” + +“A grave opened! Whose grave?” + +“The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster,” replied +Spargo. + +Breton started. + +“His? In Heaven’s name, why?” he demanded. + +Spargo laughed as he got up. + +“Because I believe it’s empty,” he answered. “Because I believe that +Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is—Cardlestone!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE +THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + + +That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his +proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to +the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the _Watchman_ when +it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate +application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne +grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning +there appeared in the _Watchman_ a notice which set half the mouths of +London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:— + +“ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD. + + +“WHEREAS, on some date within the past twelve months, there was stolen, +abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, Temple, +occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. Anderson, +a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of curious +workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of John +Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of June 21–22 +last, and is now in the hands of the police: + “This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ + newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (ONE THOUSAND POUNDS + STERLING) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or + she stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said + chambers, and will further give full information as to his or her + disposal of the same, and the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ moreover + engages to treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the + most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from + using it in any way detrimental to the informant, who should call + at the _Watchman_ office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time + between eleven and one o’clock midday, and seven and eleven o’clock + in the evening.” + + +“And you really expect to get some information through that?” asked +Breton, who came into Spargo’s room about noon on the day on which the +promising announcement came out. “You really do?” + +“Before today is out,” said Spargo confidently. “There is more magic in +a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I’ll have the history +of that stick before midnight.” + +“How are you to tell that you won’t be imposed upon?” suggested Breton. +“Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick.” + +“Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me +how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick,” said +Spargo. “I haven’t the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken +away from Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the +hands of—” + +“Yes, of whom?” + +“That’s what I want to know in some fashion. I’ve an idea, already. But +I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing—when I +get that information—as I shall—we shall be a long way on the road +towards establishing Aylmore’s innocence.” + +Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a +meditative expression. + +“Spargo,” he said, suddenly, “do you think you’ll get that order for +the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?” + +“I was talking to the solicitors over the ’phone just now,” answered +Spargo. “They’ve every confidence about it. In fact, it’s possible it +may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made +early tomorrow morning.” + +“Shall you go?” asked Breton. + +“Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch +with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there—you’re +concerned.” + +“I should like to go—I will go,” said Breton. “And if that grave proves +to be—empty—I’ll—I’ll tell you something.” + +Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. + +“You’ll tell me something? Something? What?” + +“Never mind—wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or +lead and sawdust. If there’s no body there——” + +At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached +Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, +showed signs of something very like excitement. + +“There’s a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He’s +been hanging about a bit, sir,—seems very shy about coming up. He won’t +say what he wants, and he won’t fill up a form, sir. Says all he wants +is a word or two with you.” + +“Bring him up at once!” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the +boy had gone. “There!” he said, laughing. “This is the man about the +stick—you see if it isn’t.” + +“You’re such a cock-sure chap, Spargo,” said Breton. “You’re always +going on a straight line.” + +“Trying to, you mean,” retorted Spargo. “Well, stop here, and hear what +this chap has to say: it’ll no doubt be amusing.” + +The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo’s +room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of +good _Watchman_ money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a +shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully +apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the +threshold, looking round the comfortably-furnished room, and at the two +well-dressed young men which it framed as if he feared to enter on a +scene of such grandeur. + +“Come in, come in!” said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy-chair +at the side of his desk. “Take a seat. You’ve called about that reward, +of course.” + +The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without +suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. + +“Of course,” he said. “It’s all on the strict private. Name of Edward +Mollison, sir.” + +“And where do you live, and what do you do?” asked Spargo. + +“You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel,” answered Edward +Mollison. “Leastways, that’s where I generally hang out when I can +afford it. And—window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning +when—when——” + +“When you came in contact with the stick we’ve been advertising about,” +suggested Spargo. “Just so. Well, Mollison—what about the stick?” + +Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at +Breton. + +“There ain’t no danger of me being got into trouble along of that +stick?” he asked. “’Cause if there is, I ain’t a-going to say a +word—no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no trouble +of any sort, guv’nor—though a poor man.” + +“Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison,” replied Spargo. “Not +the least. All you’ve got to do is to tell the truth—and prove that it +is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of +Mr. Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, was it?” + +Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his +feelings. He smiled weakly. + +“It was cert’nly me as took it, sir,” he said. “Not that I meant to +pinch it—not me! And, as you might say, I didn’t take it, when all’s +said and done. It was—put on me.” + +“Put on you, was it?” said Spargo. “That’s interesting. And how was it +put on you?” + +Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin. + +“It was this here way,” he answered. “You see, I was working at that +time—near on to nine months since, it is—for the Universal Daylight +Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and +there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore’s—only I knew them +as Mr. Anderson’s—among ’em. And I was there one morning, early it was, +when the charwoman she says to me, ‘I wish you’d take these two or +three hearthrugs,’ she says, ‘and give ’em a good beating,’ she says. +And me being always a ready one to oblige, ‘All right!’ I says, and +takes ’em. ‘Here’s something to wallop ’em with,’ she says, and pulls +that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner of +the lobby. And that’s how I came to handle it, sir.” + +“I see,” said Spargo. “A good explanation. And when you had beaten the +hearthrugs—what then?” + +Mollison smiled his weak smile again. + +“Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something +uncommon,” he answered. “And I thinks—‘Well, this Mr. Anderson, he’s +got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there—he’ll never miss this +old thing,’ I thinks. And so I left it in a corner when I’d done +beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things I took it with +me.” + +“You took it with you?” said Spargo. “Just so. To keep as a curiosity, +I suppose?” + +Mollison’s weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing +his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his +news was imparting confidence to him. + +“Not half!” he answered. “You see, guv’nor, there was an old cove as I +knew in the Temple there as is, or was, ’cause I ain’t been there +since, a collector of antikities, like, and I’d sold him a queer old +thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took +the stick away—see?” + +“I see. And you took the stick to him?” + +“I took it there and then,” replied Mollison. “Pitched him a tale, I +did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle +Simon—which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare +curiosity—which it might ha’ been one, for all I know.” + +“Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?” + +“Bought it there and then,” answered Mollison, with something very like +a wink. + +“Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it?” +asked Spargo. “Something handsome, I hope?” + +“Couple o’ quid,” replied Mollison. “Me not wishing to part with a +family heirloom for less.” + +“Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove’s name +and his address, Mollison?” asked Spargo. + +“I do, sir. Which they’ve painted on his entry—the fifth or sixth as +you go down Middle Temple Lane,” answered Mollison. “Mr. Nicholas +Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase.” + +Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton. + +“Come this way, Mollison,” he said. “We’ll go and see about your little +reward. Excuse me, Breton.” + +Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came +back. + +“There—that’s one matter settled, Breton,” he said. “Now for the next. +The Home Secretary’s made the order for the opening of the grave at +Market Milcaster. I’m going down there at once, and I suppose you’re +coming. And remember, if that grave’s empty——” + +“If that grave’s empty,” said Breton, “I’ll tell you—a good deal.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO +THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + + +There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon, +Spargo, Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the +order for the opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting +on behalf of the proprietor of the _Watchman_. It was late in the +evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in +at the parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” and ascertained that Mr. +Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Breton across the street to +the old gentleman’s house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door, +and recognized Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that +the two should go in; his family, he said, had just retired, but he +himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must +share it. + +“For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo as they +followed the old man into his dining-room. “We have to be up at +daybreak. And—possibly—you, too, would like to be up just as early.” + +Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he +was handling. + +“At daybreak?” he exclaimed. + +“The fact is,” said Spargo, “that grave of Chamberlayne’s is going to +be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home +Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne’s body: the officials in +charge of it have come down in the same train with us; we’re all +staying across there at the ‘Dragon.’ The officials have gone to make +the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak, +or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that +you know of it, you’ll be there?” + +“God bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “You’ve really done that! +Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years. +You’re a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. And this +other young gentleman?” + +Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. +“Mr. Quarterpage,” he said, “this young gentleman is, without doubt, +John Maitland’s son. He’s the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that +I told you of, but there’s no doubt about his parentage. And I’m sure +you’ll shake hands with him and wish him well.” + +Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton +his hand. + +“My dear young sir!” he exclaimed. “That I will indeed! And as to +wishing you well—ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor +father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me, +what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is +found empty—what then?” + +“Then,” answered Spargo, “then I think we shall be able to put our +hands on the man who is supposed to be in it.” + +“You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?” +observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round +Mr. Quarterpage’s hospitable hearth. “You think he was unduly +influenced by him?” + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. + +“Chamberlayne, my dear young sir,” he answered. “Chamberlayne was a +plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he +came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had +contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody—of course, to his own +advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father round his +little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there when he was making his +enquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any +surprise to me to hear—definitely, I mean, young gentlemen—that all +this money that was in question went into Chamberlayne’s pockets. Dear +me—dear me!—and you really believe that Chamberlayne is actually alive, +Mr. Spargo?” + +Spargo pulled out his watch. “We shall all know whether he was buried +in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage,” he +said. + +He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then +nearly midnight, and before three o’clock Spargo and Breton, with the +other men who had accompanied them from London were out of the “Yellow +Dragon” and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. +Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the +long stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the +sea was white with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery +hung veils and webs of gossamer: everything around them was quiet as +the dead folk who lay beneath their feet. And the people actively +concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but +watch stood around in silence. + +“In all my long life of over ninety years,” whispered old Quarterpage, +who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in +spite of his shortened rest, “I have never seen this done before. It +seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man’s last +resting-place—a dreadful thing.” + +“If there is a dead man there,” said Spargo. + +He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he +had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon +the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local +authorities, instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with +canvas; the proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a +man was posted to keep away any very early passersby, who might be +attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do +but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful +of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth; +he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one +phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the +coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the +body of the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his, +Spargo’s, latest theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that +coffin contained no body at all, then—” + +“They’re down to it!” whispered Breton. + +Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had +uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of +them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now +strong light they could all read the lettering on it. + +JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE +Born 1852 +Died 1891 + + +Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the +grave. + +“We shall know now!” he whispered to Breton. “And yet—what is it we +shall know if——” + +“If what?” said Breton. “If—what?” + +But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had +lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous. + +“Now for it!” said the _Watchman’s_ solicitor in an undertone. “Come, +Mr. Spargo, now we shall see.” + +They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the +graveside, as the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The +screws were rusted in their sockets; they grated as the men slowly +worked them out. It seemed to Spargo that each man grew slower and +slower in his movements; he felt that he himself was getting fidgety. +Then he heard a voice of authority. + +“Lift the lid off!” + +A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly +raised the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick +movement. + +Sawdust! + +The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down. +The surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled +it long years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of +deceit. + +Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell. +The chief official present looked round him with a smile. + +“It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion,” he +remarked. “Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies +beneath the sawdust,” he added, turning to the workmen. “Turn it out!” + +The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of +them, evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, +thrust down his fingers at various places along its length. He, too, +laughed. + +“The coffin’s weighted with lead!” he remarked. “See!” + +And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three +intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where +the head, the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. + +“Done it cleverly,” he remarked, looking round. “You see how these +weights have been adjusted. When a body’s laid out in a coffin, you +know, all the weight’s in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here +you see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the +feet. Clever!” + +“Clear out all the sawdust,” said some one. “Let’s see if there’s +anything else.” + +There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of +papers, tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately +manifested great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton +along with him, forced his way to where the officials from the Home +Office and the solicitor sent by the _Watchman_ were hastily examining +their discoveries. + +The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at +Market Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to +him, Mr. Quarterpage’s amongst them. He was not at all astonished to +see these things. But he was something more than astonished when, on +the second parcel being opened, a quantity of papers relating to +Cloudhampton and the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society were +revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and drew Breton aside. + +“It strikes me we’ve found a good deal more than we ever bargained +for!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t Aylmore say that the real culprit at +Cloudhampton was another man—his clerk or something of that sort?” + +“He did,” agreed Breton. “He insists on it.” + +“Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man,” said Spargo. +“He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What’ll be done with those +papers?” he asked, turning to the officials. + +“We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London,” +replied the principal person in authority. “They will be quite safe, +Mr. Spargo; have no fear. We don’t know what they may reveal.” + +“You don’t, indeed!” said Spargo. “But I may as well tell you that I +have a strong belief that they’ll reveal a good deal that nobody dreams +of, so take the greatest care of them.” + +Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried +Breton out of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm. + +“Now, then, Breton!” he commanded. “Out with it!” + +“With what?” + +“You promised to tell me something—a great deal, you said—if we found +that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on—quick!” + +“All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be +found. That’s all.” + +“All! It’s enough. Where, then, in heaven’s name?” + +“Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go +fishing—right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire +moors. I expect they’ve gone there. Nobody knows even their names +there—they could go and lie quiet there for—ages.” + +“Do you know the way to it?” + +“I do—I’ve been there.” + +Spargo motioned him to hurry. + +“Come on, then,” he said. “We’re going there by the very first train +out of this. I know the train, too—we’ve just time to snatch a mouthful +of breakfast and to send a wire to the _Watchman_, and then we’ll be +off. Yorkshire!—Gad, Breton, that’s over three hundred miles away!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE +FORESTALLED + + +Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of +England to the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo +and Breton came late at night to Hawes’ Junction, on the border of +Yorkshire and Westmoreland, and saw rising all around them in the +half-darkness the mighty bulks of the great fells which rise amongst +that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that hour of the night and +amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of some adjacent +waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to Spargo +as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of +human life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he +saw a light, but such lights were few and far between; even as he +looked some of them twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and +Breton were presently to be alone with the night. + +“How far?” he asked Breton as they walked away from the station. + +“We’d better discuss matters,” answered Breton. “The place is in a +narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away across +these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish +for. It’s half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good +two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is—Do we +go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There’s an inn here +at this junction: there’s the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the road +which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the fells. +It’s going to be a black night—look at those masses of black cloud +gathering there!—and possibly a wet one, and we’ve no waterproofs. But +it’s for you to say—I’m game for whatever you like.” + +“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo. + +“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I +remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find +my way. But it’s rough walking.” + +“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every minute’s precious. +But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale +first?” + +“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, while we’re on +this firm road, step it out lively.” + +The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a +soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted +parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at +Breton. + +“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of +recognition. + +“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton. + +“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year,” +replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here again—Tom Summers was coming +across that way this morning, and said he’d seen ’em at the little +cottage. Going to join ’em, I reckon, sir?” + +Breton kicked Spargo under the table. + +“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he answered. “Just +to get a breath of your moorland air.” + +“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen,” said +the landlord. “There’s going to be a storm. And it’s a stiffish way to +make out at this time o’night.” + +“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly. “I know the way, and +we’re not afraid of a wet skin.” + +The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his +arms and scratched his elbows. + +“There was a gentleman—London gentleman by his tongue—came in here this +afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed. “He’ll be there +long since—he’d have daylight for his walk. Happen he’s one of your +party?—he asked where the old gentlemen’s little cottage was.” + +Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. “One of their +friends, perhaps,” answered Breton. “What was he like?” + +The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was +conscious of the fact. + +“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said. “Stranger +hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit—something like your +friend’s there. Yes—he took some bread and cheese with him when he +heard what a long way it was.” + +“Wise man,” remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and +cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. “Come on,” he said, +“let’s be stepping.” + +Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm. +“Who’s the man?” he said. “Can you think, Spargo?” + +“Can’t,” answered Spargo. “I was trying to, while that chap was +talking. But—it’s somebody that’s got in before us. Not Rathbury, +anyhow—he’s not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going +to find your way in this darkness?” + +“You’ll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the +fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see +Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—they’re both well over two thousand +feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between +them. But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!” + +“Go ahead!” said Spargo. “It’s the first time in my life I ever did +anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us all night. I +couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard there’s somebody ahead of +us. Go first, old chap, and I’ll follow.” + +Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but +when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what +was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began. It +seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw +was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint +outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the +figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was +soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than +once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising +his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on +Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his +footsteps. + +“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval of +silence. “Do you mean to say those two—Elphick and Cardlestone—would +take this way?” + +“There is another way—down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw,” +answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round. This is a straight +cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful walk. But at +night—Gad!—here’s the rain, Spargo!” + +The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a +suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey +night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a +vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight +was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his +companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as +they huddled closely together. + +“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet +Street, Spargo,” he said. “You would come on, you know.” + +“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” answered Spargo. +“I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor Cock’ overnight if we +hadn’t heard of that chap in front. If he’s after those two he’s +somebody who knows something. What I can’t make out is—who he can be.” + +“Nor I,” said Breton. “I can’t think of anybody who knows of this +retreat. But—has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside +yourself may have been investigating?” + +“Possible,” replied Spargo. “One never knows. I only wish we’d been a +few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with those two.” + +The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the +heavens cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they +were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away +below them. + +“You see that?” he said. “That’s a sheet of water lying between us and +Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, +drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down +into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There’s a good two hours and a half +stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?” + +Spargo set his teeth. + +“Go on!” he said. + +Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing +his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London +lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even +the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him +that they had walked for ages and had traversed a whole continent of +mountains and valley when at last Breton, halting on the summit of a +wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his companion’s shoulder and pointed +downward with the other. + +“There!” he said. “There!” + +Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to +be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a +light—a mere spark of a light. + +“That’s the cottage,” said Breton, “Late as it is, you see, they’re up. +And here’s the roughest bit of the journey. It’ll take me all my time +to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so step carefully after +me—there are bogs and holes hereabouts.” + +Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the +guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the +ground; always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer +to it. And now when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that +he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been +capable of imagining—so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly +never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream, +making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great +Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of +the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by a ring +of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small +building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built +by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more +than one storey in height, but of some length; a considerable part of +it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood. And from one uncurtained, +blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading +darkness without. + +Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. + +“We’ve got to get across there, Spargo,” he said. “But as we’re already +soaked to the knee it doesn’t matter about getting another wetting. +Have you any idea how long we’ve been walking?” + +“Hours—days—years!” replied Spargo. + +“I should say quite four hours,” said Breton. “In that case, it’s well +past two o’clock, and the light will be breaking in another hour or so. +Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?” + +“What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!” + +“Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they’ve got a light, +I take it that they’re up. Look there!” + +As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the +light. + +“That’s not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone,” said Spargo. “They’re +medium-heighted men. That’s a tallish man.” + +“Then it’s the man the landlord of the ‘Moor Cock’ told us about,” said +Breton. “Now, look here—I know every inch of this place. When we’re +across let me go up to the cottage, and I’ll take an observation +through that window and see who’s inside. Come on.” + +He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of +boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the +bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past +the shrubs and undergrowth until he came to a great bush which stood +between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He +lingered in the shadow of this bush but for a short moment; then came +swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on +Spargo’s arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. + +“Spargo!” he whispered. “Who on earth do you think the other man is?” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR +THE WHIP HAND + + +Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the +objects of his long journey, shook off Breton’s hand with a growl of +resentment. + +“And how on earth can I waste time guessing?” he exclaimed. “Who is +he?” + +Breton laughed softly. + +“Steady, Spargo, steady!” he said. “It’s Myerst—the Safe Deposit man. +Myerst!” + +Spargo started as if something had bitten him. + +“Myerst!” he almost shouted. “Myerst! Good Lord!—why did I never think +of him? Myerst! Then——” + +“I don’t know why you should have thought of him,” said Breton. +“But—he’s there.” + +Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back. + +“Wait!” he said. “We’ve got to discuss this. I’d better tell you what +they’re doing.” + +“What are they doing, then?” demanded Spargo impatiently. + +“Well,” answered Breton. “They’re going through a quantity of papers. +The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. Myerst is +evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. I’ve +formed a notion, Spargo.” + +“What notion?” + +“Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he’s +followed them down here to blackmail them. That’s my notion.” + +Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank. + +“I daresay you’re right,” he said. “Now, what’s to be done?” + +Breton, too, considered matters. + +“I wish,” he said at last, “I wish we could get in there and overhear +what’s going on. But that’s impossible—I know that cottage. The only +thing we can do is this—we must catch Myerst unawares. He’s here for no +good. Look here!” + +And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning +revolver and wagged it in his hand with a smile. + +“That’s a useful thing to have, Spargo,” he remarked. “I slipped it +into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did it. Now +it’ll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be armed.” + +“Well?” said Spargo. + +“Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will, +Myerst, when he’s got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get +where I did just now, behind that bush, and I’ll station myself in the +doorway. You can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I’ll cover +him. Come on, Spargo; it’s beginning to get light already.” + +Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such +cover as the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made +their way to the front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton +posted himself in the porch, motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the +bushes and to look through the window. And Spargo noiselessly followed +his directions and slightly parting the branches which concealed him +looked in through the uncurtained glass. + +The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the +extreme. There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough +chairs and tables, plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a +corner; some food set out on a side table. At the table in the middle +of the floor the three men sat. Cardlestone’s face was in the shadow; +Myerst had his back to the window; old Elphick bending over the table +was laboriously writing with shaking fingers. And Spargo twisted his +head round to his companion. + +“Elphick,” he said, “is writing a cheque. Myerst has another cheque in +his hand. Be ready!—when he gets that second cheque I guess he’ll be +off.” + +Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again. + +“Look out, Breton! He’s coming.” + +Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his +protecting bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they +heard Myerst’s voice, threatening, commanding in tone. + +“Now, remember all I’ve said! And don’t you forget—I’ve the whip hand +of both of you—the whip hand!” + +Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light—to find himself +confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly +revolver within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a +remarkably firm and steady grip. Another glance showed him the figure +of a second business-like looking young man at his side, whose attitude +showed a desire to grapple with him. + +“Good-morning, Mr. Myerst,” said Breton with cold and ironic +politeness. “We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And—I must +trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!” + +Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but +a sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his +head, whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly. + +“That’s wise, Mr. Myerst,” he said, keeping his revolver steadily +pointed at his prisoner’s nose. “Discretion will certainly be the +better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo—may I trouble you +to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them +carefully. Not for papers or documents—just now. We can leave that +matter—we’ve plenty of time. See if he’s got a weapon of any sort on +him, Spargo—that’s the important thing.” + +Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of +searching a man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing +what the prisoner carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a +revolver, while Myerst, finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily +and with profusion. + +“Excellent!” said Breton, laughing again. “Sure he’s got nothing else +on him that’s dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. Myerst, right +about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there are two +revolvers behind your back. March!” + +Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked +into the cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a +glance at the two old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying +back in his chair; Elphick, scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was +coming forward with trembling limbs. + +“Wait a moment,” said Breton, soothingly. “Don’t alarm yourself. We’ll +deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit down in that +chair—it’s the heaviest the place affords. Into it, now! Spargo, you +see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up—hand and foot—to that chair. +And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, and behind him.” + +Myerst suddenly laughed. “You damned young bully!” he exclaimed. “If +you put a rope round me, you’re only putting ropes round the necks of +these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!” + +“We’ll see about that later,” answered Breton. He kept Myerst covered +while Spargo made play with the rope. “Don’t be afraid of hurting him, +Spargo,” he said. “Tie him well and strong. He won’t shift that chair +in a hurry.” + +Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done +credit to a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand +or foot, and Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains. +“That’ll do,” said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his +pocket and turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank +into a chair in the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook +as with palsy and muttered words which the two young men could not +catch. “Guardian,” continued Breton, “don’t be frightened! And don’t +you be frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There’s nothing to be +afraid of, just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me +that Mr. Spargo and I came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this +fellow after?” + +Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge +of tears; as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was +completely gone. And Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard. + +“Spargo,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you’ll find whisky in there. Give +them both a stiff dose: they’ve broken up. Now, guardian,” he +continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, “what was he after? +Shall I suggest it? Was it—blackmail?” + +Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. “Yes, yes!” he +muttered. “Blackmail! That was it—blackmail. He—he got +money—papers—from us. They’re on him.” + +Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt. + +“I thought as much, Mr. Myerst,” he said. “Spargo, let’s see what he +has on him.” + +Spargo began to search the prisoner’s pockets. He laid out everything +on the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated +some sort of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of +loose gold; a number of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated +denominations; various foreign securities, realizable in Paris. And +there was an open cheque, signed by Cardlestone for ten thousand +pounds, and another, with Elphick’s name at the foot, also open, for +half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as Spargo handed +them out. He turned to old Elphick. + +“Guardian,” he said, “why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given this man +these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?” + +Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face +on his ward. + +“He—he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!” he faltered. +“We—we didn’t see that we had a chance.” + +“What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection +with it?” demanded Breton. “Come—tell me the truth now.” + +“He’s been investigating—so he says,” answered Elphick. “He lives in +that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor rooms +above Cardlestone’s. And—and he says he’s the fullest evidence against +Cardlestone—and against me as an accessory after the fact.” + +“And—it’s a lie?” asked Breton. + +“A lie!” answered Elphick. “Of course, it’s a lie. But—he’s so clever +that—that——” + +“That you don’t know how you could prove it otherwise,” said Breton. +“Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does he? That +may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police here.” +He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. “Look +here, Spargo,” he continued. “I’m going to write a note to the +superintendent of police at Hawes—there’s a farm half a mile from here +where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. Now, if you +want to send a wire to the _Watchman_, draft it out, and he’ll take it +with him.” + +Elphick began to move in his corner. + +“Must the police come?” he said. “Must——” + +“The police must come,” answered Breton firmly. “Go ahead with your +wire, Spargo, while I write this note.” + +Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm, +he sat down at Elphick’s side and laid his hand on the old man’s. + +“Now, guardian,” he said, quietly, “you’ve got to tell us the truth.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE +MYERST EXPLAINS + + +It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the +cottage, that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and +fright: Cardlestone still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he +looked incapable of explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more +fitted to speak. And when Breton issued his peremptory invitation to +his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo intervened. + +“Far better leave him alone, Breton,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t +you see the old chap’s done up? They’re both done up. We don’t know +what they’ve gone through with this fellow before we came, and it’s +certain they’ve had no sleep. Leave it all till later—after all, we’ve +found them and we’ve found him.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder +in Myerst’s direction, and Breton involuntarily followed the movement. +He caught the prisoner’s eye, and Myerst laughed. + +“I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever,” he said +sneeringly. “Don’t you, now?” + +“We’ve been clever enough to catch you, anyway,” retorted Breton. “And +now we’ve got you we’ll keep you till the police can relieve us of +you.” + +“Oh!” said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. “And on what charge do +you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you’ll have +some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton.” + +“Well see about that later,” said Breton. “You’ve extorted money by +menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate.” + +“Have I? How do you know they didn’t entrust me with these cheques as +their agent?” exclaimed Myerst. “Answer me that! Or, rather, let them +answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick—didn’t you give +me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!” + +Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of +Myerst’s voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly. + +“Look here, Breton,” he said, whispering, “this scoundrel’s got some +hold on these two old chaps—they’re frightened to death of him. Leave +them alone: it would be best for them if they could get some rest. Hold +your tongue, you!” he added aloud, turning to Myerst. “When we want you +to speak we’ll tell you.” + +But Myerst laughed again. + +“All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_!” he sneered. +“You’re another of the cock-sure lot. And you’re very clever, but not +clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing—” + +Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt +his hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern. + +“I say!” he exclaimed. “He’s more than frightened—he’s ill! What’s to +be done?” + +“I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them,” answered +Breton. “In the meantime, let’s put him to bed—there are beds in that +inner room. We’ll get him to bed and give him something hot to +drink—that’s all I can think of for the present.” + +Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo, +with a happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot +bottles to his feet. When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie +down in the inner room. Presently both old men fell asleep, and then +Breton and Spargo suddenly realized that they themselves were hungry +and wet and weary. + +“There ought to be food in the cupboard,” said Breton, beginning to +rummage. “They’ve generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here we +are, Spargo—these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while +I open one of these tins.” + +The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast +with eyes that eventually began to glisten. + +“I may remind you that I’m hungry, too,” he said as Spargo set the +coffee on the table. “And you’ve no right to starve me, even if you’ve +the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something to eat, if +you please.” + +“You shan’t starve,” said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample supply of +bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate +before Myerst. “Untie his right arm, Spargo,” he continued. “I think we +can give him that liberty. We’ve got his revolver, anyhow.” + +For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst +pushed his plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors. +“Look here!” he said. “You think you know a lot about all this affair, +Spargo, but there’s only one person who knows all about it. That’s me!” + +“We’re taking that for granted,” said Spargo. “We guessed as much when +we found you here. You’ll have ample opportunity for explanation, you +know, later on.” + +“I’ll explain now, if you care to hear,” said Myerst with another of +his cynical laughs. “And if I do, I’ll tell you the truth. I know +you’ve got an idea in your heads that isn’t favourable to me, but +you’re utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look here!—I’ll make you +a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case there—give me one, and +mix me a drink of that whisky—a good ’un—and I’ll tell you what I know +about this matter. Come on!—anything’s better than sitting here doing +nothing.” + +The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. “Let him +talk if he likes,” he said. “We’re not bound to believe him. And we may +hear something that’s true. Give him his cigar and his drink.” + +Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo +presently set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of +his cigar. + +“As it happens, you’ll hear nothing but the truth,” he observed. “Now +that things are as they are, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell the +truth. The fact is, I’ve nothing to fear. You can’t give me in charge, +for it so happens that I’ve got a power of attorney from these two old +chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the money they +entrusted me with. It’s in an inside pocket of that letter-case, and if +you look at it, Breton, you’ll see it’s in order. I’m not even going to +dare you to interfere with or destroy it—you’re a barrister, and you’ll +respect the law. But that’s a fact—and if anybody’s got a case against +anybody, I have against you two for assault and illegal detention. But +I’m not a vindictive man, and——” + +Breton took up Myerst’s letter-case and examined its contents. And +presently he turned to Spargo. + +“He’s right!” he whispered. “This is quite in order.” He turned to +Myerst. “All the same,” he said, addressing him, “we shan’t release +you, because we believe you’re concerned in the murder of John Marbury. +We’re justified in holding you on that account.” + +“All right, my young friend,” said Myerst. “Have your own stupid way. +But I said I’d tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain truth is that +I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know of +what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed +John Maitland. That’s a fact! It may have been the old man in there +who’s already at his own last gasp, or it mayn’t. I tell you I don’t +know—though, like you, Spargo, I’ve tried hard to find out. That’s the +truth—I do not know.” + +“You expect us to believe that?” exclaimed Breton incredulously. + +“Believe it or not, as you like—it’s the truth,” answered Myerst. “Now, +look here—I said nobody knew as much of this affair as I know, and +that’s true also. And here’s the truth of what I know. The old man in +that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, is in reality +Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name was so +freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That’s another +fact!” + +“How,” asked Breton, sternly, “can you prove it? How do you know it?” + +“Because,” replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, “I helped to carry out +his mock death and burial—I was a solicitor in those days, and my name +was—something else. There were three of us at it: Chamberlayne’s +nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried it out very +cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for our +trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well +paid for my help. The first time was in connection with the +Cloudhampton Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society affair—Aylmore, or +Ainsworth, was as innocent as a child in that!—Chamberlayne was the man +at the back. But, unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn’t profit—he lost all +he got by it, pretty quick. That was why be transferred his abilities +to Market Milcaster.” + +“You can prove all this, I suppose?” remarked Spargo. + +“Every word—every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: Your +father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all +the money that was got from the bank. He had—and he engineered that +mock death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who +helped him generously, as I’ve told you. The thing couldn’t have been +better done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor +disappeared; Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck—to tell you the +truth, I was struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed +my name and became Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was +not until three years ago that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in +this way: After I became secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I took +chambers in the Temple, above Cardlestone’s. And I speedily found out +who he was. Instead of going abroad, the old fox—though he was a +comparatively young ’un, then!—had shaved off his beard, settled down +in the Temple and given himself up to his two hobbies, collecting +curiosities and stamps. There he’d lived quietly all these years, and +nobody had ever recognized or suspected him. Indeed, I don’t see how +they could; he lived such a quiet, secluded life, with his collections, +his old port, and his little whims and fads. But—I knew him!” + +“And you doubtless profited by your recognition,” suggested Breton. + +“I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to +hold my tongue,” replied Myerst, “and I was glad to take it and, +naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one +friend—Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I’ll tell you about him.” + +“Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him,” said Breton +sternly. + +“I’ve no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to have +married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took +you and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of +your father’s disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that +Cardlestone is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have +friends—Elphick’s very fond of Cardlestone. He——” + +Spargo turned sharply on Myerst. + +“You say Elphick didn’t know until last night!” he exclaimed. “Why, +then, this running away? What were they running from?” + +“I have no more notion than you have, Spargo,” replied Myerst. “I tell +you one or other of them knows something that I don’t. Elphick, I +gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone—then they both +vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland—I don’t know. +But I’ll tell you what I know about the actual murder—for I do know a +good deal about it, though, as I say, I don’t know who killed Maitland. +Now, first, you know all that about Maitland’s having papers and +valuables and gold on him? Very well—I’ve got all that. The whole lot +is locked up—safely—and I’m willing to hand it over to you, Breton, +when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given—as it will +be—that you’re Maitland’s son.” + +Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when +he saw the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers’ faces. + +“And still more,” he continued, “I’ve got all the contents of that +leather box which Maitland deposited with me—that’s safely locked up, +too, and at your disposal. I took possession of that the day after the +murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I went to Scotland Yard, as +Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a game—and it required +some ingenuity.” + +“A game!” exclaimed Breton. “Good heavens—what game?” + +“I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury +was Maitland of Market Milcaster,” answered Myerst. “When I did know +then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line, +independent of everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland’s papers and +possessions, by that time—except one thing. That packet of Australian +stamps. And—I found out that those stamps were in the hands +of—Cardlestone!” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. +THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + +Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two +amazed listeners with a smile of conscious triumph. + +“In the hands of Cardlestone,” he repeated. “Now, what did I argue from +that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone’s rooms +that night. Wasn’t he found lying dead at the foot of Cardlestone’s +stairs? Aye—but who found him? Not the porter—not the police—not you, +Master Spargo, with all your cleverness. The man who found Maitland +lying dead there that night was—I!” + +In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what +Myerst said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his +pockets sat bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him +seriously, could not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and +conceptions are being rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he +laughed, more sneeringly than ever. + +“That’s one for you, Spargo!” he said. “That surprises you—that makes +you think. Now what do you think?—if one may ask.” + +“I think,” said Spargo, “that you are either a consummate liar, or that +this mystery is bigger than before.” + +“I can lie when it’s necessary,” retorted Myerst. “Just now it isn’t +necessary. I’m telling you the plain truth: there’s no reason why I +shouldn’t. As I’ve said before, although you two young bullies have +tied me up in this fashion, you can’t do anything against me. I’ve a +power of attorney from those two old men in there, and that’s enough to +satisfy anybody as to my possession of their cheques and securities. +I’ve the whip hand of you, my sons, in all ways. And that’s why I’m +telling you the truth—to amuse myself during this period of waiting. +The plain truth, my sons!” + +“In pursuance of which,” observed Breton, drily, “I think you mentioned +that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?” + +“I was. That is—as far as I can gather. I’ll tell you all about it. As +I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very late—it +was well past one o’clock. There was nobody about—as a matter of fact, +no one has residential chambers in that building but Cardlestone and +myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck a match +and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon—John Marbury. +Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can +be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra +speed just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of +every article it had on it—money, papers, everything. All these things +are safely locked up—they’ve never been tracked. Next day, using my +facilities as secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the +things in that box. Then I found out who the dead man really was. And +then I deliberately set to work to throw dust in the eyes of the police +and of the newspapers, and particularly in the eyes of young Master +Spargo there. I had an object.” + +“What?” asked Breton. + +“What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather, +Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it +to myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo, +inserted news in your paper—Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity +of Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore’s rooms that night, turned into +our building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met +Cardlestone accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick +together—they recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to +expose Cardlestone, or, rather, Chamberlayne—nobody, of course, could +know what happened, but my theory was that Chamberlayne killed him. +There, at any rate, was the fact that Maitland was found murdered at +Chamberlayne’s very threshold. And, in the course of a few days, I +proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting access to +Chamberlayne’s rooms in his absence that Maitland had been there, had +been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne’s desk, the +rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was +proof positive.” + +Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know—that the +stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo’s breast pocket, where +they had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion +of Chamberlayne’s floor. + +“Why,” asked Breton, after a pause, “why did you never accuse +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?” + +“I did! I have accused him a score of times—and Elphick, too,” replied +Myerst with emphasis. “Not at first, mind you—I never let Chamberlayne +know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my own game to +play. But at last—not so many days ago—I did. I accused them both. +That’s how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be afraid—by that +time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone’s past as +Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick’s fond of Cardlestone. It’s +queer, but he is. He—wants to shield him.” + +“What did they say when you accused them?” asked Breton. “Let’s keep to +that point—never mind their feelings for one another.” + +“Just so, but that feeling’s a lot more to do with this mystery than +you think, my young friend,” said Myerst. “What did they say, you ask? +Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that +he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. +But—they know something about the murder. If those two old men can’t +tell you definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I’m certain +that they have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! +They—” + +A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and +Spargo started to their feet and made for the door. But before they +could reach it Elphick came out, white and shaking. + +“He’s gone!” he exclaimed in quavering accents. “My old friend’s +gone—he’s dead! I was—asleep. I woke suddenly and looked at him. He——” + +Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton +passed quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head. + +“He’s dead,” he said. “He evidently died in his sleep.” + +“Then his secret’s gone with him,” remarked Myerst, calmly. “And now we +shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he didn’t. So +that’s done with!” + +Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away +from his side. + +“He didn’t kill John Maitland!” he cried angrily, attempting to shake +his fist at Myerst. “Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He was as +innocent as I am. You’ve tortured and tormented him to his death with +that charge, as you’re torturing me—among you. I tell you he’d nothing +to do with John Maitland’s death—nothing!” + +Myerst laughed. + +“Who had, then?” he said. + +“Hold your tongue!” commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He sat +down by Elphick’s side and laid his hand soothingly on the old man’s +arm. + +“Guardian,” he said, “why don’t you tell what you know? Don’t be afraid +of that fellow there—he’s safe enough. Tell Spargo and me what you know +of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, +or whoever he is or was, now.” + +Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give +him another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men +with something of an appeal. + +“I’m badly shaken,” he said. “I’ve suffered much lately—I’ve learnt +things that I didn’t know. Perhaps I ought to have spoken before, but I +was afraid for—for him. He was a good friend, Cardlestone, whatever +else he may have been—a good friend. And—I don’t know any more than +what happened that night.” + +“Tell us what happened that night,” said Breton. + +“Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with +Cardlestone. That was about ten o’clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came +to Cardlestone’s—she’d been to my rooms to find me—wanted to see me +particularly—and she’d come on there, knowing where I should be. +Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat +down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to +twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone’s door—his outer door was open, and +of course anybody outside could see lights within. 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. Upon +my honour, we didn’t know him, either that night or next day!” + +“What happened when he came in?” asked Breton. + +“Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. +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.” + +“No one had recognized him?” said Breton. + +“No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. +The others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that +they did—if they did.” + +“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell us what +you and Miss Baylis did?” + +“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d forgotten +something in Cardlestone’s lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet +Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own +rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And +upon my soul and honour that’s all I know!” + +Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and +bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the +cottage. + +“That’s enough!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got it—at last! +Breton—where’s the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this +valley? Then, here’s for it! Look after things till I’m back, or, when +the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town, +anyhow, after wiring.” + +“But—what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton. “Stop! What on +earth——” + +But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth +down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet +and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a +sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling +down a message in shaky handwriting:— + +_Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London._ +_Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland._ +_Coming straight to town with full evidence._ + _Frank Spargo_. + + +Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering +operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent +in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out +again—to find the station. + + +Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the +Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way +of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in +a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, +who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely +comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and +warmly. + +“But you will come—you will come today—and be properly thanked,” she +said. “You will—won’t you?” + +Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a +straight look into Jessie Aylmore’s eyes. + +“I don’t want thanks,” he said. “It was all a lot of luck. And if I +come—today—it will be to see—just you!” + +Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands. + +“I think,” she whispered, “I think that is what I really meant!” + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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Fletcher</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Middle Temple Murder</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: J.S. Fletcher</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 3, 2003 [eBook #10373]<br /> +[Most recently updated: July 21, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Juliet Sutherland, Linda Cantoni and PG Distributed Proofreaders</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>The Middle Temple Murder</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by J.S. Fletcher</h2> + +<h4>1919</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. HIS FIRST BRIEF</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. THE CLUE OF THE CAP</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. WITNESS TO A MEETING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. MR. AYLMORE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. THE LEATHER BOX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. THE NEW WITNESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. UNDER SUSPICION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. THE SILVER TICKET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. MARKET MILCASTER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. THE “YELLOW DRAGON”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. AN OLD NEWSPAPER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. MAITLAND <i>alias</i> MARBURY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. ARRESTED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. THE BLANK PAST</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. MISS BAYLIS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. MOTHER GUTCH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. REVELATIONS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. STILL SILENT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. OF PROVED IDENTITY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. THE CLOSED DOORS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. REVELATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. FORESTALLED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WHIP HAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. MYERST EXPLAINS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FINAL TELEGRAM</a></td> +</tr> + + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER ONE<br/> +THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER</h2> + +<p> +As a rule, Spargo left the <i>Watchman</i> office at two o’clock. The +paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a +sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was +responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines +began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, until two +o’clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of June, 1912, he +stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had charge of the foreign +news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through +from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear +all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well beyond half-past two +when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he +reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent +his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the +first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of +St. Paul’s. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every night and +every morning he walked to and from the <i>Watchman</i> office by the same +route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to +know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed the habit of +exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at regular +points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his pipe. And on this morning, as +he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a policeman whom he knew, one +Driscoll, standing at the entrance, looking about him. Further away another +policeman appeared, sauntering. Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, +turning, he saw Spargo. He moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in +his face. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door of the +lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and jacket. +</p> + +<p> +“He says,” answered Driscoll, “him, there—the +porter—that there’s a man lying in one of them entries down the +lane, and he thinks he’s dead. Likewise, he thinks he’s +murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo echoed the word. +</p> + +<p> +“But what makes him think that?” he asked, peeping with curiosity +beyond Driscoll’s burly form. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“He says there’s blood about him,” answered Driscoll. He +turned and glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. +“You’re a newspaper man, sir?” he suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better walk down with us,” said Driscoll, with a grin. +“There’ll be something to write pieces in the paper about. At +least, there may be.” Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down +the lane, wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At +the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on!” he said shortly. “I’ll show you.” +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and then turned +to the porter. +</p> + +<p> +“How came you to find him, then?” he asked +</p> + +<p> +The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard that door slam,” he replied, irritably, as if the fact +which he mentioned caused him offence. “I know I did! So I got up to look +around. Then—well, I saw that!” +</p> + +<p> +He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his +outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man’s foot, booted, +grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Sticking out there, just as you see it now,” said the porter. +“I ain’t touched it. And so—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant thing. +Driscoll nodded comprehendingly. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you went along and looked?” he suggested. “Just +so—just to see who it belonged to, as it might be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just to see—what there was to see,” agreed the porter. +“Then I saw there was blood. And then—well, I made up the lane to +tell one of you chaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Best thing you could have done,” said Driscoll. “Well, now +then—” +</p> + +<p> +The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold and +formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having glazed white +tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; something about its +appearance in that grey morning air suggested to Spargo the idea of a mortuary. +And that the man whose foot projected over the step was dead he had no doubt: +the limpness of his pose certified to it. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen +unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with their +fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully—Spargo remembered +afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put his hands in his +pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. Each man had his own +thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human wreckage which lay before him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll notice,” suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a +hushed voice, “You’ll notice that he’s lying there in a queer +way—same as if—as if he’d been put there. Sort of propped up +against that wall, at first, and had slid down, like.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at his +feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, crushed in +against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be elderly because of +grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a good, well-made suit of +grey check cloth—tweed—and the boots were good: so, too, was the +linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung so limply. One leg was +half doubled under the body; the other was stretched straight out across the +threshold; the trunk was twisted to the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles +against which it and the shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there +were gouts and stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, +pointed a finger at them. +</p> + +<p> +“Seems to me,” he said, slowly, “seems to me as how +he’s been struck down from behind as he came out of here. That +blood’s from his nose—gushed out as he fell. What do you say, +Jim?” The other policeman coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Better get the inspector here,” he said. “And the doctor and +the ambulance. Dead—ain’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +“As ever they make ’em,” he remarked laconically. “And +stiff, too. Well, hurry up, Jim!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the hand-ambulance +came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body for transference to the +mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man’s face. He looked long and +steadily at it while the police arranged the limbs, wondering all the time who +it was that he gazed at, how he came to that end, what was the object of his +murderer, and many other things. There was some professionalism in +Spargo’s curiosity, but there was also a natural dislike that a +fellow-being should have been so unceremoniously smitten out of the world. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man’s face. It was that +of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, even homely of +feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white whisker, trimmed, after an +old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and the point of the jaw. The only +remarkable thing about it was that it was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles +were many and deep around the corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; +this man, you would have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered +storm, mental as well as physical. +</p> + +<p> +Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. +“Better come down to the dead-house,” he muttered confidentially. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll go through him,” whispered Driscoll. “Search +him, d’ye see? Then you’ll get to know all about him, and so on. +Help to write that piece in the paper, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night’s work, and until his +encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal which +would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which he would +subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a man from the +<i>Watchman</i> to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in his line now, +now— +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be for getting one o’ them big play-cards out with +something about a mystery on it,” suggested Driscoll. “You never +know what lies at the bottom o’ these affairs, no more you +don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for getting +news began to assert itself. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “I’ll go along with you.” +</p> + +<p> +And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortège through the streets, +still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected on the +unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was the work of +murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a principal London +thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to whom the dealing with it +was all a matter of routine. Surely— +</p> + +<p> +“My opinion,” said a voice at Spargo’s elbow, “my +opinion is that it was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. +That’s what I say.” Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at +his side. He, too, was accompanying the body. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Spargo. “You think—” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there,” said the +porter. “In somebody’s chambers, maybe. I’ve known of some +queer games in our bit of London! Well!—he never came in at my lodge last +night—I’ll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? +From what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what we shall hear presently,” said Spargo. +“They’re going to search him.” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found nothing. The +police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, been struck down from +behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the skull and caused death almost +instantaneously. In Driscoll’s opinion, the murder had been committed for +the sake of plunder. For there was nothing whatever on the body. It was +reasonable to suppose that a man who is well dressed would possess a watch and +chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But +there was nothing valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be +found that could lead to identification—no letters, no papers, nothing. +It was plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently +stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity lay in +the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at +a fashionable shop in the West End. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his food and +he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. He was not the +sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at last that the +morning’s event had destroyed his chance of rest; he accordingly rose, +took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went out. He was not sure of any +particular idea when he strolled away from Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise +him when, half an hour later he found that he had walked down to the police +station near which the unknown man’s body lay in the mortuary. And there +he met Driscoll, just going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re in luck,” he said. “’Tisn’t five +minutes since they found a bit of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor +man’s waistcoat pocket—it had slipped into a crack. Come in, and +you’ll see it.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went into the inspector’s office. In another minute he found +himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an address, +scrawled in pencil:—Ronald Breton, Barrister, King’s Bench Walk, +Temple, London. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER TWO<br/> +HIS FIRST BRIEF</h2> + +<p> +Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. “I know +this man,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The inspector showed new interest. +</p> + +<p> +“What, Mr. Breton?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I’m on the <i>Watchman</i>, you know, sub-editor. I took an +article from him the other day—article on ‘Ideal Sites for +Campers-Out.’ He came to the office about it. So this was in the dead +man’s pocket?” +</p> + +<p> +“Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn’t present +myself. It’s not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It seemed to +him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in clubs; it had been +torn roughly from the sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” he asked meditatively, “what will you do about +getting this man identified?” +</p> + +<p> +The inspector shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There’ll be publicity, you know. I +suppose you’ll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? +Then there’ll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. +Somebody will come forward to identify—sure to. And—” +</p> + +<p> +A man came into the office—a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly +attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a stroll, +and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his desk, at the +same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper which Spargo had just +laid down. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go along to King’s Bench Walk and see Mr. +Breton,” he observed, looking at his watch. “It’s just about +ten—I daresay he’ll be there now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going there, too,” remarked Spargo, but as if speaking +to himself. “Yes, I’ll go there.” +</p> + +<p> +The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The inspector nodded +at Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Journalist,” he said, “Mr. Spargo of the <i>Watchman</i>. +Mr. Spargo was there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton.” +Then he nodded from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. “This is +Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, from the Yard,” he said to Spargo. +“He’s come to take charge of this case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh?” said Spargo blankly. “I see—what,” he went +on, with sudden abruptness, “what shall you do about Breton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury. “He +may know the man and he mayn’t. Anyway, his name and address are here, +aren’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come along,” said Spargo. “I’ll walk there with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor Street; his +companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed that he was by +nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until the two were climbing +the old balustrated staircase of the house in King’s Bench Walk in which +Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere situate that Spargo spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on +him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that +question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily. “I suppose so. He might have +had—nothing on him, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were printed. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except +that Mr. Breton is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn’t +long since he was eating his dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he’s young—he’s quite young,” said Spargo. +“I should say he’s about four-and-twenty. I’ve met him +only—” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down the +staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing—presently masculine laughter +mingled with the lighter feminine. +</p> + +<p> +“Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, +anyway,” said Rathbury. “Mr. Breton’s chambers, too. And the +door’s open.” +</p> + +<p> +The outer oak door of Ronald Breton’s chambers stood thrown wide; the +inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the detective +obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton’s rooms. There, +against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied up with pink tape, +and black-framed pictures of famous legal notabilities, they saw a pretty, +vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a chair, wigged and gowned, and +flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, +to the amusement of a young man who had his back to the door, and of another +girl who leant confidentially against his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury—I put it to you with +confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, perhaps +brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your consciences do my +client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, the—the—” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of some more adjectives!” exclaimed the young man. +“Hot and strong ’uns—pile ’em up. That’s what +they like—they—Hullo!” +</p> + +<p> +This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the proceedings the +detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his head round its edge. +Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the chair, jumped hastily down; +the other young lady withdrew from the young man’s protecting arm; there +was a feminine giggle and a feminine swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into +an inner room, and Mr. Ronald Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet +the interrupter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in!” he exclaimed hastily. “I—” +</p> + +<p> +Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a look of +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh—Mr. Spargo?” he said. “How do you +do?—we—I—we were just having a lark—I’m off to +court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and turned +again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The detective, on his +part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a tall, slimly-built youth, of +handsome features and engaging presence, perfectly groomed, and immaculately +garbed, and having upon him a general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the +impression from these matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young +men who may take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He +turned and glanced at the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do?” said Spargo slowly. “I—the fact is, I +came here with Mr. Rathbury. He—wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant +Rathbury—of New Scotland Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a lesson. +But he was watching the young barrister’s face. And Breton turned to the +detective with a look of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “You wish—” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, which he +had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. “I wished to ask a +question, Mr. Breton,” he said. “This morning, about a quarter to +three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and +there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here—he was +present when the body was found.” +</p> + +<p> +“Soon after,” corrected Spargo. “A few minutes after.” +</p> + +<p> +“When this body was examined at the mortuary,” continued Rathbury, +in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, “nothing was found that could +lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing +whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in +the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It’s got your name and address on it, +Mr. Breton. See?” +</p> + +<p> +Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” he muttered. “So it has; that’s queer. +What’s he like, this man?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?” he said. +“It’s close by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I—the fact is, I’ve got a case on, in Mr. Justice +Borrow’s court,” Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. +“But it won’t be called until after eleven. Will—” +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty of time, sir,” said Rathbury; “it won’t take +you ten minutes to go round and back again—a look will do. You +don’t recognize this handwriting, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, +intently. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he answered. “I don’t. I don’t know it at +all—I can’t think, of course, who this man could be, to have my +name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting +my professional services, you know,” he went on, with a shy smile at +Spargo; “but, three—three o’clock in the morning, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor,” observed Rathbury, “the doctor thinks he had +been dead about two and a half hours.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton turned to the inner door. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll—I’ll just tell these ladies I’m going out +for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “They’re going over to +the court with me—I got my first brief yesterday,” he went on with +a boyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. “It’s +nothing much—small case—but I promised my fiancée and her sister +that they should be present, you know. A moment.” +</p> + +<p> +He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory +of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his +dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this +youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into +the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic +of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about +Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, come on,” said Breton. “Let’s go straight +there.” +</p> + +<p> +The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the +general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he +entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no +sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to +the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a +cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew +back, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he said with decision. “Don’t know +him—don’t know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, +that I know of.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury replaced the cloth. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t suppose you would,” he remarked. “Well, I +expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody’ll identify him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say he was murdered?” said Breton. “Is +that—certain?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. +</p> + +<p> +“The back of his skull is smashed in,” he said laconically. +“The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind—and a +fearful blow, too. I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right!” said Breton. “Well, you know where to find +me if you want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr. +Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t expect anything from that,” he remarked. +“However, it was a thing to be done. You are going to write about this +for your paper?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” continued Rathbury, “I’ve sent a man to +Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, where that cap came from, you know. We may +get a bit of information from that quarter—it’s possible. If you +like to meet me here at twelve o’clock I’ll tell you anything +I’ve heard. Just now I’m going to get some breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll meet you here,” said Spargo, “at twelve +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round +another. He went to the <i>Watchman</i> office, wrote a few lines, which he +enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again. Somehow or +other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realized what he +was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER THREE<br/> +THE CLUE OF THE CAP</h2> + +<p> +Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, +Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and the adjacent +corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, asked him if there was +any particular part of the building he wanted. For a moment Spargo stared at +the man as if he did not comprehend his question. Then his mental powers +reasserted themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this +morning?” he suddenly asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Number seven,” replied the official. “What’s your +case—when’s it down?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo. “I’m a +pressman—reporter, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +The official stuck out a finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Round the corner—first to your right—second on the +left,” he said automatically. “You’ll find plenty of +room—nothing much doing there this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless perambulation of +the dreary, depressing corridors. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my honour!” he muttered. “Upon my honour, I really +don’t know what I’ve come up here for. I’ve no business +here.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. The +young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of papers tied +up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who were laughing and +chattering as they tripped along at his side. And Spargo, glancing at them +meditatively, instinctively told himself which of them it was that he and +Rathbury had overheard as she made her burlesque speech: it was not the elder +one, who walked by Ronald Breton with something of an air of proprietorship, +but the younger, the girl with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and +it suddenly dawned upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a +notion, a hope of seeing this girl again—why, he could not then think. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted his hat. +Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo. “I—the fact is, I remembered that +you said you were coming up here, and I came after you. I want—when +you’ve time—to have a talk, to ask you a few questions. +About—this affair of the dead man, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said. “When this case of mine is over, I can +give you as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me +a favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—round there, and +up the stairs—and I’m a bit pressed for time—I’ve a +solicitor waiting for me. You take them—there’s a good fellow; +then, when the case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. +Here—I’ll introduce you all—no ceremony. Miss +Aylmore—Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. Spargo—of the <i>Watchman</i>. +Now, I’m off!” Breton turned on the instant; his gown whisked round +a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at two smiling girls. He saw then +that both were pretty and attractive, and that one seemed to be the elder by +some three or four years. +</p> + +<p> +“That is very cool of Ronald,” observed the elder young lady. +“Perhaps his scheme doesn’t fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray +don’t—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s all right!” said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly +stupid. “I’ve nothing to do. But—where did Mr. Breton say you +wished to be taken?” +</p> + +<p> +“Into the gallery of number seven court,” said the younger girl +promptly. “Round this corner—I think I know the way.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving that +morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led the two young +ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries from which idlers and +specially-interested spectators may see and hear the proceedings which obtain +in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks wherein justice is dispensed at the +Law Courts. There was no one else in that gallery; the attendant in the +corridor outside seemed to be vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter +it, and he presently opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way +down the stairs to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing much going on here this morning,” he whispered behind a +raised hand. “But there’s a nice breach case in number +five—get you three good seats there if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He had +decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and her sister +about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a lucky dog to be in +possession of such a charming future wife and an equally charming +sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss Jessie Aylmore’s side, +and looked around him as if he were much awed by his surroundings. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?” he whispered. +“Is this really Mr. Breton’s first case?” +</p> + +<p> +“His very first—all on his own responsibility, any way,” +replied Spargo’s companion, smiling. “And he’s very +nervous—and so’s my sister. Aren’t you, now, Evelyn?” +</p> + +<p> +Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose one’s always nervous about first appearances,” she +said. “However, I think Ronald’s got plenty of confidence, and, as +he says, it’s not much of a case: it isn’t even a jury case. +I’m afraid you’ll find it dull, Mr. Spargo—it’s only +something about a promissory note.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” replied Spargo, unconsciously +falling back on a favourite formula. “I always like to hear +lawyers—they manage to say such a lot about—about—” +</p> + +<p> +“About nothing,” said Jessie Aylmore. “But there—so do +gentlemen who write for the papers, don’t they?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that point +when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister’s attention to a man who had +just entered the well of the court. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, Jessie!” she observed. “There’s Mr. +Elphick!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, +smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and gowned, was +slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that charmed inner sanctum +wherein only King’s Counsel are permitted to sit. He dropped into this in +a fashion which showed that he was one of those men who loved personal comfort; +he bestowed his plump person at the most convenient angle and fitting a monocle +in his right eye, glanced around him. There were a few of his professional +brethren in his vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks +in conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But the +gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look and cast his +eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. Thereupon he made a most +gracious bow in their direction; his broad face beamed in a genial smile, and +he waved a white hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?” enquired the younger Miss +Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“I rather think I’ve seen him, somewhere about the Temple,” +answered Spargo. “In fact, I’m sure I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“His chambers are in Paper Buildings,” said Jessie. +“Sometimes he gives tea-parties in them. He is Ronald’s guardian, +and preceptor, and mentor, and all that, and I suppose he’s dropped into +this court to hear how his pupil goes on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here is Ronald,” whispered Miss Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“And here,” said her sister, “is his lordship, looking very +cross. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’re in for it.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on beneath him. +The case which young Breton presently opened was a commercial one, involving +certain rights and properties in a promissory note; it seemed to the journalist +that Breton dealt with it very well, showing himself master of the financial +details, and speaking with readiness and assurance. He was much more interested +in his companions, and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on +how he could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that +the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, and +that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald Breton’s +favour. +</p> + +<p> +In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two sisters. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good—very good, indeed,” he said, absent-mindedly. +“I thought he put his facts very clearly and concisely.” +</p> + +<p> +Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. He +pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: Spargo +gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, Spargo’s, +connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the <i>Watchman</i>.” Breton +said. “Mr. Elphick—Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, +Spargo, that you saw this poor man soon after he was found.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The elderly +barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir!” he said. “You—saw this poor fellow? +Lying dead—in the third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, +eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Spargo, simply. “I saw him. It was the third +entry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Singular!” said Mr. Elphick, musingly. “I know a man who +lives in that house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until +nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton’s name +and address in his pocket?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then he had +no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s so,” he answered shortly. Then, looking at +Breton significantly, he added, “If you can give me those few minutes, +now—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes!” responded Ronald Breton, nodding. “I +understand. Evelyn—I’ll leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must +go.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir!” he said, eagerly. “Do you—do you think I +could possibly see—the body?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s at the mortuary,” answered Spargo. “I don’t +know what their regulations are.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in the +quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“About what I wanted to say to you,” he said at last. “It +was—this. I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to +have a real big murder case. I think this is one. I want to go right into +it—thoroughly, first and last. And—I think you can help me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that it is a murder case?” asked Breton quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a murder case,” answered Spargo, stolidly. “I +feel it. Instinct, perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it +seems to me—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me,” he presently continued, “that the clue lies +in that scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between +you and—somebody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly,” agreed Breton. “You want to find the somebody +else?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to help me to find the somebody else,” answered Spargo. +“I believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t +believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet +Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and wig, +and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came out as they +were stepping in. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, +Mr. Spargo. I told you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! +Well, he’s just returned. The cap which the dead man was wearing was +bought at Fiskie’s yesterday afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, +Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient Hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is that?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Waterloo district,” answered Rathbury. “A small house, I +believe. Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to +come, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I’m not in the way,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper,” he +observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER FOUR<br/> +THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL</h2> + +<p> +The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an +old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway +Station—a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially mid-Victorian +in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early days of railway +travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern ideas of a hotel it would +have been difficult to find in London, and Ronald Breton said so as he and the +others crossed the pavement. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to and +from Southampton in the old days,” remarked Rathbury. “And I +daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good many +years’ absence, still rush in here. You see, it’s close to the +station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place when +they’ve a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind them. +Look there, now!” They had crossed the threshold as the detective spoke, +and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, he made a sidelong motion +of his head towards a bar on the left, wherein stood or lounged a number of men +who from their general appearance, their slouched hats, and their bronzed faces +appeared to be Colonials, or at any rate to have spent a good part of their +time beneath Oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a Colonial +accent in it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and +Rathbury wagged his head sagely. “Lay you anything the dead man was a +Colonial, Mr. Spargo,” he remarked. “Well, now, I suppose +that’s the landlord and landlady.” +</p> + +<p> +There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and woman +were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge on which lay a +register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a fleshy, round-faced, +somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at some time have been a butler; +the woman a tall, spare-figured, thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined +the newcomers with an enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy +confidence. +</p> + +<p> +“You the landlord of this house, sir?” he asked. “Mr. +Walters? Just so—and Mrs. Walters, I presume?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. +</p> + +<p> +“What can I do for you, sir?” he enquired. +</p> + +<p> +“A little matter of business, Mr. Walters,” replied Rathbury, +pulling out a card. “You’ll see there who I +am—Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a +newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald Breton, a barrister.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side door, and +signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying her pointed finger, +they found themselves in a small private parlour. Walters closed the two doors +which led into it and looked at his principal visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Mr. Rathbury?” he enquired. “Anything +wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“We want a bit of information,” answered Rathbury, almost with +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly +man, grey hair, fresh complexion?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” she exclaimed. “I knew some enquiry would be made. +Yes—a Mr. Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon +train got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But—he didn’t use +it last night. He went out—very late—and he never came back.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair and, +sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. +</p> + +<p> +“What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma’am?” he +asked. “Had you noticed anything?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her husband gave +vent to a species of growl. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing to notice,” he muttered. “Her way of +speaking—that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—why I said that was this,” said the landlady. “He +happened to tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn’t been in London for +over twenty years, and couldn’t remember anything about it, him, he said, +never having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he went +out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought something had +happened to him, and that there’d be enquiries made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—just so!” said Rathbury. “So you would, +ma’am—so you would. Well, something has happened to him. He’s +dead. What’s more, there’s strong reason to think he was +murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise and +horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his visitors. Spargo +and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work to do during the +afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter of course. +</p> + +<p> +“My respects,” he said, lifting his glass. “Well, now, +perhaps you’ll just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell +you, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this +morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn’t anything on him but his +clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman’s name and +address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I traced +him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter’s yesterday, and +had it sent to your hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. Walters quickly, “that’s so. And he +went out in that cap last night. Well—we don’t know much about him. +As I said, he came in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and +booked Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a +bag—they’re in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at +this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—that, of +course, was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book as John +Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll look at that, if you please,” said Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous day’s +entries. They all bent over the dead man’s writing. +</p> + +<p> +“‘John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,’” said +Rathbury. “Ah—now I was wondering if that writing would be the same +as that on the scrap of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it +isn’t—it’s quite different.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite different,” said Breton. He, too, was regarding the +handwriting with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of +it, and asked another question. +</p> + +<p> +“Ever seen that writing before?” he suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” answered Breton. “And yet—there’s +something very familiar about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the probability is that you have seen it before,” remarked +Rathbury. “Well—now we’ll hear a little more about +Marbury’s doings here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. +Walters.” +</p> + +<p> +“My wife knows most,” said Walters. “I scarcely saw the +man—I don’t remember speaking with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Mrs. Walters. “You didn’t—you +weren’t much in his way. Well,” she continued, “I showed him +up to his room. He talked a bit—said he’d just landed at +Southampton from Melbourne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he mention his ship?” asked Rathbury. “But if he +didn’t, it doesn’t matter, for we can find out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe the name’s on his things,” answered the landlady. +“There are some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be +cooked for him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out +at exactly one o’clock, saying to me that he expected he’d get +lost, as he didn’t know London well at any time, and shouldn’t know +it at all now. He went outside there—I saw him—looked about him and +walked off towards Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of +came for him—from Fiskie’s. So, of course, I judged he’d been +Piccadilly way. But he himself never came in until ten o’clock. And then +he brought a gentleman with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye?” said Rathbury. “A gentleman, now? Did you see +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just,” replied the landlady. “They went straight up to 20, +and I just caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. +A tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far as I +could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his throat, and +carrying an umbrella.” +</p> + +<p> +“And they went to Marbury’s room?” said Rathbury. “What +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda,” continued +Mrs. Walters. “He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, and +a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until nearly +midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 had gone out, +and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of course, there is. He +went out at half-past eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the other gentleman?” asked Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“The other gentleman,” answered the landlady, “went out with +him. The hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the +last anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came +back.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, “that is quite +certain, ma’am? Well—I suppose we’d better see this Number 20 +room, and have a look at what he left there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything,” said Mrs. Walters, “is just as he left it. +Nothing’s been touched.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the +dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet—none of them of any +quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with the plain +necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, without ceremony, +went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he proceeded to examine trunk +and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid out on the bed every article they +contained and examined each separately and carefully. And he found nothing +whereby he could gather any clue to the dead owner’s identity. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are!” he said, making an end of his task. “You +see, it’s just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on +him. There are no papers—there’s nothing to tell who he was, what +he was after, where he’d come from—though that we may find out in +other ways. But it’s not often that a man travels without some clue to +his identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought in +Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and money on +him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma’am?” he asked, +suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. “Did he pull out his purse in your +presence, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the landlady, with promptitude. “He came into +the bar for a drink after he’d been up to his room. He pulled out a +handful of gold when he paid for it—a whole handful. There must have been +some thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he hadn’t a penny piece on him—when found,” +muttered Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“I noticed another thing, too,” remarked the landlady. “He +was wearing a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his +left hand—little finger—gold, with a big diamond in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the detective, thoughtfully, “I noticed that +he’d worn a ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. +Well—now there’s only one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid +notice if he left any torn paper around—tore any letters up, or anything +like that?” +</p> + +<p> +But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on the +contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy indeed. So +Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing further to say, just +then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the Anglo-Orient Hotel good +morning, and went away, followed by the two young men. +</p> + +<p> +“What next?” asked Spargo, as they gained the street. +</p> + +<p> +“The next thing,” answered Rathbury, “is to find the man with +whom Marbury left this hotel last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how’s that to be done?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“At present,” replied Rathbury, “I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being alone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER FIVE<br/> +SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE</h2> + +<p> +The barrister and the journalist, left thus unceremoniously on a crowded +pavement, looked at each other. Breton laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t seem to have gained much information,” he remarked. +“I’m about as wise as ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—wiser,” said Spargo. “At any rate, I am. I know now +that this dead man called himself John Marbury; that he came from Australia; +that he only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the +company last night of a man whom we have had described to us—a tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in +London,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly—so it would,” answered Spargo. “But we know +that it was one of the hundred thousand, or half-million, if you like. The +thing is to find that one—the one.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think you can do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’m going to have a big try at it.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton shrugged his shoulders again. +</p> + +<p> +“What?—by going up to every man who answers the description, and +saying ‘Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the +Anglo——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” he said. “Didn’t you say that you knew a +man who lives in that block in the entry of which Marbury was found?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I didn’t,” answered Breton. “It was Mr. Elphick +who said that. All the same, I do know that man—he’s Mr. +Cardlestone, another barrister. He and Mr. Elphick are +friends—they’re both enthusiastic philatelists—stamp +collectors, you know—and I dare say Mr. Elphick was round there last +night examining something new Cardlestone’s got hold of. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to go round there and make some enquiries,” replied +Spargo. “If you’d be kind enough to——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ll go with you!” responded Breton, with alacrity. +“I’m just as keen about this business as you are, Spargo! I want to +know who this man Marbury is, and how he came to have my name and address on +him. Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, +why—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo, as they got into a cab, “yes, that would +have explained a lot. It seems to me that we’ll get at the murderer +through that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury’s line. +Yes, that’s what I think.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton looked at his companion with interest. +</p> + +<p> +“But—you don’t know what Rathbury’s line is,” he +remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do,” said Spargo. “Rathbury’s gone off to +discover who the man is with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last +night. That’s his line.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you want——?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who +wrote it,” answered Spargo. “I want to know why that old man was +coming to you when he was murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I—I never thought of that. +You—you really think he was coming to me when he was struck down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain. Hadn’t he got an address in the Temple? Wasn’t he +in the Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—the late hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I think +he was asking his way. That’s why I want to make some enquiries in this +block.” +</p> + +<p> +It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of the +office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the dead man. Being +luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the body was found, was +thick with the inquisitive and the sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder +had spread, and though there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which +the body had lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the +entry than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so great +that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a policeman to move +the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion presented themselves at the +entry this policeman was being lectured as to his duties by a little +weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and old-fashioned garments, and an +ancient silk hat, who was obviously greatly exercised by the unwonted +commotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Drive them all out into the street!” exclaimed this personage. +“Drive them all away, constable—into Fleet Street or upon the +Embankment—anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a +disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a——” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s old Cardlestone,” whispered Breton. “He’s +always irascible, and I don’t suppose we’ll get anything out of +him. Mr. Cardlestone,” he continued, making his way up to the old +gentleman who was now retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as +ancient as himself. “I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. +Spargo, a journalist, who is much interested in this murder. +He——” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. +Cardlestone. “And I never talk to journalists—a pack of busybodies, +sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been committed, +and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office boys and street +loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down these steps and broke his +neck—drunk, most likely.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring smile and a +nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first landing, motioning +the journalist to keep at their heels. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last +evening, Mr. Cardlestone,” he said. “Of course, neither of you +heard anything suspicious?” +</p> + +<p> +“What should we hear that was suspicious in the Temple, sir?” +demanded Mr. Cardlestone, angrily. “I hope the Temple is free from that +sort of thing, young Mr. Breton. Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet +evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away all was as quiet +as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above and around me I +know not! Fortunately, our walls are thick, sir—substantial. I say, sir, +the man probably fell down and broke his neck. What he was doing here, I do not +presume to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s guess, you know, Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked +Breton, again winking at Spargo. “But all that was found on this man was +a scrap of paper on which my name and address were written. That’s +practically all that was known of him, except that he’d just arrived from +Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cardlestone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, acute +glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” he exclaimed. “What’s this? You say this man had +your name and address on him, young Breton!—yours? And that he came +from—Australia?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so,” answered Breton. “That’s all +that’s known.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cardlestone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandanna handkerchief of +strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a mysterious thing,” he observed. +“Um—does Elphick know all that?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of Mr. +Cardlestone’s altered manner. And Spargo took up the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said. “All that Mr. Elphick knows is that Mr. Ronald +Breton’s name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. +Mr. Elphick”—here Spargo paused and looked at +Breton—“Mr. Elphick,” he presently continued, slowly +transferring his glance to the old barrister, “spoke of going to view the +body.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone, eagerly. “It can be seen? +Then I’ll go and see it. Where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“But—my dear sir!” he said. “Why?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cardlestone picked up his umbrella again. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very +door,” he said. “Also, I have known more than one man who went to +Australia. This might—I say might, young gentlemen—might be a man I +had once known. Show me where this body is.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton looked helplessly at Spargo: it was plain that he did not understand the +turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to seize an opportunity. In +another minute he was conducting Mr. Cardlestone through the ins and outs of +the Temple towards Blackfriars. And as they turned into Tudor Street they +encountered Mr. Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to the mortuary,” he remarked. “So, I suppose, +are you, Cardlestone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo tried a chance shot—at what he did not know. “The +man’s name was Marbury,” he said. “He was from +Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elphick, but he failed to see that Mr. Elphick +showed any of the surprise which Mr. Cardlestone had exhibited. Rather, he +seemed indifferent. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh?” he said—“Marbury? And from Australia. +Well—I should like to see the body.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo and Breton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder +gentlemen went in. There was nothing to be learnt from either when they +reappeared. +</p> + +<p> +“We don’t know the man,” said Mr. Elphick, calmly. “As +Mr. Cardlestone, I understand, has said to you already—we have known men +who went to Australia, and as this man was evidently wandering about the +Temple, we thought it might have been one of them, come back. But—we +don’t recognize him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Couldn’t recognize him,” said Mr. Cardlestone. +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +They went away together arm in arm, and Breton looked at Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“As if anybody on earth ever fancied they’d recognize him!” +he said. “Well—what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must +go.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the pavement, +came out of a fit of abstraction. +</p> + +<p> +“I?” he said. “Oh—I’m going to the office.” +And he turned abruptly away, and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at +the <i>Watchman</i>, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the +editor. “Try to get me a few minutes with the chief,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The private secretary looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Really important?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Big!” answered Spargo. “Fix it.” +</p> + +<p> +Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty well by +that time, Spargo lost no time. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane?” he +suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“The mere facts,” replied the editor, tersely. +</p> + +<p> +“I was there when the body was found,” continued Spargo, and gave a +brief résumé of his doings. “I’m certain this is a most unusual +affair,” he went on. “It’s as full of mystery as—as it +could be. I want to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can +make such a story of it as we haven’t had for some time—ages. Let +me have it. And to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. +I’ll make it—big!” +</p> + +<p> +The editor looked across his desk at Spargo’s eager face. +</p> + +<p> +“Your other work?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well in hand,” replied Spargo. “I’m ahead a whole +week—both articles and reviews. I can tackle both.” +</p> + +<p> +The editor put his finger tips together. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got some idea about this, young man?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got a great idea,” answered Spargo. He faced the great +man squarely, and stared at him until he had brought a smile to the editorial +face. “That’s why I want to do it,” he added. +“And—it’s not mere boasting nor over-confidence—I know +I shall do it better than anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +The editor considered matters for a brief moment. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean to find out who killed this man?” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded his head—twice. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll find that out,” he said doggedly. +</p> + +<p> +The editor picked up a pencil, and bent to his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “Go ahead. You shall have your two +columns.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got hold of a block of +paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do things. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER SIX<br/> +WITNESS TO A MEETING</h2> + +<p> +Ronald Breton walked into the <i>Watchman</i> office and into Spargo’s +room next morning holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved it +at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. +</p> + +<p> +“I say!” he exclaimed. “That’s the way to do it, +Spargo! I congratulate you. Yes, that’s the way—certain!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. +</p> + +<p> +“What way?” he asked indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“The way you’ve written this thing up,” said Breton. +“It’s a hundred thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried +account of a murder. It’s—it’s like a—a romance!” +</p> + +<p> +“Merely a new method of giving news,” said Spargo. He picked up a +copy of the <i>Watchman</i>, and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow +managed to make themselves into three, viewing the displayed lettering, the +photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle Temple +Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grey paper, with a critical eye. +“Yes—merely a new method,” he continued. “The question +is—will it achieve its object?” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the object?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it over to +his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put his feet on his +desk. +</p> + +<p> +“The object?” he said, drily. “Oh, well, the object is the +ultimate detection of the murderer.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re after that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m after that—just that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And not—not simply out to make effective news?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m out to find the murderer of John Marbury,” said Spargo +deliberately slow in his speech. “And I’ll find him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of clues, so +far,” remarked Breton. “I see—nothing. Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to know an awful lot,” he said. “I’m hungering +for news. I want to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with +himself between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive +and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with his skull +beaten in and dead. I want to know where he got that scrap of paper. Above +everything, Breton, I want to know what he’d got to do with you!” +</p> + +<p> +He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Breton nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “I confess that’s a corker. But I +think——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, or +in prospect, and had been recommended to—me,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo smiled—a little sardonically. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s good!” he said. “You had your very first +brief—yesterday. Come—your fame isn’t blown abroad through +all the heights yet, my friend! Besides—don’t intending clients +approach—isn’t it strict etiquette for them to +approach?—barristers through solicitors?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right—in both your remarks,” replied Breton, +good-humouredly. “Of course, I’m not known a bit, but all the same +I’ve known several cases where a barrister has been approached in the +first instance and asked to recommend a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me +a good turn may have given this man my address.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possible,” said Spargo. “But he wouldn’t have come to +consult you at midnight. Breton!—the more I think of it, the more +I’m certain there’s a tremendous mystery in this affair! +That’s why I got the chief to let me write it up as I have +done—here. I’m hoping that this photograph—though to be sure, +it’s of a dead face—and this facsimile of the scrap of paper will +lead to somebody coming forward who can——” +</p> + +<p> +Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble pillared +vestibule of the <i>Watchman</i> office came into the room with the +unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is,” +muttered Spargo in an aside. “Well?” he said to the boy. +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +The messenger came up to the desk. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Spargo,” he said, “there’s a man downstairs who +says that he wants to see somebody about that murder case that’s in the +paper this morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the man?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t say, sir,” replied the boy. “I gave him a form +to fill up, but he said he wouldn’t write anything—said all he +wanted was to see the man who wrote the piece in the paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring him here,” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the +boy had gone, and he smiled. “I knew we should have somebody here sooner +or later,” he said. “That’s why I hurried over my breakfast +and came down at ten o’clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances +of this chap’s information proving valuable?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” replied Breton. “He’s probably some crank or +faddist who’s got some theory that he wants to ventilate.” +</p> + +<p> +The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger seemed from preliminary +and outward appearance to justify Breton’s prognostication. He was +obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, yellow of hair, +blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday-best array of pearl-grey trousers and +black coat, and sported a necktie in which were several distinct colours. +Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of the <i>Watchman</i> building, he +had removed his hard billycock hat as he followed the boy, and he ducked his +bared head at the two young men as he stepped on to the thick pile of the +carpet which made luxurious footing in Spargo’s room. His blue eyes, +opened to their widest, looked round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness +of modern newspaper-office accommodation. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, sir?” said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the +easy-chairs for which the <i>Watchman</i> office is famous. “I understand +that you wish to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +The caller ducked his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the chair, put +his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to hang it on his +knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. +</p> + +<p> +“What I want to see, sir,” he observed in a rustic accent, +“is the gentleman as wrote that piece in your newspaper about this here +murder in Middle Temple Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +“You see him,” said Spargo. “I am that man.” +</p> + +<p> +The caller smiled—generously. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir?” he said. “A very nice bit of reading, +I’m sure. And what might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk +free-er to a man when I know what his name is.” +</p> + +<p> +“So can I,” answered Spargo. “My name is Spargo—Frank +Spargo. What’s yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Name of Webster, sir—William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at +Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife,” continued Mr. Webster, again +smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, “is at +present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it—weather and +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said Spargo. “And—you wanted to +see me about this murder, Mr. Webster?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that’ll +do for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in this +fashion—happen you’ll be for me to tell it in my own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I desire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to be sure, I couldn’t tell it in no other,” declared +Mr. Webster. “You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was +waiting for my breakfast—they take their breakfasts so late in them +hotels—and when I’d read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to +my wife ‘As soon as I’ve had my breakfast,’ I says, +‘I’m going to where they print this newspaper to tell ’em +something.’ ‘Aye?’ she says, ‘Why, what have you to +tell, I should like to know?’ just like that, Mr. Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Webster,” said Spargo, “is a lady of businesslike +principles. And what have you to tell?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and smiled +knowingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” he continued, “Last night, my wife, she went out +to a part they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of +hers as lives there, and as they wanted to have a bit of woman-talk, like, I +didn’t go. So thinks I to myself, I’ll go and see this here House +of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all you’d +got to do was to tell the policeman at the door that you wanted to see your own +Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told ’em that I wanted to see +our M.P., Mr. Stonewood—you’ll have heard tell of him, no doubt; he +knows me very well—and they passed me, and I wrote out a ticket for him, +and they told me to sit down while they found him. So I sat down in a grand +sort of hall where there were a rare lot of people going and coming, and some +fine pictures and images to look at, and for a time I looked at them, and then +I began to take a bit of notice of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, +like myself. And as sure as I’m a christened man, sir, the gentleman +whose picture you’ve got in your paper—him as was +murdered—was sitting next to me! I knew that picture as soon as I saw it +this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles on a block of paper, suddenly +looked at his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“What time was that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It was between a quarter and half-past nine, sir,” answered Mr. +Webster. “It might ha’ been twenty past—it might ha’ +been twenty-five past.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, if you please,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, me and this here dead gentleman talked a bit. About what a +long time it took to get a member to attend to you, and such-like. I made +mention of the fact that I hadn’t been in there before. ‘Neither +have I!’ he says, ‘I came in out of curiosity,’ he says, and +then he laughed, sir—queer-like. And it was just after that that what +I’m going to tell you about happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell,” commanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along, down this grand hall that +we were sitting in—a tall, handsome gentleman, with a grey beard. +He’d no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper and documents in his +hand, so I thought he was happen one of the members. And all of a sudden this +here man at my side, he jumps up with a sort of start and an exclamation, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo lifted his hand. He looked keenly at his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you’re absolutely sure about what you heard him +exclaim?” he asked. “Quite sure about it? Because I see you are +going to tell us what he did exclaim.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you naught but what I’m certain of, sir,” +replied Webster. “What he said as he jumped up was ‘Good +God!’ he says, sharp-like—and then he said a name, and I +didn’t right catch it, but it sounded like Danesworth, or Painesworth, or +something of that sort—one of them there, or very like ’em, at any +rate. And then he rushed up to this here gentleman, and laid his hand on his +arm—sudden-like.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—the gentleman?” asked Spargo, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the man. +Then they shook hands. And then, after they’d spoken a few words +together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no more of +’em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that picture in it, +I said to myself ‘That’s the man I sat next to in that there hall +at the House of Commons!’ Oh, there’s no doubt of it, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey +beard?” suggested Spargo. “Could you recognize him from +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Make no doubt of it, sir,” answered Mr. Webster. “I observed +him particular.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, the +leaves of which he turned over for several minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The farmer went across the room. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of +Commons here,” said Spargo. “Now, pick out the one you saw. Take +your time—and be sure.” +</p> + +<p> +He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” he whispered. “Getting nearer—a bit +nearer—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“To what?” asked Breton. “I don’t see—” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark. +</p> + +<p> +“This is him, sir!” answered Mr. Webster. “That’s the +gentleman—know him anywhere!” +</p> + +<p> +The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby finger to +a photograph, beneath which was written <i>Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P. for +Brookminster</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER SEVEN<br/> +MR. AYLMORE</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton start; he +himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere glance at the +photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “That he?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster. “Done to +the life, that is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo. “There are a +lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the +beards are grey.” +</p> + +<p> +But Webster wagged his head. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s him, sir!” he repeated. “I’m as sure of +that as I am that my name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw +talking to him whose picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no +more, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Spargo. “I’m much obliged to you. +I’ll see Mr. Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How +long do you remain in town?” +</p> + +<p> +“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be +there for another week,” answered the farmer. “Hope I’ve been +of some use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He turned to +Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. +</p> + +<p> +“There!—what did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I +say I should get some news? There it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I say, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his +daughters—only yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“But—how did you know they were his daughters?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“Instinct—intuition,” he answered. “However, never mind +that, just now. Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if +that is the dead man’s real name, and anyway, it’s all we know him +by—was in the company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do about it?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand had +already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said Breton. “I know where Mr. Aylmore is always +to be found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and +Pacific Club, you know, in St. James’s. If you like, I’ll go with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” he said. “Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve +something to do. I’ll meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly +noon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be there,” agreed Breton. He made for the door, and +with his hand on it, turned. “What do you expect from—from what +we’ve just heard?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait—until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say,” he +answered. “I suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to mutter to +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” he says. +“Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one of +the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much +observation. Ah!—and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized as +Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. Stephen +Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of +reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness to a +page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud: +</p> + +<p> +“AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, St. +Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member Atlantic and +Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South American +enterprise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s +not very illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now +we’ll make another.” +</p> + +<p> +Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr. +Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, leaving the +office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take him to the +Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he had spoken to +Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall; she +recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the +detective—Mr. Rathbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Not since,” replied Mrs. Walters. “No—and I was +wondering if he’d be coming round, because——” She +paused there and looked at Spargo with particular +enquiry—“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” she +asked. “I suppose you know as much as he does—about this?” +</p> + +<p> +“He and I,” replied Spargo, with easy confidence, “are +working this case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell +him.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an inner +compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in tissue paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, unwrapping the paper, “we found this in +Number 20 this morning—it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl +that found it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but +Walters, he says as how he shouldn’t be surprised if it’s a +diamond. And since we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after +Mr. Marbury came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he went +into the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of things like +this. So there?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a diamond—right enough,” he said. “Put it +away, Mrs. Walters—I shall see Rathbury presently, and I’ll tell +him about it. Now, that other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you +recognize him—I mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters’ face that she had no +more doubt than Webster had. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes!” she said. “That’s the gentleman who came in +with Mr. Marbury—I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would +recognize him from that—perhaps you’d let our hall-porter and the +waiter I mentioned just now look at it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see them separately and see if they’ve ever seen a man +who resembles this,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, and +Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the Atlantic and +Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the steps. He made no +reference to his recent doings, and together they went into the house and asked +for Mr. Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently came to +them in the visitors’ room. He was already familiar with Mr. +Aylmore’s photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; +the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of +legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and unobtrusively, doing +yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest of the party whips, without +forcing themselves into the limelight or seizing every opportunity to air their +opinions. Now that Spargo met him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what +the journalist had expected—a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, +who looked as if he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and +taught not to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid +interests in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite +expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation +—purposely shortened—of his object in calling upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said indifferently. “Yes, it is quite true that I +met Marbury and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant +spoke of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much +surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for—I really don’t know +how many years.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or not to +say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And presently Mr. +Aylmore went on. +</p> + +<p> +“I read your account in the <i>Watchman</i> this morning,” he said. +“I was wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with +you or with the police. The fact is—I suppose you want this for your +paper, eh?” he continued after a sudden breaking off. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print,” +answered Spargo. “If you care to give me any +information——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” said Mr. Aylmore. “I don’t mind. The fact +is, I knew next to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some—well, +business relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty +years—perhaps more—since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me +in the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to recall him. +He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, and as there was +little doing in the House that night, and as he had once been—almost a +friend—I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. He told me that he had +only landed from Australia that morning, and what he wanted my advice about, +principally, was—diamonds. Australian diamonds.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was unaware,” remarked Spargo, “that diamonds were ever +found in Australia.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aylmore smiled—a little cynically. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so,” he said. “But diamonds have been found in +Australia from time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and +in the opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. +Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed them to +me at his hotel—a number of them. We examined them in his room.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he do with them—afterwards?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“He put them in his waistcoat pocket—in a very small wash-leather +bag, from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty +stones—not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some +expert—I mentioned Streeter’s to him. Now, I can tell you how he +got hold of Mr. Breton’s address.” +</p> + +<p> +The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened his +hold on the pencil with which he was making notes. +</p> + +<p> +“He got it from me,” continued Mr. Aylmore. “The handwriting +on the scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As I +knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. Breton, Mr. +Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp solicitor. I wrote +down Mr. Breton’s address for him, on a scrap of paper which he tore off +a letter that he took from his pocket. By the by, I observe that when his body +was found there was nothing on it in the shape of papers or money. I am quite +sure that when I left him he had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a +breast-pocket full of letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you leave him, sir?” asked Spargo. “You left the +hotel together, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much to +talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge and very +shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. My own +impression——” He paused for a moment and Spargo waited +silently. +</p> + +<p> +“My own impression—though I confess it may seem to have no very +solid grounds—is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was +robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. There is +the fact that he was robbed, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had a notion,” said Breton, diffidently. +“Mayn’t be worth much, but I’ve had it, all the same. Some +fellow-passenger of Marbury’s may have tracked him all day—Middle +Temple Lane’s pretty lonely at night, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at Mr. +Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. +“You see, it’s not much, after all. Of course, there’ll be an +inquest on Marbury, and I shall have to re-tell it. But you’re welcome to +print what I’ve told you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards New +Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news—now he had some +to communicate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER EIGHT<br/> +THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT</h2> + +<p> +Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal apartment which +was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of its furnishings and its +indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain writing-table and a hard chair or +two; a map of London, much discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of +eminent bands in the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books +of reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was +seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the apparently +aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He looked up as the +journalist entered, and held out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the <i>Watchman</i> this +morning,” he said. “Made extra good reading, I thought. They did +right to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I +suppose, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury’s right hand. He +lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his head in +a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his question +answered in the affirmative. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said. “We settled yesterday, didn’t we, +that you and I are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? +That’s all right,” he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. +“Very well—have you made any further progress?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning back in +his chair, shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly, I haven’t,” he replied. “Of course, +there’s a lot being done in the usual official-routine way. We’ve +men out making various enquiries. We’re enquiring about Marbury’s +voyage to England. All that we know up to now is that he was certainly a +passenger on a liner which landed at Southampton in accordance with what he +told those people at the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way +and was understood to take the train to town—as he did. That’s all. +There’s nothing in that. We’ve cabled to Melbourne for any news of +him from there. But I expect little from that.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Spargo. “And—what are you +doing—you, yourself? Because, if we’re to share facts, I must know +what my partner’s after. Just now, you seemed to be—drawing.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “when I want to work +things out, I come into this room—it’s quiet, as you see—and +I scribble anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you see it?” asked Spargo, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that +hotel,” replied Rathbury. “It seems to me—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve found him,” he said. “That’s what I wrote +that article for—to find him. I knew it would find him. I’ve never +had any training in your sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. +And it has got him.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“Good!” he said. “And—who is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you the story,” answered Spargo, “and in a +summary. This morning a man named Webster, a farmer, a visitor to London, came +to me at the office, and said that being at the House of Commons last night he +witnessed a meeting between Marbury and a man who was evidently a Member of +Parliament, and saw them go away together. I showed him an album of photographs +of the present members, and he immediately recognized the portrait of one of +them as the man in question. I thereupon took the portrait to the Anglo-Orient +Hotel—Mrs. Walters also at once recognized it as that of the man who came +to the hotel with Marbury, stopped with him a while in his room, and left with +him. The man is Mr. Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. +</p> + +<p> +“I know him!” he said. “Of course—I remember Mrs. +Walters’s description now. But his is a familiar type—tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed. Um!—well, we’ll have to see Mr. Aylmore +at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen him,” said Spargo. “Naturally! For you see, +Mrs. Walters gave me a bit more evidence. This morning they found a loose +diamond on the floor of Number 20, and after it was found the waiter who took +the drinks up to Marbury and his guest that night remembered that when he +entered the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of similar +objects. So then I went on to see Mr. Aylmore. You know young Breton, the +barrister?—you met him with me, you remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“The young fellow whose name and address were found on Marbury,” +replied Rathbury. “I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Breton is engaged to Aylmore’s daughter,” continued Spargo. +“Breton took me to Aylmore’s club. And Aylmore gives a plain, +straightforward account of the matter which he’s granted me leave to +print. It clears up a lot of things. Aylmore knew Marbury over twenty years +ago. He lost sight of him. They met accidentally in the lobby of the House on +the evening preceding the murder. Marbury told him that he wanted his advice +about those rare things, Australian diamonds. He went back with him to his +hotel and spent a while with him; then they walked out together as far as +Waterloo Bridge, where Aylmore left him and went home. Further, the scrap of +grey paper is accounted for. Marbury wanted the address of a smart solicitor; +Aylmore didn’t know of one but told Marbury that if he called on young +Breton, he’d know, and would put him in the way to find one. Marbury +wrote Breton’s address down. That’s Aylmore’s story. But +it’s got an important addition. Aylmore says that when he left Marbury, +Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds in a wash-leather bag, a lot of +gold, and a breast-pocket full of letters and papers. Now—there was +nothing on him when he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo stopped and lighted a fresh cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all I know,” he said. “What do you make of +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury leaned back in his chair in his apparently favourite attitude and +stared hard at the dusty ceiling above him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know,” he said. “It brings things up to a point, +certainly. Aylmore and Marbury parted at Waterloo Bridge—very late. +Waterloo Bridge is pretty well next door to the Temple. But—how did +Marbury get into the Temple, unobserved? We’ve made every enquiry, and we +can’t trace him in any way as regards that movement. There’s a clue +for his going there in the scrap of paper bearing Breton’s address, but +even a Colonial would know that no business was done in the Temple at midnight, +eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Spargo, “I’ve thought of one or two +things. He may have been one of those men who like to wander around at night. +He may have seen—he would see—plenty of lights in the Temple at +that hour; he may have slipped in unobserved—it’s possible, +it’s quite possible. I once had a moonlight saunter in the Temple myself +after midnight, and had no difficulty about walking in and out, either. +But—if Marbury was murdered for the sake of what he had on him—how +did he meet with his murderer or murderers in there? Criminals don’t hang +about Middle Temple Lane.” +</p> + +<p> +The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making more +hieroglyphics. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s your theory, Mr. Spargo?” he asked suddenly. “I +suppose you’ve got one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you?” asked Spargo, bluntly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” returned Rathbury, hesitatingly, “I hadn’t, up +to now. But now—now, after what you’ve told me, I think I can make +one. It seems to me that after Marbury left Aylmore he probably mooned about by +himself, that he was decoyed into the Temple, and was there murdered and +robbed. There are a lot of queer ins and outs, nooks and corners in that old +spot, Mr. Spargo, and the murderer, if he knew his ground well, could easily +hide himself until he could get away in the morning. He might be a man who had +access to chambers or offices—think how easy it would be for such a man, +having once killed and robbed his victim, to lie hid for hours afterwards? For +aught we know, the man who murdered Marbury may have been within twenty feet of +you when you first saw his dead body that morning. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the room and +whispered a few words in the detective’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Show him in at once,” said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the +man quitted the room and smiled significantly. “Here’s somebody +wants to tell something about the Marbury case,” he remarked. +“Let’s hope it’ll be news worth hearing.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo smiled in his queer fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“It strikes me that you’ve only got to interest an inquisitive +public in order to get news,” he said. “The principal thing is to +investigate it when you’ve got it. Who’s this, now?” +</p> + +<p> +The official had returned with a dapper-looking gentleman in a frock-coat and +silk hat, bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp of the city man, who +inspected Rathbury with deliberation and Spargo with a glance, and being seated +turned to the detective as undoubtedly the person he desired to converse with. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that you are the officer in charge of the Marbury murder +case,” he observed. “I believe I can give you some valuable +information in respect to that. I read the account of the affair in the +<i>Watchman</i> newspaper this morning, and saw the portrait of the murdered +man there, and I was at first inclined to go to the <i>Watchman</i> office with +my information, but I finally decided to approach the police instead of the +Press, regarding the police as being more—more responsible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Much obliged to you, sir,” said Rathbury, with a glance at Spargo. +“Whom have I the pleasure of——” +</p> + +<p> +“My name,” replied the visitor, drawing out and laying down a card, +“is Myerst—Mr. E.P. Myerst, Secretary of the London and Universal +Safe Deposit Company. I may, I suppose, speak with confidence,” continued +Mr. Myerst, with a side-glance at Spargo. “My information +is—confidential.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury inclined his head and put his fingers together. +</p> + +<p> +“You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Myerst,” he answered. +“If what you have to tell has any real bearing on the Marbury case, it +will probably have to be repeated in public, you know, sir. But at present it +will be treated as private.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say,” replied Mr. +Myerst. “Yes, I should decidedly say so. The fact is that on June 21st at +about—to be precise—three o’clock in the afternoon, a +stranger, who gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if he +could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to deposit in such +a safe a small leather box—which, by the by, was of remarkably ancient +appearance—that he had brought with him. I showed him a safe such as he +wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the rules of the place, and he engaged +the safe, paid the rent for one year in advance, and deposited his leather +box—an affair of about a foot square—there and then. After that, +having exchanged a remark or two about the altered conditions of London, which, +I understood him to say, he had not seen for a great many years, he took his +key and his departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. +Marbury who was found murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst,” said Rathbury. “And +I’m much obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little +more, sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of +it,” replied the secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t give you any hint as to what was in it?” asked +Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not be +burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested,” replied Mr. Myerst. +“He appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible +for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. “So he would, no +doubt. And Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Marbury struck me,” he answered at last, “as a man who +had probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will term, +a remarkable remark. About—in fact, about his leather box.” +</p> + +<p> +“His leather box?” said Rathbury. “And what was it, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“This,” replied the secretary. “‘That box,’ he +said, ‘is safe now. But it’s been safer. It’s been +buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year!’” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER NINE<br/> +THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS</h2> + +<p> +“Buried—and deep-down, too—for many and many a year,” +repeated Mr. Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. “I consider +that, gentlemen, a very remarkable remark—very remarkable!” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and began +swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. And with his +knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo’s journalistic instincts had +been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off on a new scent. +</p> + +<p> +“Remarkable—remarkable, Mr. Myerst!” he assented. “What +do you say, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered made a +careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several seconds; then Spargo +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you say to that?” he asked quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it time to +enlighten the caller. +</p> + +<p> +“I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst,” he said smilingly, +“that this is Mr. Spargo, of the <i>Watchman</i>. Mr. Spargo wrote the +article about the Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, +you’ll gather, is deeply interested in this matter—and he and I, in +our different capacities, are working together. So—you understand?” +Myerst regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. +Spargo repeated the question he had just put. +</p> + +<p> +“I said—What did you say to that?” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Well—er—I don’t think I said anything,” he +replied. “Nothing that one might call material, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t ask him what he meant?” suggested Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no—not at all,” replied Myerst. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!” +he said, half-sneeringly. “You might have heard such a +story—” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to Rathbury, +who was regarding him with amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Is it possible to get that +box opened?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll have to be opened,” answered Rathbury, rising. +“It’s got to be opened. It probably contains the clue we want. +I’m going to ask Mr. Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first +steps about having it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the +matter through today, but at any rate we’ll have it done tomorrow +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?” asked +Spargo. “You can—certain? That’s all right, Rathbury. Now +I’m off, and you’ll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, +and I’ll do the same by you.” +</p> + +<p> +And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly +returned to the <i>Watchman</i> office. There the assistant who had been told +off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a business +card. +</p> + +<p> +“This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo,” +he said. “He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, +and he said that as he couldn’t wait, perhaps you’d step round to +his place when you came in.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took the card and read: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +MR. JAMES CRIEDIR,<br/> +DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES,<br/> +2,021, STRAND. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, wondering why +Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call himself a dealer in +rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He went up Fleet Street and soon +found the shop indicated on the card, and his first glance at its exterior +showed that whatever business might have been done by Mr. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Criedir?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“The same, sir,” answered the philatelist. “You +are—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Spargo, of the <i>Watchman</i>. You called on me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Glad to see you, Mr. Spargo,” he said genially. “Take a +seat, sir—I’m all in confusion here—giving up business, you +see. Yes, I called on you. I think, having read the <i>Watchman</i> account of +that Marbury affair, and having seen the murdered man’s photograph in +your columns, that I can give you a bit of information.” +</p> + +<p> +“Material?” asked Spargo, tersely. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed drily. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s for you to decide—when you’ve heard it,” +he said. “I should say, considering everything, that it was material. +Well, it’s this—I kept open until yesterday—everything as +usual, you know—stock in the window and so on—so that anybody who +was passing would naturally have thought that the business was going on, though +as a matter of fact, I’m retiring—retired,” added Mr. Criedir +with a laugh, “last night. Now—but won’t you take down what +I’ve got to tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am taking it down,” answered Spargo. “Every word. In my +head.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Criedir laughed and rubbed his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” agreed Spargo. “This information, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Criedir, “we’ll go on then. Yesterday +afternoon the man described as Marbury came into my shop. He—” +</p> + +<p> +“What time—exact time?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Two—to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock,” answered +Mr. Criedir. “I’d swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was +precisely as you’ve described him—dress, everything—I tell +you I knew his photo as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little +box—” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of box?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box—a very miniature +trunk, in fact,” replied Mr. Criedir. “About a foot square; the +sort of thing you never see nowadays. It was very much worn; it attracted me +for that very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. +‘You’re a dealer in stamps—rare stamps?’ he said. +‘I am,’ I replied. ‘I’ve something here I’d like +to show you,’ he said, unlocking the box. +‘It’s—’” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit,” said Spargo. “Where did he take the key from +with which he unlocked the box?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was one of several which he carried on a split ring, and he took the +bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket,” replied Mr. Criedir. +“Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman! Well—he opened his box. +It seemed to me to be full of papers—at any rate there were a lot of +legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you how I +notice things I saw that the papers were stained with age, and that the red +tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good—good!” murmured Spargo. “Excellent! Proceed, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. ‘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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“Prompt,” muttered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“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. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from +business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single deal, and +that, therefore, I couldn’t do anything. ‘No matter,’ he +says, ‘I daresay there are lots of men in your line of +trade—perhaps you can recommend me to a good firm?’ ‘I could +recommend you to a dozen extra-good firms,’ I answered. ‘But I can +do better for you. I’ll give you the name and address of a private buyer +who, I haven’t the least doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from +you and will give you a big price.’ ‘Write it down,’ he says, +‘and thank you for your trouble.’ So I gave him a bit of advice as +to the price he ought to get, and I wrote the name and address of the man I +referred to on the back of one of my cards.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose name and address?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple +Lane,” replied Mr. Criedir. “Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most +enthusiastic and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he +didn’t possess that set of stamps.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Spargo. “It was at the +foot of his stairs that Marbury was found murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked fixedly at the retired stamp-dealer. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” replied Mr. Criedir. “You think and argue on +modern lines—which are, of course, highly superior. But—how do you +account for my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone’s address and for his +having been found dead—murdered—at the foot of Cardlestone’s +stairs a few hours later?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t account for it,” said Spargo. “I’m +trying to.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down for a +moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly offered him a +cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of thanks, and smoked +half-way through it before he spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to account. And I shall +account. And I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you’ve +told me. Now, then, may I ask you a question or two?” +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand!” responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Did Marbury say he’d call on Cardlestone?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did. Said he’d call as soon as he could—that day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you told Cardlestone what you’ve just told me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have. But not until an hour ago—on my way back from your office, +in fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had he received a call from Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until +he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, another +philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could recognize it as any +man they’d ever known, but they couldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know they did,” said Spargo. “I saw ’em at the +mortuary. Um! Well—one more question. When Marbury left you, did he put +those stamps in his box again, as before?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. And what he +muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over again: +</p> + +<p> +“Six hours—six hours—six hours! Those six hours!” +</p> + +<p> +Next morning the <i>Watchman</i> came out with four leaded columns of +up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the four +ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:—WHO SAW +JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY PRECEDING HIS MURDER? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER TEN<br/> +THE LEATHER BOX</h2> + +<p> +Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline would +bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he kept to +himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have set eyes on John +Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in that headline was certain; +the problem was—What particular owner or owners of a pair or of many +pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why should they remember him? Walters +and his wife had reason to remember him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so +had Myerst; so had William Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he +left the London and Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he +sat down by Webster’s side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody +seemed to have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he +only remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable cloth +cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had come forward with +any recollection of him. He must have gone West from seeing Myerst, because he +bought his cap at Fiskie’s; he must eventually have gone South-West, +because he turned up at Westminster. But where else did he go? What did he do? +To whom did he speak? No answer came to these questions. +</p> + +<p> +“That shows,” observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away +in Spargo’s room at the <i>Watchman</i> at that particular hour which is +neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, “that shows +how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that had strayed +into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better go and read up a little elementary entomology, +Breton,” said Spargo. “I don’t know much about it myself, but +I’ve a pretty good idea that when an ant walks into the highways and +byways of a colony to which he doesn’t belong he doesn’t survive +his intrusion by many seconds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know what I mean,” said Breton. “London’s an +ant-heap, isn’t it? One human ant more or less doesn’t count. This +man Marbury must have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. +He’d ride on a ’bus—almost certain. He’d get into a +taxi-cab—I think that’s much more certain, because it would be a +novelty to him. He’d want some tea—anyway, he’d be sure to +want a drink, and he’d turn in somewhere to get one or the other. +He’d buy things in shops—these Colonials always do. He’d go +somewhere to get his dinner. He’d—but what’s the use of +enumeration in this case?” +</p> + +<p> +“A mere piling up of platitudes,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“What I mean is,” continued Breton, “that piles of people +must have seen him, and yet it’s now hours and hours since your paper +came out this morning, and nobody’s come forward to tell anything. And +when you come to think of it, why should they? Who’d remember an ordinary +man in a grey tweed suit?” +</p> + +<p> +“‘An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,’” repeated +Spargo. “Good line. You haven’t any copyright in it, remember. It +would make a good cross-heading.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton laughed. “You’re a queer chap, Spargo,” he said. +“Seriously, do you think you’re getting any nearer anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m getting nearer something with everything that’s +done,” Spargo answered. “You can’t start on a business like +this without evolving something out of it, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Breton, “to me there’s not so much mystery +in it. Mr. Aylmore’s explained the reason why my address was found on the +body; Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he said sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the reason of Marbury’s being found where he was +found,” replied Breton. “Of course, I see it all! Marbury was +mooning around Fleet Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it +was, just to see where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done +for. The thing’s plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Spargo. “That’s +it.” He turned over the leaves of the diary which lay on his desk. +“By the by,” he said, looking up with some interest, “the +adjourned inquest is at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Are you +going?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall certainly go,” answered Breton. “What’s more, +I’m going to take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details +were over at the first sitting, and as there’ll be nothing but this new +evidence tomorrow, and as they’ve never been in a coroner’s +court——” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore’ll be the principal witness tomorrow,” +interrupted Spargo. “I suppose he’ll be able to tell a lot more +than he told—me.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see that there’s much more to tell,” he said. +“But,” he added, with a sly laugh, “I suppose you want some +more good copy, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. “I’ll +tell you what I want,” he said. “I want to know who John Marbury +was. That would make good copy. Who he +was—twenty—twenty-five—forty years ago. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore,” answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, +“is the only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John +Marbury in the—past. But he didn’t tell me—much. Perhaps +he’ll tell the coroner and his jury—more. Now, I’m off +Breton—I’ve an appointment.” +</p> + +<p> +And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped into a +taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. At the corner of +its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo, as he sprang out: “How is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right,” answered Rathbury. “You can be +present: I got the necessary permission. As there are no relations known, +there’ll only be one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit +people, and myself. Come on—it’s about time.” +</p> + +<p> +“It sounds,” observed Spargo, “like an exhumation.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. “Well, we’re certainly going to dig up a dead +man’s secrets,” he said. “At least, we may be going to do so. +In my opinion, Mr. Spargo, we’ll find some clue in this leather +box.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room where +were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to be the +chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had spoken. And in +another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that the company possessed +duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper authorization having been +received from the proper authorities, those present would now proceed to the +safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. John Marbury, and take from it the +property which he himself had deposited there, a small leather box, which they +would afterwards bring to that room and cause to be opened in each +other’s presence. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and bars +before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so recently rented by +the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. And at first sight of it, +he saw that it was so small an affair that it seemed ludicrous to imagine that +it could contain anything of any importance. In fact, it looked to be no more +than a plain wooden locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it +reminded Spargo irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had +kept his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake +smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury’s name had been newly painted +upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door—the front +door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened by the +chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and expectation still leapt +in the bosoms of the beholders. +</p> + +<p> +“The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please,” commanded the +chairman, “the duplicate key!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a curious-looking +key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about to christen a battleship: +the steel door swung slowly back. And there, in a two-foot square cavity, lay +the leather box. +</p> + +<p> +It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary’s room that the +procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the chairman, +abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary authorization +from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying the box: followed two +other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with watching official and police +interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up the rear. He whispered something of +his notions to the detective; Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s hope we’re going to see—something!” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +In the secretary’s room a man waited who touched his forelock +respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box on the +table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members of the +procession gathered round. +</p> + +<p> +“As we naturally possess no key to this box,” announced the +chairman in grave tones, “it becomes our duty to employ professional +assistance in opening it. Jobson!” +</p> + +<p> +He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity. He +examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see that he was +anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, Spargo looked at the box. +It was pretty much what it had been described to him as being; a small, square +box of old cow-hide, very strongly made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a +handle projecting from the lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden +away somewhere for many a long day. +</p> + +<p> +There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, if you please, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The chairman motioned to the high official. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would be good enough to open the box, sir,” he said. +“Our duty is now concluded.” +</p> + +<p> +As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered round with +craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted: somebody sighed deeply. +And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. +</p> + +<p> +The box was empty! +</p> + +<p> +Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there was +literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of a plain, +time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned chintz stuff, such as +our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar with, and +containing—nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the chairman. “This +is—dear me!—why, there is nothing in the box!” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” remarked the high official, drily, “appears to be +obvious.” +</p> + +<p> +The chairman looked at the secretary. +</p> + +<p> +“I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst,” he said, with the +half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of an +exceptionally fine treat. “Valuable!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst coughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin,” he +answered. “The—er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of +great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he placed it in +the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest value.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the +<i>Watchman</i> newspaper, that it was full of papers and—and other +articles,” said the chairman. “Criedir saw papers in it about an +hour before it was brought here.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst spread out his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin,” he answered. +“I know nothing more.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should a man deposit an empty box?” began the chairman. +“I—” +</p> + +<p> +The high official interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“That the box is empty is certain,” he observed. “Did you +ever handle it yourself, Mr. Myerst?” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst smiled in a superior fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered +this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he rented, the +box was never out of his hands,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the chairman. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” he said. “We’ve made the enquiry. +Rathbury, take the box away with you and lock it up at the Yard.” +</p> + +<p> +So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if mystifying, +material for the article which had already become the daily feature of his +paper. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER ELEVEN<br/> +MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED</h2> + +<p> +It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the adjourned +inquest next day that the whole story of what was now world-famous as the +Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated before him for the thousandth +time. There was not a detail of the story with which he had not become familiar +to fulness. The first proceeding before the coroner had been of a merely formal +nature; these were thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and +twelve good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find +out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John Marbury came +by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo found himself +tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and noting how each +successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter to the story. The story +itself ran quite easily, naturally, consecutively—you could make it in +sections. And Spargo, sitting merely to listen, made them: +</p> + +<p> +1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the body. +</p> + +<p> +2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death—the man had been +struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow—from some heavy +instrument, and had died immediately. +</p> + +<p> +3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was examined +nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of grey paper. +</p> + +<p> +4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man’s new fashionable cloth +cap, bought at Fiskie’s well-known shop in the West-End, he traced +Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. +</p> + +<p> +5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there. +</p> + +<p> +6. The purser of the ss. <i>Wambarino</i> proved that Marbury sailed from +Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved himself like +any other well-regulated passenger, and left the <i>Wambarino</i> at +Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the last day of his life in +just the ordinary manner. +</p> + +<p> +7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the matter of the +stamps. +</p> + +<p> +8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury’s visit to the Safe Deposit, and further +proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official examination, to +be empty. +</p> + +<p> +9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in one of +the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing the meeting +between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to be Mr. Aylmore, a +Member of Parliament. +</p> + +<p> +All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the witness-box. And +Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for which the crowded court +was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and realistic specials in the +<i>Watchman</i>, everybody there had already become well and thoroughly +acquainted with the mass of evidence represented by the nine witnesses who had +been in the box before Mr. Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with +the facts which Mr. Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview +at the club, which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary +interest which the Member of Parliament’s appearance aroused? For +everybody was extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the +last man who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the +public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who met +Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his hotel with him, +hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the hotel with him for a +stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo knew well why the interest was +so keen—everybody knew that Aylmore was the only man who could tell the +court anything really pertinent about Marbury; who he was, what he was after; +what his life had been. +</p> + +<p> +He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the +witness-box—a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was only +slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a well-drilled +soldier’s, who carried about him an air of conscious power. +Aylmore’s two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite Spargo, +with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had encountered their glance +as they entered the court, and they had given him a friendly nod and smile. He +had watched them from time to time; it was plain to him that they regarded the +whole affair as a novel sort of entertainment; they might have been idlers in +some Eastern bazaar, listening to the unfolding of many tales from the +professional tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked +at them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in their +cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“All that they feel,” he thought, “is a bit of extra +excitement at the idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful +mystery. Um! Well—now how much is he mixed up?” +</p> + +<p> +And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his eyes off +the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the witness which he +was anxious to develop. +</p> + +<p> +The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. Aylmore’s +evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and asked a question or +two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell, in his own way, what he knew +of the dead man and of this sad affair; and having received that permission, he +went on in a calm, unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told +Spargo. It sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many +years ago. He had lost sight of him for—oh, quite twenty years. He had +met him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on the +evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having no +particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn, he had gone +back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained awhile with him in +his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had afterwards gone out with +him. He had given him the advice he wanted; they had strolled across Waterloo +Bridge; shortly afterwards they had parted. That was all he knew. +</p> + +<p> +The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. It had +been in print, under a big headline, in the <i>Watchman</i>. Aylmore had now +told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his next step was to +leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory question or two from the +Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a motion as if to step down. But +Spargo, who had been aware since the beginning of the enquiry of the presence +of a certain eminent counsel who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in +that gentleman’s direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his +well-known, apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, +and glance at the tall figure in the witness-box. +</p> + +<p> +“The fun is going to begin,” muttered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made a jerky +bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He looked like a man +who is going to ask indifferent questions about the state of the weather, or +how Smith’s wife was last time you heard of her, or if stocks are likely +to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this man before, and he knew many signs +of his in voice and manner and glance. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your +acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some time +ago?” began the suave, seemingly careless voice. +</p> + +<p> +“A considerable time ago,” answered Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“How long—roughly speaking?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way you +have described to us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ever heard from him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ever heard of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“But when you met, you knew each other at once?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—almost at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each other +twenty or twenty-two years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“We were—yes, well known to each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Close friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said we were acquaintances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?” +</p> + +<p> +“His name? It was—Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marbury—the same name. Where did you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—oh, here in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean—what was his occupation?” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his occupation?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he was concerned in financial matters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes—on occasions.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his business address in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t remember that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was his private address?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I never knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you transact your business with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we met, now and then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where? What place, office, resort?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t remember particular places. Sometimes—in the +City.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or St. +Paul’s Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Was he a member of that institution?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not that I know of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“What were the dealings that you had with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Financial dealings—small ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long did your acquaintanceship with him last—what period did +it extend over?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say about six months to nine months.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite!” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for over +twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he +told me the other evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or +two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men are more +or less public property. You are represented in this work of popular reference +as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina, where you made a +considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that you were in London, +acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890 to 1892. Did you then leave +England soon after knowing Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892—I am not sure which.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want +to solve the important question—who is, who was John Marbury, and how did +he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who knows +anything about him. What was your business before you left England?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was interested in financial affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?” +</p> + +<p> +“In London, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“At what address?” +</p> + +<p> +For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His brow had +flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared his shoulders +and faced his questioner defiantly. +</p> + +<p> +“I resent these questions about my private affairs!” he snapped +out. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I refuse to answer it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you are +telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“I refuse to answer that question also!” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER TWELVE<br/> +THE NEW WITNESS</h2> + +<p> +The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. He was +addressing the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure, Mr. Aylmore,” he said, “there is no wish to +trouble you with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of +this matter of John Marbury’s death, and as you are the only witness we +have had who knew him personally—” +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!” he exclaimed. +“And I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when +I met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private +affairs of twenty years ago—I very much resent it! Any question that is +really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that seem to me +wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, and +Spargo again became keenly attentive. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not yield +him offence,” he remarked drily. He turned once more to the witness, +regarding him as if with interest. “Can you tell us of any person now +living who knew Marbury in London at the time under discussion—twenty to +twenty-two or three years ago?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore shook his head angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I can’t,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at that +time who knew you both!” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly—at that time. But when I returned to England my business +and my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don’t +know of anybody who knew Marbury then—anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; Spargo saw +the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the door of the court. The +Counsel looked again at the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“One more question. You told the court a little time since that you +parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of Waterloo +Bridge—at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +“About that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“And at that place?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore—just now,” said +the Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. “I am going to ask you, sir, at +this point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the police +authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important nature, and I +think that this is the stage at which it ought to be given to you and the jury. +If you would be pleased to direct that David Lyell be called—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had sat +behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into view, ushered +by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident young man, evidently a +Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being called, stepped jauntily and +readily into the place which the member of Parliament just vacated. He took the +oath—Scotch fashion—with the same readiness and turned easily to +the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, glancing quickly round, saw that the court +was breathless with anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new +witness was going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by +Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name is David Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is my name, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you, Mr. Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & +Soutar, distillers, of Kilmarnock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?” +</p> + +<p> +“They do—once every six weeks I go to Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to +Paris?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you stayed at De Keyser’s Hotel, at the Blackfriars end +of the Embankment?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did—it’s handy for the continental trains.” +</p> + +<p> +“About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go +along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, sir. I’m a bad sleeper, and it’s a habit of mine to +take a walk of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How far did you walk?” +</p> + +<p> +“As far as Waterloo Bridge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Always on the Temple side?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, sir—straight along on that side.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody +you knew?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder’s head was +averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And Breton was +nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining silk hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament,” repeated the +Counsel’s suave, clear tones. “Oh! And how did you come to +recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member of Parliament?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, in this way. At home, I’m the secretary of our Liberal +Ward Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to arrange +with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and speak, and naturally +I met him several times, in London and in Scotland.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that you knew him quite well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, of course!” he answered. “There is Mr. Aylmore.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore close +to Waterloo Bridge? How close?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the bridge +on to the Embankment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“A man, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know the man?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I +haven’t forgotten his face.” +</p> + +<p> +“You haven’t forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell—has anything +recalled that face to you within this last day or two?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“The picture of the man they say was murdered—John Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re sure of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m as certain, sir, as that my name’s what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied by +the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did you +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I just turned and walked after them.” +</p> + +<p> +“You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“They were walking by the way I’d come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You followed them eastward?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did—I was going back to the hotel, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“What were they doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“How far did you follow them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle Temple +Lane, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De +Keyser’s, and to my bed.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other period of +the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen voice put the next +question. +</p> + +<p> +“You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion into +the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the occasion in +question?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do! I could swear no other, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a whispered +conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“You have only just given this information to the police, I +understand?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by +this morning’s boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the +papers—the English papers—and seen the dead man’s photographs +I determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland Yard as +soon as I got to London this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped down. +And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the Coroner’s +attention. +</p> + +<p> +“May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?” he began. +“I—” +</p> + +<p> +But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and implacable. +“I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in the box, and +that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or even to answer +questions,” he said. “And before you allow him to make any +explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to interpose at +this stage. That witness is——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be +heard at once!” he said with emphasis. “As matters stand at +present, it looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I +am allowed to make an explanation—” +</p> + +<p> +“I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any +explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard,” said the Treasury +Counsel sternly. “There are weighty reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give an +explanation,” said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. “Who is +this other witness?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two daughters +was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no distrust of her +father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly turned to the next +witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment lodge of Middle Temple Lane. +The Treasury Counsel put a straight question to him at once. +</p> + +<p> +“You see that gentleman,” he said, pointing to Aylmore. “Do +you know him as an inmate of the Temple?” +</p> + +<p> +The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, certainly, sir!” he answered. “Quite well, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. And now—what name do you know him by?” +</p> + +<p> +The man grew evidently more bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +“Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!” he replied. “Mr. +Anderson!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<br/> +UNDER SUSPICION</h2> + +<p> +A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed court as +this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified many +things—that there were people present who had expected some such dramatic +development; that there were others present who had not; that the answer itself +was only a prelude to further developments. And Spargo, looking narrowly about +him, saw that the answer had aroused different feelings in Aylmore’s two +daughters. The elder one had dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the +younger was sitting bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine +bewilderment. And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her. +</p> + +<p> +But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no stopping the +Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in his own merciless +fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the Coroner, had whispered a word to +the solicitor who sat close by him, and now he turned again to the witness. +</p> + +<p> +“So you know that gentleman—make sure now—as Mr. Anderson, an +inmate of the Temple?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know him by any other name?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you known him by that name?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say two or three years, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“See him go in and out regularly?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir—not regularly.” +</p> + +<p> +“How often, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now and then, sir—perhaps once a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson’s goings-in-and-out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn’t see +him again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You say ‘nights.’ Do I understand that you never see Mr. +Anderson except at night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen him except at night. Always about the +same time, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just about midnight, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, just after twelve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir; there was another gentleman with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remember anything about that other gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the +other gentleman had grey clothes on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had grey clothes on. You didn’t see his face?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to remember it, sir. I don’t remember anything but what +I’ve told you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr. +Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they’d passed +through?” +</p> + +<p> +“Straight up the Lane, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know where Mr. Anderson’s rooms in the Temple are?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your +lodge?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple +Lane next morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I didn’t. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen +who live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the matter +any particular thought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to come +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, never, to anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but Mr. +Anderson?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson.” +</p> + +<p> +The Coroner glanced at the Counsel. +</p> + +<p> +“I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give the +explanation he offered a few minutes ago,” he said. “Do you suggest +anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he +should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination again on his +oath,” replied the Counsel. “The matter is in your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +The Coroner turned to Aylmore. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you object to that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. +</p> + +<p> +“I object to nothing,” he said in clear tones, “except to +being asked to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and +cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you like, +arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will answer them +so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me questions about matters of +twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or not as I see fit. And I may as +well say that I will take all the consequences of my silence or my +speech.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel rose again. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Mr. Aylmore,” he said. “I will put certain +questions to you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was that quite true as regards yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite true—absolutely true.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!” +</p> + +<p> +“Equally true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these +witnesses came on the scene, was not true?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true.” +</p> + +<p> +“True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on +Waterloo Bridge!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the Anglo-Orient +Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly afterwards we +parted—I did not say where we parted. I see there is a shorthand writer +here who is taking everything down—ask him if that is not exactly what I +said?” +</p> + +<p> +A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the Treasury +Counsel showed plain annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of +ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open streets +after crossing Waterloo Bridge,” he said. “Now—?” +</p> + +<p> +Aylmore smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten any +more than I am for your understanding,” he said, with a sneer. “I +said what I now repeat—Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, and +shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have +admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely correct, +perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did part?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will—willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain +Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then—to reiterate—it was you who took Marbury into the +Temple that night?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night.” +</p> + +<p> +There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate was +fact—solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible course +of events which he had not anticipated. +</p> + +<p> +“That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain +danger to yourself in making it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Why did you not make it before?” +</p> + +<p> +“For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for the +purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I asked to be +allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as soon as Mr. Lyell had +left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am willing to make it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make it then.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is simply this,” said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. “I +have found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set of +chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally—very occasionally, as +a rule—go late at night. I also found it convenient, for my own +reasons—with which, I think, no one has anything to do—to rent +those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my chambers that +Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight with which we are +dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at the very outside: I +parted from him at my outer door, and I understood that he would leave the +Temple by the way we had entered and would drive or walk straight back to his +hotel. That is the whole truth. I wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told +all this at first. I had reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered +necessary, that I parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after +midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all this +at first?” asked the Treasury Counsel. +</p> + +<p> +“Reasons which are private to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell them to the court?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in +Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for him +for twenty years or more.” +</p> + +<p> +“A document of importance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of very great importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would have it on him when he was—as we believe he +was—murdered and robbed?” +</p> + +<p> +“He had it on him when he left me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell us what it was?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“In fact, you won’t tell us any more than you choose to +tell?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact +that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told this +court?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I shall not answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more +about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“I also decline to answer that.” +</p> + +<p> +The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned to the +Coroner. +</p> + +<p> +“I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry,” he said +quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“For a week,” assented the Coroner, turning to the jury. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming— +spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all mixed +up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily reckoning up the +value of the new complexions put on everything by the day’s work, +suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found himself gazing at Jessie +Aylmore. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER FOURTEEN<br/> +THE SILVER TICKET</h2> + +<p> +With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl aside from +the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a quiet by-street. +He looked down at her as she stood recovering her breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” he said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Spargo. “But—the others? Your +sister?—Breton?” +</p> + +<p> +“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered. “They +knew I did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Tea,” he said, “is what you want. I know a queer, +old-fashioned place close by here where you can get the best China tea in +London. Come and have some.” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo said +nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, his +fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had installed himself and his +companion in a quiet nook in the old tea-house he had told her of, and had +given an order for tea and hot tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. +Then he turned to her. +</p> + +<p> +“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. “I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The girl gave him a searching look. +</p> + +<p> +“Ronald Breton says you’re the man who’s written all those +special articles in the <i>Watchman</i> about the Marbury case,” she +answered. “Are you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’re a man of great influence,” she went on. +“You can stir the public mind. Mr. Spargo—what are you going to +write about my father and today’s proceedings?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He seized, +without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, and bit a great +lump out of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Frankly,” he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, +“frankly, I don’t know. I don’t know—yet. But +I’ll tell you this—it’s best to be candid—I +shouldn’t allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making up my +conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the unconventionality +and brusqueness of his manners. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not wanting to prejudice or bias you,” she said. +“All I want is that you should be very sure before you +say—anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be sure,” said Spargo. “Don’t bother. Is +the tea all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beautiful!” she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at +her again. “Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think +about—about what has just happened?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally ornamented with +butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy hair. Then he ate more +tea-cake and gulped more tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I’m no great hand at +talking. I can write pretty decently when I’ve a good story to tell, but +I don’t talk an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless +I’ve got a pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I +think. When I write my article this evening, I’ll get all these things +marshalled in proper form, and I shall write clearly about ’em. But +I’ll tell you one thing I do think—I wish your father had made a +clean breast of things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had +told everything when he first went into that box.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Because he’s now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion +around himself. People’ll think—Heaven knows what they’ll +think! They already know that he knows more about Marbury than he’ll +tell, that—” +</p> + +<p> +“But does he?” she interrupted quickly. “Do you think he +does?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes!” replied Spargo, with emphasis. “I do. A lot more! If +he had only been explicit at first—however, he wasn’t. Now +it’s done. As things stand—look here, does it strike you that your +father is in a very serious position?” +</p> + +<p> +“Serious?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Dangerous! Here’s the fact—he’s admitted that he took +Marbury to his rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning +Marbury’s found robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards +off!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of +robbing him of whatever he had on him?” she laughed scornfully. “My +father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“May be,” answered Spargo. “But millionaires have been known +to murder men who held secrets.” +</p> + +<p> +“Secrets!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Have some more tea,” said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. +“Look here—this way it is. The theory that people—some +people—will build up (I won’t say that it hasn’t suggested +itself to me) is this:—There’s some mystery about the relationship, +acquaintanceship, connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury +twenty odd years ago. Must be. There’s some mystery about your +father’s life, twenty odd years ago. Must be—or else he’d +have answered those questions. Very well. ‘Ha, ha!’ says the +general public. ‘Now we have it!’ ‘Marbury,’ says the +general public, ‘was a man who had a hold on Aylmore. He turned up. +Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him to preserve his own secret, and +robbed him of all he had on him as a blind.’ Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“You think—people will say that?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Cock-sure! They’re saying it. Heard half a dozen of ’em say +it, in more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, +they’ll say it. Why, what else could they say?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then she +turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new interest in what +remained of the tea-cakes. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that what you’re going to say in your article tonight?” +she asked, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” replied Spargo, promptly. “It isn’t. I’m +going to sit on the fence tonight. Besides, the case is <i>sub judice</i>. All +I’m going to do is to tell, in my way, what took place at the +inquest.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on +Spargo’s big fist. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it what you think?” she asked in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Honour bright, no!” exclaimed Spargo. “It +isn’t—it isn’t! I don’t think it. I think there’s +a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of Marbury’s death, and I +think your father knows an enormous lot about Marbury that he won’t tell, +but I’m certain sure that he neither killed Marbury nor knows anything +whatever about his death. And as I’m out to clear this mystery up, and +mean to do it, nothing’ll make me more glad than to clear your father. I +say, do have some more tea-cake? We’ll have fresh ones—and fresh +tea.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you,” she said smiling. “And thank you for what +you’ve just said. I’m going now, Mr. Spargo. You’ve done me +good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, rot!” exclaimed Spargo. “Nothing—nothing! +I’ve just told you what I’m thinking. You must go?…” +</p> + +<p> +He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood vacantly +staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the shoulder. +Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!” he said. “Well, +it’s a pleasant change to squire young ladies after being all day in that +court. Look here, are you going to start your writing just now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not going to start my writing as you call it, until after +I’ve dined at seven o’clock and given myself time to digest my +modest dinner,” answered Spargo. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather +box,” said Rathbury. “I’ve got it in my room, and I’d +like to examine it for myself. Come on!” +</p> + +<p> +“The thing’s empty,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“There might be a false bottom in it,” remarked Rathbury. +“One never knows. Here, jump into this!” +</p> + +<p> +He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the driver go +straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and himself into the +drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen him before. +</p> + +<p> +“What d’ye think of today’s doings, Spargo?” he asked, +as he proceeded to unlock a cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Spargo, “that some of you fellows must have +had your ears set to tingling.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so,” assented Rathbury. “Of course, the next +thing’ll be to find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. +When a man won’t tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was +exactly doing, what his precise relationship with another man was—why, +then, you’ve just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at +work on the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already—you bet! +Well, now, Spargo, here’s the famous box.” +</p> + +<p> +The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which he had +been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the lid and looked +inside, measuring the inner capacity against the exterior lines. +</p> + +<p> +“No false bottom in that, Rathbury,” he said. “There’s +just the outer leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging +stuff, and that’s all. There’s no room for any false bottom or +anything of that sort, d’you see?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury also sized up the box’s capacity. +</p> + +<p> +“Looks like it,” he said disappointedly. “Well, what about +the lid, then? I remember there was an old box like this in my +grandmother’s farmhouse, where I was reared—there was a pocket in +the lid. Let’s see if there’s anything of the sort here?” +</p> + +<p> +He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the tips of +his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a sharp exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“By George, Spargo!” he said. “I don’t know about any +pocket, but there’s something under this lining. Feels like—here, +you feel. There—and there.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s so,” he agreed. “Feels like two +cards—a large and a small one. And the small one’s harder than the +other. Better cut that lining out, Rathbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, “is just +what I’m going to do. We’ll cut along this seam.” +</p> + +<p> +He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining of the +lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects which he +dropped on his blotting pad. +</p> + +<p> +“A child’s photograph,” he said, glancing at one of them. +“But what on earth is that?” +</p> + +<p> +The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, much-worn +silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it was what seemed +to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost obliterated by rubbing; on the +other, similarly worn down by friction, was the figure of a horse. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a curious object,” remarked Spargo, picking it up. +“I never saw anything like that before. What can it be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know—I never saw anything of the sort either,” +said Rathbury. “Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. +Ah—you see, the photographer’s name and address have been torn away +or broken off—there’s nothing left but just two letters of +what’s apparently been the name of the town—see. +Er—that’s all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual +glance at the baby’s portrait. He picked up the silver ticket again and +turned it over and over. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Let me take this silver +thing. I know where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest +care of it, and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. +No connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right,” said Spargo. “Trust me.” +</p> + +<p> +He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, wondering +about this singular find. And when he had written his article that evening, and +seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street intent on seeking peculiar +information. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER FIFTEEN<br/> +MARKET MILCASTER</h2> + +<p> +The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned out of +the <i>Watchman</i> office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and knowledge in +one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not elsewhere in the +world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of course, a club; otherwise it +would not have been what it was. It is the simplest thing in life, in England, +at any rate, to form a club of congenial spirits. You get so many of your +choice friends and acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves +under a name of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to +your means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, and +there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what you please on +your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a small paradise of your +own of this description than to lounge about Fleet Street bars. +</p> + +<p> +The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the Octoneumenoi. +Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and Greek was a dark +mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate you once reached the +portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. You turned out of Fleet +Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as if you might suddenly find +yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. Then you suddenly dived down +another alley and found yourself in a small court, with high walls around you +and a smell of printer’s ink in your nose and a whirring of printing +presses in your ears. You made another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered +by bales of paper, crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after +falling over a few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up +past various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After a +lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and found it +heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself in a small +entresol, somewhat artistically painted—the whole and sole work of an +artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of lumber and +paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you saw the brass +plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal legal notice that this +club was duly registered and so on, and if you were a member you went in, and +if you weren’t a member you tinkled an electric bell and asked to see a +member—if you knew one. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the bell, and +asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a young gentleman +with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly hair that would have +done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course and shook Spargo by the hand +until his teeth rattled. +</p> + +<p> +“Had we known you were coming,” said Mr. Starkey, “we’d +have had a brass band on the stairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to come in,” remarked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure!” said Mr. Starkey. “That’s what you’ve +come for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, stand out of the way, then, and let’s get in,” said +Spargo. “Look here,” he continued when they had penetrated into a +small vestibule, “doesn’t old Crowfoot turn in here about this time +every night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his nose +in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily column wherein +he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects of their spotting a +winner tomorrow,” answered Mr. Starkey. “It’s five minutes to +his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?” +</p> + +<p> +“A word with him,” answered Spargo. “A mere word—or +two.” +</p> + +<p> +He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and sound that +for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But the smoke was +gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the canopy Spargo made out +various groups of men of all ages, sitting around small tables, smoking and +drinking, and all talking as if the great object of their lives was to get as +many words as possible out of their mouths in the shortest possible time. In +the further corner was a small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi +very extra special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, +Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal +regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a route-map +of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his glass. +“Phew!—what an atmosphere!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. +“I’m on the house committee now, and I brought that very matter up +at our last meeting. But Templeson, of the <i>Bulletin</i>—you know +Templeson—he says what we want is a wine-cooler to stand under that +sideboard—says no club is proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows +a chap—second-hand dealer, don’t you know—what has a beauty +to dispose of in old Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, +Spargo, old man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? +You see—” +</p> + +<p> +“There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, +Starkey, before anybody else collars him.” +</p> + +<p> +Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously came a +man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. He was a tall, +elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a big, sweeping moustache +stood well out against a square-cut jaw and beneath a prominent nose; a pair of +keen blue eyes looked out from beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore +neither hat nor cap; his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown +tweed; he looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his +flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive cricket +clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their wearer had been a +mighty figure in the public eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. +“Crowfoot, Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said +Spargo. “Here, I’ll get him myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like +a pandemonium.” +</p> + +<p> +Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. +</p> + +<p> +“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s +companionable. What is it, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I should +say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as any +man writing about ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden +flash of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, +you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just +now, anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with +old sporting affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you +to be the only man I know of that could tell anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up silver +ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on Crowfoot’s +outstretched palm. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly +turned the silver ticket over. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it +is?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of +these things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a +young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young +’un!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what is it?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic device +was almost worn away. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old +racecourse at Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s +what it is. One of the old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of +Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the +obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is! +Bless me!—most interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. +“Don’t know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver +ticket over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in +Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got gradually +silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in June every year. +It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell through. I went to it +often when I was a lad—often!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like to +call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses of +the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a +great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its possessor—for +life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, anywhere. It also +gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on earth did you get this, +Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting it in his +purse. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The +fact is, I can’t tell you where I got it just now, but I’ll promise +you that I will tell you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue’s +free to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some mystery, eh?” suggested Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +“Considerable,” answered Spargo. “Don’t mention to +anyone that I showed it to you. You shall know everything eventually.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, all right, my boy, all right!” said Crowfoot. “Odd how +things turn up, isn’t it? Now, I’ll wager anything that there +aren’t half a dozen of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. +As I said, there were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. +They were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I’ve +been in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I’ve +seen these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces—oh, +yes!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo caught at a notion. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you get to Market Milcaster?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Paddington,” replied Crowfoot. “It’s a goodish +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” said Spargo, “if there’s any old sporting +man there who could remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for +instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Old sporting man!” exclaimed Crowfoot. “Egad!—but no, +he must be dead—anyhow, if he isn’t dead, he must be a veritable +patriarch. Old Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare +sportsman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may go down there,” said Spargo. “I’ll see if +he’s alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, if you do go down,” suggested Crowfoot, “go to the old +‘Yellow Dragon’ in the High Street, a fine old place. +Quarterpage’s place of business and his private house were exactly +opposite the ‘Dragon.’ But I’m afraid you’ll find him +dead—it’s five and twenty years since I was in Market Milcaster, +and he was an old bird then. Let’s see, now. If Old Ben Quarterpage is +alive, Spargo, he’ll be ninety years of age!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my +bit of experience,” said Spargo. “I know one—now—my own +grandfather. Well, the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I’ll tell you all +about it some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have another drink?” suggested Crowfoot. +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; he still +had something to do. And he got himself away from the Octoneumenoi, in spite of +Starkey, who wished to start a general debate on the wisest way of expending +the club’s ready money balance, and went back to the <i>Watchman</i>, and +there he sought the presence of the editor, and in spite of the fact that it +was the busiest hour of the night, saw him and remained closeted with him for +the extraordinary space of ten minutes. And after that Spargo went home and +fell into bed. +</p> + +<p> +But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at +Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market Milcaster, and +in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an old-fashioned bedroom +looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And there, right opposite him, he +saw an ancient house, old brick, ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over +the door of which was the name, <i>Benjamin Quarterpage</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER SIXTEEN<br/> +THE “YELLOW DRAGON”</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in that +old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in further speculations +on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no particularly clear plan. +The one thing he was certain of was that in the old leather box which the man +whom he knew as John Marbury had deposited with the London and Universal Safe +Deposit Company, he and Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets +of Market Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market +Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to trace it. +How was he going to set about this difficult task? +</p> + +<p> +“The first thing,” said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, +“is to have a look round. That’ll be no long job.” +</p> + +<p> +For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from the +station to the “Yellow Dragon” Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a +very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide thoroughfare—the +High Street—with smaller streets leading from it on either side. In the +High Street seemed to be everything that the town could show—the ancient +parish church, the town hall, the market cross, the principal houses and shops, +the bridge, beneath which ran the river whereon ships had once come up to the +town before its mouth, four miles away, became impassably silted up. It was a +bright, clean, little town, but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo +had been quick to notice that in the “Yellow Dragon,” a big, +rambling old hostelry, reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be +little doing. He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his +arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and fifty +people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, evidently +tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like an artist, and an +unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in it. There was little +traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo’s windows; little passage of +people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a countryman drove a lazy cow as +lazily along; there a farmer in his light cart sat idly chatting with an +aproned tradesman, who had come out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything +lay the quiet of the sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open +windows stole a faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows +outside the old houses. +</p> + +<p> +“A veritable Sleepy Hollow,” mused Spargo. “Let’s go +down and see if there’s anybody to talk to. Great Scott!—to think +that I was in the poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours +ago!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally landed +in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure instinct turned +into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he entered the place. This was a +roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed apartment, looking out upon the High Street, +and was furnished and ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town +hotels. There were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which +had certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a +century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, and an +old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; there were +foxes’ masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case on a +side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and an antique +snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, old-fashioned bar in a +corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young woman seated behind it, who was +yawning over a piece of fancy needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered +as Andromeda may have looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And +Spargo, treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany +it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair. +</p> + +<p> +“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears +to me to be a very quiet place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. +Quiet. I see that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two +shades of emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, +that the place is undoubtedly quiet.” +</p> + +<p> +The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a new +specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and coming out into +the room took a chair near his own. +</p> + +<p> +“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked. +“It’s about all that one ever does see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much +of inanition?” +</p> + +<p> +The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you +can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured +Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in this +town, then?” he added in a louder voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I +came here from Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In +Birmingham you see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten +months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dulness. +You must have an antidote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word +for Market Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in +here of a morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks +in—perhaps during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit +round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, +indeed!—what they want in Market Milcaster is new times.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo pricked up his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about +old times,” he said. “I love it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked +the barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if +you don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you +did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen drop in +here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that they +couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about old +days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very old men?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. +Quarterpage, across the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do +any business now—they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you +wouldn’t take him for more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, +further down the street—he’s eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. +Kaye—they’re regular patriarchs. I’ve sat here and listened +to them till I believe I could write a history of Market Milcaster since the +year One.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” +said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the barmaid’s +spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town until seven +o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no +more people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo was +glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the bar-parlour, where he +took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred part in which the old townsmen +had been reported to him to sit. +</p> + +<p> +“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the +barmaid, warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their +special pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if +anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and +you’ll hear all they’ve got to say.” +</p> + +<p> +To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, twenty-four +hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, the proceedings of +that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow Dragon” at Market +Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the eighteenth century. Precisely +as the clock struck eight and a bell began to toll somewhere in the recesses of +the High Street, an old gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching +Spargo’s eye, gave him a glance which showed that the play was about to +begin. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re +first tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and +became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black clothes, +with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe of grey whisker +and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times round his neck, and by +the expression of his countenance was inclined to look on life severely. +“Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No, but here’s +Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid. +</p> + +<p> +Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a little, +dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting cut, and of very +loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a flower in his lapel, and a +tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish angle. The other was a big, portly, +bearded man with a Falstaffian swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the +barmaid as he entered, and gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he +passed her. These two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially +designed to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly +as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s +a symposium.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. +“Grandpa’ll be here in a minute. We’ll start fair.” +</p> + +<p> +The barmaid glanced out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she +announced. “Shall I put the things on the table?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. +“Have all in readiness.” +</p> + +<p> +The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, set out +upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for making punch, a +box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she had just completed this +interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse when the door opened again +and in walked one of the most remarkable old men Spargo had ever seen. And by +this time, knowing that this was the venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of +whom Crowfoot had told him, he took good stock of the newcomer as he took his +place amongst his friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of +delight which were positively boyish. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety—a middle-sized, +sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, clear-eyed, and +strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was ruddy as a sun-warmed +pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his hand was steady as a rock. His +clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay +as if he had been going to a fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had +a pretty long lease of life before him even at his age. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began their +symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them—the five had the +end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the punch with all +due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each man lighted his pipe or +took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag. Other folk came and went; the old +gentlemen were oblivious of anything but their own talk. Now and then a young +gentleman of the town dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer +and to dally in the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the +patriarchs: as for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when she said +that she believed she could write a history of Market Milcaster since the year +One. After discussing the weather, the local events of the day, and various +personal matters, the old fellows got to reminiscences of the past, telling +tale after tale, recalling incident upon incident of long years before. At last +they turned to memories of racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo +determined on a bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking +the silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device uppermost, on +the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a polite bow, said +quietly: +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN<br/> +MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK</h2> + +<p> +If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch—the second of +the evening—or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could +scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon them by +his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of conversation died +out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his cigar out of his mouth as +if he had suddenly discovered that he was sucking a stick of poison; all lifted +astonished faces to the interrupter, staring from him to the shining object +exhibited in his outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. +Quarterpage, to whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, +pointing with great <i>empressement</i> to the ticket. +</p> + +<p> +“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to +tremble a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a +little with the matter. “You recognize it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and +so does every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a +stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, young +gentleman, in this town.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should +I get it in this town if I’m a stranger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot +conceive how any person in the town who is in possession of one of +those—what shall we call them—heirlooms?—yes, heirlooms of +antiquity, could possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask +again—Where did you get that, young gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a +silent sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you +will tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, much +worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings of somebody or +something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. But—what is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous grunts. Then +Mr. Quarterpage spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, +young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges in +respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now unfortunately a +thing of the past,” he added. “Fifty—aye, forty!—years +ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was—was—” +</p> + +<p> +“A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It was a grand +thing—a very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured—are +treasured. And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. +</p> + +<p> +“I found this ticket—under mysterious circumstances—in +London,” he answered. “I want to trace it. I want to know who its +original owner was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. +</p> + +<p> +“Wonderful!” he said. “Wonderful! He found this +ticket—one of our famous fifty—in London, and under mysterious +circumstances. He wants to trace it—he wants to know to whom it belonged! +That is why he has come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I +appeal to you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in +Market Milcaster for—I don’t know how many years?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody looking at him +as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the whole town. +</p> + +<p> +“But—why?” he asked, showing great surprise. +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Why? He asks—why? +Because, young gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these +friends of mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our +fifty tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families to +whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most unexplainably +mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market Milcaster +family.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that +until the previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he +wisely refrained. “No, I’m certainly not,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not +drawing to a close—it is already within a few minutes of our departure, +young gentleman—I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from +memory, give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the +race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud +suit. “Never was such a memory as yours, never!” +</p> + +<p> +“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said +the fat man. “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.” +</p> + +<p> +“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It’s the +greatest blessing I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, +with a little thought. And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty +families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or if not +close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out how this young +gentleman—from London, did you say, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“From London,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of our +tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “It is—wonderful! But I +tell you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to +breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books and +papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of that ticket +was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage—Benjamin Quarterpage—and I reside +at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my breakfast hour is +nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily welcome!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo made his best bow. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly obliged by your kind +invitation, and I shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the +moment.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself in an +old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay with summer +flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, to Mr. Quarterpage, +Junior—a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always referred to by his father as +something quite juvenile—and to Miss Quarterpage, a young-old lady of +something a little less elderly than her brother, and to a breakfast table +bounteously spread with all the choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, +Senior, was as fresh and rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to +encounter so old a man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, +and of such a vigorous and healthy appetite. +</p> + +<p> +Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo’s possession +of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. Quarterpage was +still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had judged it well to enlighten +his host as to who he was, and had exhibited a letter with which the editor of +the <i>Watchman</i> had furnished him, told how in the exercise of his +journalistic duties he had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. +But he made no mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first +whither Mr. Quarterpage’s revelations would lead him. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no idea, Mr. Spargo,” said the old gentleman, when, +breakfast over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in +which were abundant evidences of the host’s taste in sporting matters; +“you have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of +one of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and +just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my dear sir, +were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the year 1781. They were +made in the town by a local silversmith, whose great-great-grandson still +carries on the business. The fifty were distributed amongst the fifty leading +burgesses of the town to be kept in their families for ever—nobody ever +anticipated in those days that our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The +ticket carried great privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his +family, male and female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the +holder himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand +race banquet—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has +been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the holder +of a silver ticket was to be somebody.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as +heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. +“They were dealt with as I dealt with mine—framed on velvet, and +hung up—or locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the +greatest care of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the +‘Dragon,’ that I could repeat the names of all the families who +held these tickets. So I can. But here”—the old gentleman drew out +a drawer and produced from it a parchment-bound book which he handled with +great reverence—“here is a little volume of my own +handwriting—memoranda relating to Market Milcaster Races—in which +is a list of the original holders, together with another list showing who held +the tickets when the races were given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that +by going through the second list, I could trace every ticket—except the +one you have in your purse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Every one! For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, +“the families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people +here in Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re +just outside the town, or they’re not far away. I can’t conceive +how the ticket you have—and it’s genuine enough—could ever +get out of possession of one of these families, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of +possession. I told you it was found in the lining of a box—that box +belonged to a dead man.” +</p> + +<p> +“A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “A dead man! Who +could—ah! Perhaps—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!—an idea. I +remember something now that I had never thought of.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and turned +over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. He pointed +this out to Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the +race-meetings came to an end,” he said. “If you were acquainted +with this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known +inhabitants—all, of course, burgesses. There’s mine, you +see—Quarterpage. There’s Lummis, there’s Kaye, there’s +Skene, there’s Templeby—the gentlemen you saw last night. All good +old town names. They all are—on this list. I know every family mentioned. +The holders of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the +tickets. Yes—and now that I think of it, there’s only one man who +held a ticket when this list was made about whom I don’t know +anything—at least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which +you’ve found must have been his. But I thought—I thought somebody +else had it!” +</p> + +<p> +“And this man, sir? Who was he?” asked Spargo, intuitively +conscious that he was coming to news. “Is his name there?” +</p> + +<p> +The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. +</p> + +<p> +“There it is!” he said. “John Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo bent over the fine writing. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, John Maitland,” he observed. “And who was John +Maitland?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many drawers in an +ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old newspapers, carefully +sorted into small bundles and tied up. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. +Spargo,” he said, “you would have known who John Maitland was. For +some time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place—aye, and in this +corner of the world. But—aye, here it is—the newspaper of October +5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’ll find in this old newspaper who John +Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I’ll tell you what to do. +I’ve just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day’s +business over with my son—you take this newspaper out into the garden +there with one of these cigars, and read what’ll you find in it, and when +you’ve read that we’ll have some more talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN<br/> +AN OLD NEWSPAPER</h2> + +<p> +As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the middle page, +headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar and settled down to +read. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS<br/> +“TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND +</p> + +<p> +“The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on +Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the Recorder, Henry +John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on the bench by the +Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman Pettiford), the Vicar of +Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton, M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., +Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., +Captain Murrill, J.P., and other magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded +attendance of the public in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, +ex-manager of the Market Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court +were filled with the <i>élite</i> of the town and neighbourhood, including a +considerable number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in the +proceedings. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the +very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the occasion of +his last two official visits to Market Milcaster—he referred to the fact +that on both those occasions his friend the Worshipful Mayor had been able to +present him with a pair of white gloves—was not to be repeated on the +present occasion. It would be their sad and regrettable lot to have before them +a fellow-townsman whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position +in the life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the +most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the offence of +embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many years been the +trusted manager, and with which he had been connected all his life since his +school days. He understood that the prisoner who would shortly be put before +the court on his trial was about to plead guilty, and there would accordingly +be no need for him to direct the gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this +matter—what he had to say respecting the gravity and even enormity of the +offence he would reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury +on the merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later period +of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally returned a true +bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen from well-known burgesses +of the town having been duly sworn. +</p> + +<p> +“JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street, +Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd, 1891, +the sum of £4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, the Market +Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to his own use. The +prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most acutely, and who looked very +pale and much worn, was represented by Mr. Charles Doolittle, the well-known +barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. Stephens, K.C., appeared on behalf of the +prosecution. +</p> + +<p> +“Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any +desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think, had taken +a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular count in the +indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, in the interests of +justice, to set forth to the Court some particulars of the defalcations which +had arisen through the prisoner’s much lamented dishonesty. He proposed +to offer a clear and succinct account of the matter. The prisoner, John +Maitland, was the last of an old Market Milcaster family—he was, in fact, +he believed, with the exception of his own infant son, the very last of the +race. His father had been manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself had +entered the service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he left the local +Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at the age of thirty-two; he +had therefore occupied this highest position of trust for ten years. His +directors had the fullest confidence in him; they relied on his honesty and his +honour; they gave him discretionary powers such as no bank-manager, probably, +ever enjoyed or held before. In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all +intents and purposes, the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other words he +was allowed full control over everything, and given full licence to do what he +liked. Whether the directors were wise in extending such liberty to even the +most trusted servant, it was not for him (Mr. Stephens) to say; it was some +consolation, under the circumstances, to know that the loss would fall upon the +directors, inasmuch as they themselves held nearly the whole of the shares. But +he had to speak of the loss—of the serious defalcations which Maitland +had committed. The prisoner had wisely pleaded guilty to the first count of the +indictment. But there were no less than seventeen counts in the indictment. He +had pleaded guilty to embezzling a sum of £4,875 odd. But the total amount of +the defalcations, comprised in the seventeen counts, was no less—it +seemed a most amazing sum!—than £221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the +fact—the banking company had been robbed of over two hundred thousand +pounds by the prisoner in the dock before a mere accident, the most trifling +chance, had revealed to the astounded directors that he was robbing them at +all. And the most serious feature of the whole case was that not one penny of +this money had been, or ever could be, recovered. He believed that the +prisoner’s learned counsel was about to urge upon the Court that the +prisoner himself had been tricked and deceived by another man, unfortunately +not before the Court—a man, he understood, also well known in Market +Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore could not be called, but whether he +was so tricked or deceived was no excuse for his clever and wholesale robbing +of his employers. He had thought it necessary to put these facts—which +would not be denied—before the Court, in order that it might be known how +heavy the defalcations really had been, and that they should be considered in +dealing with the prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part of +the vast sum concerned. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the +remotest chance—the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting on +his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom he had just +made reference. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few words +to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens for the +considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had outlined the +main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the prisoner’s +guilt. But, on prisoner’s behalf, he desired to tell the true story as to +how these things came to be. Until as recently as three years previously the +prisoner had never made the slightest deviation from the straight path of +integrity. Unfortunately for him, and, he believed, for some others in Market +Milcaster, there came to the town three years before the present proceedings, a +man named Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a +stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible manners, +Chamberlayne attracted a good many people—amongst them his unfortunate +client. It was matter of common knowledge that Chamberlayne had induced +numerous persons in Market Milcaster to enter into financial transactions with +him; it was matter of common repute that those transactions had not always +turned out well for Chamberlayne’s clients. Unhappily for himself, +Maitland had great faith in Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions +with him in a large way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was +involved to vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and his methods, +he had entrusted him with very large sums of money. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was to +understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner’s own money. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred to +were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in Chamberlayne +that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and that these sums would be +repaid, and that a vast profit would result from their use. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put the +profit into his own pockets. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the two +hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question, Chamberlayne had had +the immediate handling of at least two hundred thousand, and he, the prisoner, +had not the ghost of a notion as to what Chamberlayne had done with it. +Unfortunately for everybody, for the bank, for some other people, and +especially for his unhappy client, Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as +these proceedings were instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible +to trace anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious +circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr. +Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder, might +think fit to pass. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few remarks +as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the unfortunate man in the +dock was that until three years ago he had borne a most exemplary character, +and had never committed a dishonest action. It had been his misfortune, his +folly, to allow a plausible man to persuade him to these acts of dishonesty. +That man had been called to another account, and the prisoner was left to bear +the consequences of his association with him. It seemed as if Chamberlayne had +made away with the money for his own purposes, and it might be that it would +yet be recovered. He would only ask the Court to remember the prisoner’s +antecedents and his previous good conduct, and to bear in mind that whatever +his near future might be he was, in a commercial sense, ruined for life. +</p> + +<p> +“The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a single +word of valid excuse for Maitland’s conduct. Such dishonesty must be +punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go to penal +servitude for ten years. +</p> + +<p> +“Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town +later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain points in +it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the house—to see old +Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER NINETEEN<br/> +THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY</h2> + +<p> +“I perceive, sir,” said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the +library, “that you have read the account of the Maitland trial.” +</p> + +<p> +“Twice,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have come to the conclusion that—but what conclusion have +you come to?” asked Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland’s property,” +said Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” agreed the old gentleman. “I think so—I +can’t think anything else. But I was under the impression that I could +have accounted for that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the other +forty-nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—and how?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a decanter +and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully polished the glasses +with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set glasses and decanter on a +table in the window, motioning Spargo to take a chair in proximity thereto. He +himself pulled up his own elbow-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll take a glass of my old brown sherry,” he said. +“Though I say it as shouldn’t, as the saying goes, I don’t +think you could find better brown sherry than that from Land’s End to +Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr. Spargo—no, nor further north either, where they +used to have good taste in liquor in my young days! Well, here’s your +good health, sir, and I’ll tell you about Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m curious,” said Spargo. “And about more than +Maitland. I want to know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper +report. I want to know something about the man referred to so much—the +stockbroker, Chamberlayne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. “I thought that +would touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when +Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then about two +years old. The child’s mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss Baylis, +appeared on the scene—Maitland had married his wife from a +distance—and took possession of the child and of Maitland’s +personal effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, +and all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small +personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket. And she +may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she took the child +away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in Market Milcaster. +Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things removed to Dartmoor, and +there he served his term. There were people who were very anxious to get hold +of him when he came out—the bank people, for they believed that he knew +more about the disposition of that money than he’d ever told, and they +wanted to induce him to tell what they hoped he knew—between ourselves, +Mr. Spargo, they were going to make it worth his while to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old gentleman +talked. +</p> + +<p> +“Then they didn’t believe what his counsel said—that +Chamberlayne got all the money?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No—nor anybody else!” he answered. “There was a strong +idea in the town—you’ll see why afterwards—that it was all a +put-up job, and that Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that +there was a nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the +bank people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special agent to +meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some mistake +arose—when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody’s ever +heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis has.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where does this Miss Baylis live?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “She did +live in Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I +have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after +Maitland’s release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to +trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in +Brighton, she’d completely disappeared, with the child, five years +before. So there wasn’t a clue to Maitland. He served his time—made +a model prisoner—they did find that much out!—earned the maximum +remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there’s a +theory about him in this very town to this very day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This. That he’s now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what +he got from the bank,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They say that the +sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the child, she +went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland, and that he went off +to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that was possible,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite possible, sir. But now,” continued the old gentleman, +replenishing the glasses, “now we come on to the Chamberlayne story. +It’s a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at first +sight, I’ll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions. +Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster—I don’t know +from where—in 1886—five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was +then about Maitland’s age—a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came +as clerk to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas’s +place is still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though +old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this Chamberlayne; he +made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old Vallas paid him a rare good +salary. He settled down in the town, and he married a town girl, one of the +Corkindales, the saddlers, when he’d been here three years. Unfortunately +she died in childbirth within a year of their marriage. It was very soon after +that that Chamberlayne threw up his post at Vallas’s, and started +business as a stock-and-share broker. He’d been a saving man; he’d +got a nice bit of money with his wife; he always let it be known that he had +money of his own, and he started in a good way. He was a man of the most +plausible manners: he’d have coaxed butter out of a dog’s throat if +he’d wanted to. The moneyed men of the town believed in him—I +believed in him myself, Mr. Spargo—I’d many a transaction with him, +and I never lost aught by him—on the contrary, he did very well for me. +He did well for most of his clients—there were, of course, ups and downs, +but on the whole he satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, +nobody ever knew what was going on between him and Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“I gather from this report,” said Spargo, “that everything +came out suddenly—unexpectedly?” +</p> + +<p> +“That was so, sir,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “Sudden? +Unexpected? Aye, as a crack of thunder on a fine winter’s day. Nobody had +the ghost of a notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected +in the town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can +assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on that +grand jury as I did—I was its foreman, sir,—and hear a man +sentenced that you’d regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!” +</p> + +<p> +“How was the thing discovered?” asked Spargo, anxious to get at +facts. +</p> + +<p> +“In this way,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “The Market Milcaster +Bank is in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the +town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father, a young +Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a shrewd, keen +young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about Maitland, and he insisted +on the other partners consenting to a special investigation, and on their +making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught before he had a chance. But +we’re talking about Chamberlayne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, about Chamberlayne,” agreed Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening,” continued Mr. +Quarterpage. “Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town like +wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time—aye, and had +been for years—a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don’t +think there could have been more surprise if we’d heard that the Vicar +had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all over the +place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear that news like +everybody else. But it was remembered, and often remarked upon afterwards, that +from the moment of Maitland’s arrest nobody in Market Milcaster ever had +speech with Chamberlayne again. After his wife’s death he’d taken +to spending an hour or so of an evening across there at the +‘Dragon,’ where you saw me and my friends last night, but on that +night he didn’t go to the ‘Dragon.’ And next morning he +caught the eight o’clock train to London. He happened to remark to the +stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected to be back late that +night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. But Chamberlayne +didn’t come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn’t come back to +Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back it was in a +coffin!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead?” exclaimed Spargo. “That was sudden!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very sudden,” agreed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, sir, he came +back in his coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he’d +spoken of being back, there came a telegram here to say that he’d died +very suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his +brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler—you’ll find him down the +street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew of +Chamberlayne’s, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, and +was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that telegram, Mr. +Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne had had a sudden +seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he’d died shortly +afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and friends in London, his +brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn’t feel that there was any necessity +for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a wire to Stephen Chamberlayne +asking if there was aught he could do. And next morning came another wire from +Stephen saying that no inquest would be necessary, as the doctor had been +present and able to certify the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all +arrangements for the funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a +vault in our cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury +him in it, with her.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and theories; he +was taking everything in. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “on the second day after +that, they brought Chamberlayne’s body down. Three of ’em came with +it—Stephen Chamberlayne, the doctor who’d been called in, and a +solicitor. Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As +Chamberlayne had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met +the body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of us +who had been clients of Chamberlayne’s were anxious to know how he had +come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne’s account, +our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet him at the +Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him there when he arrived, +and they had lunch together. After that, they got to their business in a +private room. Towards the end of the afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly +ill, and though they got a doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The +doctor said he’d a diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the +cause of his death, so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told +you.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at some +reminiscence which occurred to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, presently going on, “of course, on that came +all the Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne +had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely certain that +most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had +left practically nothing. All that could be traced was about three or four +thousand pounds. He’d left everything to his nephew, Stephen. There +wasn’t a trace, a clue to the vast sums with which Maitland had entrusted +him. And then people began to talk, and they said what some of them say to this +very day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted with +lead!” he answered. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY<br/> +MAITLAND <i>ALIAS</i> MARBURY</h2> + +<p> +This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in +Spargo’s mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his +imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his informant, +who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor’s surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to tell me,” said Spargo at last, “that there +are people in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery +which is said to contain Chamberlayne’s body contains—lead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lots of ’em, my dear sir!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. +“Lots of ’em! Go out in the street and ask the first six men you +meet, and I’ll go bail that four out of the six believe it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take steps +to make certain?” asked Spargo. “Why didn’t they get an order +for exhumation?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it was nobody’s particular business to do so,” +answered Mr. Quarterpage. “You don’t know country-town life, my +dear sir. In towns like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, +but they’re always slow to do anything. It’s a case of who’ll +start first—of initiative. And if they see it’s going to cost +anything—then they’ll have nothing to do with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—the bank people?” suggested Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did +die,” he said. “They’re very old-fashioned, +conservative-minded people, the Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted +the version of the nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now +I’ll tell you something about those three. There was a man here in the +town, a gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper +you’ve got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and +he began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some +good—what do you call it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he’d call it ‘copy,’” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Copy’—that was his term,” agreed Mr. +Quarterpage. “Well, he took the trouble to go to London to ask some quiet +questions of the nephew, Stephen. That was just twelve months after +Chamberlayne had been buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left +England—months before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they +didn’t know which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the +doctor—couldn’t be traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical +Register. What do you think of all that, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” answered Spargo, “that Market Milcaster folk are +considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired into. The +whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody’s business,” said Mr. +Quarterpage. “The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, +but it was no good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo, “what’s your own honest +opinion?” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said. “I’ve often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I +really have an opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about +the whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it. But +we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old silver +ticket which you’ve got in your purse. Now——” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag +of his forefinger. “No! I think we’re coming nearer to it. Now +you’ve given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a +lot, and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I’m going to show you +something.” +</p> + +<p> +And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph of John +Marbury—the original of the process-picture which he had had made for the +<i>Watchman</i>. He handed it over. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?” he +asked. “Look at it well and closely.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the photograph +from several points of view. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” he said at last with a shake of the head. “I +don’t recognize it at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t see in it any resemblance to any man you’ve ever +known?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, none!” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “None +whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table +between them. “Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was +like when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was +when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course, quite +well?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I can do better than that,” he said. “I can show you +photographs of both men as they were just before Maitland’s trial. I have +a photograph of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken +at a municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. +It’s been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, +and I’ve no doubt it’s as fresh as when it was taken.” +</p> + +<p> +He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph which +he laid on the table before his visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are, sir,” he said. “Quite fresh, you see—it +must be getting on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that +it’s been kept in. Now, that’s Maitland. And that’s +Chamberlayne.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an ivy-covered +wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange masses of sitters. +He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw +two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built men about whom there was nothing +very specially noticeable. +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” he said, musingly. “Both bearded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they both wore beards—full beards,” assented Mr. +Quarterpage. “And you see, they weren’t so much alike. But Maitland +was a much darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while +Chamberlayne’s were rather a bright blue.” +</p> + +<p> +“The removal of a beard makes a great difference,” remarked Spargo. +He looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with that of +Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. “And twenty years makes a +difference, too,” he added musingly. +</p> + +<p> +“To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir,” said +the old gentleman. “To others it makes none—I haven’t changed +much, they tell me, during the past twenty years. But I’ve known men +change—age, almost beyond recognition!—in five years. It depends, +sir, on what they go through.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his pockets, and +looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to tell you what +I’m after, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m sure you’ve heard all about +what’s known as the Middle Temple Murder—the Marbury case?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’ve read of it,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the +<i>Watchman</i>?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man,” +he replied. “I take the <i>Times</i>, sir—we always took it, aye, +even in the days when newspapers were taxed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Spargo. “But perhaps I can tell you a +little more than you’ve read, for I’ve been working up that case +ever since the body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if +you’ll just give me your attention, I’ll tell you the whole story +from that moment until—now.” +</p> + +<p> +And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case from the +first instant of his own connection with it until the discovery of the silver +ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt attention, nodding his head from +time to time as the younger man made his points. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Mr. Quarterpage,” concluded Spargo, “this is the +point I’ve come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient +Hotel as John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane +that night, was John Maitland—I haven’t a doubt about it after +learning what you tell me about the silver ticket. I’ve found out a great +deal that’s valuable here, and I think I’m getting nearer to a +solution of the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered John +Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne affair has +led me to think this—there may have been people, or a person, in London, +who was anxious to get Marbury, as we’ll call him, out of the way, and +who somehow encountered him that night—anxious to silence him, I mean, +because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I wondered, as there is so much mystery +about him, and as he won’t give any account of himself, if this man +Aylmore was really Chamberlayne. Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore’s a +tall, finely-built man, quite six feet in height, and his beard, though +it’s now getting grizzled, has been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, +was a medium-sized, fair man, with blue eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so, sir,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, a +middling-sized man, and fair—very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!—this +is a revelation. And you really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury +are one and the same person?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure of it, now,” said Spargo. “I see it in this +way. Maitland, on his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At +last he comes back, evidently well-to-do. He’s murdered the very day of +his arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him—Aylmore +won’t tell all he knows; that’s flat. But Aylmore’s admitted +that he knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three +years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That’s a +vague term. He won’t say where—he won’t say anything +definite—he won’t even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those +days. Do you recollect anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see +Maitland, Mr. Quarterpage?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t,” answered Mr. Quarterpage. “Maitland was a +very quiet, retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I +never remember that he had visitors; certainly I’ve no recollection of +such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, would be at +that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have,” he said, +“I’ll tell you of something that occurred across there at the +‘Dragon’ only a few months before the Maitland affair came out. +There were some of us in there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland +came in with Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up +to town next day—he was always to and fro—and we got talking about +London. And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed he was +about the only man of his age in England—and, of course, he meant of his +class and means—who’d never even seen London! And I don’t +think he ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I’m +sure he didn’t, for if he had, I should have heard of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that’s queer,” remarked Spargo. “It’s very +queer. For I’m certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. +My theory about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully +planted before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that +he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; and +that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in it all these +years. Now——” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid looked in +at her master. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the boots from the ‘Dragon’ at the front door, +sir,” she said. “He’s brought two telegrams across from there +for Mr. Spargo, thinking he might like to have them at once.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE<br/> +ARRESTED</h2> + +<p> +Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots of the +“Dragon,” and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages +hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s important news,” he said as he closed the library +door and resumed his seat. “I’ll read these telegrams to you, sir, +and then we can discuss them in the light of what we’ve been talking +about this morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to +Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he hailed +from—Coolumbidgee. That report’s just reached the <i>Watchman</i>, +and they’ve wired it on to me. It’s from the chief of police at +Coolumbidgee to the editor of the <i>Watchman</i>, London:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was +unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable means and +bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, Andrew Robertson, who +is still here, and who says that Marbury never told him anything about himself +except that he had emigrated for health reasons and was a widower. He mentioned +that he had had a son who was dead, and was now without relations. He lived a +very quiet, steady life on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. +About six months ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning +told Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of some +news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the farm. Robertson +bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and Marbury shortly afterwards +left for Melbourne. From what we could gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was +probably in command of five or six thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told +Robertson that he had met a man in Melbourne who had given him news that +surprised him, but did not say what news. He had in his possession when he left +Robertson exactly the luggage he brought with him when he came—a stout +portmanteau and a small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left +behind at Coolumbidgee.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams +on the table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now +here’s more startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard +detective that I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage—he promised, you know, to +keep me posted in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. +Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry +back if you want material for to-morrow’s paper.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman glanced at +both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I +looked the trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the +1.20 to Paddington—that’ll get me in before half-past four. +I’ve an hour yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market +Milcaster. That’s the photographer—or a photographer. You remember +I told you of the photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m +calculating that that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who +took it—if he’s alive and I can find him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, +“and he’s been here for a good many years—Cooper. I’ll +take you to him—it’s only a few doors away.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. He put a +direct question to Mr. Cooper—an elderly man. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the +bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr. +Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to ask a +few questions. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper. “As well as if it had +been yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down one +labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he laid it on +his table before his callers. +</p> + +<p> +“There you are, sir,” he said. “That’s the +child!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. +“Just as I thought,” he said. “That’s the same +photograph we found in the leather box with the silver ticket. I’m +obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. Now, there’s just one more question I want to +ask. Did you ever supply any further copies of this photograph to anybody after +the Maitland affair?—that is; after the family had left the town?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied the photographer. “I supplied half a dozen +copies to Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, +brought him here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, +too,” he continued, beginning to turn over another old file. “I +have it somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked. +“As I told you, she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were +made after Maitland’s release.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper. “I sent six copies of that +photograph to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester +Square, Bayswater, W.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for his +courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he turned to the old +gentleman with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he +exclaimed. “Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. +I’m as certain of that as that I see your Town Hall there.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you—as I do—for all your kindness and assistance, and +get off to town by this 1.20,” replied Spargo. “And I shan’t +fail to let you know how things go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, +“do you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis. “I don’t! And I +think we’ve got a good deal to do before we find out who did.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his journey +to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his neighbours; it +was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to something else than the +theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so many days. But at Reading the +newspaper boys were shouting the news of the arrest of a Member of Parliament, +and Spargo, glancing out of the window, caught sight of a newspaper placard: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE MARBURY MURDER CASE<br/> +ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE +</p> + +<p> +He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding it, found +a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press news: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o’clock this +afternoon, on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned +in the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June 21st +last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten o’clock +tomorrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. He met +Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the detective turned back. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, so there you are!” he said. “I suppose you’ve +heard the news?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +“What led to it?” he asked abruptly. “There must have been +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was something,” he replied. “The thing—stick, +bludgeon, whatever you like to call it, some foreign article—with which +Marbury was struck down was found last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“It was proved to be Aylmore’s property,” answered Rathbury. +“It was a South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain +Court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where was it found?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever he +was!” he replied. “Do you know, it had been dropped into a +sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane—actually! Perhaps the murderer thought +it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of course, it was +bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday evening, and it was +quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for Aylmore as having been in his +rooms ever since she knew them.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does Aylmore say about it?” asked Spargo. “I suppose +he’s said something?” +</p> + +<p> +“Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought it from +South America with him,” announced Rathbury; “but that he +doesn’t remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks that it +was stolen from them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” said Spargo, musingly. “But—how do you know that +was the thing that Marbury was struck down with?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury smiled grimly. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some of his hair on it—mixed with blood,” he +answered. “No doubt about that. Well—anything come of your jaunt +westward?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Spargo. “Lots!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good?” asked Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“Extra good. I’ve found out who Marbury really was.” +</p> + +<p> +“No! Really?” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt, to my mind. I’m certain of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention. +</p> + +<p> +“And who was he?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster,” replied Spargo. +“Ex-bank manager. Also ex-convict.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ex-convict!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in +autumn, 1891, to ten years’ penal servitude, for embezzling the +bank’s money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his +term at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. +That’s who Marbury was—Maitland. Dead—certain!” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury still stared at his caller. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” he said. “Tell all about it, Spargo. Let’s +hear every detail. I’ll tell you all I know after. But what I +know’s nothing to that.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, and the +detective listened with rapt attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said at the end. “Yes—I don’t think +there’s much doubt about that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn’t +it?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo yawned. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there,” he said. “I +haven’t so much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all +in Aylmore.” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “The thing to find out is—who is +Aylmore, or who was he, twenty years ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your people haven’t found anything out, then?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he +returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since,” +answered Rathbury, smiling. “They’ve no previous dates to go on. +What are you going to do next, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seek out that Miss Baylis,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You think you could get something there?” asked Rathbury. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here!” said Spargo. “I don’t believe for a second +Aylmore killed Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what +I call the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something—if +she’s alive. Well, now I’m going to report at the office. Keep in +touch with me, Rathbury.” +</p> + +<p> +He went on then to the <i>Watchman</i> office, and as he got out of his +taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore’s +daughters. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO<br/> +THE BLANK PAST</h2> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the elder +girl hung back diffidently. +</p> + +<p> +“May we speak to you?” said Jessie. “We have come on purpose +to speak to you. Evelyn didn’t want to come, but I made her come.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both to +follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed them in his +easiest chairs before he addressed them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve only just got back to town,” he said abruptly. “I +was sorry to hear the news about your father. That’s what’s brought +you here, of course. But—I’m afraid I can’t do much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie,” +said Evelyn Aylmore. “What can he do to help us?” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie shook her head impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>Watchman’s</i> about the most powerful paper in London, +isn’t it?” she said. “And isn’t Mr. Spargo writing all +these articles about the Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and papers which +had accumulated during his absence. +</p> + +<p> +“To be absolutely frank with you,” he said, presently, “I +don’t see how anybody’s going to help, so long as your father keeps +up that mystery about the past.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” said Evelyn, quietly, “is exactly what Ronald says, +Jessie. But we can’t make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as +innocent as we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don’t +know why he wouldn’t answer the questions put to him at the inquest. +And—we know no more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have +begged my father to speak, he won’t say a word. We saw his danger: +Ronald—Mr. Breton—told us, and we implored him to tell everything +he knew about Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he +had anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and +now——” +</p> + +<p> +“And now he’s locked up,” said Spargo in his usual +matter-of-fact fashion. “Well, there are people who have to be saved from +themselves, you know. Perhaps you’ll have to save your father from the +consequences of his own—shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between +ourselves, how much do you know about your father’s—past?” +</p> + +<p> +The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said the elder. +</p> + +<p> +“Absolutely nothing!” said the younger. +</p> + +<p> +“Answer a few plain questions,” said Spargo. “I’m not +going to print your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I’m only +asking the questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in +England?” +</p> + +<p> +“None that we know of,” replied Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody you could go to for information about the past?” asked +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“No—nobody!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard. +</p> + +<p> +“How old is your father?” he asked suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago,” answered Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“And how old are you, and how old is your sister?” demanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where were you born?” +</p> + +<p> +“Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San José province of +Argentina, north of Monte Video.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father was in business there?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There’s no +secret about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to +France—skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That’s how he made +his money.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know how long he’d been there when you were +born?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he married when he went out there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he wasn’t. We do know that. He’s told us the +circumstances of his marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from +England to Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was +like himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to +Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each other, and +they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer arrived.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your mother is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and +Jessie six, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you came to England—how long after that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two years.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that you’ve been in England ten years. And you know nothing +whatever of your father’s past beyond what you’ve told me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—absolutely nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard him talk of—you see, according to your account, your +father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina. He must +have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never heard him speak +of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that sort of thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to his +marriage,” replied Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“I once asked him a question about his childhood.” said Jessie. +“He answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that +he had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that it really comes to this,” remarked Spargo. “You know +nothing whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond +what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe? That’s +about it, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say that that is exactly it,” answered Evelyn. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” said Spargo. “And therefore, as I told your sister +the other day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind +him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed him in +order to silence him. That isn’t my view. I not only believe your father +to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no more than a child +unborn of Marbury’s murder, and I’m doing my best to find out who +that murderer was. By the by, since you’ll see all about it in tomorrow +morning’s <i>Watchman</i>, I may as well tell you that I’ve found +out who Marbury really was. He——” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Spargo’s door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He +shook his head at sight of the two sisters. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I should find you here,” he said. “Jessie said she +was coming to see you, Spargo. I don’t know what good you can do—I +don’t see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My +God!—everything’s about as black as ever it can be. Mr. +Aylmore—I’ve just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and +I have been with him for an hour—is obstinate as ever—he will not +tell more than he has told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he +won’t speak about that knowledge of Marbury which he must have?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” said Spargo. “Perhaps we can give him some +information about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it’s not such a +difficult thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as +I was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who Marbury +really was.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“You have? Without doubt?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls showed no +sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received the news with as +much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury was a famous musician. +But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to Spargo that he saw a sense of +suspicion dawn in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Marbury—an ex-convict!” he exclaimed. “You mean +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Read your <i>Watchman</i> in the morning,” said Spargo. +“You’ll find the whole story there—I’m going to write +it tonight when you people have gone. It’ll make good reading.” +</p> + +<p> +Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo’s hint and went away, Spargo seeing +them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their father’s +innocence and his determination to hunt down the real criminal. Ronald Breton +went down with them to the street and saw them into a cab, but in another +minute he was back in Spargo’s room as Spargo had expected. He shut the +door carefully behind him and turned to Spargo with an eager face. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Spargo, is that really so?” he asked. “About Marbury +being an ex-convict?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s so, Breton. I’ve no more doubt about it than I have +that I see you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of +Market Milcaster, who got ten years’ penal servitude in 1891 for +embezzlement.” +</p> + +<p> +“In 1891? Why—that’s just about the time that Aylmore says he +knew him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. And—it just strikes me,” said Spargo, sitting down +at his desk and making a hurried note, “it just strikes +me—didn’t Aylmore say he knew Marbury in London?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” replied Breton. “In London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” mused Spargo. “That’s queer, because Maitland had +never been in London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may +have done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to +South America long before that. Look here, Breton,” he continued, aloud, +“have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before he’s +brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Breton. “I can see him with his +solicitor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then listen,” said Spargo. “Tomorrow morning you’ll +find the whole story of how I proved Marbury’s identity with Maitland in +the <i>Watchman</i>. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore +as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he’s brought +up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters’ peace of mind +to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows about Maitland +twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. Why, I was asking his +daughters some questions before you came in—they know absolutely nothing +of their father’s history previous to the time when they began to +understand things! Don’t you see that Aylmore’s career, previous to +his return to England, is a blank past!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know—I know!” said Breton. “Yes—although +I’ve gone there a great deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything +earlier than his Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on +when he went out there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-seven or eight, at least,” remarked Spargo. “Well, +Aylmore’s more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his +life hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?” +</p> + +<p> +“My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland,” answered +Breton. “We kept up the acquaintance after our return.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?” asked +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs the +thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of little +else,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“And their theory—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!” replied Breton. +“Old Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his +very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every tenant +of the Temple.” +</p> + +<p> +“Longish business that,” observed Spargo. “Well, run away +now, Breton—I must write.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?” asked Breton as he +moved to the door. “It’s to be at ten-thirty.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I shan’t!” replied Spargo. “It’ll only be a +remand, and I know already just as much as I should hear there. I’ve got +something much more important to do. But you’ll remember what I asked of +you—get Aylmore to read my story in the <i>Watchman</i>, and beg him to +speak out and tell all he knows—all!” +</p> + +<p> +And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: “All he +knows—all!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE<br/> +MISS BAYLIS</h2> + +<p> +Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those +pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely given up to +the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and boarding-house keeper. +They are very pretentious, those squares, with their many-storied houses, their +stuccoed frontages, and their pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent +country folk, coming into them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, +take them to be the residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live +nowhere else but in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the +fact that young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in +more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the country folk +to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but others, more knowing, are +aware that they are Swiss or German waiters whose linen might be cleaner. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as the door +was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and bacon, of fish and +chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of overcoats, wraps, and sticks +in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid to answer the bell. And presently, +in answer to his enquiries, there was the usual type of landlady confronting +him, a more than middle-aged person who desired to look younger, and made +attempts in the way of false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that +somewhat air and smile which in its wearer—under these +circumstances—always means that she is considering whether you will be +able to cheat her or whether she will be able to see you. +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to see Miss Baylis?” said this person, examining Spargo +closely. “Miss Baylis does not often see anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” said Spargo politely, “that Miss Baylis is not an +invalid?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she’s not an invalid,” replied the landlady; “but +she’s not as young as she was, and she’s an objection to strangers. +Is it anything I can tell her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Spargo. “But you can, if you please, take her a +message from me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to +ask her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I should +be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will sit down,” said the landlady. She led Spargo into +a room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, evidently +inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with them and to amuse +himself by watching them knit or sew or read the papers, and he wondered if +they always did these things every day, and if they would go on doing them +until a day would come when they would do them no more, and he was beginning to +feel very dreary when the door opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after +one sharp glance at her, decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the +common. And as she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first +glance lengthen into a look of steady inspection. +</p> + +<p> +The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable +appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in height; she +was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and athletic. What at +once struck Spargo about her face was the strange contrast between her dark +eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in abundant coils round a well-shaped +head, was of the most snowy whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as +were also the eyebrows above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking +firmness; the jaw square and determined. And Spargo’s first thought on +taking all this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to +be a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an +unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract anything +out of those firmly-locked lips. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded to order +him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her that he made a +profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Spargo?” she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly +suited to her. “Of, I see, the <i>Watchman</i>? You wish to speak to +me?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which they +were standing. +</p> + +<p> +“Open the casement, if you please,” she commanded him. “We +will walk in the garden. This is not private.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened window and he +followed her. It was not until they had reached the bottom of the garden that +she spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John +Maitland, of Market Milcaster?” she said. “Before you put it. I +must ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for +publication?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not without your permission,” replied Spargo. “I should not +think of publishing anything you may tell me except with your express +permission.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good faith, +and nodded her head. +</p> + +<p> +“In that case,” she said, “what do you want to ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John +Maitland,” answered Spargo. “I suppose you read the newspapers and +possibly the <i>Watchman</i>, Miss Baylis?” +</p> + +<p> +But Miss Baylis shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I read no newspapers,” she said. “I have no interest in the +affairs of the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole +devotion to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury +case—a case of a man who was found murdered?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not,” she answered. “I am not likely to hear such +things.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as great nor +as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and that there +actually are, even in London, people who can live quite cheerfully without a +newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “I believe that the murdered man, known to +the police as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John +Maitland. In fact, Miss Baylis, I’m absolutely certain of it!” +</p> + +<p> +He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern companion +to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign of being +impressed. +</p> + +<p> +“I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo,” she said coldly. “It +is no surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a +thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible disgrace on +those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was likely to die a bad +man’s death.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may ask you a few questions about him?” suggested Spargo in his +most insinuating manner. +</p> + +<p> +“You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers,” she +replied. “But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being +John Maitland’s sister-in-law?” +</p> + +<p> +“I found that out at Market Milcaster,” said Spargo. “The +photographer told me—Cooper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“The questions I want to ask are very simple,” said Spargo. +“But your answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to +prison, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis laughed—a laugh of scorn. +</p> + +<p> +“Could I ever forget it?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever visit him in prison?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Visit him in prison!” she said indignantly. “Visits in +prison are to be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to +scoundrels who are hardened in their sin!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him, for he forced himself upon me—I could not help myself. +He was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he come for?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“To ask for his son—who had been in my charge,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a thing I want to know about,” said Spargo. “Do +you know what a certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss +Baylis?—they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you had +a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went to prison, +you took the child away, first to Brighton, then abroad—disappeared with +him—and that you made a home ready for Maitland when he came out. +That’s what’s said by some people in Market Milcaster.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis’s stern lips curled. +</p> + +<p> +“People in Market Milcaster!” she exclaimed. “All the people +I ever knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that +cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would have +seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have given him a +crust of dry bread!” +</p> + +<p> +“You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man,” observed +Spargo, astonished at her vehemence. +</p> + +<p> +“I had—and I have,” she answered. “He tricked my sister +into a marriage with him when he knew that she would rather have married an +honest man who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal cruelty; he +robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Spargo. “Well, so you say Maitland came to you, +when he came out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“No—the boy was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I showed him the door!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?” enquired +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. +Spargo,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, in short,” said Spargo, “you never heard of him +again?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard of him again,” she declared passionately, “and +I only hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was +Maitland!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR<br/> +MOTHER GUTCH</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out on his +way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, when a new idea +suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that formidable lady. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just thought of something else,” he said. “I told +you that I’m certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad +end—murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ve told you,” she replied scornfully, “that in +my opinion no end could be too bad for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—I understand you,” said Spargo. “But I +didn’t tell you that he was not only murdered but robbed—robbed of +probably a good deal. There’s good reason to believe that he had +securities, bank notes, loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of +a large amount. He’d several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, +in New South Wales, where he’d lived quietly for some years.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis smiled sourly. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s all this to me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be +recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be somebody +who’s entitled to the lot. It’s worth having, Miss Baylis, and +there’s strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn +up.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its effect +with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as scornful as +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“I say again what’s all that to me?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but hadn’t the dead boy any relatives on his father’s +side?” asked Spargo. “I know you’re his aunt on the +mother’s side, and as you’re indifferent perhaps, I can find some +on the other side. It’s very easy to find all these things out, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and majestic +fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the interview was +distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and glared at the young +journalist. +</p> + +<p> +“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He was +quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, easy enough!” he said. “I could find out all about +Maitland’s family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. “How?” she +demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. +“It is, of course, the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his +short life. I suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, +and you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, +Miss Baylis?” +</p> + +<p> +But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall tell you nothing more,” she said angrily. +“I’ve told you too much already, and I believe all you’re +here for is to get some news for your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you +this—when Maitland went to prison his child would have been defenceless +but for me; he’d have had to go to the workhouse but for me; he +hadn’t a single relation in the world but me, on either father’s or +mother’s side. And even at my age, old woman as I am, I’d rather +beg my bread in the street, I’d rather starve and die, than touch a penny +piece that had come from John Maitland! That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, she +marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing no other +way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling sound in the +shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a queer, cracked, horrible +voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said distinctly and yet in a whisper: +</p> + +<p> +“Young man!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick and +bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he saw a +nondescript shape behind. “Who’s there?” he demanded. +“Somebody listening?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the cracked, +husky voice spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man, don’t you move or look as if you were talking to +anybody. Do you know where the ‘King of Madagascar’ public-house is +in this quarter of the town, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” answered Spargo. “Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, anybody’ll tell you when you get outside, young man,” +continued the queer voice of the unseen person. “Go there, and wait at +the corner by the ‘King of Madagascar,’ and I’ll come there +to you at the end of half an hour. Then I’ll tell you something, young +man—I’ll tell you something. Now run away, young man, run away to +the ‘King of Madagascar’—I’m coming!” +</p> + +<p> +The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel queer. But +he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he immediately turned on +his heel without so much as a glance at the privet hedge, and went across the +garden and through the house, and let himself out at the door. And at the next +corner of the square he met a policeman and asked him if he knew where the +“King of Madagascar” was. +</p> + +<p> +“First to the right, second to the left,” answered the policeman +tersely. “You can’t miss it anywhere round there—it’s a +landmark.” +</p> + +<p> +And Spargo found the landmark—a great, square-built tavern—easily, +and he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and +intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its suggestions +of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an old woman and leered +at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize how dreadful old age may be. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was dressed +respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her bonnet was smart; +her smaller fittings were good. But her face was evil; it showed unmistakable +signs of a long devotion to the bottle; the old eyes leered and ogled, the old +lips were wicked. Spargo felt a sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, +but he was going to hear what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to +look what he felt. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said, almost roughly. “Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance. +“Let us go inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a +lady can sit and take her drop of gin—I’ll show you. And if +you’re good to me, I’ll tell you something about that cat that you +were talking to just now. But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my +pocket, young man? Old ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you +know, little comforts.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; the +attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at her +presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which was a certain +brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her curiously as with +shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little of her wicked old face, +and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest which was not thirst but pure +greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw a new light steal into her eyes, and +she laughed in a voice that grew clearer with every sound she made. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow +that made Spargo long to get up and fly. “I wanted that! It’s done +me good. When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for +me—and perhaps another? They’ll do me still more good. And +you’ll give me a little matter of money, won’t you, young +man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if +it’s made worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more +about Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I’m not going to tell you +that now, young man—I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket +what I shall want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I’m only +going to show you that I have the secret. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +The woman leered and chuckled. “What are you going to give me, young +man?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two half-sovereigns. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if +you can tell me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, +now. And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!” +</p> + +<p> +The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand. +</p> + +<p> +“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored. “Let +me hold one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I +hold one of them. Let me—there’s a good young gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, whatever it +might be. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t get the other unless you tell something,” he said. +“Who are you, anyway?” +</p> + +<p> +The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the half-sovereign, +grinned horribly. +</p> + +<p> +“At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother +Gutch,” she answered; “but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and +once upon a time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I +went to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came to +live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to bring me with +her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven knows!” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I’ve got a hold on her, young man—I’ve got a +secret of hers,” continued Mother Gutch. “She’d be scared to +death if she knew I’d been behind that hedge and had heard what she said +to you, and she’d be more than scared if she knew that you and I were +here, talking. But she’s grown hard and near with me, and she won’t +give me a penny to get a drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a +right to her little comforts, and if you’ll buy the secret, young man, +I’ll split on her, there and then, when you pay the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Before I talk about buying any secret,” said Spargo, +“you’ll have to prove to me that you’ve a secret to sell +that’s worth my buying.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I will prove it!” said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. +“Touch the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I’ll tell +you. Now,” she went on, more quietly—Spargo noticed that the more +she drank, the more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain +strength and her whole appearance to be improved—“now, you came to +her to find out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, +didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” demanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“And about that boy of his?” she continued. +</p> + +<p> +“You heard all that was said,” answered Spargo. “I’m +waiting to hear what you have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her +questions: +</p> + +<p> +“And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that she +told him the boy was dead, didn’t she?” she went on. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo despairingly. “She did. What then?” +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled knowingly. +“What then?” she chuckled. “All lies, young man, the boy +isn’t dead—any more than I am. And my secret is—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” demanded Spargo impatiently. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“This!” answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, +“I know what she did with him!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE<br/> +REVELATIONS</h2> + +<p> +Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his +journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since +entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear +anything material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared +that this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of +extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of getting +important information from her, he forgot all about Mother Gutch’s +unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only saw in her +somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he +exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch. +</p> + +<p> +“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she +replied. “I said I knew what she did with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, then?” demanded Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and favoured +Spargo with a look. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the secret, young man,” she said. “I’m +willing to sell that secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three +drops of cold gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, +when I was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth +something.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an +unexpected result of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” +continued Mother Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. +That’s plain language, young man.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could this +wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret which would +lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple Murder? Well, it would +be a fine thing for the <i>Watchman</i> if the clearing up of everything came +through one of its men. And the <i>Watchman</i> was noted for being generous +even to extravagance in laying out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent +money like water on much less serious matters than this. +</p> + +<p> +“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning +to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really wonderful +to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan had become; he +did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver and on edge when he +first met her, and that a resort to her favourite form of alcohol in liberal +quantity had calmed and quickened them; secretly he was regarding her with +astonishment as the most extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was +almost afraid of her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, young man,” she said, “having considered matters, and +having a right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to +have would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid +weekly—none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and punctual, +every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient to the parties +concerned—but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies in my +sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it’s a great comfort to have +’em paid weekly.” +</p> + +<p> +It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her weekly dole +on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be Monday or Saturday, but +that, after all, was no concern of his, so he came back to first principles. +</p> + +<p> +“Even now you haven’t said how much,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“Three pound a week,” replied Mother Gutch. “And cheap, +too!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might—might!—lead +to something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to death +within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was nothing to the +<i>Watchman</i>. He glanced at his watch. At that hour—for the next +hour—the great man of the <i>Watchman</i> would be at the office. He +jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, I’ll take you to see my principals,” he said. +“We’ll run along in a taxi-cab.” +</p> + +<p> +“With all the pleasure in the world, young man,” replied Mother +Gutch; “when you’ve given me that other half-sovereign. As for +principals, I’d far rather talk business with masters than with +men—though I mean no disrespect to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second half-sovereign, +and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. But when that came round he had to +wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a third glass of gin and purchased a flask of +the same beverage to put in her pocket. At last he got her off, and in due +course to the <i>Watchman</i> office, where the hall-porter and the messenger +boys stared at her in amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, +and he got her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the +presence of the mighty. +</p> + +<p> +What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the fortunes +and workings of the <i>Watchman</i> he never knew. It was probably fortunate +for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the facts of the Middle +Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an advantage in securing the +revelations of which Spargo had got the conditional promise. At any rate, they +accompanied Spargo to his room, intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with +the lady he had locked up there. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo’s room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was +soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and editor +in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before going into any +further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing with her until +something could be done to find out what likelihood of truth there was in her, +but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his own shrewd fashion, took his two +companions out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,” +he said. “She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest +importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as Spargo +says, she’ll probably drink herself to death in about as short a time as +possible. Come back—let’s hear her story.” So they returned +to the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by which the +proprietor of the <i>Watchman</i> bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch the sum of +three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the insertion of the +words “every Saturday morning, punctual and regular”) and then Mrs. +Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch settled herself to do so, +and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for word. +</p> + +<p> +“Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a +monkey’s tail nor so short as a Manx cat’s, gentlemen,” said +Mrs. Gutch; “but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland +affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane Baylis at +Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and close to the +sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and had saved a nice bit, +and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a little fortune left her by +her father, as was at one time a publican here in London, she had a good lump +of money. And all that money was in this here Maitland’s hands, every +penny. I very well remember the day when the news came about that affair of +Maitland robbing the bank. Miss Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw +it in the paper, and before she’d seen it an hour she was off to Market +Milcaster. I went up to the station with her, and she told me then before she +got in the train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her +sister’s, his wife’s, too, and that she feared all would be +lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Maitland was then dead,” observed Spargo without looking up +from his writing-block. +</p> + +<p> +“She was, young man, and a good thing, too,” continued Mrs. Gutch. +“Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly a +week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with her—which was +Maitland’s. And she told me that night that she’d lost every penny +she had in the world, and that her sister’s money, what ought to have +been the child’s, was gone, too, and she said her say about Maitland. +However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have seen better. And very +soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her and me talked +about things. ‘What’s the use,’ says I to her, ‘of your +letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking after it as you do, and +educating it, and so on?’ I says. ‘Why not?’ says she. +‘’Tisn’t yours,’ I says, ‘you haven’t no +right to it,’ I says. ‘As soon as ever its father comes out,’ +says I,’ he’ll come and claim it, and you can’t do nothing to +stop him.’ Well, gentlemen, if you’ll believe me, never did I see a +woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and swore that Maitland +should never see or touch the child again—not under no circumstances +whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, with an +apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, presently, +apparently refreshed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland’s taking the child +away from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times +about it, always saying the same thing—that Maitland should never have +him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers about it, +and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and a day or two +afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a lawyer, and he stopped a +day or two, and he came again and again, until one day she came to me, and she +says, ‘You don’t know who that gentleman is that’s come so +much lately?’ she says. ‘Not I,’ I says, ‘unless +he’s after you.’ ‘After me!’ she says, tossing her +head: ‘That’s the gentleman that ought to have married my poor +sister if that scoundrel Maitland hadn’t tricked her into throwing him +over!’ ‘You don’t say so!’ I says. ‘Then by +rights he ought to have been the child’s pa!’ ‘He’s +going to be a father to the boy,’ she says. ‘He’s going to +take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a gentleman of +him,’ she says, ‘for his mother’s sake.’ ‘Mercy +on us!’ says I. ‘What’ll Maitland say when he comes for +him?’ ‘Maitland’ll never come for him,’ she says, +‘for I’m going to leave here, and the boy’ll be gone before +then. This is all being done,’ she says, ‘so that the +child’ll never know his father’s shame—he’ll never know +who his father was.’ And true enough, the boy was taken away, but +Maitland came before she’d gone, and she told him the child was dead, and +I never see a man so cut up. However, it wasn’t no concern of mine. And +so there’s so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if +I ain’t giving good value.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said the proprietor. “Go on.” But Spargo +intervened. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy +away?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did,” replied Mrs. Gutch. “Of course I did. Which it +was Elphick.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX<br/> +STILL SILENT</h2> + +<p> +Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that made +Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her nerves to be none +of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of them with angry +malevolence. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t do that again, young man!” she exclaimed sharply. +“I can’t a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it’s bad +manners. I observed that the gentleman’s name was Elphick.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor—a +glance which came near to being a wink. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—Elphick,” he said. “A law gentleman I think +you said, Mrs. Gutch?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said,” answered Mrs. Gutch, “as how he looked like a +lawyer gentleman. And since you’re so particular, young man, though I +wasn’t addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One +of the sort that wears wigs and gowns—ain’t I seen his picture in +Jane Baylis’s room at the boarding-house where you saw her this +morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Elderly man?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Elderly he will be now,” replied the informant; “but when he +took the boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age,” she added, +pointing to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the +proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; “and not so very unlike him +neither, being one as had no hair on his face.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Spargo. “And where did this Mr. Elphick take the +boy, Mrs. Gutch?” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t no idea,” she said. “He took him. Then, as I +told you, Maitland came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And +after that she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight +tongue. Once or twice I asked her, and she says, ‘Never you mind,’ +she says; ‘he’s all right for life, if he lives to be as old as +Methusalem.’ And she never said more, and I never said more. But,” +continued Mrs. Gutch, whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears +away, “she’s treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a +little comfort such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two +of you a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, +‘Now’s the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!’ +And I hope I done it.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head slightly. He +meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted from Mother Gutch. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?” he +asked. “You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you +like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which I shall be obliged for, young man,” said Mrs. Gutch, +“and likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every +Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a Friday, +whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first week in my purse, +and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes and go to a friend of mine +where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the dust of my feet off against Jane +Baylis and where I’ve been living with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch,” said Spargo, with some anxiety, “if +you go back there tonight, you’ll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis +that you’ve been here and told us all this?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. +</p> + +<p> +“Young man,” she said, “you mean well, but you ain’t +used to dealing with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I +like. I wouldn’t tell Jane Baylis my affairs—my new affairs, +gentlemen, thanks to you—not for two annuities, paid twice a week!” +</p> + +<p> +“Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then come +to my room,” said the editor. “And don’t you forget, Mrs. +Gutch—keep a quiet tongue in your head—no more talk—or +there’ll be no annuities on Saturday mornings.” +</p> + +<p> +So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier’s department and paid her her +first week’s money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and saw +her depart, and then he went to the editor’s room, strangely thoughtful. +The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they stopped when Spargo +entered and looked at him eagerly. “I think we’ve done it,” +said Spargo quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“What, precisely, have we found out?” asked the editor. +</p> + +<p> +“A great deal more than I’d anticipated,” answered Spargo, +“and I don’t know what fields it doesn’t open out. If you +look back, you’ll remember that the only thing found on Marbury’s +body was a scrap of grey paper on which was a name and address—Ronald +Breton, King’s Bench Walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit—I have accepted +two or three articles of his for our literary page.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of Aylmore, +the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street today with the +murder of Marbury.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know. Well, what then, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“But the most important matter,” continued Spargo, speaking very +deliberately, “is this—that is, taking that old woman’s +statement to be true, as I personally believe it is—that Breton, as he +has told me himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a +guardian. That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister.” +</p> + +<p> +The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore the +expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the same +conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a sharp +interrogation: “You think then——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is the +young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the room. +</p> + +<p> +“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the +mystery deepens. What do you propose to do, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling +him anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and get +an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse for wanting +an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand. “Leave it +entirely in Spargo’s hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep me informed,” said the editor. “Do what you think. It +strikes me you’re on the track.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still faintly +redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the reporter who had +been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up that morning. There was +nothing new; the authorities had merely asked for another remand. So far as the +reporter knew, Aylmore had said nothing fresh to anybody. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers. He +found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking unusually grave +and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from his outer door, beckoned +the journalist to follow him, and led him into an inner room. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a +chair. “This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you +told me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?” +</p> + +<p> +“To get him to tell all?—Yes,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Breton shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Stratton—his solicitor, you know—and I saw him this morning +before the police-court proceedings,” he continued. “I told him of +my talk with you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been +to the <i>Watchman</i> office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your +advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private +feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence against him; +how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth at once; how he had +certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion against himself; how, as the +evidence stands at present, any jury could scarcely do less than convict him. +And it was all no good, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t say anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll say no more. He was adamant. ‘I told the entire truth +in respect to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the +inquest,’ he said, over and over again, ‘and I shall say nothing +further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man on such +evidence as that, let it!’ And he persisted in that until we left him. +Spargo, I don’t know what’s to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“And nothing happened at the police-court?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he +was removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark—‘If you all +want to prove me innocent,’ he said, ‘find the guilty +man.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that,” said +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?” +exclaimed Breton. “Are you any nearer—is Rathbury any nearer? Is +there the slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, +apparently thinking. +</p> + +<p> +“Was Rathbury in court?” he suddenly asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He was,” replied Breton. “He was there with two or three +other men who I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in +Aylmore.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I don’t see Rathbury tonight I’ll see him in the +morning,” said Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, +sat down again. “Look here,” he continued, “I don’t +know how this thing stands in law, but would it be a very weak case against +Aylmore if the prosecution couldn’t show some motive for his killing +Marbury?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no necessity to prove motive in murder,” he said. +“But I’ll tell you what, Spargo—if the prosecution can show +that Aylmore had a motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that +it was to Aylmore’s advantage to silence him—why, then, I +don’t think he’s a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has been +shown.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know of none.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rose and moved to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“One of the biggest. Awful enthusiast.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think he’d tell me a bit about those Australian stamps +which Marbury showed to Criedir, the dealer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain, he would—delighted. Here”—and Breton +scribbled a few words on a card—“there’s his address and a +word from me. I’ll tell you when you can always find him in, five nights +out of seven—at nine o’clock, after he’s dined. I’d go +with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore’s. The two girls are in +terrible trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give them a message from me,” said Spargo as they went out +together. “Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN<br/> +MR. ELPHICK’S CHAMBERS</h2> + +<p> +Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o’clock, asking +himself over and over again two questions—the first, how much does +Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him? +</p> + +<p> +The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a generation +of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was full of stairs and +passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the exact number of the set of +chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander about in what was a deserted +building. So wandering, he suddenly heard steps, firm, decisive steps coming up +a staircase which he himself had just climbed. He looked over the banisters +down into the hollow beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure +of a tall, veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening +of his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof with +Miss Baylis. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo’s mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his +extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that Miss +Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick—come, of course, to tell Mr. Elphick +that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was on the track of +the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it before, for he had been +busily engaged since the departure of Mother Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis +and Mr. Elphick would keep in communication with each other. At any rate, here +she was, and her destination was, surely, Elphick’s chambers. And the +question for him, Spargo, was—what to do? +</p> + +<p> +What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, where he +was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman did not look up. +But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she reached a landing, turned along +a corridor with decision, and marched forward. A moment later Spargo heard a +sharp double knock on a door: a moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; +he knew then that Miss Baylis had sought and gained admittance—somewhere. +</p> + +<p> +To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the landing +which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about—he had not, in +fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he went along the +corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He knew that all the doors in +that house were double ones, and that the outer oak in each was solid and +substantial enough to be sound proof. Yet, as men will under such +circumstances, he walked softly; he said to himself, smiling at the thought, +that he would be sure to start if somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But +no hand opened any door, and at last he came to the end of the corridor and +found himself confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters +on a black ground, Mr. Elphick’s Chambers. +</p> + +<p> +Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back as +quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the corridor from +which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a glimpse of the +Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and leaning on the sill looked +out and considered matters. Should he go and—if he could gain +admittance—beard these two conspirators? Should he wait until the woman +came out and let her see that he was on the track? Should he hide again until +she went, and then see Elphick alone? +</p> + +<p> +In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things slide for +the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river and the brown sails, +and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten minutes went by—twenty +minutes—nothing happened. Then, as half-past nine struck from all the +neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a second cigarette, marched straight +down the corridor and knocked boldly at Mr. Elphick’s door. +</p> + +<p> +Greatly to Spargo’s surprise, the door was opened before there was any +necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a benevolent, yet +somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and placid face, stood Mr. +Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled smoking jacket over his dress +shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the door well +open, and motioned the journalist to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “I was expecting you. Walk +forward into my sitting-room.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room into a +handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In spite of the fact +that it was still very little past midsummer there was a cheery fire in the +grate, and on a table set near a roomy arm-chair was set such creature comforts +as a spirit-case, a syphon, a tumbler, and a novel—from which things +Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick had been taking his ease since his dinner. But +in another armchair on the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding +figure of Miss Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She +neither spoke nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And +Spargo stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors, touched +him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo,” he said, as he resumed his +own chair. “I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up +your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages of +which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss Baylis +told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this morning I felt sure +that it would not be more than a few hours before you would come to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at +all?” asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner +unexplored,” replied Mr. Elphick. “The curiosity of the modern +pressman is insatiable.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo stiffened. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick,” he said. “I am charged by +my paper to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found +in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“My good young gentleman!” he said. “You exaggerate your own +importance. I don’t approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In +your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John Marbury +was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and you have been +trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him which, +when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused now. He looked +the old barrister full in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Elphick,” he said, “you are evidently unaware of all +that I know. So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, +and I will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs of +what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the <i>Watchman</i> +tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me—dear me!” said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. “We +are so used to ultra-sensational stories from the <i>Watchman</i> +that—but I am a curious and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so +perhaps you will tell me in a word what it is you do know, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table and looked +the old barrister straight in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will tell you what I know beyond +doubt. I know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without +doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is his son, +whom you took from that woman!” +</p> + +<p> +If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in which Mr. +Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more ample one than +that offered to him by the old barrister’s reception of this news. Mr. +Elphick’s face not only fell, but changed; his expression of almost +sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly resembling abject terror; he +dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, recovered himself, gripped the +chair’s arms, and stared at Spargo as if the young man had suddenly +announced to him that in another minute he must be led to instant execution. +And Spargo, quick to see his advantage, followed it up. +</p> + +<p> +“That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall +know it tomorrow morning!” he said firmly. “Ronald Breton is the +son of the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the +daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is not matter +of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is fact—fact!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few words. +</p> + +<p> +“You—did—not—tell—me—this!” +</p> + +<p> +Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the lips and +as frightened as the man. +</p> + +<p> +“I—didn’t know!” she muttered. “He didn’t +tell me. He only told me this morning what—what I’ve told +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo picked up his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Elphick,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his chair +and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at him. He knew +then that for some reason or other he had given Mr. Septimus Elphick a +thoroughly bad fright. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he growled. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young gentleman!” implored Mr. Elphick. “Don’t +go! I’ll—I’ll do anything for you if you won’t go away +to print that. I’ll—I’ll give you a thousand pounds!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook him off. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough!” he snarled. “Now, I am off! What, +you’d try to bribe me?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Elphick wrung his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean that—indeed I didn’t!” he almost +wailed. “I—I don’t know what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, +stay a little, and let us—let us talk. Let me have a word with +you—as many words as you please. I implore you!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“If I stay,” he said, at last, “it will only be on the strict +condition that you answer—and answer truly—whatever questions I +like to ask you. Otherwise——” +</p> + +<p> +He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching hands +on him. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” he said. “I’ll answer anything you like!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT<br/> +OF PROVED IDENTITY</h2> + +<p> +Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked at the +two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced such a curious +effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that, while they were both +frightened, they were frightened in different ways. Miss Baylis had already +recovered her composure; she now sat sombre and stern as ever, returning +Spargo’s look with something of indifferent defiance; he thought he could +see that in her mind a certain fear was battling with a certain amount of +wonder that he had discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she +was concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so many +words that now the secret was out he might do his worst. +</p> + +<p> +But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was still +trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair and the hand +with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the glass rattled against +his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The half-contemptuous fashion of his +reception of Spargo had now wholly disappeared; he was a man who had received a +shock, and a bad one. And Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This +man knows a great deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that +Marbury was Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland’s +son; he knows something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly +believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had buried +something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as astounded as he was +frightened to find that it had been at last flung up to the broad light of day. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall wait,” suddenly said Spargo, “until you are +composed, Mr. Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, +that the truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you +considerable—shall we say fear?” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown steadier, and +the colour was coming back to his face. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will let me explain,” he said. “If you will hear what +was done for the boy’s sake—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” answered Spargo, “is precisely what I wish. I can +tell you this—I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to +Mr. Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. “He says +that!” she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. “He says that, +knowing that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald +Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a scoundrel, an +ex-convict, a——” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick lifted his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush—hush!” he said imploringly. “Mr. Spargo means +well, I am sure—I am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear +me——” +</p> + +<p> +But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the outer +door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across the room, +walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A boy’s voice +penetrated into the sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the <i>Watchman</i>, here? He left +this address in case he was wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger boys, and +jumping up, went to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Rawlins?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There’s Mr. +Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” answered Spargo. “I’m coming just +now.” +</p> + +<p> +He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall have to go,” he said. “I may be kept. Now, Mr. +Elphick, can I come to see you tomorrow morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!” replied Elphick eagerly. +“Tomorrow morning, certainly. At eleven—eleven o’clock. That +will do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be here at eleven,” said Spargo. “Eleven +sharp.” +</p> + +<p> +He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“A word—just a word!” he said. “You—you have not +told the—the boy—Ronald—of what you know? You +haven’t?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t,” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo’s sleeve. He looked into his face +beseechingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me—promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won’t tell him +until you have seen me in the morning!” he implored. “I beg you to +promise me this.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo hesitated, considering matters. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well—I promise,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And you won’t print it?” continued Elphick, still clinging +to him. “Say you won’t print it tonight?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not print it tonight,” answered Spargo. +“That’s certain.” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick released his grip on the young man’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Come—at eleven tomorrow morning,” he said, and drew back and +closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And there, +calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an evening +newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as imperturbable as ever. He +greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “how’s things?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t come here to tell me that,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, throwing the newspaper aside, “I didn’t. +I came to tell you my latest. You’re at full liberty to stick it into +your paper tonight: it may just as well be known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. +</p> + +<p> +“Aylmore’s identified,” he said lazily. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sat up, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Identified!” +</p> + +<p> +“Identified, my son. Beyond doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“But as whom—as what?” exclaimed Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s an old lag—an ex-convict. Served his time partly at +Dartmoor. That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D’ye see? +Clear as noontide now, Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were fixed on +a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard the throbbing of +the printing-machines far below. But what he really saw was the faces of the +two girls; what he really heard was the voices of two girls … +</p> + +<p> +“Clear as noontide—as noontide,” repeated Rathbury with great +cheerfulness. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s clear as noontide?” he asked sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“What? Why, the whole thing! Motive—everything,” answered +Rathbury. “Don’t you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is +Ainsworth, by the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just +before Aylmore’s release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes +back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In time, +Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes back. The two +meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or threatens to let folk +know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is an ex-convict. +Result—Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him. Pooh!—the +whole thing’s clear as noontide, as I say. As—noontide!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo drummed his fingers again. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” he asked quietly. “How came Aylmore to be +identified?” +</p> + +<p> +“My work,” said Rathbury proudly. “My work, my son. You see, +I thought a lot. And especially after we’d found out that Marbury was +Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean after I’d found out,” remarked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury waved his cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, it’s all the same,” he said. “You help me, +and I help you, eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I +thought—now, where did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty +or twenty-two years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in +London—at any rate, before his trial, and we haven’t the least +proof that he was in London after. And why won’t Aylmore tell? Clearly +because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a sudden, +it flashed on me in a moment of—what do you writing fellows call those +moments, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Inspiration, I should think,” said Spargo. “Direct +inspiration.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on +me—why, twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor—they must have +met there! And so, we got some old warders who’d been there at that time +to come to town, and we gave ’em opportunities to see Aylmore and to +study him. Of course, he’s twenty years older, and he’s grown a +beard, but they began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was +the man they thought he’d a certain birth-mark. And—he has!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does Aylmore know that he’s been identified?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Know!” he said scornfully. “Know? He’s admitted it. +What was the use of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it +tonight in my presence. Oh, he knows all right!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he say?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury laughed contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair—that +when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He’s +certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game.” +</p> + +<p> +“And of what was he convicted?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course, we know all about it—now. As soon as we found out +who he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or Ainsworth +(Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a sort of what they +call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up in the +North—Cloudhampton—some thirty years ago. He was nominally +secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the working +classes—Cloudhampton’s a purely artisan population—and they +stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly it came to +smash, and there was nothing. He—Ainsworth, or Aylmore—pleaded that +he was robbed and duped by another man, but the court didn’t believe him, +and he got seven years. Plain story you see, Spargo, when it all comes out, +eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“All stories are quite plain—when they come out,” observed +Spargo. “And he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn’t want +his daughters to know about his past?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” agreed Rathbury. “And I don’t know that I +blame him. He thought, of course, that he’d go scot-free over this +Marbury affair. But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy—oh, +yes!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few minutes, +Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last Spargo came back +and clapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Rathbury!” he said. “It’s very evident that +you’re now going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“After evidence like that!” he exclaimed. “Why, of course. +There’s the motive, my son, the motive!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Rathbury!” he said. “Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than +you did!” +</p> + +<p> +The detective got up and put on his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he said. “Perhaps you know who did, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall know in a few days,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the door. +“Good-night!” he said gruffly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Rathbury,” replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. +</p> + +<p> +But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the <i>Watchman</i>. All he wrote was a +short telegram addressed to Aylmore’s daughters. There were only three +words on it—<i>Have no fear.</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE<br/> +THE CLOSED DOORS</h2> + +<p> +Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the <i>Watchman</i> appeared next +day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple Murder. The +other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts of the +identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster Division, as +the <i>ci-devant</i> Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a time founder +and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society, the headquarters +of which had been at Cloudhampton, in Daleshire; the fall of which had involved +thousands of honest working folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. +Most of them had raked up Ainsworth’s past to considerable journalistic +purpose: it had been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall +of the Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble +investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy, too, to +set out again the history of Ainsworth’s arrest, trial, and fate. There +was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man who by his financial +ability had built up a great industrial insurance society; had—as was +alleged—converted the large sums entrusted to him to his own purposes; +had been detected and punished; had disappeared, after his punishment, so +effectually that no one knew where he had gone; had come back, comparatively a +few years later, under another name, a very rich man, and had entered +Parliament and been, in a modest way, a public character without any of those +who knew him in his new career suspecting that he had once worn a dress +liberally ornamented with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of +the morning newspapers made a couple of columns of it. +</p> + +<p> +But the <i>Watchman</i>, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries in +keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection with the +Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement. For after Rathbury +had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and his editor, and had sat long +in consultation with them, and the result of their talk had been that all the +<i>Watchman</i> thought fit to tell its readers next morning was contained in a +curt paragraph: +</p> + +<p> +“We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the +murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last, was +yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen Ainsworth, who +was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection with the Hearth and +Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily along the +front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a man on an +opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which indicated derision. +</p> + +<p> +“Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my +boy!” he remarked elegantly. “Why, you’ve missed one of the +finest opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A +miserable paragraph!—why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! What +were you doing last night, old man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sleeping,” said Spargo and went by with a nod. +“Sleeping!” +</p> + +<p> +He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple Lane. +It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to Mr. +Elphick’s chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer door. It +is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that hour, but +Elphick’s door was closed fast enough. The night before it had been +promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo’s first knock, nor +to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he murmured aloud: +“Elphick’s door is closed!” +</p> + +<p> +It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that +Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because +Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked slowly back +along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the stairs Ronald +Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at sight of Spargo paused, +staring questioningly at him. As if with a mutual sympathy the two young men +shook hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines +in the <i>Watchman</i> this morning,” said Breton. “It +was—considerate. As for the other papers!—Aylmore assured me last +night, Spargo, that though he did serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent +enough! He was scapegoat for another man who disappeared.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: +</p> + +<p> +“And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to +the two girls last night—it was good of you. They want all the comfort +they can get, poor things! But—what are you doing here, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. +Elphick—an appointment which he made when I called on him, as you +suggested, at nine o’clock. The appointment—a most important +one—was for eleven o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton glanced at his watch. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then,” he said. “It’s well past that now, and +my guardian’s a very martinet in the matter of punctuality.” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton with +troubled eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“So am I,” he answered. “I was trained to it. Your guardian +isn’t there, Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense—I never +knew him miss an appointment!” +</p> + +<p> +“I knocked three times—three separate times,” answered +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You should have knocked half a dozen times—he may have overslept +himself. He sits up late—he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the +night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton. “Come +on—you’ll see!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook his head again. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not there, Breton,” he said. “He’s +gone!” +</p> + +<p> +Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had seen +Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He seized +Spargo’s elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on!” he said. “I have a key to Mr. Elphick’s +door, so that I can go in and out as I like. I’ll soon show you whether +he’s gone or not.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“All the same,” he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the +latch, “he’s not there, Breton. He’s—off!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, man, I don’t know what you’re talking +about!” exclaimed Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. +“Off! Where on earth should he be off to, when he’s made an +appointment with you for eleven, and—Hullo!” +</p> + +<p> +He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and Miss +Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself up on the +threshold with a sharp exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” he cried. “What—what’s all +this?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo quietly looked over Breton’s shoulder. It needed but one quick +glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he had +quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he had left +Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a hurried hand, was the +little table with its spirit case, its syphon, its glass, in which stale liquid +still stood; there was the novel, turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, +was Elphick’s pipe. But the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The +drawers of a bureau had been pulled open and never put back; papers of all +descriptions, old legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the +centre-table and the floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had +been opened, its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the +grate, and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred paper; +it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, wherever he might +have disappeared to, had spent some time before his disappearance in destroying +a considerable heap of documents and papers, and in such haste that he had not +troubled to put matters straight before he went. +</p> + +<p> +Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then he made +one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. Together they entered +an inner room—a sleeping apartment. There was no one in it, but there +were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily packed a bag as he had +destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo had seen him wearing the +previous evening were flung here, there, everywhere: the gorgeous +smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in one corner, a dress-shirt, in the +bosom of which valuable studs still glistened, in another. One or two suitcases +lay about, as if they had been examined and discarded in favour of something +more portable; here, too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, +had been torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, +revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around him, +seemed to see all that had happened—the hasty, almost frantic search for +and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of clothing, of +packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and then the flight the +getting away, the—— +</p> + +<p> +“What on earth does all this mean?” exclaimed Breton. “What +is it, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean exactly what I told you,” answered Spargo. +“He’s off! Off!” +</p> + +<p> +“Off! But why off? What—my guardian!—as quiet an old +gentleman as there is in the Temple—off!” cried Breton. “For +what reason, eh? It isn’t—good God, Spargo, it isn’t because +of anything you said to him last night!” +</p> + +<p> +“I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him +last night,” replied Spargo. “I was a fool ever to let him out of +my sight.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton turned on his companion and gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Out—of—your—sight!” he exclaimed. +“Why—why—you don’t mean to say that Mr. Elphick has +anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God’s sake, +Spargo——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid you’ll have to hear a good deal, Breton,” +he said. “I was going to talk to you today in any case. You +see——” +</p> + +<p> +Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which denote the +charwoman’s profession, entered the room and immediately cried out at +what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, you!” he said. “Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick +this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before +half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his breakfast. I see +him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his usual state of good +health, sir, if any thing’s the matter with him now. No, sir, I +ain’t seen nothing of him.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton let out another exclamation of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better leave all this,” he said. “Mr. +Elphick’s evidently gone away in a hurry, and you mustn’t touch +anything here until he comes back. I’m going to lock up the chambers: if +you’ve a key of them give it to me.” +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the rooms, and +vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say?” he demanded. “I must hear—a good +deal! Out with it, then, man, for Heaven’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Not now, Breton,” he answered. “Presently, I tell you, for +Miss Aylmore’s sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on +your guardian’s track. We must—must, I say!—and at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit his own +senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on!” he said. “I know who’ll know where he is, if +anybody does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who, then?” asked Spargo, as they hurried out. +</p> + +<p> +“Cardlestone,” answered Breton, grimly. “Cardlestone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY<br/> +REVELATION</h2> + +<p> +There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as ever +manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry into which +Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was Breton paused at +the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and at the wall at its side. +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t it there?” he said in a low voice, pointing at the +place he looked at. “Wasn’t it there, Spargo, just there, that +Marbury, or, rather, Maitland, was found?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was just there,” answered Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You saw him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Soon—afterwards?” +</p> + +<p> +“Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you +ask now?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his eyes on +walking into the entry, shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know,” he answered. “I—but come +on—let’s see if old Cardlestone can tell us anything.” +</p> + +<p> +There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside +Cardlestone’s door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was evident +to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Mr. Cardlestone’ll be in, sir,” she +said. “He’s generally gone out to breakfast at this time—him +and Mr. Elphick goes together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just see,” said Breton. “I want to see him if he is +in.” The charwoman entered the chambers and immediately screamed. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite so,” remarked Spargo. “That’s what I expected to +hear. Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also—off!” +</p> + +<p> +Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in close +attendance. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God—another!” groaned Breton. +</p> + +<p> +If the confusion in Elphick’s rooms had been bad, that in +Cardlestone’s chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the +previous scene were repeated—drawers had been torn open, papers thrown +about; the hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and +sevens. An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like +Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his clothes, and +had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any corner. Spargo began to +realize what had taken place—Elphick, having made his own preparations +for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had expedited him, and they had fled +together. But—why? +</p> + +<p> +The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob; Breton +strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous objects tossed +aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the inner room. And Spargo, +looking about him, suddenly caught sight of something lying on the floor at +which he made a sharp clutch. He had just secured it and hurried it into his +pocket when Breton came back. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what all this means, Spargo,” he said, almost +wearily. “I suppose you do. Look here,” he went on, turning to the +charwoman, “stop that row—that’ll do no good, you know. I +suppose Mr. Cardlestone’s gone away in a hurry. You’d +better—what had she better do, Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as +you’re a friend of Mr. Cardlestone’s give you the key,” +answered Spargo, with a significant glance. “Do that, now, and +let’s go—I’ve something to do.” +</p> + +<p> +Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned to Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you all I know, presently, Breton,” he said. +“In the meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick +or Mr. Cardlestone leave. I must know where they’ve gone—if I can +only find out. I don’t suppose they went on foot.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” responded Breton, gloomily. “We’ll go and +ask. But this is all beyond me. You don’t mean to +say——” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a while,” answered Spargo. “One thing at once,” +he continued, as they walked up Middle Temple Lane. “This is the first +thing. You ask the porter if he’s seen anything of either of +them—he knows you.” +</p> + +<p> +The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. +</p> + +<p> +“Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?” he answered. +“Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early +this morning—soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to Paris, +and they’d breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say when they’d be back?” asked Breton, with an assumption +of entire carelessness. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn’t,” answered the porter. +“But I should say they wouldn’t be long because they’d only +got small suit-cases with them—such as they’d put a day or +two’s things in, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had +already moved off. “What next?” he asked. “Charing Cross, I +suppose!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo smiled and shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered. “I’ve no use for Charing Cross. They +haven’t gone to Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let’s +go back to your chambers. Then I’ll talk to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Once within Breton’s inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo +dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with earnest +attention. +</p> + +<p> +“Breton!” he said. “I believe we’re coming in sight of +land. You want to save your prospective father-in-law, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course!” growled Breton. “That goes without saying. +But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it,” said +Spargo. “You see——” +</p> + +<p> +“Sacrifices!” exclaimed Breton. “What——” +</p> + +<p> +“You may have to sacrifice some ideas—you may find that +you’ll not be able to think as well of some people in the future as you +have thought of them in the past. For instance—Mr. Elphick.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton’s face grew dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak plainly, Spargo!” he said. “It’s best with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied Spargo. “Mr. Elphick, then, is in some +way connected with this affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean the—murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I’m now dead +certain. And that’s why they’re off. I startled Elphick last night. +It’s evident that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that +they made a rapid exit. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? That’s what I’m asking you! Why? Why? Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because they’re afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, +their first instinct is to—run. They’ve run at the first alarm. +Foolish—but instinctive.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped to his +feet and thumped his blotting-pad. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo!” he exclaimed. “Are you telling me that you accuse +my guardian and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone, of being—murderers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of +knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I am also +accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all about Maitland, +alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he knew this dead man to be +John Maitland.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did!” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. And now, Breton, since it’s got to come out, we’ll +have the truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for +you’ll have to stand a shock or two. But I know what I’m talking +about—I can prove every word I’m going to say to you. And first let +me ask you a few questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me +unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he’s never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to +prove the truth of that story?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person +who was particularly near you in your childhood?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years +old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall, dark +woman, I think, before that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself. “All right, +Breton,” he went on aloud. “I’m going to tell you the truth. +I’ll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations +afterwards. Your real name is not Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, +and you’re the only child of the man who was found murdered at the foot +of Cardlestone’s staircase!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at him with +some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he do?—what would +he say?—what—— +</p> + +<p> +Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. +“Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“I will—every word,” he answered. “It’s the right +thing. Listen, then.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the clock +outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought it to an end. +And all that time Breton listened with the keenest attention, only asking a +question now and then; now and then making a brief note on a sheet of paper +which he had drawn to him. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” said Spargo at last. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically. +</p> + +<p> +He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. +“What do you really think?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“About—what?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be +forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw Elphick +in last night. And it’s evident that Cardlestone shares in that fright, +or they wouldn’t have gone off in this way together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look +here!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which he handed +to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?” +</p> + +<p> +“That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of +those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. I +picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking into +his bedroom.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical +stamps. And whether they are or not——” +</p> + +<p> +“What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I +believe that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had +on him, and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. +And I will know.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton handed the stamps back. +</p> + +<p> +“But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they +didn’t murder—I can’t realize the thing yet!—my +father——” +</p> + +<p> +“If they didn’t murder your father, they know who did!” +exclaimed Spargo. “Now, then, it’s time for more action. Let +Elphick and Cardlestone alone for the moment—they’ll be tracked +easily enough. I want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get +an authority from the Government to open a grave?” +</p> + +<p> +“Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by showing +the very strongest reasons why it should be made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good! We’ll give the reasons. I want to have a grave +opened.” +</p> + +<p> +“A grave opened! Whose grave?” +</p> + +<p> +“The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster,” replied +Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +Breton started. +</p> + +<p> +“His? In Heaven’s name, why?” he demanded. +</p> + +<p> +Spargo laughed as he got up. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I believe it’s empty,” he answered. “Because I +believe that Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name +is—Cardlestone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE<br/> +THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER</h2> + +<p> +That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his +proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to the +offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the <i>Watchman</i> when it +wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate application +to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne grave at Market +Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning there appeared in the +<i>Watchman</i> a notice which set half the mouths of London a-watering. That +notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:— +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“W<small>HEREAS</small>, on some date within the past twelve months, +there was stolen, abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, +Temple, occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. Anderson, +a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of curious workmanship, +which stick was probably used in the murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in +Middle Temple Lane, on the night of June 21–22 last, and is now in the hands of +the police:<br/> + “This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the <i>Watchman</i> +newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (O<small>NE</small> +T<small>HOUSAND</small> P<small>OUNDS</small> S<small>TERLING</small>) at once +and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or she stole, abstracted, or took +away the said stick from the said chambers, and will further give full +information as to his or her disposal of the same, and the Proprietor of the +<i>Watchman</i> moreover engages to treat any revelation affecting the said +stick in the most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from +using it in any way detrimental to the informant, who should call at the +<i>Watchman</i> office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time between eleven +and one o’clock midday, and seven and eleven o’clock in the +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you really expect to get some information through that?” asked +Breton, who came into Spargo’s room about noon on the day on which the +promising announcement came out. “You really do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before today is out,” said Spargo confidently. “There is +more magic in a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I’ll have +the history of that stick before midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“How are you to tell that you won’t be imposed upon?” +suggested Breton. “Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me how +he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick,” said Spargo. +“I haven’t the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken away +from Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the hands +of—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of whom?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I want to know in some fashion. I’ve an idea, +already. But I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one +thing—when I get that information—as I shall—we shall be a +long way on the road towards establishing Aylmore’s innocence.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a meditative +expression. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo,” he said, suddenly, “do you think you’ll get +that order for the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was talking to the solicitors over the ’phone just now,” +answered Spargo. “They’ve every confidence about it. In fact, +it’s possible it may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening +will be made early tomorrow morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you go?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch +with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there—you’re +concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to go—I will go,” said Breton. “And if +that grave proves to be—empty—I’ll—I’ll tell you +something.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll tell me something? Something? What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind—wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body +or lead and sawdust. If there’s no body there——” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached Spargo. +His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, showed signs of +something very like excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo,” he +said. “He’s been hanging about a bit, sir,—seems very shy +about coming up. He won’t say what he wants, and he won’t fill up a +form, sir. Says all he wants is a word or two with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring him up at once!” commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when +the boy had gone. “There!” he said, laughing. “This is the +man about the stick—you see if it isn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re such a cock-sure chap, Spargo,” said Breton. +“You’re always going on a straight line.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trying to, you mean,” retorted Spargo. “Well, stop here, and +hear what this chap has to say: it’ll no doubt be amusing.” +</p> + +<p> +The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo’s +room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of good +<i>Watchman</i> money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a shy and +self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully apparent to everybody +and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the threshold, looking round the +comfortably-furnished room, and at the two well-dressed young men which it +framed as if he feared to enter on a scene of such grandeur. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in!” said Spargo, rising and pointing to an +easy-chair at the side of his desk. “Take a seat. You’ve called +about that reward, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without +suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” he said. “It’s all on the strict private. +Name of Edward Mollison, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where do you live, and what do you do?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel,” answered Edward +Mollison. “Leastways, that’s where I generally hang out when I can +afford it. And—window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning +when—when——” +</p> + +<p> +“When you came in contact with the stick we’ve been advertising +about,” suggested Spargo. “Just so. Well, Mollison—what about +the stick?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t no danger of me being got into trouble along of that +stick?” he asked. “’Cause if there is, I ain’t a-going +to say a word—no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no +trouble of any sort, guv’nor—though a poor man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison,” replied Spargo. +“Not the least. All you’ve got to do is to tell the truth—and +prove that it is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out +of Mr. Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, was it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his feelings. He +smiled weakly. +</p> + +<p> +“It was cert’nly me as took it, sir,” he said. “Not +that I meant to pinch it—not me! And, as you might say, I didn’t +take it, when all’s said and done. It was—put on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Put on you, was it?” said Spargo. “That’s interesting. +And how was it put on you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin. +</p> + +<p> +“It was this here way,” he answered. “You see, I was working +at that time—near on to nine months since, it is—for the Universal +Daylight Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and +there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore’s—only I knew +them as Mr. Anderson’s—among ’em. And I was there one +morning, early it was, when the charwoman she says to me, ‘I wish +you’d take these two or three hearthrugs,’ she says, ‘and +give ’em a good beating,’ she says. And me being always a ready one +to oblige, ‘All right!’ I says, and takes ’em. +‘Here’s something to wallop ’em with,’ she says, and +pulls that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner of the +lobby. And that’s how I came to handle it, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said Spargo. “A good explanation. And when you had +beaten the hearthrugs—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison smiled his weak smile again. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something +uncommon,” he answered. “And I thinks—‘Well, this Mr. +Anderson, he’s got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up +there—he’ll never miss this old thing,’ I thinks. And so I +left it in a corner when I’d done beating the rugs, and when I went away +with my things I took it with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You took it with you?” said Spargo. “Just so. To keep as a +curiosity, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Mollison’s weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing +his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his news was +imparting confidence to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Not half!” he answered. “You see, guv’nor, there was +an old cove as I knew in the Temple there as is, or was, ’cause I +ain’t been there since, a collector of antikities, like, and I’d +sold him a queer old thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye +when I took the stick away—see?” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. And you took the stick to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I took it there and then,” replied Mollison. “Pitched him a +tale, I did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle +Simon—which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare +curiosity—which it might ha’ been one, for all I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bought it there and then,” answered Mollison, with something very +like a wink. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for +it?” asked Spargo. “Something handsome, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Couple o’ quid,” replied Mollison. “Me not wishing to +part with a family heirloom for less.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove’s +name and his address, Mollison?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir. Which they’ve painted on his entry—the fifth or +sixth as you go down Middle Temple Lane,” answered Mollison. “Mr. +Nicholas Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Come this way, Mollison,” he said. “We’ll go and see +about your little reward. Excuse me, Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came back. +</p> + +<p> +“There—that’s one matter settled, Breton,” he said. +“Now for the next. The Home Secretary’s made the order for the +opening of the grave at Market Milcaster. I’m going down there at once, +and I suppose you’re coming. And remember, if that grave’s +empty——” +</p> + +<p> +“If that grave’s empty,” said Breton, “I’ll tell +you—a good deal.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO<br/> +THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN</h2> + +<p> +There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon, Spargo, +Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the order for the +opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting on behalf of the +proprietor of the <i>Watchman</i>. It was late in the evening when they reached +the little town, but Spargo, having looked in at the parlour of the +“Yellow Dragon” and ascertained that Mr. Quarterpage had only just +gone home, took Breton across the street to the old gentleman’s house. +Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door, and recognized Spargo immediately. +Nothing would satisfy him but that the two should go in; his family, he said, +had just retired, but he himself was going to take a final nightcap and a +cigar, and they must share it. +</p> + +<p> +“For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage,” said Spargo as they +followed the old man into his dining-room. “We have to be up at daybreak. +And—possibly—you, too, would like to be up just as early.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he was +handling. +</p> + +<p> +“At daybreak?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is,” said Spargo, “that grave of +Chamberlayne’s is going to be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get +an order from the Home Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne’s +body: the officials in charge of it have come down in the same train with us; +we’re all staying across there at the ‘Dragon.’ The officials +have gone to make the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at +daybreak, or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that +you know of it, you’ll be there?” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “You’ve +really done that! Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all +these years. You’re a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. +And this other young gentleman?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. +“Mr. Quarterpage,” he said, “this young gentleman is, without +doubt, John Maitland’s son. He’s the young barrister, Mr. Ronald +Breton, that I told you of, but there’s no doubt about his parentage. And +I’m sure you’ll shake hands with him and wish him well.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton his +hand. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young sir!” he exclaimed. “That I will indeed! And +as to wishing you well—ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor +father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me, what a +night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is found +empty—what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” answered Spargo, “then I think we shall be able to +put our hands on the man who is supposed to be in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, +sir?” observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down +round Mr. Quarterpage’s hospitable hearth. “You think he was unduly +influenced by him?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Chamberlayne, my dear young sir,” he answered. “Chamberlayne +was a plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he +came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had contrived +to ingratiate himself with everybody—of course, to his own advantage. I +firmly believe that he twisted your father round his little finger. As I told +Mr. Spargo there when he was making his enquiries of me a short while back, it +would never have been any surprise to me to hear—definitely, I mean, +young gentlemen—that all this money that was in question went into +Chamberlayne’s pockets. Dear me—dear me!—and you really +believe that Chamberlayne is actually alive, Mr. Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo pulled out his watch. “We shall all know whether he was buried in +that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then nearly +midnight, and before three o’clock Spargo and Breton, with the other men +who had accompanied them from London were out of the “Yellow +Dragon” and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. +Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the long +stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the sea was white +with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery hung veils and webs of +gossamer: everything around them was quiet as the dead folk who lay beneath +their feet. And the people actively concerned went quietly to work, and those +who could do nothing but watch stood around in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“In all my long life of over ninety years,” whispered old +Quarterpage, who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in +spite of his shortened rest, “I have never seen this done before. It +seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man’s last +resting-place—a dreadful thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“If there is a dead man there,” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he had no +scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon the dead. He +watched all that was done. The men employed by the local authorities, +instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with canvas; the proceedings +were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a man was posted to keep away any +very early passersby, who might be attracted by the unusual proceedings. At +first there was nothing to do but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by +reflecting that every spadeful of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing +him nearer to the truth; he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at +any rate one phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the +coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the body of +the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his, Spargo’s, latest +theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that coffin contained no body +at all, then—” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re down to it!” whispered Breton. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had +uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of them was +brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now strong light they +could all read the lettering on it. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE<br/> +Born 1852<br/> +Died 1891 +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the grave. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall know now!” he whispered to Breton. “And +yet—what is it we shall know if——” +</p> + +<p> +“If what?” said Breton. “If—what?” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had lately been +working for, and the issues were tremendous. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for it!” said the <i>Watchman’s</i> solicitor in an +undertone. “Come, Mr. Spargo, now we shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the graveside, as +the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The screws were rusted in +their sockets; they grated as the men slowly worked them out. It seemed to +Spargo that each man grew slower and slower in his movements; he felt that he +himself was getting fidgety. Then he heard a voice of authority. +</p> + +<p> +“Lift the lid off!” +</p> + +<p> +A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly raised +the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick movement. +</p> + +<p> +Sawdust! +</p> + +<p> +The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down. The +surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled it long +years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of deceit. +</p> + +<p> +Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell. The chief +official present looked round him with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion,” he +remarked. “Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies beneath +the sawdust,” he added, turning to the workmen. “Turn it +out!” +</p> + +<p> +The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of them, +evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, thrust down +his fingers at various places along its length. He, too, laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“The coffin’s weighted with lead!” he remarked. +“See!” +</p> + +<p> +And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three +intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where the head, +the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. +</p> + +<p> +“Done it cleverly,” he remarked, looking round. “You see how +these weights have been adjusted. When a body’s laid out in a coffin, you +know, all the weight’s in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here you +see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the feet. +Clever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clear out all the sawdust,” said some one. “Let’s see +if there’s anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of papers, +tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately manifested +great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton along with him, +forced his way to where the officials from the Home Office and the solicitor +sent by the <i>Watchman</i> were hastily examining their discoveries. +</p> + +<p> +The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at Market +Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to him, Mr. +Quarterpage’s amongst them. He was not at all astonished to see these +things. But he was something more than astonished when, on the second parcel +being opened, a quantity of papers relating to Cloudhampton and the Hearth and +Home Mutual Benefit Society were revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and +drew Breton aside. +</p> + +<p> +“It strikes me we’ve found a good deal more than we ever bargained +for!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t Aylmore say that the real culprit +at Cloudhampton was another man—his clerk or something of that +sort?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did,” agreed Breton. “He insists on it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man,” said +Spargo. “He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What’ll be +done with those papers?” he asked, turning to the officials. +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London,” +replied the principal person in authority. “They will be quite safe, Mr. +Spargo; have no fear. We don’t know what they may reveal.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t, indeed!” said Spargo. “But I may as well +tell you that I have a strong belief that they’ll reveal a good deal that +nobody dreams of, so take the greatest care of them.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried Breton out +of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, Breton!” he commanded. “Out with it!” +</p> + +<p> +“With what?” +</p> + +<p> +“You promised to tell me something—a great deal, you said—if +we found that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on—quick!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be found. +That’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“All! It’s enough. Where, then, in heaven’s name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go +fishing—right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire moors. +I expect they’ve gone there. Nobody knows even their names +there—they could go and lie quiet there for—ages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know the way to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do—I’ve been there.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo motioned him to hurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, then,” he said. “We’re going there by the +very first train out of this. I know the train, too—we’ve just time +to snatch a mouthful of breakfast and to send a wire to the <i>Watchman</i>, +and then we’ll be off. Yorkshire!—Gad, Breton, that’s over +three hundred miles away!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE<br/> +FORESTALLED</h2> + +<p> +Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of England to +the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo and Breton came late +at night to Hawes’ Junction, on the border of Yorkshire and Westmoreland, +and saw rising all around them in the half-darkness the mighty bulks of the +great fells which rise amongst that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that +hour of the night and amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of +some adjacent waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to +Spargo as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of human +life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he saw a light, +but such lights were few and far between; even as he looked some of them +twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and Breton were presently to be +alone with the night. +</p> + +<p> +“How far?” he asked Breton as they walked away from the station. +</p> + +<p> +“We’d better discuss matters,” answered Breton. “The +place is in a narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away +across these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish +for. It’s half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good two +and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is—Do we go +straight there, or do we put up for the night? There’s an inn here at +this junction: there’s the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the road +which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the fells. It’s +going to be a black night—look at those masses of black cloud gathering +there!—and possibly a wet one, and we’ve no waterproofs. But +it’s for you to say—I’m game for whatever you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know the way?” asked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I +remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find my way. +But it’s rough walking.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll go straight there,” said Spargo. “Every +minute’s precious. But—can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese +and a glass of ale first?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good idea! We’ll call in at the ‘Moor Cock.’ Now then, +while we’re on this firm road, step it out lively.” +</p> + +<p> +The “Moor Cock” was almost deserted at that hour: there was +scarcely a soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted +parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Come our way again then, sir?” he remarked with a sudden grin of +recognition. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you remember me?” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last +year,” replied the landlord. “I hear they’re here +again—Tom Summers was coming across that way this morning, and said +he’d seen ’em at the little cottage. Going to join ’em, I +reckon, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton kicked Spargo under the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we’re going to have a day or two with them,” he +answered. “Just to get a breath of your moorland air.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll have a roughish walk over there tonight, +gentlemen,” said the landlord. “There’s going to be a storm. +And it’s a stiffish way to make out at this time o’night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, we’ll manage,” said Breton, nonchalantly. “I know +the way, and we’re not afraid of a wet skin.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his arms and +scratched his elbows. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a gentleman—London gentleman by his tongue—came in +here this afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale,” he observed. +“He’ll be there long since—he’d have daylight for his +walk. Happen he’s one of your party?—he asked where the old +gentlemen’s little cottage was.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. “One of their +friends, perhaps,” answered Breton. “What was he like?” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was conscious of the +fact. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman,” he said. +“Stranger hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit—something +like your friend’s there. Yes—he took some bread and cheese with +him when he heard what a long way it was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wise man,” remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and +cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. “Come on,” he +said, “let’s be stepping.” +</p> + +<p> +Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo’s arm. +“Who’s the man?” he said. “Can you think, +Spargo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t,” answered Spargo. “I was trying to, while that +chap was talking. But—it’s somebody that’s got in before us. +Not Rathbury, anyhow—he’s not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, +however are you going to find your way in this darkness?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up +the fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see +Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat—they’re both well over two +thousand feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear +between them. But I warn you, Spargo, it’s stiff going!” +</p> + +<p> +“Go ahead!” said Spargo. “It’s the first time in my +life I ever did anything of this sort, but we’re going on if it takes us +all night. I couldn’t sleep in any bed now that I’ve heard +there’s somebody ahead of us. Go first, old chap, and I’ll +follow.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but when he +turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what was obviously +no more than a sheep-track, Spargo’s troubles began. It seemed to him +that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw was magnified and +heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint outlines of the towering hills; +the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the figure of Breton forging stolidly and +surely ahead. Now the ground was soft and spongy under his feet; now it was +stony and rugged; more than once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather +and tripped, bruising his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping +his eye on Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his +footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +“Was there no other way than this?” he asked after a long interval +of silence. “Do you mean to say those two—Elphick and +Cardlestone—would take this way?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is another way—down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and +Hardraw,” answered Breton, “but it’s miles and miles round. +This is a straight cut across country, and in daylight it’s a delightful +walk. But at night—Gad!—here’s the rain, Spargo!” +</p> + +<p> +The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a suddenness that +was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey night was blotted out; +Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a vast solitude and was being +gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight was keener, and who had more +knowledge of the situation dragged his companion into the shelter of a group of +rocks. He laughed a little as they huddled closely together. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet +Street, Spargo,” he said. “You would come on, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going on if we go through cataracts and floods,” +answered Spargo. “I might have been induced to stop at the ‘Moor +Cock’ overnight if we hadn’t heard of that chap in front. If +he’s after those two he’s somebody who knows something. What I +can’t make out is—who he can be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor I,” said Breton. “I can’t think of anybody who +knows of this retreat. But—has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody +beside yourself may have been investigating?” +</p> + +<p> +“Possible,” replied Spargo. “One never knows. I only wish +we’d been a few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with +those two.” +</p> + +<p> +The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the heavens +cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they were then +crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away below them. +</p> + +<p> +“You see that?” he said. “That’s a sheet of water lying +between us and Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell +beyond it, drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come +down into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There’s a good two hours and a half +stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo set his teeth. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing his +shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London lights, the +well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even the humble omnibus, +plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him that they had walked for ages +and had traversed a whole continent of mountains and valley when at last +Breton, halting on the summit of a wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his +companion’s shoulder and pointed downward with the other. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” he said. “There!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to be a +considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a light—a +mere spark of a light. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the cottage,” said Breton, “Late as it is, you +see, they’re up. And here’s the roughest bit of the journey. +It’ll take me all my time to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so +step carefully after me—there are bogs and holes hereabouts.” +</p> + +<p> +Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the guiding +light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the ground; always, +when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer to it. And now when +they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that he found himself in one of +the loneliest places he had ever been capable of imagining—so lonely and +desolate a spot he had certainly never seen. In the dim light he could see a +narrow, crawling stream, making its way down over rocks and stones from the +high ground of Great Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, +on the edge of the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by +a ring of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small +building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built by some +shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more than one storey in +height, but of some length; a considerable part of it was hidden by shrubs and +brushwood. And from one uncurtained, blindless window the light of a lamp shone +boldly into the fading darkness without. +</p> + +<p> +Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve got to get across there, Spargo,” he said. “But +as we’re already soaked to the knee it doesn’t matter about getting +another wetting. Have you any idea how long we’ve been walking?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hours—days—years!” replied Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say quite four hours,” said Breton. “In that case, +it’s well past two o’clock, and the light will be breaking in +another hour or so. Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?” +</p> + +<p> +“What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they’ve got a +light, I take it that they’re up. Look there!” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the light. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone,” said Spargo. +“They’re medium-heighted men. That’s a tallish man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s the man the landlord of the ‘Moor Cock’ told +us about,” said Breton. “Now, look here—I know every inch of +this place. When we’re across let me go up to the cottage, and I’ll +take an observation through that window and see who’s inside. Come +on.” +</p> + +<p> +He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of boulders made +a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the bank to the cottage. +Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past the shrubs and undergrowth +until he came to a great bush which stood between the lighted window and the +projecting porch of the cottage. He lingered in the shadow of this bush but for +a short moment; then came swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His +hand fell on Spargo’s arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo!” he whispered. “Who on earth do you think the other +man is?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR<br/> +THE WHIP HAND</h2> + +<p> +Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the objects of +his long journey, shook off Breton’s hand with a growl of resentment. +</p> + +<p> +“And how on earth can I waste time guessing?” he exclaimed. +“Who is he?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton laughed softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, Spargo, steady!” he said. “It’s +Myerst—the Safe Deposit man. Myerst!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo started as if something had bitten him. +</p> + +<p> +“Myerst!” he almost shouted. “Myerst! Good Lord!—why +did I never think of him? Myerst! Then——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know why you should have thought of him,” said +Breton. “But—he’s there.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” he said. “We’ve got to discuss this. I’d +better tell you what they’re doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they doing, then?” demanded Spargo impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” answered Breton. “They’re going through a +quantity of papers. The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. +Myerst is evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. +I’ve formed a notion, Spargo.” +</p> + +<p> +“What notion?” +</p> + +<p> +“Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he’s +followed them down here to blackmail them. That’s my notion.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay you’re right,” he said. “Now, what’s +to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +Breton, too, considered matters. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish,” he said at last, “I wish we could get in there and +overhear what’s going on. But that’s impossible—I know that +cottage. The only thing we can do is this—we must catch Myerst unawares. +He’s here for no good. Look here!” +</p> + +<p> +And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning revolver and +wagged it in his hand with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a useful thing to have, Spargo,” he remarked. +“I slipped it into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did +it. Now it’ll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be +armed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will, Myerst, +when he’s got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get where I did +just now, behind that bush, and I’ll station myself in the doorway. You +can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I’ll cover him. Come on, +Spargo; it’s beginning to get light already.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such cover as +the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made their way to the +front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton posted himself in the porch, +motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the bushes and to look through the +window. And Spargo noiselessly followed his directions and slightly parting the +branches which concealed him looked in through the uncurtained glass. +</p> + +<p> +The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the extreme. +There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough chairs and tables, +plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a corner; some food set out on a +side table. At the table in the middle of the floor the three men sat. +Cardlestone’s face was in the shadow; Myerst had his back to the window; +old Elphick bending over the table was laboriously writing with shaking +fingers. And Spargo twisted his head round to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +“Elphick,” he said, “is writing a cheque. Myerst has another +cheque in his hand. Be ready!—when he gets that second cheque I guess +he’ll be off.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again. +</p> + +<p> +“Look out, Breton! He’s coming.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his protecting +bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they heard Myerst’s +voice, threatening, commanding in tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, remember all I’ve said! And don’t you +forget—I’ve the whip hand of both of you—the whip +hand!” +</p> + +<p> +Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light—to find himself +confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly revolver +within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a remarkably firm and steady +grip. Another glance showed him the figure of a second business-like looking +young man at his side, whose attitude showed a desire to grapple with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Mr. Myerst,” said Breton with cold and ironic +politeness. “We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And—I must +trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but a +sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his head, +whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s wise, Mr. Myerst,” he said, keeping his revolver +steadily pointed at his prisoner’s nose. “Discretion will certainly +be the better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo—may I trouble +you to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them carefully. +Not for papers or documents—just now. We can leave that +matter—we’ve plenty of time. See if he’s got a weapon of any +sort on him, Spargo—that’s the important thing.” +</p> + +<p> +Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of searching a +man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing what the prisoner +carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a revolver, while Myerst, +finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily and with profusion. +</p> + +<p> +“Excellent!” said Breton, laughing again. “Sure he’s +got nothing else on him that’s dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. +Myerst, right about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there +are two revolvers behind your back. March!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked into the +cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a glance at the two +old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying back in his chair; Elphick, +scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was coming forward with trembling limbs. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a moment,” said Breton, soothingly. “Don’t alarm +yourself. We’ll deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit +down in that chair—it’s the heaviest the place affords. Into it, +now! Spargo, you see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up—hand and +foot—to that chair. And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, +and behind him.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst suddenly laughed. “You damned young bully!” he exclaimed. +“If you put a rope round me, you’re only putting ropes round the +necks of these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that later,” answered Breton. He kept Myerst +covered while Spargo made play with the rope. “Don’t be afraid of +hurting him, Spargo,” he said. “Tie him well and strong. He +won’t shift that chair in a hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done credit to +a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand or foot, and +Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains. “That’ll +do,” said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his pocket and +turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank into a chair in +the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook as with palsy and +muttered words which the two young men could not catch. “Guardian,” +continued Breton, “don’t be frightened! And don’t you be +frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There’s nothing to be afraid of, +just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me that Mr. Spargo and I +came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this fellow after?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge of tears; +as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was completely gone. And +Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +“Spargo,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you’ll find +whisky in there. Give them both a stiff dose: they’ve broken up. Now, +guardian,” he continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, +“what was he after? Shall I suggest it? Was it—blackmail?” +</p> + +<p> +Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. “Yes, yes!” +he muttered. “Blackmail! That was it—blackmail. He—he got +money—papers—from us. They’re on him.” +</p> + +<p> +Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought as much, Mr. Myerst,” he said. “Spargo, +let’s see what he has on him.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo began to search the prisoner’s pockets. He laid out everything on +the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated some sort +of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of loose gold; a number +of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated denominations; various foreign +securities, realizable in Paris. And there was an open cheque, signed by +Cardlestone for ten thousand pounds, and another, with Elphick’s name at +the foot, also open, for half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as +Spargo handed them out. He turned to old Elphick. +</p> + +<p> +“Guardian,” he said, “why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given +this man these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?” +</p> + +<p> +Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face on his +ward. +</p> + +<p> +“He—he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!” he +faltered. “We—we didn’t see that we had a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection with +it?” demanded Breton. “Come—tell me the truth now.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been investigating—so he says,” answered Elphick. +“He lives in that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor +rooms above Cardlestone’s. And—and he says he’s the fullest +evidence against Cardlestone—and against me as an accessory after the +fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—it’s a lie?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“A lie!” answered Elphick. “Of course, it’s a lie. +But—he’s so clever that—that——” +</p> + +<p> +“That you don’t know how you could prove it otherwise,” said +Breton. “Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does +he? That may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police +here.” He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. +“Look here, Spargo,” he continued. “I’m going to write +a note to the superintendent of police at Hawes—there’s a farm half +a mile from here where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. +Now, if you want to send a wire to the <i>Watchman</i>, draft it out, and +he’ll take it with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick began to move in his corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Must the police come?” he said. “Must——” +</p> + +<p> +“The police must come,” answered Breton firmly. “Go ahead +with your wire, Spargo, while I write this note.” +</p> + +<p> +Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm, he sat +down at Elphick’s side and laid his hand on the old man’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, guardian,” he said, quietly, “you’ve got to tell +us the truth.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE<br/> +MYERST EXPLAINS</h2> + +<p> +It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the cottage, +that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and fright: Cardlestone +still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he looked incapable of +explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more fitted to speak. And when Breton +issued his peremptory invitation to his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo +intervened. +</p> + +<p> +“Far better leave him alone, Breton,” he said in a low voice. +“Don’t you see the old chap’s done up? They’re both +done up. We don’t know what they’ve gone through with this fellow +before we came, and it’s certain they’ve had no sleep. Leave it all +till later—after all, we’ve found them and we’ve found +him.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Myerst’s direction, +and Breton involuntarily followed the movement. He caught the prisoner’s +eye, and Myerst laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever,” he said +sneeringly. “Don’t you, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve been clever enough to catch you, anyway,” retorted +Breton. “And now we’ve got you we’ll keep you till the police +can relieve us of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. “And on what +charge do you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you’ll +have some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well see about that later,” said Breton. “You’ve +extorted money by menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have I? How do you know they didn’t entrust me with these cheques +as their agent?” exclaimed Myerst. “Answer me that! Or, rather, let +them answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick—didn’t +you give me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of +Myerst’s voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Breton,” he said, whispering, “this +scoundrel’s got some hold on these two old chaps—they’re +frightened to death of him. Leave them alone: it would be best for them if they +could get some rest. Hold your tongue, you!” he added aloud, turning to +Myerst. “When we want you to speak we’ll tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +But Myerst laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the <i>Watchman</i>!” he +sneered. “You’re another of the cock-sure lot. And you’re +very clever, but not clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing—” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt his +hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern. +</p> + +<p> +“I say!” he exclaimed. “He’s more than +frightened—he’s ill! What’s to be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them,” answered +Breton. “In the meantime, let’s put him to bed—there are beds +in that inner room. We’ll get him to bed and give him something hot to +drink—that’s all I can think of for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo, with a +happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot bottles to his feet. +When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie down in the inner room. +Presently both old men fell asleep, and then Breton and Spargo suddenly +realized that they themselves were hungry and wet and weary. +</p> + +<p> +“There ought to be food in the cupboard,” said Breton, beginning to +rummage. “They’ve generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here +we are, Spargo—these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while +I open one of these tins.” +</p> + +<p> +The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast with eyes +that eventually began to glisten. +</p> + +<p> +“I may remind you that I’m hungry, too,” he said as Spargo +set the coffee on the table. “And you’ve no right to starve me, +even if you’ve the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something +to eat, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shan’t starve,” said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample +supply of bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate +before Myerst. “Untie his right arm, Spargo,” he continued. +“I think we can give him that liberty. We’ve got his revolver, +anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst pushed his +plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors. “Look +here!” he said. “You think you know a lot about all this affair, +Spargo, but there’s only one person who knows all about it. That’s +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re taking that for granted,” said Spargo. “We +guessed as much when we found you here. You’ll have ample opportunity for +explanation, you know, later on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll explain now, if you care to hear,” said Myerst with +another of his cynical laughs. “And if I do, I’ll tell you the +truth. I know you’ve got an idea in your heads that isn’t +favourable to me, but you’re utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look +here!—I’ll make you a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case +there—give me one, and mix me a drink of that whisky—a good +’un—and I’ll tell you what I know about this matter. Come +on!—anything’s better than sitting here doing nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. “Let him talk +if he likes,” he said. “We’re not bound to believe him. And +we may hear something that’s true. Give him his cigar and his +drink.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo presently +set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of his cigar. +</p> + +<p> +“As it happens, you’ll hear nothing but the truth,” he +observed. “Now that things are as they are, there’s no reason why I +shouldn’t tell the truth. The fact is, I’ve nothing to fear. You +can’t give me in charge, for it so happens that I’ve got a power of +attorney from these two old chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the +money they entrusted me with. It’s in an inside pocket of that +letter-case, and if you look at it, Breton, you’ll see it’s in +order. I’m not even going to dare you to interfere with or destroy +it—you’re a barrister, and you’ll respect the law. But +that’s a fact—and if anybody’s got a case against anybody, I +have against you two for assault and illegal detention. But I’m not a +vindictive man, and——” +</p> + +<p> +Breton took up Myerst’s letter-case and examined its contents. And +presently he turned to Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s right!” he whispered. “This is quite in +order.” He turned to Myerst. “All the same,” he said, +addressing him, “we shan’t release you, because we believe +you’re concerned in the murder of John Marbury. We’re justified in +holding you on that account.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, my young friend,” said Myerst. “Have your own +stupid way. But I said I’d tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain +truth is that I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know +of what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed John +Maitland. That’s a fact! It may have been the old man in there +who’s already at his own last gasp, or it mayn’t. I tell you I +don’t know—though, like you, Spargo, I’ve tried hard to find +out. That’s the truth—I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You expect us to believe that?” exclaimed Breton incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“Believe it or not, as you like—it’s the truth,” +answered Myerst. “Now, look here—I said nobody knew as much of this +affair as I know, and that’s true also. And here’s the truth of +what I know. The old man in that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, +is in reality Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name +was so freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That’s another +fact!” +</p> + +<p> +“How,” asked Breton, sternly, “can you prove it? How do you +know it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, “I helped to +carry out his mock death and burial—I was a solicitor in those days, and +my name was—something else. There were three of us at it: +Chamberlayne’s nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried +it out very cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for +our trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well paid +for my help. The first time was in connection with the Cloudhampton Hearth and +Home Mutual Benefit Society affair—Aylmore, or Ainsworth, was as innocent +as a child in that!—Chamberlayne was the man at the back. But, +unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn’t profit—he lost all he got by it, +pretty quick. That was why be transferred his abilities to Market +Milcaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can prove all this, I suppose?” remarked Spargo. +</p> + +<p> +“Every word—every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: +Your father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all +the money that was got from the bank. He had—and he engineered that mock +death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who helped him +generously, as I’ve told you. The thing couldn’t have been better +done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor disappeared; +Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck—to tell you the truth, I was +struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed my name and became +Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was not until three years ago +that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in this way: After I became secretary to +the Safe Deposit Company, I took chambers in the Temple, above +Cardlestone’s. And I speedily found out who he was. Instead of going +abroad, the old fox—though he was a comparatively young ’un, +then!—had shaved off his beard, settled down in the Temple and given +himself up to his two hobbies, collecting curiosities and stamps. There +he’d lived quietly all these years, and nobody had ever recognized or +suspected him. Indeed, I don’t see how they could; he lived such a quiet, +secluded life, with his collections, his old port, and his little whims and +fads. But—I knew him!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you doubtless profited by your recognition,” suggested Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to hold +my tongue,” replied Myerst, “and I was glad to take it and, +naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one +friend—Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I’ll tell you about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him,” said Breton +sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to +have married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took you +and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of your +father’s disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that Cardlestone +is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have friends—Elphick’s +very fond of Cardlestone. He——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo turned sharply on Myerst. +</p> + +<p> +“You say Elphick didn’t know until last night!” he exclaimed. +“Why, then, this running away? What were they running from?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no more notion than you have, Spargo,” replied Myerst. +“I tell you one or other of them knows something that I don’t. +Elphick, I gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone—then +they both vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland—I +don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I know about the actual +murder—for I do know a good deal about it, though, as I say, I +don’t know who killed Maitland. Now, first, you know all that about +Maitland’s having papers and valuables and gold on him? Very +well—I’ve got all that. The whole lot is locked +up—safely—and I’m willing to hand it over to you, Breton, +when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given—as it will +be—that you’re Maitland’s son.” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when he saw +the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers’ faces. +</p> + +<p> +“And still more,” he continued, “I’ve got all the +contents of that leather box which Maitland deposited with +me—that’s safely locked up, too, and at your disposal. I took +possession of that the day after the murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I +went to Scotland Yard, as Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a +game—and it required some ingenuity.” +</p> + +<p> +“A game!” exclaimed Breton. “Good heavens—what +game?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury was +Maitland of Market Milcaster,” answered Myerst. “When I did know +then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line, independent of +everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland’s papers and possessions, by +that time—except one thing. That packet of Australian stamps. And—I +found out that those stamps were in the hands of—Cardlestone!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.<br/> +THE FINAL TELEGRAM</h2> + +<p> +Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two amazed +listeners with a smile of conscious triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“In the hands of Cardlestone,” he repeated. “Now, what did I +argue from that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone’s +rooms that night. Wasn’t he found lying dead at the foot of +Cardlestone’s stairs? Aye—but who found him? Not the +porter—not the police—not you, Master Spargo, with all your +cleverness. The man who found Maitland lying dead there that night +was—I!” +</p> + +<p> +In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what Myerst +said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his pockets sat +bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him seriously, could +not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and conceptions are being +rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he laughed, more sneeringly than +ever. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s one for you, Spargo!” he said. “That surprises +you—that makes you think. Now what do you think?—if one may +ask.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Spargo, “that you are either a consummate +liar, or that this mystery is bigger than before.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can lie when it’s necessary,” retorted Myerst. “Just +now it isn’t necessary. I’m telling you the plain truth: +there’s no reason why I shouldn’t. As I’ve said before, +although you two young bullies have tied me up in this fashion, you can’t +do anything against me. I’ve a power of attorney from those two old men +in there, and that’s enough to satisfy anybody as to my possession of +their cheques and securities. I’ve the whip hand of you, my sons, in all +ways. And that’s why I’m telling you the truth—to amuse +myself during this period of waiting. The plain truth, my sons!” +</p> + +<p> +“In pursuance of which,” observed Breton, drily, “I think you +mentioned that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was. That is—as far as I can gather. I’ll tell you all +about it. As I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very +late—it was well past one o’clock. There was nobody about—as +a matter of fact, no one has residential chambers in that building but +Cardlestone and myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck +a match and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon—John +Marbury. Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can +be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra speed +just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of every article it +had on it—money, papers, everything. All these things are safely locked +up—they’ve never been tracked. Next day, using my facilities as +secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the things in that box. Then I +found out who the dead man really was. And then I deliberately set to work to +throw dust in the eyes of the police and of the newspapers, and particularly in +the eyes of young Master Spargo there. I had an object.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather, +Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it to +myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo, inserted +news in your paper—Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity of +Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore’s rooms that night, turned into our +building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met Cardlestone +accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick together—they +recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to expose Cardlestone, or, +rather, Chamberlayne—nobody, of course, could know what happened, but my +theory was that Chamberlayne killed him. There, at any rate, was the fact that +Maitland was found murdered at Chamberlayne’s very threshold. And, in the +course of a few days, I proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting +access to Chamberlayne’s rooms in his absence that Maitland had been +there, had been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne’s +desk, the rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was +proof positive.” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know—that the +stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo’s breast pocket, where they +had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion of +Chamberlayne’s floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” asked Breton, after a pause, “why did you never accuse +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did! I have accused him a score of times—and Elphick, +too,” replied Myerst with emphasis. “Not at first, mind you—I +never let Chamberlayne know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my +own game to play. But at last—not so many days ago—I did. I accused +them both. That’s how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be +afraid—by that time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone’s +past as Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick’s fond of Cardlestone. +It’s queer, but he is. He—wants to shield him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did they say when you accused them?” asked Breton. +“Let’s keep to that point—never mind their feelings for one +another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, but that feeling’s a lot more to do with this mystery +than you think, my young friend,” said Myerst. “What did they say, +you ask? Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that +he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. But—they +know something about the murder. If those two old men can’t tell you +definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I’m certain that they +have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! They—” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and Spargo +started to their feet and made for the door. But before they could reach it +Elphick came out, white and shaking. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s gone!” he exclaimed in quavering accents. “My old +friend’s gone—he’s dead! I was—asleep. I woke suddenly +and looked at him. He——” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton passed +quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s dead,” he said. “He evidently died in his +sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then his secret’s gone with him,” remarked Myerst, calmly. +“And now we shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he +didn’t. So that’s done with!” +</p> + +<p> +Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away from his +side. +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t kill John Maitland!” he cried angrily, attempting +to shake his fist at Myerst. “Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He +was as innocent as I am. You’ve tortured and tormented him to his death +with that charge, as you’re torturing me—among you. I tell you +he’d nothing to do with John Maitland’s death—nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +Myerst laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Who had, then?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue!” commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He +sat down by Elphick’s side and laid his hand soothingly on the old +man’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Guardian,” he said, “why don’t you tell what you know? +Don’t be afraid of that fellow there—he’s safe enough. Tell +Spargo and me what you know of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, or whoever he is or was, now.” +</p> + +<p> +Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give him +another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men with +something of an appeal. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m badly shaken,” he said. “I’ve suffered much +lately—I’ve learnt things that I didn’t know. Perhaps I ought +to have spoken before, but I was afraid for—for him. He was a good +friend, Cardlestone, whatever else he may have been—a good friend. +And—I don’t know any more than what happened that night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us what happened that night,” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with +Cardlestone. That was about ten o’clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came to +Cardlestone’s—she’d been to my rooms to find me—wanted +to see me particularly—and she’d come on there, knowing where I +should be. Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she +sat down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to twelve, a +knock came at Cardlestone’s door—his outer door was open, and of +course anybody outside could see lights within. 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. Upon my honour, we didn’t know him, either that +night or next day!” +</p> + +<p> +“What happened when he came in?” asked Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one had recognized him?” said Breton. +</p> + +<p> +“No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. The +others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that they +did—if they did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell +us what you and Miss Baylis did?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d +forgotten something in Cardlestone’s lobby. As she was going out in to +Fleet Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own +rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And upon my +soul and honour that’s all I know!” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and +bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got +it—at last! Breton—where’s the nearest telegraph office? +Hawes? Straight down this valley? Then, here’s for it! Look after things +till I’m back, or, when the police come, join me there. I shall catch the +first train to town, anyhow, after wiring.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton. +“Stop! What on earth——” +</p> + +<p> +But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth down the +valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet and peaceful +telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a sleepy country post +office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling down a message in shaky +handwriting:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London.</i><br/> +<i>Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland.</i><br/> +<i>Coming straight to town with full evidence.</i><br/> + <i>Frank Spargo</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering operator set +the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent in his mad race +across the heather. And when it was got he set out again—to find the +station. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the Bow Street +dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way of being cleared of +the affair of twenty years before, found himself in a very quiet corner of the +Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, who, he discovered, was saying things +to him which he scarcely comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl +spoke freely and warmly. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will come—you will come today—and be properly +thanked,” she said. “You will—won’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a +straight look into Jessie Aylmore’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want thanks,” he said. “It was all a lot of +luck. And if I come—today—it will be to see—just you!” +</p> + +<p> +Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she whispered, “I think that is what I really +meant!” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE END +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/old/10373-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/10373-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..baccebc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10373-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/old/old/10373-8.txt b/old/old/10373-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3668d6e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/10373-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9833 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Middle Temple Murder, by J.S. Fletcher + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Middle Temple Murder + +Author: J.S. Fletcher + +Release Date: December 3, 2003 [EBook #10373] +[Last updated: October 11, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Linda Cantoni and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + +THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER + +BY + +J. S. FLETCHER + +1919 + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + +I THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + +II HIS FIRST BRIEF + +III THE CLUE OF THE CAP + +IV THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + +V SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + +VI WITNESS TO A MEETING + +VII MR. AYLMORE + +VIII THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + +IX THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + +X THE LEATHER BOX + +XI MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + +XII THE NEW WITNESS + +XIII UNDER SUSPICION + +XIV THE SILVER TICKET + +XV MARKET MILCASTER + +XVI THE "YELLOW DRAGON" + +XVII MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + +XVIII AN OLD NEWSPAPER + +XIX THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + +XX MAITLAND _alias_ MARBURY + +XXI ARRESTED + +XXII THE BLANK PAST + +XXIII MISS BAYLIS + +XXIV MOTHER GUTCH + +XXV REVELATIONS + +XXVI STILL SILENT + +XXVII MR. ELPHICK'S CHAMBERS + +XXVIII OF PROVED IDENTITY + +XXIX THE CLOSED DOORS + +XXX REVELATION + +XXXI THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + +XXXII THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + +XXXIII FORESTALLED + +XXXIV THE WHIP HAND + +XXXV MYERST EXPLAINS + +XXXVI THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + +THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + + +As a rule, Spargo left the _Watchman_ office at two o'clock. The paper +had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to +a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was +responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the +machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, +until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of +June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had +charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram +which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was +interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. +Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the +office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold +the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. +In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first +grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of +St. Paul's. + +Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every +night and every morning he walked to and from the _Watchman_ office by +the same route--Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. +He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed +the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he +encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his +pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he +saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, +looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. +Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He +moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face. + +"What is it?" asked Spargo. + +Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door +of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and +jacket. + +"He says," answered Driscoll, "him, there--the porter--that there's a +man lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he's +dead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered." + +Spargo echoed the word. + +"But what makes him think that?" he asked, peeping with curiosity +beyond Driscoll's burly form. "Why?" + +"He says there's blood about him," answered Driscoll. He turned and +glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. +"You're a newspaper man, sir?" he suggested. + +"I am," replied Spargo. + +"You'd better walk down with us," said Driscoll, with a grin. "There'll +be something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there may +be." Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane, +wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At +the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. + +"Come on!" he said shortly. "I'll show you." + +Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and +then turned to the porter. + +"How came you to find him, then?" he asked + +The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. + +"I heard that door slam," he replied, irritably, as if the fact which +he mentioned caused him offence. "I know I did! So I got up to look +around. Then--well, I saw that!" + +He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his +outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man's foot, booted, +grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand. + +"Sticking out there, just as you see it now," said the porter. "I ain't +touched it. And so--" + +He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant +thing. Driscoll nodded comprehendingly. + +"And so you went along and looked?" he suggested. "Just so--just to see +who it belonged to, as it might be." + +"Just to see--what there was to see," agreed the porter. "Then I saw +there was blood. And then--well, I made up the lane to tell one of you +chaps." + +"Best thing you could have done," said Driscoll. "Well, now then--" + +The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold +and formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having +glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; +something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested to +Spargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man whose foot projected +over the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his pose +certified to it. + +For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen +unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with +their fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully--Spargo +remembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put +his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. +Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human +wreckage which lay before him. + +"You'll notice," suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushed +voice, "You'll notice that he's lying there in a queer way--same as +if--as if he'd been put there. Sort of propped up against that wall, at +first, and had slid down, like." + +Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at +his feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, +crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be +elderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a +good, well-made suit of grey check cloth--tweed--and the boots were +good: so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that +hung so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body; the other was +stretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted to +the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the +shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts and +stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a +finger at them. + +"Seems to me," he said, slowly, "seems to me as how he's been struck +down from behind as he came out of here. That blood's from his +nose--gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?" The other policeman +coughed. + +"Better get the inspector here," he said. "And the doctor and the +ambulance. Dead--ain't he?" + +Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the +pavement. + +"As ever they make 'em," he remarked laconically. "And stiff, too. +Well, hurry up, Jim!" + +Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the +hand-ambulance came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body +for transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man's +face. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged the +limbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he came +to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other +things. There was some professionalism in Spargo's curiosity, but there +was also a natural dislike that a fellow-being should have been so +unceremoniously smitten out of the world. + +There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man's face. It was +that of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, +even homely of feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white +whisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and +the point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that it +was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles were many and deep around the +corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; this man, you would +have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mental +as well as physical. + +Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. +"Better come down to the dead-house," he muttered confidentially. + +"Why?" asked Spargo. + +"They'll go through him," whispered Driscoll. "Search him, d'ye see? +Then you'll get to know all about him, and so on. Help to write that +piece in the paper, eh?" + +Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night's work, and until his +encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal +which would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which +he would subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a +man from the _Watchman_ to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in +his line now, now-- + +"You'll be for getting one o' them big play-cards out with something +about a mystery on it," suggested Driscoll. "You never know what lies +at the bottom o' these affairs, no more you don't." + +That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for +getting news began to assert itself. + +"All right," he said. "I'll go along with you." + +And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortge through the +streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected +on the unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was +the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a +principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to +whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surely-- + +"My opinion," said a voice at Spargo's elbow, "my opinion is that it +was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. That's what I say." +Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was +accompanying the body. + +"Oh!" said Spargo. "You think--" + +"I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there," said the +porter. "In somebody's chambers, maybe. I've known of some queer games +in our bit of London! Well!--he never came in at my lodge last +night--I'll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From +what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place." + +"That's what we shall hear presently," said Spargo. "They're going to +search him." + +But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found +nothing. The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, +been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the +skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll's opinion, +the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder. For there was +nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man +who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in +his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing +valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that +could lead to identification--no letters, no papers, nothing. It was +plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently +stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity +lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been +newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End. + +Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his +food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. +He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at +last that the morning's event had destroyed his chance of rest; he +accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went +out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from +Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he +found that he had walked down to the police station near which the +unknown man's body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just +going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. + +"You're in luck," he said. "'Tisn't five minutes since they found a bit +of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor man's waistcoat +pocket--it had slipped into a crack. Come in, and you'll see it." + +Spargo went into the inspector's office. In another minute he found +himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an +address, scrawled in pencil:--Ronald Breton, Barrister, King's Bench +Walk, Temple, London. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + +HIS FIRST BRIEF + + +Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. "I +know this man," he said. + +The inspector showed new interest. + +"What, Mr. Breton?" he asked. + +"Yes. I'm on the _Watchman_, you know, sub-editor. I took an article +from him the other day--article on 'Ideal Sites for Campers-Out.' He +came to the office about it. So this was in the dead man's pocket?" + +"Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn't present myself. +It's not much, but it may afford some clue to identity." + +Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It +seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in +clubs; it had been torn roughly from the sheet. + +"What," he asked meditatively, "what will you do about getting this man +identified?" + +The inspector shrugged his shoulders. + +"Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There'll be publicity, you know. I suppose +you'll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? Then +there'll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. Somebody +will come forward to identify--sure to. And--" + +A man came into the office--a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly +attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a +stroll, and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his +desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper +which Spargo had just laid down. + +"I'll go along to King's Bench Walk and see Mr. Breton," he observed, +looking at his watch. "It's just about ten--I daresay he'll be there +now." + +"I'm going there, too," remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself. +"Yes, I'll go there." + +The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The +inspector nodded at Spargo. + +"Journalist," he said, "Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo was +there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton." Then he nodded +from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. "This is Detective-Sergeant +Rathbury, from the Yard," he said to Spargo. "He's come to take charge +of this case." + +"Oh?" said Spargo blankly. "I see--what," he went on, with sudden +abruptness, "what shall you do about Breton?" + +"Get him to come and look at the body," replied Rathbury. "He may know +the man and he mayn't. Anyway, his name and address are here, aren't +they?" + +"Come along," said Spargo. "I'll walk there with you." + +Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor +Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed +that he was by nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until +the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in +King's Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton's chambers were somewhere +situate that Spargo spoke. + +"Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on +him?" he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. + +"I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that +question, Mr. Spargo," replied Rathbury, with a smile. + +"Yes," said Spargo, dreamily. "I suppose so. He might have had--nothing +on him, eh?" + +The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were +printed. + +"We don't know anything yet, sir," he observed, "except that Mr. Breton +is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn't long since he +was eating his dinner." + +"Oh, he's young--he's quite young," said Spargo. "I should say he's +about four-and-twenty. I've met him only--" + +At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down +the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing--presently masculine +laughter mingled with the lighter feminine. + +"Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway," +said Rathbury. "Mr. Breton's chambers, too. And the door's open." + +The outer oak door of Ronald Breton's chambers stood thrown wide; the +inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the +detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton's +rooms. There, against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied +up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal +notabilities, they saw a pretty, vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a +chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was +haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, to the amusement of a young man +who had his back to the door, and of another girl who leant +confidentially against his shoulder. + +"I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury--I put it to you with +confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, +perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your +consciences do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, +the--the--" + +"Think of some more adjectives!" exclaimed the young man. "Hot and +strong 'uns--pile 'em up. That's what they like--they--Hullo!" + +This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the +proceedings the detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his +head round its edge. Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the +chair, jumped hastily down; the other young lady withdrew from the +young man's protecting arm; there was a feminine giggle and a feminine +swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald +Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter. + +"Come in, come in!" he exclaimed hastily. "I--" + +Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a +look of surprise. + +"Oh--Mr. Spargo?" he said. "How do you do?--we--I--we were just having +a lark--I'm off to court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. +Spargo?" + +He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and +turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The +detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a +tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, +perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a +general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these +matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may +take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned +and glanced at the journalist. + +"How do you do?" said Spargo slowly. "I--the fact is, I came here with +Mr. Rathbury. He--wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury--of New +Scotland Yard." + +Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a +lesson. But he was watching the young barrister's face. And Breton +turned to the detective with a look of surprise. + +"Oh!" he said. "You wish--" + +Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, +which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. "I +wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton," he said. "This morning, about a +quarter to three, a man--elderly man--was found dead in Middle Temple +Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo +here--he was present when the body was found." + +"Soon after," corrected Spargo. "A few minutes after." + +"When this body was examined at the mortuary," continued Rathbury, in +his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, "nothing was found that could +lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was +nothing whatever on him--but this bit of torn paper, which was found in +a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and +address on it, Mr. Breton. See?" + +Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted +brows. + +"By Jove!" he muttered. "So it has; that's queer. What's he like, this +man?" + +Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. + +"Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?" he said. +"It's close by." + +"Well--I--the fact is, I've got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow's +court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be +called until after eleven. Will--" + +"Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to +go round and back again--a look will do. You don't recognize this +handwriting, I suppose?" + +Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it +again, intently. + +"No!" he answered. "I don't. I don't know it at all--I can't think, of +course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought +he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional +services, you know," he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; "but, +three--three o'clock in the morning, eh?" + +"The doctor," observed Rathbury, "the doctor thinks he had been dead +about two and a half hours." + +Breton turned to the inner door. + +"I'll--I'll just tell these ladies I'm going out for a quarter of an +hour," he said. "They're going over to the court with me--I got my +first brief yesterday," he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right +and left at his visitors. "It's nothing much--small case--but I +promised my fiance and her sister that they should be present, you +know. A moment." + +He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all +the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very +particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the +butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice +that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been +similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than +of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and +about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. + +"Well, come on," said Breton. "Let's go straight there." + +The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to +the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered +involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the +young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly +about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose +face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and +earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head. + +"No!" he said with decision. "Don't know him--don't know him from Adam. +Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of." + +Rathbury replaced the cloth. + +"I didn't suppose you would," he remarked. "Well, I expect we must go +on the usual lines. Somebody'll identify him." + +"You say he was murdered?" said Breton. "Is that--certain?" + +Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. + +"The back of his skull is smashed in," he said laconically. "The doctor +says he must have been struck down from behind--and a fearful blow, +too. I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Breton." + +"Oh, all right!" said Breton. "Well, you know where to find me if you +want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye--good-bye, Mr. +Spargo." + +The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the +journalist. + +"I didn't expect anything from that," he remarked. "However, it was a +thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?" + +Spargo nodded. + +"Well," continued Rathbury, "I've sent a man to Fiskie's, the hatter's, +where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information +from that quarter--it's possible. If you like to meet me here at +twelve o'clock I'll tell you anything I've heard. Just now I'm going to +get some breakfast." + +"I'll meet you here," said Spargo, "at twelve o'clock." + +He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set +off round another. He went to the _Watchman_ office, wrote a few lines, +which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out +again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before +he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the +Law Courts. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + +THE CLUE OF THE CAP + + +Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of +litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and +the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, +asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. +For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his +question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves. + +"Isn't Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?" +he suddenly asked. + +"Number seven," replied the official. "What's your case--when's it +down?" + +"I haven't got a case," said Spargo. "I'm a pressman--reporter, you +know." + +The official stuck out a finger. + +"Round the corner--first to your right--second on the left," he said +automatically. "You'll find plenty of room--nothing much doing there +this morning." + +He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless +perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors. + +"Upon my honour!" he muttered. "Upon my honour, I really don't know +what I've come up here for. I've no business here." + +Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. +The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of +papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who +were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And +Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which +of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her +burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton +with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl +with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned +upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a +hope of seeing this girl again--why, he could not then think. + +Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted +his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a +question. + +"Yes," said Spargo. "I--the fact is, I remembered that you said you +were coming up here, and I came after you. I want--when you've time--to +have a talk, to ask you a few questions. About--this affair of the dead +man, you know." + +Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. + +"Look here," he said. "When this case of mine is over, I can give you +as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a +favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery--round there, +and up the stairs--and I'm a bit pressed for time--I've a solicitor +waiting for me. You take them--there's a good fellow; then, when the +case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here--I'll +introduce you all--no ceremony. Miss Aylmore--Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. +Spargo--of the _Watchman_. Now, I'm off!" Breton turned on the instant; +his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at +two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, +and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years. + +"That is very cool of Ronald," observed the elder young lady. "Perhaps +his scheme doesn't fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray don't--" + +"Oh, it's all right!" said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. +"I've nothing to do. But--where did Mr. Breton say you wished to be +taken?" + +"Into the gallery of number seven court," said the younger girl +promptly. "Round this corner--I think I know the way." + +Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving +that morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led +the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries +from which idlers and specially-interested spectators may see and hear +the proceedings which obtain in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks +wherein justice is dispensed at the Law Courts. There was no one else +in that gallery; the attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be +vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter it, and he presently +opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way down the stairs +to meet him. + +"Nothing much going on here this morning," he whispered behind a raised +hand. "But there's a nice breach case in number five--get you three +good seats there if you like." + +Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He +had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and +her sister about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a +lucky dog to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an +equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss +Jessie Aylmore's side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by +his surroundings. + +"I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?" he whispered. "Is this +really Mr. Breton's first case?" + +"His very first--all on his own responsibility, any way," replied +Spargo's companion, smiling. "And he's very nervous--and so's my +sister. Aren't you, now, Evelyn?" + +Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. + +"I suppose one's always nervous about first appearances," she said. +"However, I think Ronald's got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, +it's not much of a case: it isn't even a jury case. I'm afraid you'll +find it dull, Mr. Spargo--it's only something about a promissory +note." + +"Oh, I'm all right, thank you," replied Spargo, unconsciously falling +back on a favourite formula. "I always like to hear lawyers--they +manage to say such a lot about--about--" + +"About nothing," said Jessie Aylmore. "But there--so do gentlemen who +write for the papers, don't they?" + +Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that +point when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister's attention to a man +who had just entered the well of the court. + +"Look, Jessie!" she observed. "There's Mr. Elphick!" + +Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, +smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and +gowned, was slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that +charmed inner sanctum wherein only King's Counsel are permitted to sit. +He dropped into this in a fashion which showed that he was one of those +men who loved personal comfort; he bestowed his plump person at the +most convenient angle and fitting a monocle in his right eye, glanced +around him. There were a few of his professional brethren in his +vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks in +conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But +the gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look +and cast his eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. +Thereupon he made a most gracious bow in their direction; his broad +face beamed in a genial smile, and he waved a white hand. + +"Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?" enquired the younger Miss +Aylmore. + +"I rather think I've seen him, somewhere about the Temple," answered +Spargo. "In fact, I'm sure I have." + +"His chambers are in Paper Buildings," said Jessie. "Sometimes he gives +tea-parties in them. He is Ronald's guardian, and preceptor, and +mentor, and all that, and I suppose he's dropped into this court to +hear how his pupil goes on." + +"Here is Ronald," whispered Miss Aylmore. + +"And here," said her sister, "is his lordship, looking very cross. Now, +Mr. Spargo, you're in for it." + +Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on +beneath him. The case which young Breton presently opened was a +commercial one, involving certain rights and properties in a promissory +note; it seemed to the journalist that Breton dealt with it very well, +showing himself master of the financial details, and speaking with +readiness and assurance. He was much more interested in his companions, +and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on how he +could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that +the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, +and that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald +Breton's favour. + +In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two +sisters. + +"Very good--very good, indeed," he said, absent-mindedly. "I thought he +put his facts very clearly and concisely." + +Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. +He pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: +Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, +Spargo's, connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke. + +"This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the _Watchman_." Breton said. "Mr. +Elphick--Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, Spargo, that you +saw this poor man soon after he was found." + +Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The +elderly barrister took him--literally--by the button-hole. + +"My dear sir!" he said. "You--saw this poor fellow? Lying dead--in the +third entry down Middle Temple Lane! The third entry, eh?" + +"Yes," replied Spargo, simply. "I saw him. It was the third entry." + +"Singular!" said Mr. Elphick, musingly. "I know a man who lives in that +house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until +nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton's name +and address in his pocket?" + +Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then +he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. + +"Yes, that's so," he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton +significantly, he added, "If you can give me those few minutes, now--?" + +"Yes--yes!" responded Ronald Breton, nodding. "I understand. +Evelyn--I'll leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must go." + +Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. + +"My dear sir!" he said, eagerly. "Do you--do you think I could possibly +see--the body?" + +"It's at the mortuary," answered Spargo. "I don't know what their +regulations are." + +Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in +the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. + +"About what I wanted to say to you," he said at last. "It was--this. +I--well, I've always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder +case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it--thoroughly, +first and last. And--I think you can help me." + +"How do you know that it is a murder case?" asked Breton quietly. + +"It's a murder case," answered Spargo, stolidly. "I feel it. Instinct, +perhaps. I'm going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me--" + +He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. + +"It seems to me," he presently continued, "that the clue lies in that +scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between +you and--somebody else." + +"Possibly," agreed Breton. "You want to find the somebody else?" + +"I want you to help me to find the somebody else," answered Spargo. "I +believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don't +believe in police methods--much. By the by, I'm just going to meet +Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?" + +Breton ran into his chambers in King's Bench Walk, left his gown and +wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came +out as they were stepping in. + +"Oh!" he said. "Ah!--I've got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told +you I'd sent a man to Fiskie's, the hatter! Well, he's just returned. +The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie's yesterday +afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient +Hotel." + +"Where is that?" asked Spargo. + +"Waterloo district," answered Rathbury. "A small house, I believe. +Well, I'm going there. Are you coming?" + +"Yes," replied Spargo. "Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too." + +"If I'm not in the way," said Breton. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper," he +observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + +THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + + +The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an +old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway +Station--a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially +mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early +days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern +ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to find in London, and +Ronald Breton said so as he and the others crossed the pavement. + +"And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to +and from Southampton in the old days," remarked Rathbury. "And I +daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good +many years' absence, still rush in here. You see, it's close to the +station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place +when they've a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind +them. Look there, now!" They had crossed the threshold as the +detective spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, +he made a sidelong motion of his head towards a bar on the left, +wherein stood or lounged a number of men who from their general +appearance, their slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be +Colonials, or at any rate to have spent a good part of their time +beneath Oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a +Colonial accent in it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and +Trichinopoly, and Rathbury wagged his head sagely. "Lay you anything +the dead man was a Colonial, Mr. Spargo," he remarked. "Well, now, I +suppose that's the landlord and landlady." + +There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and +woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge +on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a +fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at +some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured, +thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an +enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence. + +"You the landlord of this house, sir?" he asked. "Mr. Walters? Just +so--and Mrs. Walters, I presume?" + +The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. + +"What can I do for you, sir?" he enquired. + +"A little matter of business, Mr. Walters," replied Rathbury, pulling +out a card. "You'll see there who I am--Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of +the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald +Breton, a barrister." + +The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side +door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying +her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour. +Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his +principal visitor. + +"What is it, Mr. Rathbury?" he enquired. "Anything wrong?" + +"We want a bit of information," answered Rathbury, almost with +indifference. + +"Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday--elderly man, +grey hair, fresh complexion?" + +Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband. + +"There!" she exclaimed. "I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes--a Mr. +Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train +got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But--he didn't use it last +night. He went out--very late--and he never came back." + +Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair +and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. + +"What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma'am?" he asked. "Had +you noticed anything?" + +Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her +husband gave vent to a species of growl. + +"Nothing to notice," he muttered. "Her way of speaking--that's all." + +"Well--why I said that was this," said the landlady. "He happened to +tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn't been in London for over twenty +years, and couldn't remember anything about it, him, he said, never +having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he +went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought +something had happened to him, and that there'd be enquiries made." + +"Just so--just so!" said Rathbury. "So you would, ma'am--so you would. +Well, something has happened to him. He's dead. What's more, there's +strong reason to think he was murdered." + +Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise +and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his +visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work +to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter +of course. + +"My respects," he said, lifting his glass. "Well, now, perhaps you'll +just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr. and +Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this +morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn't anything on him but +his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman's name and +address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I +traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter's +yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel." + +"Yes," said Mrs. Walters quickly, "that's so. And he went out in that +cap last night. Well--we don't know much about him. As I said, he came +in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked +Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a +bag--they're in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at +this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia--that, of +course, was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book +as John Marbury." + +"We'll look at that, if you please," said Rathbury. + +Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous +day's entries. They all bent over the dead man's writing. + +"'John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,'" said Rathbury. +"Ah--now I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on +the scrap of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn't--it's quite +different." + +"Quite different," said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting +with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it, +and asked another question. + +"Ever seen that writing before?" he suggested. + +"Never," answered Breton. "And yet--there's something very familiar +about it." + +"Then the probability is that you have seen it before," remarked +Rathbury. "Well--now we'll hear a little more about Marbury's doings +here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. Walters." + +"My wife knows most," said Walters. "I scarcely saw the man--I don't +remember speaking with him." + +"No," said Mrs. Walters. "You didn't--you weren't much in his way. +Well," she continued, "I showed him up to his room. He talked a +bit--said he'd just landed at Southampton from Melbourne." + +"Did he mention his ship?" asked Rathbury. "But if he didn't, it +doesn't matter, for we can find out." + +"I believe the name's on his things," answered the landlady. "There are +some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for +him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at +exactly one o'clock, saying to me that he expected he'd get lost, as he +didn't know London well at any time, and shouldn't know it at all now. +He went outside there--I saw him--looked about him and walked off +towards Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came +for him--from Fiskie's. So, of course, I judged he'd been Piccadilly +way. But he himself never came in until ten o'clock. And then he +brought a gentleman with him." + +"Aye?" said Rathbury. "A gentleman, now? Did you see him?" + +"Just," replied the landlady. "They went straight up to 20, and I just +caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. A +tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far +as I could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his +throat, and carrying an umbrella." + +"And they went to Marbury's room?" said Rathbury. "What then?" + +"Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda," continued +Mrs. Walters. "He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, +and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until +nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 +had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter--as, of +course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven." + +"And the other gentleman?" asked Rathbury. + +"The other gentleman," answered the landlady, "went out with him. The +hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the +last anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came +back." + +"That," observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, "that is quite certain, +ma'am? Well--I suppose we'd better see this Number 20 room, and have a +look at what he left there." + +"Everything," said Mrs. Walters, "is just as he left it. Nothing's been +touched." + +It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the +dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet--none of them of +any quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with +the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, +without ceremony, went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he +proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid +out on the bed every article they contained and examined each +separately and carefully. And he found nothing whereby he could gather +any clue to the dead owner's identity. + +"There you are!" he said, making an end of his task. "You see, it's +just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him. +There are no papers--there's nothing to tell who he was, what he was +after, where he'd come from--though that we may find out in other +ways. But it's not often that a man travels without some clue to his +identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought +in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and +money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma'am?" he asked, +suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. "Did he pull out his purse in your +presence, now?" + +"Yes," answered the landlady, with promptitude. "He came into the bar +for a drink after he'd been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of +gold when he paid for it--a whole handful. There must have been some +thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns." + +"And he hadn't a penny piece on him--when found," muttered Rathbury. + +"I noticed another thing, too," remarked the landlady. "He was wearing +a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left +hand--little finger--gold, with a big diamond in it." + +"Yes," said the detective, thoughtfully, "I noticed that he'd worn a +ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well--now there's only +one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn +paper around--tore any letters up, or anything like that?" + +But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on +the contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy +indeed. So Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing +further to say, just then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the +Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and went away, followed by the two +young men. + +"What next?" asked Spargo, as they gained the street. + +"The next thing," answered Rathbury, "is to find the man with whom +Marbury left this hotel last night." + +"And how's that to be done?" asked Spargo. + +"At present," replied Rathbury, "I don't know." + +And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + +SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + + +The barrister and the journalist, left thus unceremoniously on a +crowded pavement, looked at each other. Breton laughed. + +"We don't seem to have gained much information," he remarked. "I'm +about as wise as ever." + +"No--wiser," said Spargo. "At any rate, I am. I know now that this dead +man called himself John Marbury; that he came from Australia; that he +only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the +company last night of a man whom we have had described to us--a tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman." + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +"I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in +London," he remarked. + +"Exactly--so it would," answered Spargo. "But we know that it was one +of the hundred thousand, or half-million, if you like. The thing is to +find that one--the one." + +"And you think you can do it?" + +"I think I'm going to have a big try at it." + +Breton shrugged his shoulders again. + +"What?--by going up to every man who answers the description, and +saying 'Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the +Anglo----" + +Spargo suddenly interrupted him. + +"Look here!" he said. "Didn't you say that you knew a man who lives in +that block in the entry of which Marbury was found?" + +"No, I didn't," answered Breton. "It was Mr. Elphick who said that. All +the same, I do know that man--he's Mr. Cardlestone, another barrister. +He and Mr. Elphick are friends--they're both enthusiastic +philatelists--stamp collectors, you know--and I dare say Mr. Elphick +was round there last night examining something new Cardlestone's got +hold of. Why?" + +"I'd like to go round there and make some enquiries," replied Spargo. +"If you'd be kind enough to----" + +"Oh, I'll go with you!" responded Breton, with alacrity. "I'm just as +keen about this business as you are, Spargo! I want to know who this +man Marbury is, and how he came to have my name and address on him. +Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, why--" + +"Yes," said Spargo, as they got into a cab, "yes, that would have +explained a lot. It seems to me that we'll get at the murderer through +that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury's line. Yes, +that's what I think." + +Breton looked at his companion with interest. + +"But--you don't know what Rathbury's line is," he remarked. + +"Yes, I do," said Spargo. "Rathbury's gone off to discover who the man +is with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last night. That's his +line." + +"And you want----?" + +"I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who +wrote it," answered Spargo. "I want to know why that old man was coming +to you when he was murdered." + +Breton started. + +"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "I--I never thought of that. You--you really +think he was coming to me when he was struck down?" + +"Certain. Hadn't he got an address in the Temple? Wasn't he in the +Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you." + +"But--the late hour?" + +"No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I +think he was asking his way. That's why I want to make some enquiries +in this block." + +It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of +the office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the +dead man. Being luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the +body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the +sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though +there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had +lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry +than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so +great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a +policeman to move the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion +presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as +to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and +old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously +greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion. + +"Drive them all out into the street!" exclaimed this personage. "Drive +them all away, constable--into Fleet Street or upon the +Embankment--anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a +disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a----" + +"That's old Cardlestone," whispered Breton. "He's always irascible, and +I don't suppose we'll get anything out of him. Mr. Cardlestone," he +continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now +retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as +himself. "I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a +journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He----" + +"I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mr. +Cardlestone. "And I never talk to journalists--a pack of busybodies, +sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been +committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office +boys and street loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down +these steps and broke his neck--drunk, most likely." + +He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring +smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first +landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels. + +"Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last +evening, Mr. Cardlestone," he said. "Of course, neither of you heard +anything suspicious?" + +"What should we hear that was suspicious in the Temple, sir?" demanded +Mr. Cardlestone, angrily. "I hope the Temple is free from that sort of +thing, young Mr. Breton. Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet +evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away all was +as quiet as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above +and around me I know not! Fortunately, our walls are thick, +sir--substantial. I say, sir, the man probably fell down and broke his +neck. What he was doing here, I do not presume to say." + +"Well, it's guess, you know, Mr. Cardlestone," remarked Breton, again +winking at Spargo. "But all that was found on this man was a scrap of +paper on which my name and address were written. That's practically all +that was known of him, except that he'd just arrived from Australia." + +Mr. Cardlestone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, +acute glance. + +"Eh?" he exclaimed. "What's this? You say this man had your name and +address on him, young Breton!--yours? And that he came from--Australia?" + +"That's so," answered Breton. "That's all that's known." + +Mr. Cardlestone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandanna +handkerchief of strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective +fashion. + +"That's a mysterious thing," he observed. "Um--does Elphick know all +that?" + +Breton looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of +Mr. Cardlestone's altered manner. And Spargo took up the conversation. + +"No," he said. "All that Mr. Elphick knows is that Mr. Ronald Breton's +name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. Mr. +Elphick"--here Spargo paused and looked at Breton--"Mr. Elphick," he +presently continued, slowly transferring his glance to the old +barrister, "spoke of going to view the body." + +"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone, eagerly. "It can be seen? Then I'll go +and see it. Where is it?" + +Breton started. + +"But--my dear sir!" he said. "Why?" + +Mr. Cardlestone picked up his umbrella again. + +"I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very +door," he said. "Also, I have known more than one man who went to +Australia. This might--I say might, young gentlemen--might be a man I +had once known. Show me where this body is." + +Breton looked helplessly at Spargo: it was plain that he did not +understand the turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to +seize an opportunity. In another minute he was conducting Mr. +Cardlestone through the ins and outs of the Temple towards Blackfriars. +And as they turned into Tudor Street they encountered Mr. Elphick. + +"I am going to the mortuary," he remarked. "So, I suppose, are you, +Cardlestone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?" + +Spargo tried a chance shot--at what he did not know. "The man's name +was Marbury," he said. "He was from Australia." + +He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elphick, but he failed to see that Mr. +Elphick showed any of the surprise which Mr. Cardlestone had exhibited. +Rather, he seemed indifferent. + +"Oh?" he said--"Marbury? And from Australia. Well--I should like to see +the body." + +Spargo and Breton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder +gentlemen went in. There was nothing to be learnt from either when they +reappeared. + +"We don't know the man," said Mr. Elphick, calmly. "As Mr. Cardlestone, +I understand, has said to you already--we have known men who went to +Australia, and as this man was evidently wandering about the Temple, we +thought it might have been one of them, come back. But--we don't +recognize him." + +"Couldn't recognize him," said Mr. Cardlestone. "No!" + +They went away together arm in arm, and Breton looked at Spargo. + +"As if anybody on earth ever fancied they'd recognize him!" he said. +"Well--what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must go." + +Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the +pavement, came out of a fit of abstraction. + +"I?" he said. "Oh--I'm going to the office." And he turned abruptly +away, and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at the +_Watchman_, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the +editor. "Try to get me a few minutes with the chief," he said. + +The private secretary looked up. + +"Really important?" he asked. + +"Big!" answered Spargo. "Fix it." + +Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty +well by that time, Spargo lost no time. + +"You've heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane?" he suggested. + +"The mere facts," replied the editor, tersely. + +"I was there when the body was found," continued Spargo, and gave a +brief rsum of his doings. "I'm certain this is a most unusual +affair," he went on. "It's as full of mystery as--as it could be. I +want to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can make +such a story of it as we haven't had for some time--ages. Let me have +it. And to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. +I'll make it--big!" + +The editor looked across his desk at Spargo's eager face. + +"Your other work?" he said. + +"Well in hand," replied Spargo. "I'm ahead a whole week--both articles +and reviews. I can tackle both." + +The editor put his finger tips together. + +"Have you got some idea about this, young man?" he asked. + +"I've got a great idea," answered Spargo. He faced the great man +squarely, and stared at him until he had brought a smile to the +editorial face. "That's why I want to do it," he added. "And--it's not +mere boasting nor over-confidence--I know I shall do it better than +anybody else." + +The editor considered matters for a brief moment. + +"You mean to find out who killed this man?" he said at last. + +Spargo nodded his head--twice. + +"I'll find that out," he said doggedly. + +The editor picked up a pencil, and bent to his desk. + +"All right," he said. "Go ahead. You shall have your two columns." + +Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got hold of a +block of paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do +things. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + +WITNESS TO A MEETING + + +Ronald Breton walked into the _Watchman_ office and into Spargo's room +next morning holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved +it at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. + +"I say!" he exclaimed. "That's the way to do it, Spargo! I congratulate +you. Yes, that's the way--certain!" + +Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. + +"What way?" he asked indifferently. + +"The way you've written this thing up," said Breton. "It's a hundred +thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried account of a murder. +It's--it's like a--a romance!" + +"Merely a new method of giving news," said Spargo. He picked up a copy +of the _Watchman_, and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow +managed to make themselves into three, viewing the displayed lettering, +the photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle +Temple Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grey paper, with a +critical eye. "Yes--merely a new method," he continued. "The question +is--will it achieve its object?" + +"What's the object?" asked Breton. + +Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it +over to his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put +his feet on his desk. + +"The object?" he said, drily. "Oh, well, the object is the ultimate +detection of the murderer." + +"You're after that?" + +"I'm after that--just that." + +"And not--not simply out to make effective news?" + +"I'm out to find the murderer of John Marbury," said Spargo +deliberately slow in his speech. "And I'll find him." + +"Well, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of clues, so far," +remarked Breton. "I see--nothing. Do you?" + +Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. + +"I want to know an awful lot," he said. "I'm hungering for news. I want +to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with himself +between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive +and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with +his skull beaten in and dead. I want to know where he got that scrap of +paper. Above everything, Breton, I want to know what he'd got to do +with you!" + +He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Breton nodded. + +"Yes," he said. "I confess that's a corker. But I think----" + +"Well?" said Spargo. + +"I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, or +in prospect, and had been recommended to--me," said Breton. + +Spargo smiled--a little sardonically. + +"That's good!" he said. "You had your very first brief--yesterday. +Come--your fame isn't blown abroad through all the heights yet, my +friend! Besides--don't intending clients approach--isn't it strict +etiquette for them to approach?--barristers through solicitors?" + +"Quite right--in both your remarks," replied Breton, good-humouredly. +"Of course, I'm not known a bit, but all the same I've known several +cases where a barrister has been approached in the first instance and +asked to recommend a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me a good +turn may have given this man my address." + +"Possible," said Spargo. "But he wouldn't have come to consult you at +midnight. Breton!--the more I think of it, the more I'm certain there's +a tremendous mystery in this affair! That's why I got the chief to let +me write it up as I have done--here. I'm hoping that this +photograph--though to be sure, it's of a dead face--and this facsimile +of the scrap of paper will lead to somebody coming forward who can----" + +Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble +pillared vestibule of the _Watchman_ office came into the room with the +unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment. + +"I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is," muttered +Spargo in an aside. "Well?" he said to the boy. "What is it?" + +The messenger came up to the desk. + +"Mr. Spargo," he said, "there's a man downstairs who says that he wants +to see somebody about that murder case that's in the paper this +morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you." + +"Who is the man?" asked Spargo. + +"Won't say, sir," replied the boy. "I gave him a form to fill up, but +he said he wouldn't write anything--said all he wanted was to see the +man who wrote the piece in the paper." + +"Bring him here," commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the boy +had gone, and he smiled. "I knew we should have somebody here sooner or +later," he said. "That's why I hurried over my breakfast and came down +at ten o'clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances of this +chap's information proving valuable?" + +"Nothing," replied Breton. "He's probably some crank or faddist who's +got some theory that he wants to ventilate." + +The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger seemed from +preliminary and outward appearance to justify Breton's prognostication. +He was obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, +yellow of hair, blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday-best array of +pearl-grey trousers and black coat, and sported a necktie in which were +several distinct colours. Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of +the _Watchman_ building, he had removed his hard billycock hat as he +followed the boy, and he ducked his bared head at the two young men as +he stepped on to the thick pile of the carpet which made luxurious +footing in Spargo's room. His blue eyes, opened to their widest, looked +round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness of modern +newspaper-office accommodation. + +"How do you do, sir?" said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the +easy-chairs for which the _Watchman_ office is famous. "I understand +that you wish to see me?" + +The caller ducked his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the +chair, put his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to +hang it on his knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. + +"What I want to see, sir," he observed in a rustic accent, "is the +gentleman as wrote that piece in your newspaper about this here murder +in Middle Temple Lane." + +"You see him," said Spargo. "I am that man." + +The caller smiled--generously. + +"Indeed, sir?" he said. "A very nice bit of reading, I'm sure. And what +might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk free-er to a man when I +know what his name is." + +"So can I," answered Spargo. "My name is Spargo--Frank Spargo. What's +yours?" + +"Name of Webster, sir--William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at +Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife," continued Mr. Webster, again +smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, "is at +present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it--weather +and all." + +"That's right," said Spargo. "And--you wanted to see me about this +murder, Mr. Webster?" + +"I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that'll do +for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in +this fashion--happen you'll be for me to tell it in my own way." + +"That," answered Spargo, "is precisely what I desire." + +"Well, to be sure, I couldn't tell it in no other," declared Mr. +Webster. "You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was +waiting for my breakfast--they take their breakfasts so late in them +hotels--and when I'd read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to my +wife 'As soon as I've had my breakfast,' I says, 'I'm going to where +they print this newspaper to tell 'em something.' 'Aye?' she says, +'Why, what have you to tell, I should like to know?' just like that, +Mr. Spargo." + +"Mrs. Webster," said Spargo, "is a lady of businesslike principles. And +what have you to tell?" + +Mr. Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and +smiled knowingly. + +"Well, sir," he continued, "Last night, my wife, she went out to a part +they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of +hers as lives there, and as they wanted to have a bit of woman-talk, +like, I didn't go. So thinks I to myself, I'll go and see this here +House of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all +you'd got to do was to tell the policeman at the door that you wanted +to see your own Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told 'em +that I wanted to see our M.P., Mr. Stonewood--you'll have heard tell of +him, no doubt; he knows me very well--and they passed me, and I wrote +out a ticket for him, and they told me to sit down while they found +him. So I sat down in a grand sort of hall where there were a rare lot +of people going and coming, and some fine pictures and images to look +at, and for a time I looked at them, and then I began to take a bit of +notice of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, like myself. And as +sure as I'm a christened man, sir, the gentleman whose picture you've +got in your paper--him as was murdered--was sitting next to me! I knew +that picture as soon as I saw it this morning." + +Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles on a block of paper, +suddenly looked at his visitor. + +"What time was that?" he asked. + +"It was between a quarter and half-past nine, sir," answered Mr. +Webster. "It might ha' been twenty past--it might ha' been twenty-five +past." + +"Go on, if you please," said Spargo. + +"Well, sir, me and this here dead gentleman talked a bit. About what a +long time it took to get a member to attend to you, and such-like. I +made mention of the fact that I hadn't been in there before. 'Neither +have I!' he says, 'I came in out of curiosity,' he says, and then he +laughed, sir--queer-like. And it was just after that that what I'm +going to tell you about happened." + +"Tell," commanded Spargo. + +"Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along, down this grand hall that +we were sitting in--a tall, handsome gentleman, with a grey beard. He'd +no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper and documents in his +hand, so I thought he was happen one of the members. And all of a +sudden this here man at my side, he jumps up with a sort of start and +an exclamation, and----" + +Spargo lifted his hand. He looked keenly at his visitor. + +"Now, you're absolutely sure about what you heard him exclaim?" he +asked. "Quite sure about it? Because I see you are going to tell us +what he did exclaim." + +"I'll tell you naught but what I'm certain of, sir," replied Webster. +"What he said as he jumped up was 'Good God!' he says, sharp-like--and +then he said a name, and I didn't right catch it, but it sounded like +Danesworth, or Painesworth, or something of that sort--one of them +there, or very like 'em, at any rate. And then he rushed up to this +here gentleman, and laid his hand on his arm--sudden-like." + +"And--the gentleman?" asked Spargo, quietly. + +"Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the +man. Then they shook hands. And then, after they'd spoken a few words +together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no +more of 'em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that +picture in it, I said to myself 'That's the man I sat next to in that +there hall at the House of Commons!' Oh, there's no doubt of it, sir!" + +"And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey +beard?" suggested Spargo. "Could you recognize him from that?" + +"Make no doubt of it, sir," answered Mr. Webster. "I observed him +particular." + +Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, +the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes. + +"Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster," he said. + +The farmer went across the room. + +"There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of +Commons here," said Spargo. "Now, pick out the one you saw. Take your +time--and be sure." + +He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton. + +"There!" he whispered. "Getting nearer--a bit nearer--eh?" + +"To what?" asked Breton. "I don't see--" + +A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton's remark. + +"This is him, sir!" answered Mr. Webster. "That's the gentleman--know +him anywhere!" + +The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby +finger to a photograph, beneath which was written _Stephen Aylmore, +Esq., M.P. for Brookminster_. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + +MR. AYLMORE + + +Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton +start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere +glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. + +"Oh!" he said. "That he?" + +"That's the gentleman, sir," replied Webster. "Done to the life, that +is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo." + +"You're absolutely sure?" demanded Spargo. "There are a lot of men in +the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards +are grey." + +But Webster wagged his head. + +"That's him, sir!" he repeated. "I'm as sure of that as I am that my +name's William Webster. That's the man I saw talking to him whose +picture you've got in your paper. Can't say no more, sir." + +"Very good," said Spargo. "I'm much obliged to you. I'll see Mr. +Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How long do you +remain in town?" + +"My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be +there for another week," answered the farmer. "Hope I've been of some +use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife----" + +Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He +turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. + +"There!--what did I tell you?" he said. "Didn't I say I should get some +news? There it is." + +Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. + +"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I say, Spargo!" + +"Well?" + +"Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know." + +"Quite aware of it. Didn't you introduce me to his daughters--only +yesterday?" + +"But--how did you know they were his daughters?" + +Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. + +"Instinct--intuition," he answered. "However, never mind that, just +now. Well--I've found something out. Marbury--if that is the dead +man's real name, and anyway, it's all we know him by--was in the +company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!" + +"What are you going to do about it?" asked Breton. + +"Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course." + +He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand +had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. + +"Look here," said Breton. "I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be +found at twelve o'clock. At the A. and P.--the Atlantic and Pacific +Club, you know, in St. James's. If you like, I'll go with you." + +Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. + +"All right," he said. "Eleven o'clock, now. I've something to do. I'll +meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon." + +"I'll be there," agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand +on it, turned. "What do you expect from--from what we've just heard?" +he asked. + +Spargo shrugged his shoulders. + +"Wait--until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say," he answered. "I +suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance." + +Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to +mutter to himself. + +"Good God!" he says. "Dainsworth--Painsworth--something of that +sort--one of the two. Excellent--that our farmer friend should have so +much observation. Ah!--and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized +as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. +Stephen Aylmore--beyond being what I know him to be?" + +Spargo's fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of +reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness +to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud: + +"AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, +St. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member +Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers' Clubs. Interested in South +American enterprise." + +"Um!" muttered Spargo, putting the book away. "That's not very +illuminating. However, we've got one move finished. Now we'll make +another." + +Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of +Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, +leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take +him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which +he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. + +Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the +hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. + +"I remember you," said Mrs. Walters; "you came with the detective--Mr. +Rathbury." + +"Have you seen him, since?" asked Spargo. + +"Not since," replied Mrs. Walters. "No--and I was wondering if he'd be +coming round, because----" She paused there and looked at Spargo with +particular enquiry--"You're a friend of his, aren't you?" she asked. "I +suppose you know as much as he does--about this?" + +"He and I," replied Spargo, with easy confidence, "are working this +case together. You can tell me anything you'd tell him." + +The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an +inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in +tissue paper. + +"Well," she said, unwrapping the paper, "we found this in Number 20 +this morning--it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl that +found it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but +Walters, he says as how he shouldn't be surprised if it's a diamond. +And since we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after +Mr. Marbury came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he +went into the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of +things like this. So there?" + +Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. + +"That's a diamond--right enough," he said. "Put it away, Mrs. +Walters--I shall see Rathbury presently, and I'll tell him about it. +Now, that other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you recognize +him--I mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?" + +Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters' face that she had no +more doubt than Webster had. + +"Oh, yes!" she said. "That's the gentleman who came in with Mr. +Marbury--I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would recognize +him from that--perhaps you'd let our hall-porter and the waiter I +mentioned just now look at it?" + +"I'll see them separately and see if they've ever seen a man who +resembles this," replied Spargo. + +The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, +and Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the +Atlantic and Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the +steps. He made no reference to his recent doings, and together they +went into the house and asked for Mr. Aylmore. + +Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently +came to them in the visitors' room. He was already familiar with Mr. +Aylmore's photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; +the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of +legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and +unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest +of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or +seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met +him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalist had +expected--a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, who looked as if +he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and taught not +to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interests +in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite +expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation +--purposely shortened--of his object in calling upon him. + +"Yes," he said indifferently. "Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury +and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke +of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much +surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for--I really don't know how +many years." + +He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or +not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And +presently Mr. Aylmore went on. + +"I read your account in the _Watchman_ this morning," he said. "I was +wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with you or +with the police. The fact is--I suppose you want this for your paper, +eh?" he continued after a sudden breaking off. + +"I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print," answered +Spargo. "If you care to give me any information----" + +"Oh, well!" said Mr. Aylmore. "I don't mind. The fact is, I knew next +to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some--well, business +relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty +years--perhaps more--since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me +in the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to +recall him. He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, +and as there was little doing in the House that night, and as he had +once been--almost a friend--I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. +He told me that he had only landed from Australia that morning, and +what he wanted my advice about, principally, was--diamonds. Australian +diamonds." + +"I was unaware," remarked Spargo, "that diamonds were ever found in +Australia." + +Mr. Aylmore smiled--a little cynically. + +"Perhaps so," he said. "But diamonds have been found in Australia from +time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and in the +opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. +Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed +them to me at his hotel--a number of them. We examined them in his +room." + +"What did he do with them--afterwards?" asked Spargo. + +"He put them in his waistcoat pocket--in a very small wash-leather bag, +from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty +stones--not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some +expert--I mentioned Streeter's to him. Now, I can tell you how he got +hold of Mr. Breton's address." + +The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened +his hold on the pencil with which he was making notes. + +"He got it from me," continued Mr. Aylmore. "The handwriting on the +scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As +I knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. +Breton, Mr. Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp +solicitor. I wrote down Mr. Breton's address for him, on a scrap of +paper which he tore off a letter that he took from his pocket. By the +by, I observe that when his body was found there was nothing on it in +the shape of papers or money. I am quite sure that when I left him he +had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a breast-pocket full of +letters." + +"Where did you leave him, sir?" asked Spargo. "You left the hotel +together, I believe?" + +"Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much +to talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge +and very shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. +My own impression----" He paused for a moment and Spargo waited +silently. + +"My own impression--though I confess it may seem to have no very solid +grounds--is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was +robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. +There is the fact that he was robbed, at any rate." + +"I've had a notion," said Breton, diffidently. "Mayn't be worth much, +but I've had it, all the same. Some fellow-passenger of Marbury's may +have tracked him all day--Middle Temple Lane's pretty lonely at night, +you know." + +No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at +Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door. + +"Well, that's all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo," he said. "You see, it's +not much, after all. Of course, there'll be an inquest on Marbury, and +I shall have to re-tell it. But you're welcome to print what I've told +you." + +Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards +New Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news--now he +had some to communicate. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + +THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + + +Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal +apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of +its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain +writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much +discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in +the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of +reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was +seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the +apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He +looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand. + +"Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the _Watchman_ this +morning," he said. "Made extra good reading, I thought. They did right +to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I +suppose, Mr. Spargo?" + +Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury's right hand. He +lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his +head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his +question answered in the affirmative. + +"Look here," he said. "We settled yesterday, didn't we, that you and I +are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? That's all +right," he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. "Very well--have +you made any further progress?" + +Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning +back in his chair, shook his head. + +"Frankly, I haven't," he replied. "Of course, there's a lot being done +in the usual official-routine way. We've men out making various +enquiries. We're enquiring about Marbury's voyage to England. All that +we know up to now is that he was certainly a passenger on a liner which +landed at Southampton in accordance with what he told those people at +the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way and was +understood to take the train to town--as he did. That's all. There's +nothing in that. We've cabled to Melbourne for any news of him from +there. But I expect little from that." + +"All right," said Spargo. "And--what are you doing--you, yourself? +Because, if we're to share facts, I must know what my partner's after. +Just now, you seemed to be--drawing." + +Rathbury laughed. + +"Well, to tell you the truth," he said, "when I want to work things +out, I come into this room--it's quiet, as you see--and I scribble +anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, and--" + +"Do you see it?" asked Spargo, quickly. + +"Well--I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that hotel," +replied Rathbury. "It seems to me--" + +Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. + +"I've found him," he said. "That's what I wrote that article for--to +find him. I knew it would find him. I've never had any training in your +sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. And it has got +him." + +Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. + +"Good!" he said. "And--who is he?" + +"I'll tell you the story," answered Spargo, "and in a summary. This +morning a man named Webster, a farmer, a visitor to London, came to me +at the office, and said that being at the House of Commons last night +he witnessed a meeting between Marbury and a man who was evidently a +Member of Parliament, and saw them go away together. I showed him an +album of photographs of the present members, and he immediately +recognized the portrait of one of them as the man in question. I +thereupon took the portrait to the Anglo-Orient Hotel--Mrs. Walters +also at once recognized it as that of the man who came to the hotel +with Marbury, stopped with him a while in his room, and left with him. +The man is Mr. Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster." + +Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. + +"I know him!" he said. "Of course--I remember Mrs. Walters's +description now. But his is a familiar type--tall, grey-bearded, +well-dressed. Um!--well, we'll have to see Mr. Aylmore at once." + +"I've seen him," said Spargo. "Naturally! For you see, Mrs. Walters +gave me a bit more evidence. This morning they found a loose diamond on +the floor of Number 20, and after it was found the waiter who took the +drinks up to Marbury and his guest that night remembered that when he +entered the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of +similar objects. So then I went on to see Mr. Aylmore. You know young +Breton, the barrister?--you met him with me, you remember?" + +"The young fellow whose name and address were found on Marbury," +replied Rathbury. "I remember." + +"Breton is engaged to Aylmore's daughter," continued Spargo. "Breton +took me to Aylmore's club. And Aylmore gives a plain, straightforward +account of the matter which he's granted me leave to print. It clears +up a lot of things. Aylmore knew Marbury over twenty years ago. He lost +sight of him. They met accidentally in the lobby of the House on the +evening preceding the murder. Marbury told him that he wanted his +advice about those rare things, Australian diamonds. He went back with +him to his hotel and spent a while with him; then they walked out +together as far as Waterloo Bridge, where Aylmore left him and went +home. Further, the scrap of grey paper is accounted for. Marbury wanted +the address of a smart solicitor; Aylmore didn't know of one but told +Marbury that if he called on young Breton, he'd know, and would put him +in the way to find one. Marbury wrote Breton's address down. That's +Aylmore's story. But it's got an important addition. Aylmore says that +when he left Marbury, Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds +in a wash-leather bag, a lot of gold, and a breast-pocket full of +letters and papers. Now--there was nothing on him when he was found +dead in Middle Temple Lane." + +Spargo stopped and lighted a fresh cigarette. + +"That's all I know," he said. "What do you make of it?" + +Rathbury leaned back in his chair in his apparently favourite attitude +and stared hard at the dusty ceiling above him. + +"Don't know," he said. "It brings things up to a point, certainly. +Aylmore and Marbury parted at Waterloo Bridge--very late. Waterloo +Bridge is pretty well next door to the Temple. But--how did Marbury get +into the Temple, unobserved? We've made every enquiry, and we can't +trace him in any way as regards that movement. There's a clue for his +going there in the scrap of paper bearing Breton's address, but even a +Colonial would know that no business was done in the Temple at +midnight, eh?" + +"Well," said Spargo, "I've thought of one or two things. He may have +been one of those men who like to wander around at night. He may have +seen--he would see--plenty of lights in the Temple at that hour; he +may have slipped in unobserved--it's possible, it's quite possible. I +once had a moonlight saunter in the Temple myself after midnight, and +had no difficulty about walking in and out, either. But--if Marbury was +murdered for the sake of what he had on him--how did he meet with his +murderer or murderers in there? Criminals don't hang about Middle +Temple Lane." + +The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making +more hieroglyphics. + +"What's your theory, Mr. Spargo?" he asked suddenly. "I suppose you've +got one." + +"Have you?" asked Spargo, bluntly. + +"Well," returned Rathbury, hesitatingly, "I hadn't, up to now. But +now--now, after what you've told me, I think I can make one. It seems +to me that after Marbury left Aylmore he probably mooned about by +himself, that he was decoyed into the Temple, and was there murdered +and robbed. There are a lot of queer ins and outs, nooks and corners in +that old spot, Mr. Spargo, and the murderer, if he knew his ground +well, could easily hide himself until he could get away in the morning. +He might be a man who had access to chambers or offices--think how easy +it would be for such a man, having once killed and robbed his victim, +to lie hid for hours afterwards? For aught we know, the man who +murdered Marbury may have been within twenty feet of you when you first +saw his dead body that morning. Eh?" + +Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the +room and whispered a few words in the detective's ear. + +"Show him in at once," said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the man +quitted the room and smiled significantly. "Here's somebody wants to +tell something about the Marbury case," he remarked. "Let's hope it'll +be news worth hearing." + +Spargo smiled in his queer fashion. + +"It strikes me that you've only got to interest an inquisitive public +in order to get news," he said. "The principal thing is to investigate +it when you've got it. Who's this, now?" + +The official had returned with a dapper-looking gentleman in a +frock-coat and silk hat, bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp of the +city man, who inspected Rathbury with deliberation and Spargo with a +glance, and being seated turned to the detective as undoubtedly the +person he desired to converse with. + +"I understand that you are the officer in charge of the Marbury murder +case," he observed. "I believe I can give you some valuable information +in respect to that. I read the account of the affair in the _Watchman_ +newspaper this morning, and saw the portrait of the murdered man there, +and I was at first inclined to go to the _Watchman_ office with my +information, but I finally decided to approach the police instead of +the Press, regarding the police as being more--more responsible." + +"Much obliged to you, sir," said Rathbury, with a glance at Spargo. +"Whom have I the pleasure of----" + +"My name," replied the visitor, drawing out and laying down a card, "is +Myerst--Mr. E.P. Myerst, Secretary of the London and Universal Safe +Deposit Company. I may, I suppose, speak with confidence," continued +Mr. Myerst, with a side-glance at Spargo. "My information +is--confidential." + +Rathbury inclined his head and put his fingers together. + +"You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Myerst," he answered. "If +what you have to tell has any real bearing on the Marbury case, it will +probably have to be repeated in public, you know, sir. But at present +it will be treated as private." + +"It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say," replied Mr. +Myerst. "Yes, I should decidedly say so. The fact is that on June 21st +at about--to be precise--three o'clock in the afternoon, a stranger, +who gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if +he could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to +deposit in such a safe a small leather box--which, by the by, was of +remarkably ancient appearance--that he had brought with him. I showed +him a safe such as he wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the +rules of the place, and he engaged the safe, paid the rent for one year +in advance, and deposited his leather box--an affair of about a foot +square--there and then. After that, having exchanged a remark or two +about the altered conditions of London, which, I understood him to say, +he had not seen for a great many years, he took his key and his +departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. +Marbury who was found murdered." + +"None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst," said Rathbury. "And I'm much +obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little more, +sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?" + +"No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of +it," replied the secretary. + +"Didn't give you any hint as to what was in it?" asked Rathbury. + +"None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not +be burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested," replied Mr. Myerst. "He +appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible +for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe." + +"Ah!" said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. "So he would, no doubt. And +Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?" + +Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question. + +"Mr. Marbury struck me," he answered at last, "as a man who had +probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will +term, a remarkable remark. About--in fact, about his leather box." + +"His leather box?" said Rathbury. "And what was it, sir?" + +"This," replied the secretary. "'That box,' he said, 'is safe now. But +it's been safer. It's been buried--and deep-down, too--for many and +many a year!'" + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + +THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + + +"Buried--and deep-down, too--for many and many a year," repeated Mr. +Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. "I consider that, +gentlemen, a very remarkable remark--very remarkable!" + +Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and +began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. +And with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo's journalistic +instincts had been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off +on a new scent. + +"Remarkable--remarkable, Mr. Myerst!" he assented. "What do you say, +Mr. Spargo?" + +Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered +made a careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several +seconds; then Spargo spoke. + +"And what did you say to that?" he asked quietly. + +Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it +time to enlighten the caller. + +"I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst," he said smilingly, "that this is +Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo wrote the article about the +Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you'll +gather, is deeply interested in this matter--and he and I, in our +different capacities, are working together. So--you understand?" Myerst +regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. +Spargo repeated the question he had just put. + +"I said--What did you say to that?" + +Myerst hesitated. + +"Well--er--I don't think I said anything," he replied. "Nothing that +one might call material, you know." + +"Didn't ask him what he meant?" suggested Spargo. + +"Oh, no--not at all," replied Myerst. + +Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. + +"Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!" he +said, half-sneeringly. "You might have heard such a story--" + +He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to +Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement. + +"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Is it possible to get that box +opened?" + +"It'll have to be opened," answered Rathbury, rising. "It's got to be +opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I'm going to ask Mr. +Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having +it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through +today, but at any rate we'll have it done tomorrow morning." + +"Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?" asked +Spargo. "You can--certain? That's all right, Rathbury. Now I'm off, and +you'll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I'll do the +same by you." + +And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly +returned to the _Watchman_ office. There the assistant who had been +told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a +business card. + +"This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo," he +said. "He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, +and he said that as he couldn't wait, perhaps you'd step round to his +place when you came in." + +Spargo took the card and read: + + MR. JAMES CRIEDIR, + DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES, + 2,021, STRAND. + +Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, +wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call +himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He +went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and +his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might +have been done by Mr. 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. + +"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. Yes, I called on +you. I think, having read the _Watchman_ account of that Marbury +affair, and having seen the murdered man's photograph in your columns, +that I can give you a bit of information." + +"Material?" asked Spargo, tersely. + +Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed +drily. + +"That's for you to decide--when you've heard it," he said. "I should +say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it's this--I +kept open until yesterday--everything as usual, you know--stock in the +window and so on--so that anybody who was passing would naturally have +thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I'm +retiring--retired," added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, "last night. +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. Criedir, "we'll go on then. Yesterday afternoon the +man described as Marbury came into my shop. He--" + +"What time--exact time?" asked Spargo. + +"Two--to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock," answered Mr. +Criedir. "I'd swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was precisely +as you've described him--dress, everything--I tell you I knew his +photo as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little box--" + +"What sort of box?" said Spargo. + +"A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box--a very miniature trunk, +in fact," replied Mr. Criedir. "About a foot square; the sort of thing +you never see nowadays. It was very much worn; it attracted me for that +very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. 'You're a +dealer in stamps--rare stamps?' he said. 'I am,' I replied. 'I've +something here I'd like to show you,' he said, unlocking the box. +'It's--'" + +"Stop a bit," said Spargo. "Where did he take the key from with which +he unlocked the box?" + +"It was one of several which he carried on a split ring, and he took +the bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket," replied Mr. Criedir. +"Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman! Well--he opened his box. It +seemed to me to be full of papers--at any rate there were a lot of +legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you +how I notice things I saw that the papers were stained with age, and +that the red tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink." + +"Good--good!" murmured Spargo. "Excellent! Proceed, sir." + +"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. '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. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from +business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single +deal, and that, therefore, I couldn't do anything. 'No matter,' he +says, 'I daresay there are lots of men in your line of trade--perhaps +you can recommend me to a good firm?' 'I could recommend you to a dozen +extra-good firms,' I answered. 'But I can do better for you. I'll give +you the name and address of a private buyer who, I haven't the least +doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from you and will give you a +big price.' 'Write it down,' he says, 'and thank you for your trouble.' +So I gave him a bit of advice as to the price he ought to get, and I +wrote the name and address of the man I referred to on the back of one +of my cards." + +"Whose name and address?" asked Spargo. + +"Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple Lane," +replied Mr. Criedir. "Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most enthusiastic +and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he didn't possess +that set of stamps." + +"I know Mr. Cardlestone," remarked Spargo. "It was at the foot of his +stairs that Marbury was found murdered." + +"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. "You think and argue on modern +lines--which are, of course, highly superior. But--how do you account +for my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone's address and for his +having been found dead--murdered--at the foot of Cardlestone's stairs +a few hours later?" + +"I don't account for it," said Spargo. "I'm trying to." + +Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down +for a moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly +offered him a cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of +thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again. + +"Yes," he said. "I'm trying to account. And I shall account. And I'm +much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you've told me. Now, then, +may I ask you a question or two?" + +"A thousand!" responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality. + +"Very well. Did Marbury say he'd call on Cardlestone?" + +"He did. Said he'd call as soon as he could--that day." + +"Have you told Cardlestone what you've just told me?" + +"I have. But not until an hour ago--on my way back from your office, in +fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him." + +"Had he received a call from Marbury?" + +"No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until +he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, +another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could +recognize it as any man they'd ever known, but they couldn't." + +"I know they did," said Spargo. "I saw 'em at the mortuary. Um! +Well--one more question. 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. And what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over +again: + +"Six hours--six hours--six hours! Those six hours!" + +Next morning the _Watchman_ came out with four leaded columns of +up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the +four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:-- + +WHO SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY +PRECEDING HIS MURDER? + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + +THE LEATHER BOX + + +Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline +would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he +kept to himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have +set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in +that headline was certain; the problem was--What particular owner or +owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why +should they remember him? Walters and his wife had reason to remember +him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so had Myerst; so had William +Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he left the London and +Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he sat down by +Webster's side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody seemed to +have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he only +remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable +cloth cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had +come forward with any recollection of him. He must have gone West from +seeing Myerst, because he bought his cap at Fiskie's; he must +eventually have gone South-West, because he turned up at Westminster. +But where else did he go? What did he do? To whom did he speak? No +answer came to these questions. + +"That shows," observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away in +Spargo's room at the _Watchman_ at that particular hour which is +neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, "that +shows how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that +had strayed into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices." + +"You'd better go and read up a little elementary entomology, Breton," +said Spargo. "I don't know much about it myself, but I've a pretty good +idea that when an ant walks into the highways and byways of a colony to +which he doesn't belong he doesn't survive his intrusion by many +seconds." + +"Well, you know what I mean," said Breton. "London's an ant-heap, isn't +it? One human ant more or less doesn't count. This man Marbury must +have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. He'd ride on +a 'bus--almost certain. He'd get into a taxi-cab--I think that's much +more certain, because it would be a novelty to him. He'd want some +tea--anyway, he'd be sure to want a drink, and he'd turn in somewhere +to get one or the other. He'd buy things in shops--these Colonials +always do. He'd go somewhere to get his dinner. He'd--but what's the +use of enumeration in this case?" + +"A mere piling up of platitudes," answered Spargo. + +"What I mean is," continued Breton, "that piles of people must have +seen him, and yet it's now hours and hours since your paper came out +this morning, and nobody's come forward to tell anything. And when you +come to think of it, why should they? Who'd remember an ordinary man in +a grey tweed suit?" + +"'An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,'" repeated Spargo. "Good line. +You haven't any copyright in it, remember. It would make a good +cross-heading." + +Breton laughed. "You're a queer chap, Spargo," he said. "Seriously, do +you think you're getting any nearer anything?" + +"I'm getting nearer something with everything that's done," Spargo +answered. "You can't start on a business like this without evolving +something out of it, you know." + +"Well," said Breton, "to me there's not so much mystery in it. Mr. +Aylmore's explained the reason why my address was found on the body; +Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained--" + +Spargo suddenly looked up. + +"What?" he said sharply. + +"Why, the reason of Marbury's being found where he was found," replied +Breton. "Of course, I see it all! Marbury was mooning around Fleet +Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see +where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The +thing's plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it." + +"Yes, that's it," agreed Spargo. "That's it." He turned over the leaves +of the diary which lay on his desk. "By the by," he said, looking up +with some interest, "the adjourned inquest is at eleven o'clock +tomorrow morning. Are you going?" + +"I shall certainly go," answered Breton. "What's more, I'm going to +take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details were over at +the first sitting, and as there'll be nothing but this new evidence +tomorrow, and as they've never been in a coroner's court----" + +"Mr. Aylmore'll be the principal witness tomorrow," interrupted Spargo. +"I suppose he'll be able to tell a lot more than he told--me." + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +"I don't see that there's much more to tell," he said. "But," he added, +with a sly laugh, "I suppose you want some more good copy, eh?" + +Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. "I'll tell +you what I want," he said. "I want to know who John Marbury was. That +would make good copy. Who he was--twenty--twenty-five--forty years ago. +Eh?" + +"And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?" asked Breton. + +"Mr. Aylmore," answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, "is the +only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John +Marbury in the--past. But he didn't tell me--much. Perhaps he'll tell +the coroner and his jury--more. Now, I'm off Breton--I've an +appointment." + +And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped +into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. +At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. + +"Well?" said Spargo, as he sprang out: "How is it?" + +"It's all right," answered Rathbury. "You can be present: I got the +necessary permission. As there are no relations known, there'll only be +one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit people, and myself. +Come on--it's about time." + +"It sounds," observed Spargo, "like an exhumation." + +Rathbury laughed. "Well, we're certainly going to dig up a dead man's +secrets," he said. "At least, we may be going to do so. In my opinion, +Mr. Spargo, we'll find some clue in this leather box." + +Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room +where were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to +be the chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had +spoken. And in another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that +the company possessed duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper +authorization having been received from the proper authorities, those +present would now proceed to the safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. +John Marbury, and take from it the property which he himself had +deposited there, a small leather box, which they would afterwards bring +to that room and cause to be opened in each other's presence. + +It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and +bars before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so +recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. +And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it +seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any +importance. In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden +locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it reminded Spargo +irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept +his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake +smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury's name had been newly painted +upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door--the +front door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly +opened by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and +expectation still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders. + +"The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please," commanded the chairman, +"the duplicate key!" + +Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a +curious-looking key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about +to christen a battleship: the steel door swung slowly back. And there, +in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box. + +It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary's room that the +procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the +chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary +authorization from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying +the box: followed two other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with +watching official and police interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up +the rear. He whispered something of his notions to the detective; +Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. + +"Let's hope we're going to see--something!" he said. + +In the secretary's room a man waited who touched his forelock +respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box +on the table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members +of the procession gathered round. + +"As we naturally possess no key to this box," announced the chairman in +grave tones, "it becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in +opening it. Jobson!" + +He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity. +He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see +that he was anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, +Spargo looked at the box. It was pretty much what it had been described +to him as being; a small, square box of old cow-hide, very strongly +made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the +lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for +many a long day. + +There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back. + +"That's it, if you please, sir," he said. + +The chairman motioned to the high official. + +"If you would be good enough to open the box, sir," he said. "Our duty +is now concluded." + +As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered +round with craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted: +somebody sighed deeply. And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. + +The box was empty! + +Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there +was literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of +a plain, time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned +chintz stuff, such as our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar +with, and containing--nothing. + +"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the chairman. "This is--dear me!--why, +there is nothing in the box!" + +"That," remarked the high official, drily, "appears to be obvious." + +The chairman looked at the secretary. + +"I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst," he said, with the +half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of +an exceptionally fine treat. "Valuable!" + +Myerst coughed. + +"I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin," he +answered. "The--er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of +great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he +placed it in the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest +value." + +"But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the +_Watchman_ newspaper, that it was full of papers and--and other +articles," said the chairman. "Criedir saw papers in it about an hour +before it was brought here." + +Myerst spread out his hands. + +"I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin," he answered. "I +know nothing more." + +"But why should a man deposit an empty box?" began the chairman. "I--" + +The high official interposed. + +"That the box is empty is certain," he observed. "Did you ever handle +it yourself, Mr. Myerst?" + +Myerst smiled in a superior fashion. + +"I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered +this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he +rented, the box was never out of his hands," he replied. + +Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the +chairman. + +"Very well," he said. "We've made the enquiry. Rathbury, take the box +away with you and lock it up at the Yard." + +So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if +mystifying, material for the article which had already become the daily +feature of his paper. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + +MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + + +It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the +adjourned inquest next day that the whole story of what was now +world-famous as the Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated +before him for the thousandth time. There was not a detail of the story +with which he had not become familiar to fulness. The first proceeding +before the coroner had been of a merely formal nature; these were +thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and twelve +good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find +out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John +Marbury came by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo +found himself tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and +noting how each successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter +to the story. The story itself ran quite easily, naturally, +consecutively--you could make it in sections. And Spargo, sitting +merely to listen, made them: + +1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the +body. + +2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death--the man had +been struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow--from some +heavy instrument, and had died immediately. + +3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was +examined nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of +grey paper. + +4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man's new fashionable +cloth cap, bought at Fiskie's well-known shop in the West-End, he +traced Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. + +5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there. + +6. The purser of the ss. _Wambarino_ proved that Marbury sailed from +Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved +himself like any other well-regulated passenger, and left the +_Wambarino_ at Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the +last day of his life in just the ordinary manner. + +7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the +matter of the stamps. + +8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury's visit to the Safe Deposit, and further +proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official +examination, to be empty. + +9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in +one of the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing +the meeting between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to +be Mr. Aylmore, a Member of Parliament. + +All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the +witness-box. And Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for +which the crowded court was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and +realistic specials in the _Watchman_, everybody there had already +become well and thoroughly acquainted with the mass of evidence +represented by the nine witnesses who had been in the box before Mr. +Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with the facts which Mr. +Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview at the club, +which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary interest +which the Member of Parliament's appearance aroused? For everybody was +extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the last man +who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the +public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who +met Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his +hotel with him, hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the +hotel with him for a stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo +knew well why the interest was so keen--everybody knew that Aylmore was +the only man who could tell the court anything really pertinent about +Marbury; who he was, what he was after; what his life had been. + +He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the +witness-box--a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was +only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a +well-drilled soldier's, who carried about him an air of conscious +power. Aylmore's two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite +Spargo, with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had +encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given +him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time; it +was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of +entertainment; they might have been idlers in some Eastern bazaar, +listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional +tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at +them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in +their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. + +"All that they feel," he thought, "is a bit of extra excitement at the +idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful mystery. Um! +Well--now how much is he mixed up?" + +And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his +eyes off the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the +witness which he was anxious to develop. + +The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. +Aylmore's evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and +asked a question or two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell, +in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair; +and having received that permission, he went on in a calm, +unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It +sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years +ago. He had lost sight of him for--oh, quite twenty years. He had met +him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on +the evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having +no particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn, +he had gone back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained +awhile with him in his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had +afterwards gone out with him. He had given him the advice he wanted; +they had strolled across Waterloo Bridge; shortly afterwards they had +parted. That was all he knew. + +The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. +It had been in print, under a big headline, in the _Watchman_. Aylmore +had now told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his +next step was to leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory +question or two from the Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a +motion as if to step down. But Spargo, who had been aware since the +beginning of the enquiry of the presence of a certain eminent counsel +who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in that gentleman's +direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his well-known, +apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, and +glance at the tall figure in the witness-box. + +"The fun is going to begin," muttered Spargo. + +The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made +a jerky bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He +looked like a man who is going to ask indifferent questions about the +state of the weather, or how Smith's wife was last time you heard of +her, or if stocks are likely to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this +man before, and he knew many signs of his in voice and manner and +glance. + +"I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your +acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some +time ago?" began the suave, seemingly careless voice. + +"A considerable time ago," answered Aylmore. + +"How long--roughly speaking?" + +"I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years." + +"Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way +you have described to us?" + +"Never." + +"Ever heard from him?" + +"No." + +"Ever heard of him?" + +"No." + +"But when you met, you knew each other at once?" + +"Well--almost at once." + +"Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each +other twenty or twenty-two years ago?" + +"We were--yes, well known to each other." + +"Close friends?" + +"I said we were acquaintances." + +"Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?" + +"His name? It was--Marbury." + +"Marbury--the same name. Where did you know him?" + +"I--oh, here in London." + +"What was he?" + +"Do you mean--what was his occupation?" + +"What was his occupation?" + +"I believe he was concerned in financial matters." + +"Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?" + +"Well, yes--on occasions." + +"What was his business address in London?" + +"I can't remember that." + +"What was his private address?" + +"That I never knew." + +"Where did you transact your business with him?" + +"Well, we met, now and then." + +"Where? What place, office, resort?" + +"I can't remember particular places. Sometimes--in the City." + +"In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or +St. Paul's Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?" + +"I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange." + +"Oh! Was he a member of that institution?" + +"Not that I know of." + +"Were you?" + +"Certainly not!" + +"What were the dealings that you had with him?" + +"Financial dealings--small ones." + +"How long did your acquaintanceship with him last--what period did it +extend over?" + +"I should say about six months to nine months." + +"No more?" + +"Certainly no more." + +"It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?" + +"Oh, quite!" + +"And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for +over twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?" + +"Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he +told me the other evening." + +"I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or +two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men +are more or less public property. You are represented in this work of +popular reference as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina, +where you made a considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that +you were in London, acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890 +to 1892. Did you then leave England soon after knowing Marbury?" + +"I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892--I am not sure which." + +"We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want +to solve the important question--who is, who was John Marbury, and how +did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who +knows anything about him. What was your business before you left +England?" + +"I was interested in financial affairs." + +"Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?" + +"In London, of course." + +"At what address?" + +For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His +brow had flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared +his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly. + +"I resent these questions about my private affairs!" he snapped out. + +"Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question." + +"And I refuse to answer it." + +"Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you +are telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?" + +"I refuse to answer that question also!" + +The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + +THE NEW WITNESS + + +The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. +He was addressing the witness. + +"I am sure, Mr. Aylmore," he said, "there is no wish to trouble you +with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of this +matter of John Marbury's death, and as you are the only witness we have +had who knew him personally--" + +Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner. + +"I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!" he exclaimed. "And +I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I +met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private +affairs of twenty years ago--I very much resent it! Any question that +is really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that +seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry." + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, +and Spargo again became keenly attentive. + +"Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not +yield him offence," he remarked drily. He turned once more to the +witness, regarding him as if with interest. "Can you tell us of any +person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under +discussion--twenty to twenty-two or three years ago?" he asked. + +Aylmore shook his head angrily. + +"No, I can't,'' he replied. + +"And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at +that time who knew you both!" + +"Possibly--at that time. But when I returned to England my business and +my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don't know +of anybody who knew Marbury then--anybody." + +The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; +Spargo saw the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the +door of the court. The Counsel looked again at the witness. + +"One more question. You told the court a little time since that you +parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of +Waterloo Bridge--at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve." + +"About that time." + +"And at that place?" + +"Yes." + +"That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore--just now," said the +Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. "I am going to ask you, sir, at this +point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the +police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important +nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be +given to you and the jury. If you would be pleased to direct that David +Lyell be called--" + +Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had +sat behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into +view, ushered by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident +young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being +called, stepped jauntily and readily into the place which the member of +Parliament just vacated. He took the oath--Scotch fashion--with the +same readiness and turned easily to the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, +glancing quickly round, saw that the court was breathless with +anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was +going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by +Aylmore. + +"Your name is David Lyell?" + +"That is my name, sir." + +"And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?" + +"I do." + +"What are you, Mr. Lyell?" + +"Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & Soutar, +distillers, of Kilmarnock." + +"Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?" + +"They do--once every six weeks I go to Paris." + +"On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to +Paris?" + +"I was." + +"I believe you stayed at De Keyser's Hotel, at the Blackfriars end of +the Embankment?" + +"I did--it's handy for the continental trains." + +"About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go +along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?" + +"I did, sir. I'm a bad sleeper, and it's a habit of mine to take a walk +of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed." + +"How far did you walk?" + +"As far as Waterloo Bridge." + +"Always on the Temple side?" + +"Just so, sir--straight along on that side." + +"Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody +you knew?" + +"Yes." + +"Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament." + +Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder's head +was averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And +Breton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining +silk hat. + +"Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament," repeated the Counsel's suave, +clear tones. "Oh! And how did you come to recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member +of Parliament?" + +"Well, sir, in this way. At home, I'm the secretary of our Liberal Ward +Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to +arrange with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and +speak, and naturally I met him several times, in London and in +Scotland." + +"So that you knew him quite well?" + +"Oh yes, sir." + +"Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?" + +Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. + +"Why, of course!" he answered. "There is Mr. Aylmore." + +"There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore +close to Waterloo Bridge? How close?" + +"Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the +bridge on to the Embankment." + +"Alone?" + +"No." + +"Who was with him?" + +"A man, sir." + +"Did you know the man?" + +"No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I haven't +forgotten his face." + +"You haven't forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell--has anything recalled that +face to you within this last day or two?" + +"Yes, sir, indeed!" + +"What?" + +"The picture of the man they say was murdered--John Marbury." + +"You're sure of that?" + +"I'm as certain, sir, as that my name's what it is." + +"It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied +by the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?" + +"It is, sir!" + +"Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did +you do?" + +"Oh, I just turned and walked after them." + +"You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?" + +"They were walking by the way I'd come." + +"You followed them eastward?" + +"I did--I was going back to the hotel, you see." + +"What were they doing?" + +"Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir." + +"How far did you follow them?" + +"I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle +Temple Lane, sir." + +"And then?" + +"Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De Keyser's, +and to my bed." + +There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other +period of the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen +voice put the next question. + +"You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion +into the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the +occasion in question?" + +"I do! I could swear no other, sir." + +"Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?" + +"Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve." + +The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a +whispered conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the +witness. + +"You have only just given this information to the police, I +understand?" he said. + +"Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by +this morning's boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the +papers--the English papers--and seen the dead man's photographs I +determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland +Yard as soon as I got to London this morning." + +Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped +down. And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the +Coroner's attention. + +"May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?" he began. "I--" + +But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and +implacable. "I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in +the box, and that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or +even to answer questions," he said. "And before you allow him to make +any explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to +interpose at this stage. That witness is----" + +Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner. + +"After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be +heard at once!" he said with emphasis. "As matters stand at present, it +looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I am +allowed to make an explanation--" + +"I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any +explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard," said the +Treasury Counsel sternly. "There are weighty reasons." + +"I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give +an explanation," said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. "Who is +this other witness?" he asked. + +Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two +daughters was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no +distrust of her father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly +turned to the next witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment +lodge of Middle Temple Lane. The Treasury Counsel put a straight +question to him at once. + +"You see that gentleman," he said, pointing to Aylmore. "Do you know +him as an inmate of the Temple?" + +The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused. + +"Why, certainly, sir!" he answered. "Quite well, sir." + +"Very good. And now--what name do you know him by?" + +The man grew evidently more bewildered. + +"Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!" he replied. "Mr. Anderson!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + +UNDER SUSPICION + + +A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed +court as this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified +many things--that there were people present who had expected some such +dramatic development; that there were others present who had not; that +the answer itself was only a prelude to further developments. And +Spargo, looking narrowly about him, saw that the answer had aroused +different feelings in Aylmore's two daughters. The elder one had +dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the younger was sitting +bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine bewilderment. +And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her. + +But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no +stopping the Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in +his own merciless fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the +Coroner, had whispered a word to the solicitor who sat close by him, +and now he turned again to the witness. + +"So you know that gentleman--make sure now--as Mr. Anderson, an inmate +of the Temple?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"You don't know him by any other name?" + +"No, sir, I don't." + +"How long have you known him by that name?" + +"I should say two or three years, sir." + +"See him go in and out regularly?" + +"No, sir--not regularly." + +"How often, then?" + +"Now and then, sir--perhaps once a week." + +"Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson's goings-in-and-out." + +"Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn't see him +again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir." + +"You say 'nights.' Do I understand that you never see Mr. Anderson +except at night?" + +"Yes, sir. I've never seen him except at night. Always about the same +time, sir." + +"What time?" + +"Just about midnight, sir." + +"Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?" + +"I do, sir." + +"Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?" + +"Yes, sir, just after twelve." + +"Was he alone?" + +"No, sir; there was another gentleman with him." + +"Remember anything about that other gentleman?" + +"Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the +other gentleman had grey clothes on." + +"Had grey clothes on. You didn't see his face?" + +"Not to remember it, sir. I don't remember anything but what I've told +you, sir." + +"That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr. +Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they'd passed +through?" + +"Straight up the Lane, sir." + +"Do you know where Mr. Anderson's rooms in the Temple are?" + +"Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court." + +"Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your +lodge?" + +"No, sir." + +"You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple +Lane next morning?" + +"I did, sir." + +"Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?" + +"No, sir, I didn't. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen who +live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the +matter any particular thought." + +"Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to +come here?" + +"No, sir, never, to anybody." + +"And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but +Mr. Anderson?" + +"No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson." + +The Coroner glanced at the Counsel. + +"I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give +the explanation he offered a few minutes ago," he said. "Do you suggest +anything?" + +"I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he +should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination +again on his oath," replied the Counsel. "The matter is in your hands." + +The Coroner turned to Aylmore. + +"Do you object to that?" he asked. + +Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. + +"I object to nothing," he said in clear tones, "except to being asked +to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and +cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you +like, arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will +answer them so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me +questions about matters of twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or +not as I see fit. And I may as well say that I will take all the +consequences of my silence or my speech." + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. + +"Very well, Mr. Aylmore," he said. "I will put certain questions to +you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?" + +"I did." + +"Was that quite true as regards yourself?" + +"Quite true--absolutely true." + +"And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!" + +"Equally true." + +"Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these +witnesses came on the scene, was not true?" + +"No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true." + +"True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on +Waterloo Bridge!" + +"Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the +Anglo-Orient Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly +afterwards we parted--I did not say where we parted. I see there is a +shorthand writer here who is taking everything down--ask him if that is +not exactly what I said?" + +A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the +Treasury Counsel showed plain annoyance. + +"Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of +ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open +streets after crossing Waterloo Bridge," he said. "Now--?" + +Aylmore smiled. + +"I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten +any more than I am for your understanding," he said, with a sneer. "I +said what I now repeat--Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, +and shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth." + +"Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have +admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely +correct, perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did +part?" + +"I will--willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain +Court." + +"Then--to reiterate--it was you who took Marbury into the Temple that +night?" + +"It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night." + +There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate +was fact--solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible +course of events which he had not anticipated. + +"That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain +danger to yourself in making it." + +"I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it." + +"Very good. Why did you not make it before?" + +"For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for +the purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I +asked to be allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as +soon as Mr. Lyell had left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am +willing to make it now." + +"Make it then." + +"It is simply this," said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. "I have +found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set +of chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally--very +occasionally, as a rule--go late at night. I also found it convenient, +for my own reasons--with which, I think, no one has anything to do--to +rent those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my +chambers that Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight +with which we are dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at +the very outside: I parted from him at my outer door, and I understood +that he would leave the Temple by the way we had entered and would +drive or walk straight back to his hotel. That is the whole truth. I +wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told all this at first. I had +reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered necessary, that I +parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after midnight." + +"What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all +this at first?" asked the Treasury Counsel. + +"Reasons which are private to me." + +"Will you tell them to the court?" + +"No!" + +"Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in +Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?" + +"Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for +him for twenty years or more." + +"A document of importance?" + +"Of very great importance." + +"He would have it on him when he was--as we believe he was--murdered +and robbed?" + +"He had it on him when he left me." + +"Will you tell us what it was?" + +"Certainly not!" + +"In fact, you won't tell us any more than you choose to tell?" + +"I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night." + +"Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact +that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told +this court?" + +"That I shall not answer." + +"Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more +about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years +ago?" + +"I also decline to answer that." + +The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned +to the Coroner. + +"I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry," he said +quietly. + +"For a week," assented the Coroner, turning to the jury. + +The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming-- +spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all +mixed up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily +reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the +day's work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found +himself gazing at Jessie Aylmore. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + +THE SILVER TICKET + + +With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl +aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a +quiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering her +breath. + +"Yes?" he said quietly. + +Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. + +"I want to speak to you," she said. "I must speak to you." + +"Yes," said Spargo. "But--the others? Your sister?--Breton?" + +"I left them on purpose to speak to you," she answered. "They knew I +did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself." + +Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with +him. + +"Tea," he said, "is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place +close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and +have some." + +Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo +said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat +pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had +installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old +tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot +tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her. + +"You want," he said, "to talk to me about your father." + +"Yes," she answered. "I do." + +"Why?" asked Spargo. + +The girl gave him a searching look. + +"Ronald Breton says you're the man who's written all those special +articles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case," she answered. "Are +you?" + +"I am," said Spargo. + +"Then you're a man of great influence," she went on. "You can stir the +public mind. Mr. Spargo--what are you going to write about my father +and today's proceedings?" + +Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He +seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, +and bit a great lump out of it. + +"Frankly," he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, "frankly, I don't +know. I don't know--yet. But I'll tell you this--it's best to be +candid--I shouldn't allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making +up my conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?" + +Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the +unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners. + +"I'm not wanting to prejudice or bias you," she said. "All I want is +that you should be very sure before you say--anything." + +"I'll be sure," said Spargo. "Don't bother. Is the tea all right?" + +"Beautiful!" she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her +again. "Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!--what did you think +about--about what has just happened?" + +Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally +ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy +hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea. + +"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I'm no great hand at talking. I can +write pretty decently when I've a good story to tell, but I don't talk +an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I've got a +pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When +I write my article this evening, I'll get all these things marshalled +in proper form, and I shall write clearly about 'em. But I'll tell you +one thing I do think--I wish your father had made a clean breast of +things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told +everything when he first went into that box." + +"Why?" she asked. + +"Because he's now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around +himself. People'll think--Heaven knows what they'll think! They already +know that he knows more about Marbury than he'll tell, that--" + +"But does he?" she interrupted quickly. "Do you think he does?" + +"Yes!" replied Spargo, with emphasis. "I do. A lot more! If he had only +been explicit at first--however, he wasn't. Now it's done. As things +stand--look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very +serious position?" + +"Serious?" she exclaimed. + +"Dangerous! Here's the fact--he's admitted that he took Marbury to his +rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury's found +robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!" + +"Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of +robbing him of whatever he had on him?" she laughed scornfully. "My +father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo." + +"May be," answered Spargo. "But millionaires have been known to murder +men who held secrets." + +"Secrets!" she exclaimed. + +"Have some more tea," said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. "Look +here--this way it is. The theory that people--some people--will build +up (I won't say that it hasn't suggested itself to me) is +this:--There's some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, +connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty +odd years ago. Must be. There's some mystery about your father's life, +twenty odd years ago. Must be--or else he'd have answered those +questions. Very well. 'Ha, ha!' says the general public. 'Now we have +it!' 'Marbury,' says the general public, 'was a man who had a hold on +Aylmore. He turned up. Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him +to preserve his own secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a +blind.' Eh?" + +"You think--people will say that?" she exclaimed. + +"Cock-sure! They're saying it. Heard half a dozen of 'em say it, in +more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, +they'll say it. Why, what else could they say?" + +For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then +she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new +interest in what remained of the tea-cakes. + +"Is that what you're going to say in your article tonight?" she asked, +quietly. + +"No!" replied Spargo, promptly. "It isn't. I'm going to sit on the +fence tonight. Besides, the case is _sub judice_. All I'm going to do +is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest." + +The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on +Spargo's big fist. + +"Is it what you think?" she asked in a low voice. + +"Honour bright, no!" exclaimed Spargo. "It isn't--it isn't! I don't +think it. I think there's a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of +Marbury's death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about +Marbury that he won't tell, but I'm certain sure that he neither killed +Marbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I'm out to +clear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing'll make me more glad +than to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We'll +have fresh ones--and fresh tea." + +"No, thank you," she said smiling. "And thank you for what you've just +said. I'm going now, Mr. Spargo. You've done me good." + +"Oh, rot!" exclaimed Spargo. "Nothing--nothing! I've just told you what +I'm thinking. You must go?..." + +He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood +vacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the +shoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him. + +"All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!" he said. "Well, it's a pleasant +change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look +here, are you going to start your writing just now?" + +"I'm not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I've +dined at seven o'clock and given myself time to digest my modest +dinner," answered Spargo. "What is it?" + +"Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box," +said Rathbury. "I've got it in my room, and I'd like to examine it for +myself. Come on!" + +"The thing's empty," said Spargo. + +"There might be a false bottom in it," remarked Rathbury. "One never +knows. Here, jump into this!" + +He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the +driver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and +himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen +him before. + +"What d'ye think of today's doings, Spargo?" he asked, as he proceeded +to unlock a cupboard. + +"I think," said Spargo, "that some of you fellows must have had your +ears set to tingling." + +"That's so," assented Rathbury. "Of course, the next thing'll be to +find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a man +won't tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was exactly +doing, what his precise relationship with another man was--why, then, +you've just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work on +the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already--you bet! +Well, now, Spargo, here's the famous box." + +The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which +he had been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the +lid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against the +exterior lines. + +"No false bottom in that, Rathbury," he said. "There's just the outer +leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, and +that's all. There's no room for any false bottom or anything of that +sort, d'you see?" + +Rathbury also sized up the box's capacity. + +"Looks like it," he said disappointedly. "Well, what about the lid, +then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother's +farmhouse, where I was reared--there was a pocket in the lid. Let's see +if there's anything of the sort here?" + +He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the +tips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a +sharp exclamation. + +"By George, Spargo!" he said. "I don't know about any pocket, but +there's something under this lining. Feels like--here, you feel. +There--and there." + +Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. + +"Yes, that's so," he agreed. "Feels like two cards--a large and a small +one. And the small one's harder than the other. Better cut that lining +out, Rathbury." + +"That," remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, "is just what I'm +going to do. We'll cut along this seam." + +He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining +of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects +which he dropped on his blotting pad. + +"A child's photograph," he said, glancing at one of them. "But what on +earth is that?" + +The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, +much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it +was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost +obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction, +was the figure of a horse. + +"That's a curious object," remarked Spargo, picking it up. "I never saw +anything like that before. What can it be?" + +"Don't know--I never saw anything of the sort either," said Rathbury. +"Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah--you see, the +photographer's name and address have been torn away or broken +off--there's nothing left but just two letters of what's apparently +been the name of the town--see. Er--that's all there is. Portrait of a +baby, eh?" + +Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a +casual glance at the baby's portrait. He picked up the silver ticket +again and turned it over and over. + +"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Let me take this silver thing. I know +where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.'' + +"All right," agreed the detective, "but take the greatest care of it, +and don't tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No +connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember." + +"Oh, all right," said Spargo. "Trust me." + +He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, +wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article +that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street +intent on seeking peculiar information. + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN + +MARKET MILCASTER + + +The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned +out of the _Watchman_ office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and +knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not +elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of +course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the +simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of +congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and +acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name +of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your +means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, +and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what +you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a +small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about +Fleet Street bars. + +The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the +Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and +Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate +you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. +You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as +if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. +Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a +small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer's ink in +your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made +another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, +crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a +few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past +various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After +a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and +found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself +in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted--the whole and sole +work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of +lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you +saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal +legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you +were a member you went in, and if you weren't a member you tinkled an +electric bell and asked to see a member--if you knew one. + +Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the +bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a +young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly +hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course +and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled. + +"Had we known you were coming," said Mr. Starkey, "we'd have had a +brass band on the stairs." + +"I want to come in," remarked Spargo. + +"Sure!" said Mr. Starkey. "That's what you've come for." + +"Well, stand out of the way, then, and let's get in," said Spargo. +"Look here," he continued when they had penetrated into a small +vestibule, "doesn't old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every +night?" + +"Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his +nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily +column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects +of their spotting a winner tomorrow," answered Mr. Starkey. "It's five +minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?" + +"A word with him," answered Spargo. "A mere word--or two." + +He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and +sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But +the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the +canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting +around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the +great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of +their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a +small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. + +"Name it, my son," commanded Starkey. "Try the Octoneumenoi very extra +special. Two of 'em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?" + +"I'll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal +regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a +route-map of the way from Fleet Street," answered Spargo, taking his +glass. "Phew!--what an atmosphere!" + +"We're considering a ventilating fan," said Starkey. "I'm on the house +committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. +But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_--you know Templeson--he says what we +want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard--says no club is +proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap--second-hand +dealer, don't you know--what has a beauty to dispose of in old +Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old +man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You +see--" + +"There is Crowfoot," said Spargo. "Shout him over here, Starkey, before +anybody else collars him." + +Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously +came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. +He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a +big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and +beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from +beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; +his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he +looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his +flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive +cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their +wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye. + +"Hi, Crowfoot!" shouted Starkey above the din and babel. "Crowfoot, +Crowfoot! Come over here, there's a chap dying to see you!" + +"Yes, that's the way to get him, isn't it?" said Spargo. "Here, I'll +get him myself." + +He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. + +"I want a quiet word with you," he said. "This place is like a +pandemonium." + +Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. + +"Always is, this time," he said, yawning. "But it's companionable. What +is it, Spargo?" + +Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. "I +should say," he said, "that you know as much about sporting matters as +any man writing about 'em?" + +"Well, I think you might say it with truth," answered Crowfoot. + +"And old sporting matters?" said Spargo. + +"Yes, and old sporting matters," replied the other with a sudden flash +of the eye. "Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you +know." + +"Well, there's something that's interesting me greatly just now, +anyway," said Spargo. "And I believe it's got to do with old sporting +affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to +be the only man I know of that could tell anything." + +"Yes--what is it?" asked Crowfoot. + +Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up +silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on +Crowfoot's outstretched palm. + +"Can you tell me what that is?" he asked. + +Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman's eyes--he eagerly +turned the silver ticket over. + +"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get this?" + +"Never mind, just now," replied Spargo. "You know what it is?" + +"Certainly I know what it is! But--Gad! I've not seen one of these +things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a +young 'un again!" said Crowfoot. "Quite a young 'un!" + +"But what is it?" asked Spargo. + +Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic +device was almost worn away. + +"It's one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at +Market Milcaster," answered Crowfoot. "That's what it is. One of the +old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market +Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the +obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that's what it is! +Bless me!--most interesting." + +"Where's Market Milcaster?" enquired Spargo. "Don't know it." + +"Market Milcaster," replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket +over and over, "is what the topographers call a decayed town in +Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got +gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in +June every year. It's nearly forty years since that meeting fell +through. I went to it often when I was a lad--often!" + +"And you say that's a ticket for the stand?" asked Spargo. + +"This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like +to call 'em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses +of the town," answered Crowfoot. "It was, I remember, considered a +great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its +possessor--for life, mind you!--to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, +anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on +earth did you get this, Spargo?" + +Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting +it in his purse. + +"I'm awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot," he said, "The fact is, I can't +tell you where I got it just now, but I'll promise you that I will tell +you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue's free to do so." + +"Some mystery, eh?" suggested Crowfoot. + +"Considerable," answered Spargo. "Don't mention to anyone that I showed +it to you. You shall know everything eventually." + +"Oh, all right, my boy, all right!" said Crowfoot. "Odd how things turn +up, isn't it? Now, I'll wager anything that there aren't half a dozen +of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. As I said, there +were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. They +were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I've been +in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I've seen +these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces--oh, yes!" + +Spargo caught at a notion. + +"How do you get to Market Milcaster?" he asked. + +"Paddington," replied Crowfoot. "It's a goodish way." + +"I wonder," said Spargo, "if there's any old sporting man there who +could remember--things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?" + +"Old sporting man!" exclaimed Crowfoot. "Egad!--but no, he must be +dead--anyhow, if he isn't dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old +Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare +sportsman." + +"I may go down there," said Spargo. "I'll see if he's alive." + +"Then, if you do go down," suggested Crowfoot, "go to the old 'Yellow +Dragon' in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage's place of +business and his private house were exactly opposite the 'Dragon.' But +I'm afraid you'll find him dead--it's five and twenty years since I was +in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let's see, now. If +Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he'll be ninety years of age!" + +"Well, I've known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit of +experience," said Spargo. "I know one--now--my own grandfather. Well, +the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I'll tell you all about it some day." + +"Have another drink?" suggested Crowfoot. + +But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; +he still had something to do. And he got himself away from the +Octoneumenoi, in spite of Starkey, who wished to start a general debate +on the wisest way of expending the club's ready money balance, and went +back to the _Watchman_, and there he sought the presence of the editor, +and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, saw +him and remained closeted with him for the extraordinary space of ten +minutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed. + +But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at +Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market +Milcaster, and in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an +old-fashioned bedroom looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And +there, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick, +ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the +name, _Benjamin Quarterpage_. + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN + +THE "YELLOW DRAGON" + + +Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in +that old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in +further speculations on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He +had no particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was +that in the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury +had deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he +and Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market +Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market +Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to +trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task? + +"The first thing," said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, "is to +have a look round. That'll be no long job." + +For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from +the station to the "Yellow Dragon" Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a +very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide +thoroughfare--the High Street--with smaller streets leading from it on +either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town +could show--the ancient parish church, the town hall, the market cross, +the principal houses and shops, the bridge, beneath which ran the river +whereon ships had once come up to the town before its mouth, four miles +away, became impassably silted up. It was a bright, clean, little town, +but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo had been quick to +notice that in the "Yellow Dragon," a big, rambling old hostelry, +reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be little doing. +He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his +arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and +fifty people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, +evidently tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like +an artist, and an unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in +it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo's +windows; little passage of people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a +countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along; there a farmer in his +light cart sat idly chatting with an aproned tradesman, who had come +out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the +sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open windows stole a +faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows outside the +old houses. + +"A veritable Sleepy Hollow," mused Spargo. "Let's go down and see if +there's anybody to talk to. Great Scott!--to think that I was in the +poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!" + +Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally +landed in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure +instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he +entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed +apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and +ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There +were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had +certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a +century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, +and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; +there were foxes' masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case +on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and +an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, +old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young +woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy +needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have +looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo, +treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany +it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair. + +"This," he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, "appears to me to +be a very quiet place." + +"Quiet!" exclaimed the lady. "Quiet?" + +"That," continued Spargo, "is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see +that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of +emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, +that the place is undoubtedly quiet." + +The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a +new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and +coming out into the room took a chair near his own. + +"It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here," she remarked. +"It's about all that one ever does see." + +"Are there many?" asked Spargo. "Do the inhabitants die much of +inanition?" + +The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. + +"Oh, you're joking!" she said. "It's well you can. Nothing ever happens +here. This place is a back number." + +"Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times," murmured +Spargo. "And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in +this town, then?" he added in a louder voice. + +"Nothing!" replied his companion. "It's fast asleep. I came here from +Birmingham, and I didn't know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you +see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months." + +"Ah!" said Spargo. "What you are suffering from is dulness. You must +have an antidote." + +"Dulness!" exclaimed the damsel. "That's the right word for Market +Milcaster. There's just a few regular old customers drop in here of a +morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in--perhaps +during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit +round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, +indeed!--what they want in Market Milcaster is new times." + +Spargo pricked up his ears. + +"Well, but it's rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old +times," he said. "I love it!" + +"Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here," remarked the +barmaid. "Look in tonight any time after eight o'clock, and if you +don't know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you +did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen +drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that +they couldn't go to bed unless they've told each other stories about +old days which I should think they've heard a thousand times already!" + +"Very old men?" asked Spargo. + +"Methuselahs," replied the lady. "There's old Mr. Quarterpage, across +the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn't do any business +now--they say he's ninety, though I'm sure you wouldn't take him for +more than seventy. And there's Mr. Lummis, further down the +street--he's eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye--they're regular +patriarchs. I've sat here and listened to them till I believe I could +write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One." + +"I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation," said +Spargo. + +He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the +barmaid's spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town +until seven o'clock, the "Dragon's" hour for dinner. There were no more +people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo +was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the +bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred +part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit. + +"And mind you don't sit in one of their chairs," said the barmaid, +warningly. "They all have their own special chairs and their special +pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if +anybody touched pipe or chair. But you're all right there, and you'll +hear all they've got to say." + +To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, +twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, +the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the "Yellow +Dragon" at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the +eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell +began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old +gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo's eye, gave him a +glance which showed that the play was about to begin. + +"Good evening, Mr. Kaye," said the barmaid. "You're first tonight." + +"Evening," said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and +became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black +clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe +of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times +round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined +to look on life severely. "Nobody been in yet?" asked Mr. Kaye. "No, +but here's Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene," replied the barmaid. + +Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a +little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting +cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a +flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish +angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian +swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and +gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These +two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed +to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly +as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. + +"Well?" he said, "Here's three of us. And there's a symposium." + +"Wait a bit, wait a bit," said the dapper little man. "Grandpa'll be +here in a minute. We'll start fair." + +The barmaid glanced out of the window. + +"There's Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now," she announced. +"Shall I put the things on the table?" + +"Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!" commanded the fat man. "Have +all in readiness." + +The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, +set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for +making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she +had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening's discourse +when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old +men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the +venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he +took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his +friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight +which were positively boyish. + +Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety--a middle-sized, +sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, +clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was +ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his +hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were +smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a +fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease +of life before him even at his age. + +Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began +their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them--the +five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made +the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out +each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to +wag. Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of +anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town +dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in +the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as +for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. + +Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when +she said that she believed she could write a history of Market +Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local +events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to +reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident +upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of +racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a +bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the +silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device +uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a +polite bow, said quietly: + +"Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?" + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + +MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + + +If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen's bowl of punch--the second of +the evening--or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he +could scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought +upon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble +of conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took +his cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was +sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the +interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his +outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to +whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing +with great _empressement_ to the ticket. + +"Young gentleman!" he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble +a little, "young gentleman, where did you get that?" + +"You know what it is, then?" asked Spargo, willing to dally a little +with the matter. "You recognize it?" + +"Know it! Recognize it!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, and so does +every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a +stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, +young gentleman, in this town." + +"No," replied Spargo. "Certainly not in this town. How should I get it +in this town if I'm a stranger?" + +"Quite true, quite true!" murmured Mr. Quarterpage. "I cannot conceive +how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those--what +shall we call them--heirlooms?--yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could +possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again--Where +did you get that, young gentleman?" + +"Before I tell you that," answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent +sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, "perhaps you will +tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, +much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings +of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. +But--what is it?" + +The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous +grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke. + +"It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, +young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges +in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now +unfortunately a thing of the past," he added. "Fifty--aye, +forty!--years ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets +was--was--" + +"A grand thing!" said one of the old gentlemen. + +"Mr. Lummis is right," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It was a grand thing--a +very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured--are treasured. +And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir--" + +Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. + +"I found this ticket--under mysterious circumstances--in London," he +answered. "I want to trace it. I want to know who its original owner +was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster." + +Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. + +"Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful! He found this ticket--one of our +famous fifty--in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wants +to trace it--he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he has +come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal to +you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in +Market Milcaster for--I don't know how many years?" + +There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody +looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the +whole town. + +"But--why?" he asked, showing great surprise. "Why?" + +"Why?" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "Why? He asks--why? Because, young +gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of +mine, too, every man jack of 'em, to hear that any one of our fifty +tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families +to whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most +unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market +Milcaster family." + +"No, I'm not," admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until the +previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he +wisely refrained. "No, I'm certainly not," he added. + +Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe. + +"I believe," he said, "I believe that if the evening were not drawing +to a close--it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young +gentleman--I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, +give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the +race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!" + +"I'm sure you could!" asserted the little man in the loud suit. "Never +was such a memory as yours, never!" + +"Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters," said the +fat man. "Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia." + +"My memory is good," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It's the greatest blessing +I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a +little thought. And what's more, nearly every one of those fifty +families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or +if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out +how this young gentleman--from London, did you say, sir?" + +"From London," answered Spargo. + +"This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of +our tickets," continued Mr. Quarterpage. "It is--wonderful! But I tell +you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to +breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books +and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of +that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage--Benjamin +Quarterpage--and I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite +this inn, and my breakfast hour is nine o'clock sharp, and I shall bid +you heartily welcome!" + +Spargo made his best bow. + +"Sir," he said, "I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I +shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment." + +Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself +in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay +with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, +to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior--a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always +referred to by his father as something quite juvenile--and to Miss +Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than +her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the +choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and +rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a +man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a +vigorous and healthy appetite. + +Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo's possession +of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. +Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had +judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had +exhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ had +furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he +had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no +mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr. +Quarterpage's revelations would lead him. + +"You have no idea, Mr. Spargo," said the old gentleman, when, breakfast +over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which +were abundant evidences of the host's taste in sporting matters; "you +have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one +of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and +just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my +dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the +year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose +great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were +distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept +in their families for ever--nobody ever anticipated in those days that +our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great +privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and +female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder +himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand +race banquet--at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has +been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the +holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody." + +"And when the race-meeting fell through?" asked Spargo. "What then?" + +"Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as +heirlooms, to be taken great care of," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "They +were dealt with as I dealt with mine--framed on velvet, and hung up--or +locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care +of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the 'Dragon,' that I could +repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can. +But here"--the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a +parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence--"here is a +little volume of my own handwriting--memoranda relating to Market +Milcaster Races--in which is a list of the original holders, together +with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were +given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the +second list, I could trace every ticket--except the one you have in +your purse." + +"Every one?" said Spargo, in some surprise. + +"Every one! For as I told you," continued Mr. Quarterpage, "the +families are either in the town (we're a conservative people here in +Market Milcaster and we don't move far afield) or they're just outside +the town, or they're not far away. I can't conceive how the ticket you +have--and it's genuine enough--could ever get out of possession of one +of these families, and--" + +"Perhaps," suggested Spargo, "it never has been out of possession. I +told you it was found in the lining of a box--that box belonged to a +dead man." + +"A dead man!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "A dead man! Who could--ah! +Perhaps--perhaps I have an idea. Yes!--an idea. I remember something +now that I had never thought of." + +The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and +turned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. +He pointed this out to Spargo. + +"There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the +race-meetings came to an end," he said. "If you were acquainted with +this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known +inhabitants--all, of course, burgesses. There's mine, you +see--Quarterpage. There's Lummis, there's Kaye, there's Skene, there's +Templeby--the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names. +They all are--on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holders +of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the +tickets. Yes--and now that I think of it, there's only one man who held +a ticket when this list was made about whom I don't know anything--at +least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you've found must +have been his. But I thought--I thought somebody else had it!" + +"And this man, sir? Who was he?" asked Spargo, intuitively conscious +that he was coming to news. "Is his name there?" + +The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. + +"There it is!" he said. "John Maitland." + +Spargo bent over the fine writing. + +"Yes, John Maitland," he observed. "And who was John Maitland?" + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many +drawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old +newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up. + +"If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. +Spargo," he said, "you would have known who John Maitland was. For some +time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place--aye, and in this +corner of the world. But--aye, here it is--the newspaper of October +5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you'll find in this old newspaper who John +Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I'll tell you what to do. I've +just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day's business +over with my son--you take this newspaper out into the garden there +with one of these cigars, and read what'll you find in it, and when +you've read that we'll have some more talk." + +Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + +AN OLD NEWSPAPER + + +As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the +middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar +and settled down to read. + +"MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS + +"TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND + +"The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on +Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the +Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on +the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman +Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton, +M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais +Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other +magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the +public in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of +the Market Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were +filled with the _lite_ of the town and neighbourhood, including a +considerable number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in +the proceedings. + +"The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the +very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the +occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster--he +referred to the fact that on both those occasions his friend the +Worshipful Mayor had been able to present him with a pair of white +gloves--was not to be repeated on the present occasion. It would be +their sad and regrettable lot to have before them a fellow-townsman +whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position in the +life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the +most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the +offence of embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many +years been the trusted manager, and with which he had been connected +all his life since his school days. He understood that the prisoner +who would shortly be put before the court on his trial was about to +plead guilty, and there would accordingly be no need for him to direct +the gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this matter--what he had to say +respecting the gravity and even enormity of the offence he would +reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury on the +merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later +period of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally +returned a true bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen +from well-known burgesses of the town having been duly sworn. + +"JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street, +Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd, +1891, the sum of 4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, +the Market Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to +his own use. The prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most +acutely, and who looked very pale and much worn, was represented by +Mr. Charles Doolittle, the well-known barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. +Stephens, K.C., appeared on behalf of the prosecution. + +"Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty. + +"Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any +desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think, +had taken a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular +count in the indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, +in the interests of justice, to set forth to the Court some +particulars of the defalcations which had arisen through the +prisoner's much lamented dishonesty. He proposed to offer a clear and +succinct account of the matter. The prisoner, John Maitland, was the +last of an old Market Milcaster family--he was, in fact, he believed, +with the exception of his own infant son, the very last of the race. +His father had been manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself +had entered the service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he +left the local Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at +the age of thirty-two; he had therefore occupied this highest position +of trust for ten years. His directors had the fullest confidence in +him; they relied on his honesty and his honour; they gave him +discretionary powers such as no bank-manager, probably, ever enjoyed +or held before. In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all +intents and purposes, the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other +words he was allowed full control over everything, and given full +licence to do what he liked. Whether the directors were wise in +extending such liberty to even the most trusted servant, it was not +for him (Mr. Stephens) to say; it was some consolation, under the +circumstances, to know that the loss would fall upon the directors, +inasmuch as they themselves held nearly the whole of the shares. But +he had to speak of the loss--of the serious defalcations which +Maitland had committed. The prisoner had wisely pleaded guilty to the +first count of the indictment. But there were no less than seventeen +counts in the indictment. He had pleaded guilty to embezzling a sum of +4,875 odd. But the total amount of the defalcations, comprised in the +seventeen counts, was no less--it seemed a most amazing sum!--than +221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the fact--the banking company had been +robbed of over two hundred thousand pounds by the prisoner in the dock +before a mere accident, the most trifling chance, had revealed to the +astounded directors that he was robbing them at all. And the most +serious feature of the whole case was that not one penny of this money +had been, or ever could be, recovered. He believed that the prisoner's +learned counsel was about to urge upon the Court that the prisoner +himself had been tricked and deceived by another man, unfortunately +not before the Court--a man, he understood, also well known in Market +Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore could not be called, but +whether he was so tricked or deceived was no excuse for his clever and +wholesale robbing of his employers. He had thought it necessary to put +these facts--which would not be denied--before the Court, in order +that it might be known how heavy the defalcations really had been, and +that they should be considered in dealing with the prisoner. + +"The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part +of the vast sum concerned. + +"Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the +remotest chance--the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting +on his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom +he had just made reference. + +"Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few +words to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens +for the considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had +outlined the main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the +prisoner's guilt. But, on prisoner's behalf, he desired to tell the +true story as to how these things came to be. Until as recently as +three years previously the prisoner had never made the slightest +deviation from the straight path of integrity. Unfortunately for him, +and, he believed, for some others in Market Milcaster, there came to +the town three years before the present proceedings, a man named +Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a +stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible +manners, Chamberlayne attracted a good many people--amongst them his +unfortunate client. It was matter of common knowledge that +Chamberlayne had induced numerous persons in Market Milcaster to +enter into financial transactions with him; it was matter of common +repute that those transactions had not always turned out well for +Chamberlayne's clients. Unhappily for himself, Maitland had great +faith in Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions with him in a +large way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was +involved to vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and +his methods, he had entrusted him with very large sums of money. + +"The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was +to understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner's own +money. + +"Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred +to were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in +Chamberlayne that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and +that these sums would be repaid, and that a vast profit would result +from their use. + +"The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put +the profit into his own pockets. + +"Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the +two hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question, +Chamberlayne had had the immediate handling of at least two hundred +thousand, and he, the prisoner, had not the ghost of a notion as to +what Chamberlayne had done with it. Unfortunately for everybody, for +the bank, for some other people, and especially for his unhappy +client, Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as these proceedings +were instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible to trace +anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious +circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs. + +"The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr. +Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder, +might think fit to pass. + +"Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few +remarks as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the +unfortunate man in the dock was that until three years ago he had +borne a most exemplary character, and had never committed a dishonest +action. It had been his misfortune, his folly, to allow a plausible +man to persuade him to these acts of dishonesty. That man had been +called to another account, and the prisoner was left to bear the +consequences of his association with him. It seemed as if +Chamberlayne had made away with the money for his own purposes, and it +might be that it would yet be recovered. He would only ask the Court +to remember the prisoner's antecedents and his previous good conduct, +and to bear in mind that whatever his near future might be he was, in +a commercial sense, ruined for life. + +"The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a +single word of valid excuse for Maitland's conduct. Such dishonesty +must be punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go +to penal servitude for ten years. + +"Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town +later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester." + +Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain +points in it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the +house--to see old Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window. + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN + +THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + + +"I perceive, sir," said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the library, +"that you have read the account of the Maitland trial." + +"Twice," replied Spargo. + +"And you have come to the conclusion that--but what conclusion have you +come to?" asked Mr. Quarterpage. + +"That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland's property," said +Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once. + +"Just so," agreed the old gentleman. "I think so--I can't think +anything else. But I was under the impression that I could have +accounted for that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the +other forty-nine." + +"Yes--and how?" asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a +decanter and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully +polished the glasses with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set +glasses and decanter on a table in the window, motioning Spargo to take +a chair in proximity thereto. He himself pulled up his own elbow-chair. + +"We'll take a glass of my old brown sherry," he said. "Though I say it +as shouldn't, as the saying goes, I don't think you could find better +brown sherry than that from Land's End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr. +Spargo--no, nor further north either, where they used to have good +taste in liquor in my young days! Well, here's your good health, sir, +and I'll tell you about Maitland." + +"I'm curious," said Spargo. "And about more than Maitland. I want to +know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper report. I want +to know something about the man referred to so much--the stockbroker, +Chamberlayne." + +"Just so," observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. "I thought that would +touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when +Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then +about two years old. The child's mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss +Baylis, appeared on the scene--Maitland had married his wife from a +distance--and took possession of the child and of Maitland's personal +effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, and +all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small +personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket. +And she may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she +took the child away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in +Market Milcaster. Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things +removed to Dartmoor, and there he served his term. There were people +who were very anxious to get hold of him when he came out--the bank +people, for they believed that he knew more about the disposition of +that money than he'd ever told, and they wanted to induce him to tell +what they hoped he knew--between ourselves, Mr. Spargo, they were going +to make it worth his while to tell." + +Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old +gentleman talked. + +"Then they didn't believe what his counsel said--that Chamberlayne got +all the money?" he asked. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +"No--nor anybody else!" he answered. "There was a strong idea in the +town--you'll see why afterwards--that it was all a put-up job, and +that Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that there +was a nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the +bank people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special +agent to meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some +mistake arose--when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody's +ever heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis +has." + +"Where does this Miss Baylis live?" asked Spargo. + +"Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "She did live in +Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I +have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after +Maitland's release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to +trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in +Brighton, she'd completely disappeared, with the child, five years +before. So there wasn't a clue to Maitland. He served his time--made a +model prisoner--they did find that much out!--earned the maximum +remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there's +a theory about him in this very town to this very day!" + +"What?" asked Spargo. + +"This. That he's now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he +got from the bank," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "They say that the +sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the +child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland, +and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?" + +"I suppose that was possible," said Spargo. + +"Quite possible, sir. But now," continued the old gentleman, +replenishing the glasses, "now we come on to the Chamberlayne story. +It's a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at +first sight, I'll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions. +Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster--I don't know from +where--in 1886--five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then +about Maitland's age--a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk +to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas's place is +still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though +old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this +Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old +Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he +married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he'd +been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a +year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne +threw up his post at Vallas's, and started business as a stock-and-share +broker. He'd been a saving man; he'd got a nice bit of money with +his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his own, and +he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible manners: +he'd have coaxed butter out of a dog's throat if he'd wanted to. The +moneyed men of the town believed in him--I believed in him myself, Mr. +Spargo--I'd many a transaction with him, and I never lost aught by +him--on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for most of +his clients--there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the whole he +satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, nobody ever knew +what was going on between him and Maitland." + +"I gather from this report," said Spargo, "that everything came out +suddenly--unexpectedly?" + +"That was so, sir," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "Sudden? Unexpected? Aye, +as a crack of thunder on a fine winter's day. Nobody had the ghost of a +notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected in the +town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can +assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on +that grand jury as I did--I was its foreman, sir,--and hear a man +sentenced that you'd regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!" + +"How was the thing discovered?" asked Spargo, anxious to get at facts. + +"In this way," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "The Market Milcaster Bank is +in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the +town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father, +a young Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a +shrewd, keen young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about +Maitland, and he insisted on the other partners consenting to a special +investigation, and on their making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught +before he had a chance. But we're talking about Chamberlayne." + +"Yes, about Chamberlayne," agreed Spargo. + +"Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening," continued Mr. +Quarterpage. "Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town +like wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time--aye, and +had been for years--a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don't +think there could have been more surprise if we'd heard that the Vicar +had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all +over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear +that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often +remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland's arrest +nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again. +After his wife's death he'd taken to spending an hour or so of an +evening across there at the 'Dragon,' where you saw me and my friends +last night, but on that night he didn't go to the 'Dragon.' And next +morning he caught the eight o'clock train to London. He happened to +remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected +to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. +But Chamberlayne didn't come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn't +come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back +it was in a coffin!" + +"Dead?" exclaimed Spargo. "That was sudden!" + +"Very sudden," agreed Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, sir, he came back in his +coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he'd spoken of +being back, there came a telegram here to say that he'd died very +suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his +brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler--you'll find him down the +street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew +of Chamberlayne's, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, +and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that +telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne +had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he'd +died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and +friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn't feel that +there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a +wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And +next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest +would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify +the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the +funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our +cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him +in it, with her." + +Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and +theories; he was taking everything in. + +"Well," continued Mr. Quarterpage, "on the second day after that, they +brought Chamberlayne's body down. Three of 'em came with it--Stephen +Chamberlayne, the doctor who'd been called in, and a solicitor. +Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As Chamberlayne +had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the +body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of +us who had been clients of Chamberlayne's were anxious to know how he +had come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne's +account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet +him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him +there when he arrived, and they had lunch together. After that, they +got to their business in a private room. Towards the end of the +afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a +doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The doctor said he'd a +diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death, +so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you." + +The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at +some reminiscence which occurred to him. + +"Well," he said, presently going on, "of course, on that came all the +Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne +had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely +certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But +Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing. All that could +be traced was about three or four thousand pounds. He'd left everything +to his nephew, Stephen. There wasn't a trace, a clue to the vast sums +with which Maitland had entrusted him. And then people began to talk, +and they said what some of them say to this very day!" + +"What's that?" asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm. + +"That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted +with lead!" he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY + +MAITLAND _ALIAS_ MARBURY + + +This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in +Spargo's mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his +imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his +informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor's surprise. + +"Do you mean to tell me," said Spargo at last, "that there are people +in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery which +is said to contain Chamberlayne's body contains--lead?" + +"Lots of 'em, my dear sir!" replied Mr. Quarterpage. "Lots of 'em! Go +out in the street and ask the first six men you meet, and I'll go +bail that four out of the six believe it." + +"Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take +steps to make certain?" asked Spargo. "Why didn't they get an order for +exhumation?" + +"Because it was nobody's particular business to do so," answered Mr. +Quarterpage. "You don't know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns +like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they're +always slow to do anything. It's a case of who'll start first--of +initiative. And if they see it's going to cost anything--then they'll +have nothing to do with it." + +"But--the bank people?" suggested Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +"They're amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die," he +said. "They're very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the +Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the +nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now I'll tell you +something about those three. There was a man here in the town, a +gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper you've +got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and he +began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some +good--what do you call it?" + +"I suppose he'd call it 'copy,'" said Spargo. + +"'Copy'--that was his term," agreed Mr. Quarterpage. "Well, he took the +trouble to go to London to ask some quiet questions of the nephew, +Stephen. That was just twelve months after Chamberlayne had been +buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left England--months +before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they didn't know +which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the doctor--couldn't be +traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical Register. What do you +think of all that, Mr. Spargo?" + +"I think," answered Spargo, "that Market Milcaster folk are +considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired +into. The whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy." + +"Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody's business," said Mr. Quarterpage. +"The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, but it was no +good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is." + +"Mr. Quarterpage," said Spargo, "what's your own honest opinion?" + +The old gentleman smiled. + +"Ah!" he said. "I've often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I really have an +opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about the +whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it. +But we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old +silver ticket which you've got in your purse. Now----" + +"No!" said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag of +his forefinger. "No! I think we're coming nearer to it. Now you've +given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a lot, +and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I'm going to show you +something." + +And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph +of John Marbury--the original of the process-picture which he had had +made for the _Watchman_. He handed it over. + +"Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?" he +asked. "Look at it well and closely." + +Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the +photograph from several points of view. + +"No, sir," he said at last with a shake of the head. "I don't recognize +it at all." + +"Can't see in it any resemblance to any man you've ever known?" asked +Spargo. + +"No, sir, none!" replied Mr. Quarterpage. "None whatever." + +"Very well," said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table between +them. "Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was like +when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was +when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course, +quite well?" + +Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door. + +"I can do better than that," he said. "I can show you photographs of +both men as they were just before Maitland's trial. I have a photograph +of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken at a +municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. It's +been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, and +I've no doubt it's as fresh as when it was taken." + +He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph +which he laid on the table before his visitor. + +"There you are, sir," he said. "Quite fresh, you see--it must be +getting on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that +it's been kept in. Now, that's Maitland. And that's Chamberlayne." + +Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an +ivy-covered wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange +masses of sitters. He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated +by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built +men about whom there was nothing very specially noticeable. + +"Um!" he said, musingly. "Both bearded." + +"Yes, they both wore beards--full beards," assented Mr. Quarterpage. +"And you see, they weren't so much alike. But Maitland was a much +darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while +Chamberlayne's were rather a bright blue." + +"The removal of a beard makes a great difference," remarked Spargo. He +looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with +that of Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. "And twenty years +makes a difference, too," he added musingly. + +"To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir," said the +old gentleman. "To others it makes none--I haven't changed much, they +tell me, during the past twenty years. But I've known men change--age, +almost beyond recognition!--in five years. It depends, sir, on what +they go through." + +Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his +pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Look here!" he said. "I'm going to tell you what I'm after, Mr. +Quarterpage. I'm sure you've heard all about what's known as the Middle +Temple Murder--the Marbury case?" + +"Yes, I've read of it," replied Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the _Watchman_?" asked +Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +"I've only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man," he +replied. "I take the _Times_, sir--we always took it, aye, even in the +days when newspapers were taxed." + +"Very good," said Spargo. "But perhaps I can tell you a little more +than you've read, for I've been working up that case ever since the +body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if you'll just +give me your attention, I'll tell you the whole story from that moment +until--now." + +And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case +from the first instant of his own connection with it until the +discovery of the silver ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt +attention, nodding his head from time to time as the younger man made +his points. + +"And now, Mr. Quarterpage," concluded Spargo, "this is the point I've +come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient Hotel as +John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane +that night, was John Maitland--I haven't a doubt about it after +learning what you tell me about the silver ticket. I've found out a +great deal that's valuable here, and I think I'm getting nearer to a +solution of the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered +John Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne +affair has led me to think this--there may have been people, or a +person, in London, who was anxious to get Marbury, as we'll call him, +out of the way, and who somehow encountered him that night--anxious to +silence him, I mean, because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I +wondered, as there is so much mystery about him, and as he won't give +any account of himself, if this man Aylmore was really Chamberlayne. +Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore's a tall, finely-built man, quite six +feet in height, and his beard, though it's now getting grizzled, has +been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, was a medium-sized, fair +man, with blue eyes." + +"That's so, sir," assented Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, a middling-sized man, +and fair--very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!--this is a revelation. And +you really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury are one and +the same person?" + +"I'm sure of it, now," said Spargo. "I see it in this way. Maitland, on +his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At last he +comes back, evidently well-to-do. He's murdered the very day of his +arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him--Aylmore +won't tell all he knows; that's flat. But Aylmore's admitted that he +knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three +years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That's a +vague term. He won't say where--he won't say anything definite--he +won't even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those days. Do you +recollect anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see Maitland, +Mr. Quarterpage?" + +"I don't," answered Mr. Quarterpage. "Maitland was a very quiet, +retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I +never remember that he had visitors; certainly I've no recollection of +such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, +would be at that time." + +"Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?" asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +"Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have," he said, "I'll tell +you of something that occurred across there at the 'Dragon' only a few +months before the Maitland affair came out. There were some of us in +there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland came in with +Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up to +town next day--he was always to and fro--and we got talking about +London. And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed +he was about the only man of his age in England--and, of course, he +meant of his class and means--who'd never even seen London! And I don't +think he ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I'm +sure he didn't, for if he had, I should have heard of it." + +"Well, that's queer," remarked Spargo. "It's very queer. For I'm +certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. My theory +about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully planted +before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that +he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; +and that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in +it all these years. Now----" + +At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid +looked in at her master. + +"There's the boots from the 'Dragon' at the front door, sir," she said. +"He's brought two telegrams across from there for Mr. Spargo, thinking +he might like to have them at once." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + +ARRESTED + + +Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots +of the "Dragon," and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages +hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Here's important news," he said as he closed the library door and +resumed his seat. "I'll read these telegrams to you, sir, and then we +can discuss them in the light of what we've been talking about this +morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to +Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he +hailed from--Coolumbidgee. That report's just reached the _Watchman_, +and they've wired it on to me. It's from the chief of police at +Coolumbidgee to the editor of the _Watchman_, London:-- + +"John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was +unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable +means and bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, +Andrew Robertson, who is still here, and who says that Marbury never +told him anything about himself except that he had emigrated for health +reasons and was a widower. He mentioned that he had had a son who was +dead, and was now without relations. He lived a very quiet, steady life +on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. About six months +ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning told +Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of +some news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the +farm. Robertson bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and +Marbury shortly afterwards left for Melbourne. From what we could +gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was probably in command of five or six +thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a +man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not +say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly +the luggage he brought with him when he came--a stout portmanteau and a +small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at +Coolumbidgee." + +"That's all," said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the +table. "And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here's more +startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that +I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage--he promised, you know, to keep me +posted in what went on in my absence. Here's what he says: + +"Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. +Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You'd better hurry +back if you want material for to-morrow's paper." + +Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman +glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. + +"Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage," he said. "I looked the +trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20 +to Paddington--that'll get me in before half-past four. I've an hour +yet. Now, there's another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That's +the photographer--or a photographer. You remember I told you of the +photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I'm calculating that +that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took +it--if he's alive and I can find him." + +Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. + +"There's only one photographer in this town, sir," he said, "and he's +been here for a good many years--Cooper. I'll take you to him--it's +only a few doors away." + +Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. +He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper--an elderly man. + +"Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the +bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?" he asked, after Mr. +Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to +ask a few questions. + +"Quite well, sir," replied Mr. Cooper. "As well as if it had been +yesterday." + +"Do you still happen to have a copy of it?" asked Spargo. + +But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down +one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he +laid it on his table before his callers. + +"There you are, sir," he said. "That's the child!" + +Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. +"Just as I thought," he said. "That's the same photograph we found in +the leather box with the silver ticket. I'm obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. +Now, there's just one more question I want to ask. Did you ever supply +any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland +affair?--that is; after the family had left the town?" + +"Yes," replied the photographer. "I supplied half a dozen copies to +Miss Baylis, the child's aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him +here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, too," he +continued, beginning to turn over another old file. "I have it +somewhere." + +Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo. + +"That's something I couldn't have done!" he remarked. "As I told you, +she'd disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after +Maitland's release." + +"Here you are," said Mr. Cooper. "I sent six copies of that photograph +to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester +Square, Bayswater, W." + +Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for +his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he +turned to the old gentleman with a smile. + +"Well, I don't think there's much doubt about that!" he exclaimed. +"Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. I'm as certain +of that as that I see your Town Hall there." + +"And what will you do next, sir?" enquired Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Thank you--as I do--for all your kindness and assistance, and get off +to town by this 1.20," replied Spargo. "And I shan't fail to let you +know how things go on." + +"One moment," said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, "do +you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?" + +"No!" answered Spargo with emphasis. "I don't! And I think we've got a +good deal to do before we find out who did." + +Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his +journey to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his +neighbours; it was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to +something else than the theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so +many days. But at Reading the newspaper boys were shouting the news of +the arrest of a Member of Parliament, and Spargo, glancing out of the +window, caught sight of a newspaper placard: + + THE MARBURY MURDER CASE + ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE + +He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding +it, found a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press +news: + +"Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o'clock this afternoon, +on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned in +the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June +21st last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten +o'clock tomorrow morning." + +Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. +He met Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the +detective turned back. + +"Well, so there you are!" he said. "I suppose you've heard the news?" + +Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair. + +"What led to it?" he asked abruptly. "There must have been something." + +"There was something," he replied. "The thing--stick, bludgeon, +whatever you like to call it, some foreign article--with which Marbury +was struck down was found last night." + +"Well?" asked Spargo. + +"It was proved to be Aylmore's property," answered Rathbury. "It was a +South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain Court." + +"Where was it found?" asked Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever +he was!" he replied. "Do you know, it had been dropped into a +sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane--actually! Perhaps the murderer +thought it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of +course, it was bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday +evening, and it was quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for +Aylmore as having been in his rooms ever since she knew them." + +"What does Aylmore say about it?" asked Spargo. "I suppose he's said +something?" + +"Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought +it from South America with him," announced Rathbury; "but that +he doesn't remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks +that it was stolen from them." + +"Um!" said Spargo, musingly. "But--how do you know that was the thing +that Marbury was struck down with?" + +Rathbury smiled grimly. + +"There's some of his hair on it--mixed with blood," he answered. "No +doubt about that. Well--anything come of your jaunt westward?" + +"Yes," replied Spargo. "Lots!" + +"Good?" asked Rathbury. + +"Extra good. I've found out who Marbury really was." + +"No! Really?" + +"No doubt, to my mind. I'm certain of it." + +Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention. + +"And who was he?" he asked. + +"John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster," replied Spargo. "Ex-bank +manager. Also ex-convict." + +"Ex-convict!" + +"Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in +autumn, 1891, to ten years' penal servitude, for embezzling the bank's +money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his term +at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. +That's who Marbury was--Maitland. Dead--certain!" + +Rathbury still stared at his caller. + +"Go on!" he said. "Tell all about it, Spargo. Let's hear every detail. +I'll tell you all I know after. But what I know's nothing to that." + +Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, +and the detective listened with rapt attention. + +"Yes," he said at the end. "Yes--I don't think there's much doubt about +that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn't it?" + +Spargo yawned. + +"Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there," he said. "I haven't so +much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all in +Aylmore." + +Rathbury nodded. + +"Yes," he said. "The thing to find out is--who is Aylmore, or who was +he, twenty years ago?" + +"Your people haven't found anything out, then?" asked Spargo. + +"Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he +returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since," +answered Rathbury, smiling. "They've no previous dates to go on. What +are you going to do next, Spargo?" + +"Seek out that Miss Baylis," replied Spargo. + +"You think you could get something there?" asked Rathbury. + +"Look here!" said Spargo. "I don't believe for a second Aylmore killed +Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what I call +the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something--if she's +alive. Well, now I'm going to report at the office. Keep in touch with +me, Rathbury." + +He went on then to the _Watchman_ office, and as he got out of his +taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore's +daughters. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + +THE BLANK PAST + + +Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the +elder girl hung back diffidently. + +"May we speak to you?" said Jessie. "We have come on purpose to speak +to you. Evelyn didn't want to come, but I made her come." + +Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both +to follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed +them in his easiest chairs before he addressed them. + +"I've only just got back to town," he said abruptly. "I was sorry to +hear the news about your father. That's what's brought you here, of +course. But--I'm afraid I can't do much." + +"I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie," said +Evelyn Aylmore. "What can he do to help us?" + +Jessie shook her head impatiently. + +"The _Watchman's_ about the most powerful paper in London, isn't it?" +she said. "And isn't Mr. Spargo writing all these articles about the +Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!" + +Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and +papers which had accumulated during his absence. + +"To be absolutely frank with you," he said, presently, "I don't see how +anybody's going to help, so long as your father keeps up that mystery +about the past." + +"That," said Evelyn, quietly, "is exactly what Ronald says, Jessie. But +we can't make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as innocent as +we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don't know why he +wouldn't answer the questions put to him at the inquest. And--we know +no more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have begged my +father to speak, he won't say a word. We saw his danger: Ronald--Mr. +Breton--told us, and we implored him to tell everything he knew about +Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he had +anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and +now----" + +"And now he's locked up," said Spargo in his usual matter-of-fact +fashion. "Well, there are people who have to be saved from themselves, +you know. Perhaps you'll have to save your father from the consequences +of his own--shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between ourselves, +how much do you know about your father's--past?" + +The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo. + +"Nothing," said the elder. + +"Absolutely nothing!" said the younger. + +"Answer a few plain questions," said Spargo. "I'm not going to print +your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I'm only asking the +questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in +England?" + +"None that we know of," replied Evelyn. + +"Nobody you could go to for information about the past?" asked Spargo. + +"No--nobody!" + +Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard. + +"How old is your father?" he asked suddenly. + +"He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago," answered Evelyn. + +"And how old are you, and how old is your sister?" demanded Spargo. + +"I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen." + +"Where were you born?" + +"Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San Jos province of +Argentina, north of Monte Video." + +"Your father was in business there?" + +"He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There's no secret +about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to +France--skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That's how he made his +money." + +"You don't know how long he'd been there when you were born?" + +"No." + +"Was he married when he went out there?" + +"No, he wasn't. We do know that. He's told us the circumstances of his +marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from England to +Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was like +himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to +Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each +other, and they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer +arrived." + +"And your mother is dead?" + +"My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and +Jessie six, then." + +"And you came to England--how long after that?" + +"Two years." + +"So that you've been in England ten years. And you know nothing +whatever of your father's past beyond what you've told me?" + +"Nothing--absolutely nothing." + +"Never heard him talk of--you see, according to your account, your +father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina. +He must have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never +heard him speak of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that +sort of thing?" + +"I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to +his marriage," replied Evelyn. + +"I once asked him a question about his childhood." said Jessie. "He +answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that he +had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything again." + +"So that it really comes to this," remarked Spargo. "You know nothing +whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond +what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe? +That's about it, isn't it?" + +"I should say that that is exactly it," answered Evelyn. + +"Just so," said Spargo. "And therefore, as I told your sister the other +day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind +him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed +him in order to silence him. That isn't my view. I not only believe +your father to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no +more than a child unborn of Marbury's murder, and I'm doing my best to +find out who that murderer was. By the by, since you'll see all about +it in tomorrow morning's _Watchman_, I may as well tell you that I've +found out who Marbury really was. He----" + +At this moment Spargo's door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He +shook his head at sight of the two sisters. + +"I thought I should find you here," he said. "Jessie said she was +coming to see you, Spargo. I don't know what good you can do--I don't +see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My +God!--everything's about as black as ever it can be. Mr. Aylmore--I've +just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and I have been with +him for an hour--is obstinate as ever--he will not tell more than he +has told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he won't speak about +that knowledge of Marbury which he must have?" + +"Oh, well!" said Spargo. "Perhaps we can give him some information +about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it's not such a difficult +thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as I +was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who +Marbury really was." + +Breton started. + +"You have? Without doubt?" he exclaimed. + +"Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict." + +Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls +showed no sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received +the news with as much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury +was a famous musician. But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to +Spargo that he saw a sense of suspicion dawn in his eyes. + +"Marbury--an ex-convict!" he exclaimed. "You mean that?" + +"Read your _Watchman_ in the morning," said Spargo. "You'll find the +whole story there--I'm going to write it tonight when you people have +gone. It'll make good reading." + +Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo's hint and went away, Spargo +seeing them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their +father's innocence and his determination to hunt down the real +criminal. Ronald Breton went down with them to the street and saw them +into a cab, but in another minute he was back in Spargo's room as +Spargo had expected. He shut the door carefully behind him and turned +to Spargo with an eager face. + +"I say, Spargo, is that really so?" he asked. "About Marbury being an +ex-convict?" + +"That's so, Breton. I've no more doubt about it than I have that I see +you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of +Market Milcaster, who got ten years' penal servitude in 1891 for +embezzlement." + +"In 1891? Why--that's just about the time that Aylmore says he knew +him!" + +"Exactly. And--it just strikes me," said Spargo, sitting down at his +desk and making a hurried note, "it just strikes me--didn't Aylmore say +he knew Marbury in London?" + +"Certainly," replied Breton. "In London." + +"Um!" mused Spargo. "That's queer, because Maitland had never been in +London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may have +done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to +South America long before that. Look here, Breton," he continued, +aloud, "have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before +he's brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?" + +"Yes," answered Breton. "I can see him with his solicitor." + +"Then listen," said Spargo. "Tomorrow morning you'll find the whole +story of how I proved Marbury's identity with Maitland in the +_Watchman_. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore +as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he's brought +up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters' peace of +mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows +about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. +Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in--they +know absolutely nothing of their father's history previous to the time +when they began to understand things! Don't you see that Aylmore's +career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!" + +"I know--I know!" said Breton. "Yes--although I've gone there a great +deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his +Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he +went out there." + +"Thirty-seven or eight, at least," remarked Spargo. "Well, Aylmore's +more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life +hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?" + +"My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland," answered +Breton. "We kept up the acquaintance after our return." + +"Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?" asked +Spargo. + +"Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs +the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of +little else," said Breton. + +"And their theory--" + +"Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!" replied Breton. "Old +Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his +very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every +tenant of the Temple." + +"Longish business that," observed Spargo. "Well, run away now, +Breton--I must write." + +"Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?" asked Breton as he moved +to the door. "It's to be at ten-thirty." + +"No, I shan't!" replied Spargo. "It'll only be a remand, and I know +already just as much as I should hear there. I've got something much +more important to do. But you'll remember what I asked of you--get +Aylmore to read my story in the _Watchman_, and beg him to speak out +and tell all he knows--all!" + +And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: "All +he knows--all!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + +MISS BAYLIS + + +Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those +pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely +given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and +boarding-house keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with +their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their +pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into +them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the +residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but +in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that +young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in +more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the +country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but +others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters +whose linen might be cleaner. + +Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as +the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and +bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of +overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid +to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there +was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged +person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of +false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air +and smile which in its wearer--under these circumstances--always means +that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or +whether she will be able to see you. + +"You wish to see Miss Baylis?" said this person, examining Spargo +closely. "Miss Baylis does not often see anybody." + +"I hope," said Spargo politely, "that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?" + +"No, she's not an invalid," replied the landlady; "but she's not as +young as she was, and she's an objection to strangers. Is it anything I +can tell her?" + +"No," said Spargo. "But you can, if you please, take her a message from +me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask +her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I +should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes." + +"Perhaps you will sit down," said the landlady. She led Spargo into a +room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, +evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with +them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the +papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and +if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would +do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door +opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her, +decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as +she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance +lengthen into a look of steady inspection. + +The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable +appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in +height; she was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and +athletic. What at once struck Spargo about her face was the strange +contrast between her dark eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in +abundant coils round a well-shaped head, was of the most snowy +whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as were also the eyebrows +above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking firmness; the +jaw square and determined. And Spargo's first thought on taking all +this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be +a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an +unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract +anything out of those firmly-locked lips. + +Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded +to order him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her +that he made a profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his +tongue. + +"Mr. Spargo?" she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly suited +to her. "Of, I see, the _Watchman_? You wish to speak to me?" + +Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which +they were standing. + +"Open the casement, if you please," she commanded him. "We will walk in +the garden. This is not private." + +Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened +window and he followed her. It was not until they had reached the +bottom of the garden that she spoke again. + +"I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John +Maitland, of Market Milcaster?" she said. "Before you put it. I must +ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for +publication?" + +"Not without your permission," replied Spargo. "I should not think of +publishing anything you may tell me except with your express +permission." + +She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good +faith, and nodded her head. + +"In that case," she said, "what do you want to ask?" + +"I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John +Maitland," answered Spargo. "I suppose you read the newspapers and +possibly the _Watchman_, Miss Baylis?" + +But Miss Baylis shook her head. + +"I read no newspapers," she said. "I have no interest in the affairs of +the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole +devotion to it." + +"Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury +case--a case of a man who was found murdered?" asked Spargo. + +"I have not," she answered. "I am not likely to hear such things." + +Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as +great nor as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and +that there actually are, even in London, people who can live quite +cheerfully without a newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went +on. + +"Well," he said, "I believe that the murdered man, known to the police +as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John Maitland. +In fact, Miss Baylis, I'm absolutely certain of it!" + +He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern +companion to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign +of being impressed. + +"I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo," she said coldly. "It is no +surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a +thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible +disgrace on those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was +likely to die a bad man's death." + +"I may ask you a few questions about him?" suggested Spargo in his most +insinuating manner. + +"You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers," she +replied. "But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being +John Maitland's sister-in-law?" + +"I found that out at Market Milcaster," said Spargo. "The photographer +told me--Cooper." + +"Ah!" she exclaimed. + +"The questions I want to ask are very simple," said Spargo. "But your +answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to prison, +of course?" + +Miss Baylis laughed--a laugh of scorn. + +"Could I ever forget it?" she exclaimed. + +"Did you ever visit him in prison?" asked Spargo. + +"Visit him in prison!" she said indignantly. "Visits in prison are to +be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to scoundrels +who are hardened in their sin!" + +"All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?" + +"I saw him, for he forced himself upon me--I could not help myself. He +was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released." + +"What did he come for?" asked Spargo. + +"To ask for his son--who had been in my charge," she replied. + +"That's a thing I want to know about," said Spargo. "Do you know what a +certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss +Baylis?--they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you +had a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went +to prison, you took the child away, first to Brighton, then +abroad--disappeared with him--and that you made a home ready for +Maitland when he came out. That's what's said by some people in Market +Milcaster." + +Miss Baylis's stern lips curled. + +"People in Market Milcaster!" she exclaimed. "All the people I ever +knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that +cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would +have seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have +given him a crust of dry bread!" + +"You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man," observed Spargo, +astonished at her vehemence. + +"I had--and I have," she answered. "He tricked my sister into a +marriage with him when he knew that she would rather have married an +honest man who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal +cruelty; he robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left +us." + +"Ah!" said Spargo. "Well, so you say Maitland came to you, when he came +out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?" + +"No--the boy was dead." + +"Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?" + +Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh. + +"I showed him the door!" she said. + +"Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?" enquired +Spargo. + +"I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. Spargo," +she answered. + +"Then, in short," said Spargo, "you never heard of him again?" + +"I never heard of him again," she declared passionately, "and I only +hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was +Maitland!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR + +MOTHER GUTCH + + +Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out +on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, +when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that +formidable lady. + +"I've just thought of something else," he said. "I told you that I'm +certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end--murdered." + +"And I've told you," she replied scornfully, "that in my opinion no end +could be too bad for him." + +"Just so--I understand you," said Spargo. "But I didn't tell you that +he was not only murdered but robbed--robbed of probably a good deal. +There's good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes, +loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount. +He'd several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South +Wales, where he'd lived quietly for some years." + +Miss Baylis smiled sourly. + +"What's all this to me?" she asked. + +"Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be +recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be +somebody who's entitled to the lot. It's worth having, Miss Baylis, and +there's strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up." + +This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its +effect with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as +scornful as ever. + +"I say again what's all that to me?" she exclaimed. + +"Well, but hadn't the dead boy any relatives on his father's side?" +asked Spargo. "I know you're his aunt on the mother's side, and as +you're indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side. It's +very easy to find all these things out, you know." + +Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and +majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the +interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and +glared at the young journalist. + +"Easy to find all these things out?" she repeated. + +Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He +was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose. + +"Oh, easy enough!" he said. "I could find out all about Maitland's +family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!" + +Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. "How?" she +demanded. + +"I'll tell you," said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. "It is, of course, +the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I +suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and +you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, +Miss Baylis?" + +But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house. + +"I shall tell you nothing more," she said angrily. "I've told you too +much already, and I believe all you're here for is to get some news for +your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this--when Maitland went +to prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he'd have +had to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn't a single relation in +the world but me, on either father's or mother's side. And even at my +age, old woman as I am, I'd rather beg my bread in the street, I'd +rather starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John +Maitland! That's all." + +Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, +she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing +no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling +sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a +queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said +distinctly and yet in a whisper: + +"Young man!" + +Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick +and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he +saw a nondescript shape behind. "Who's there?" he demanded. "Somebody +listening?" + +There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the +cracked, husky voice spoke again. + +"Young man, don't you move or look as if you were talking to anybody. +Do you know where the 'King of Madagascar' public-house is in this +quarter of the town, young man?" + +"No!" answered Spargo. "Certainly not!" + +"Well, anybody'll tell you when you get outside, young man," continued +the queer voice of the unseen person. "Go there, and wait at the corner +by the 'King of Madagascar,' and I'll come there to you at the end of +half an hour. Then I'll tell you something, young man--I'll tell you +something. Now run away, young man, run away to the 'King of +Madagascar'--I'm coming!" + +The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel +queer. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he +immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the +privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let +himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a +policeman and asked him if he knew where the "King of Madagascar" was. + +"First to the right, second to the left," answered the policeman +tersely. "You can't miss it anywhere round there--it's a landmark." + +And Spargo found the landmark--a great, square-built tavern--easily, +and he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and +intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its +suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an +old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize +how dreadful old age may be. + +Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was +dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her +bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was +evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle; +the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a +sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear +what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt. + +"Well?" he said, almost roughly. "Well?" + +"Well, young man, there you are," said his new acquaintance. "Let us go +inside, young man; there's a quiet little place where a lady can sit +and take her drop of gin--I'll show you. And if you're good to me, I'll +tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now. +But you'll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old +ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little +comforts." + +Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; +the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at +her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which +was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her +curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little +of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest +which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw +a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew +clearer with every sound she made. + +"Ah, young man!" she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that +made Spargo long to get up and fly. "I wanted that! It's done me good. +When I've finished that, you'll pay for another for me--and perhaps +another? They'll do me still more good. And you'll give me a little +matter of money, won't you, young man?" + +"Not till I know what I'm giving it for," replied Spargo. + +"You'll be giving it because I'm going to tell you that if it's made +worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about +Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I'm not going to tell you that +now, young man--I'm sure you don't carry in your pocket what I shall +want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I'm only going to show +you that I have the secret. Eh?" + +"Who are you?" asked Spargo. + +The woman leered and chuckled. "What are you going to give me, young +man?" she asked. + +Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two +half-sovereigns. + +"Look here," he said, showing his companion the coins, "if you can tell +me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now. +And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!" + +The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand. + +"But let me hold one of those, young man!" she implored. "Let me hold +one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I +hold one of them. Let me--there's a good young gentleman." + +Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, +whatever it might be. + +"You won't get the other unless you tell something," he said. "Who are +you, anyway?" + +The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the +half-sovereign, grinned horribly. + +"At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch," +she answered; "but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a +time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went +to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came +to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to +bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?" + +"Heaven knows!" answered Spargo. + +"Because I've got a hold on her, young man--I've got a secret of hers," +continued Mother Gutch. "She'd be scared to death if she knew I'd been +behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she'd be more +than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she's +grown hard and near with me, and she won't give me a penny to get a +drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her +little comforts, and if you'll buy the secret, young man, I'll split on +her, there and then, when you pay the money." + +"Before I talk about buying any secret," said Spargo, "you'll have to +prove to me that you've a secret to sell that's worth my buying." + +"And I will prove it!" said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. "Touch +the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I'll tell you. Now," +she went on, more quietly--Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the +more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength +and her whole appearance to be improved--"now, you came to her to find +out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn't +you?" + +"Well?" demanded Spargo. + +"And about that boy of his?" she continued. + +"You heard all that was said," answered Spargo. "I'm waiting to hear +what you have to say." + +But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her +questions: + +"And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that +she told him the boy was dead, didn't she?" she went on. + +"Well?" said Spargo despairingly. "She did. What then?" + +Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled +knowingly. "What then?" she chuckled. "All lies, young man, the boy +isn't dead--any more than I am. And my secret is--" + +"Well?" demanded Spargo impatiently. "What is it?" + +"This!" answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, "I +know what she did with him!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE + +REVELATIONS + + +Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his +journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since +entering the "King of Madagascar," that he was going to hear anything +material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that +this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of +extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of +getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother +Gutch's unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only +saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her +eagerly. + +"You say that John Maitland's son didn't die!" he exclaimed. + +"The boy did not die," replied Mother Gutch. + +"And that you know where he is?" asked Spargo. + +Mother Gutch shook her head. + +"I didn't say that I know where he is, young man," she replied. "I said +I knew what she did with him." + +"What, then?" demanded Spargo. + +Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and +favoured Spargo with a look. + +"That's the secret, young man," she said. "I'm willing to sell that +secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold +gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I +was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret's worth +something." + +Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an +unexpected result of it. + +"Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland's boy," continued Mother +Gutch, "and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That's plain +language, young man." + +Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could +this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret +which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple +Murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the _Watchman_ if the +clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the +_Watchman_ was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying +out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent money like water on +much less serious matters than this. + +"How much do you want for your secret?" he suddenly asked, turning to +his companion. + +Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really +wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan +had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver +and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite +form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them; +secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most +extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of +her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke. + +"Well, young man," she said, "having considered matters, and having a +right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have +would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid +weekly--none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and +punctual, every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient +to the parties concerned--but punctual and regular. I know a good many +ladies in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it's a great +comfort to have 'em paid weekly." + +It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her +weekly dole on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be +Monday or Saturday, but that, after all, was no concern of his, so he +came back to first principles. + +"Even now you haven't said how much," he remarked. + +"Three pound a week," replied Mother Gutch. "And cheap, too!" + +Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might--might!--lead to +something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to +death within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was +nothing to the _Watchman_. He glanced at his watch. At that hour--for +the next hour--the great man of the _Watchman_ would be at the office. +He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. + +"Here, I'll take you to see my principals," he said. "We'll run along +in a taxi-cab." + +"With all the pleasure in the world, young man," replied Mother Gutch; +"when you've given me that other half-sovereign. As for principals, I'd +far rather talk business with masters than with men--though I mean no +disrespect to you." Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over +the second half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. +But when that came round he had to wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a +third glass of gin and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in +her pocket. At last he got her off, and in due course to the _Watchman_ +office, where the hall-porter and the messenger boys stared at her in +amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, and he got +her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the presence +of the mighty. + +What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the +fortunes and workings of the _Watchman_ he never knew. It was probably +fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the +facts of the Middle Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an +advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the +conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, +intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up +there. + +Spargo's room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was +soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and +editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before +going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing +with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of +truth there was in her, but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his +own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room. + +"We'll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms," he said. +"She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest +importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as +Spargo says, she'll probably drink herself to death in about as short a +time as possible. Come back--let's hear her story." So they returned to +the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by +which the proprietor of the _Watchman_ bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch +the sum of three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the +insertion of the words "every Saturday morning, punctual and regular") +and then Mrs. Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch +settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for +word. + +"Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a +monkey's tail nor so short as a Manx cat's, gentlemen," said Mrs. +Gutch; "but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland +affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane +Baylis at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and +close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and +had saved a nice bit, and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a +little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican +here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in +this here Maitland's hands, every penny. I very well remember the day +when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss +Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and +before she'd seen it an hour she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up +to the station with her, and she told me then before she got in the +train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her +sister's, his wife's, too, and that she feared all would be lost." + +"Mrs. Maitland was then dead," observed Spargo without looking up from +his writing-block. + +"She was, young man, and a good thing, too," continued Mrs. Gutch. +"Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly +a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with +her--which was Maitland's. And she told me that night that she'd lost +every penny she had in the world, and that her sister's money, what +ought to have been the child's, was gone, too, and she said her say +about Maitland. However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have +seen better. And very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for +ten years, her and me talked about things. 'What's the use,' says I to +her, 'of your letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking +after it as you do, and educating it, and so on?' I says. 'Why not?' +says she. 'Tisn't yours,' I says, 'you haven't no right to it,' I says. +'As soon as ever its father comes out,' says I,' he'll come and claim +it, and you can't do nothing to stop him.' Well, gentlemen, if you'll +believe me, never did I see a woman look as she did when I says all +that. And she up and swore that Maitland should never see or touch the +child again--not under no circumstances whatever." + +Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, +with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, +presently, apparently refreshed. + +"Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland's taking the child away +from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times +about it, always saying the same thing--that Maitland should never have +him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers +about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and +a day or two afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a +lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again, until +one day she came to me, and she says, 'You don't know who that +gentleman is that's come so much lately?' she says. 'Not I,' I says, +'unless he's after you.' 'After me!' she says, tossing her head: +'That's the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister if that +scoundrel Maitland hadn't tricked her into throwing him over!' 'You +don't say so!' I says. 'Then by rights he ought to have been the +child's pa!' 'He's going to be a father to the boy,' she says. 'He's +going to take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a +gentleman of him,' she says, 'for his mother's sake.' 'Mercy on us!' +says I. 'What'll Maitland say when he comes for him?' 'Maitland'll +never come for him,' she says, 'for I'm going to leave here, and the +boy'll be gone before then. This is all being done,' she says, 'so that +the child'll never know his father's shame--he'll never know who his +father was.' And true enough, the boy was taken away, but Maitland came +before she'd gone, and she told him the child was dead, and I never see +a man so cut up. However, it wasn't no concern of mine. And so there's +so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if I ain't +giving good value." + +"Very good," said the proprietor. "Go on." But Spargo intervened. + +"Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy away?" he +asked. + +"Yes, I did," replied Mrs. Gutch. "Of course I did. Which it was +Elphick." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX + +STILL SILENT + + +Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that +made Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her +nerves to be none of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of +them with angry malevolence. + +"Don't do that again, young man!" she exclaimed sharply. "I can't +a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it's bad manners. I observed +that the gentleman's name was Elphick." + +Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor--a +glance which came near to being a wink. + +"Just so--Elphick," he said. "A law gentleman I think you said, Mrs. +Gutch?" + +"I said," answered Mrs. Gutch, "as how he looked like a lawyer +gentleman. And since you're so particular, young man, though I wasn't +addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One of +the sort that wears wigs and gowns--ain't I seen his picture in Jane +Baylis's room at the boarding-house where you saw her this morning?" + +"Elderly man?" asked Spargo. + +"Elderly he will be now," replied the informant; "but when he took the +boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age," she added, pointing +to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the +proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; "and not so very unlike him +neither, being one as had no hair on his face." + +"Ah!" said Spargo. "And where did this Mr. Elphick take the boy, Mrs. +Gutch?" + +But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. + +"Ain't no idea," she said. "He took him. Then, as I told you, Maitland +came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And after that +she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight tongue. +Once or twice I asked her, and she says, 'Never you mind,' she says; +'he's all right for life, if he lives to be as old as Methusalem.' And +she never said more, and I never said more. But," continued Mrs. Gutch, +whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears away, "she's +treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a little comfort +such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two of you +a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, +'Now's the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!' And I hope I +done it." + +Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head +slightly. He meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted +from Mother Gutch. + +"What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?" he asked. +"You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you like." + +"Which I shall be obliged for, young man," said Mrs. Gutch, "and +likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every +Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a +Friday, whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first +week in my purse, and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes +and go to a friend of mine where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the +dust of my feet off against Jane Baylis and where I've been living with +her." + +"Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch," said Spargo, with some anxiety, "if you go back +there tonight, you'll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis that +you've been here and told us all this?" + +Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. + +"Young man," she said, "you mean well, but you ain't used to dealing +with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I like. I +wouldn't tell Jane Baylis my affairs--my new affairs, gentlemen, thanks +to you--not for two annuities, paid twice a week!" + +"Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then +come to my room," said the editor. "And don't you forget, Mrs. +Gutch--keep a quiet tongue in your head--no more talk--or there'll be +no annuities on Saturday mornings." + +So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier's department and paid her +her first week's money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and +saw her depart, and then he went to the editor's room, strangely +thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they +stopped when Spargo entered and looked at him eagerly. "I think we've +done it," said Spargo quietly. + +"What, precisely, have we found out?" asked the editor. + +"A great deal more than I'd anticipated," answered Spargo, "and I don't +know what fields it doesn't open out. If you look back, you'll remember +that the only thing found on Marbury's body was a scrap of grey paper +on which was a name and address--Ronald Breton, King's Bench Walk." + +"Well?" + +"Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit--I have accepted two +or three articles of his for our literary page." + +"Well?" + +"Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of +Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street +today with the murder of Marbury." + +"I know. Well, what then, Spargo?" + +"But the most important matter," continued Spargo, speaking very +deliberately, "is this--that is, taking that old woman's statement to +be true, as I personally believe it is--that Breton, as he has told me +himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian. +That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister." + +The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore +the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the +same conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a +sharp interrogation: "You think then----" + +Spargo nodded. + +"I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is +the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking," he answered. + +The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace +the room. + +"If that's so," he said, "if that's so, the mystery deepens. What do +you propose to do, Spargo?" + +"I think," said Spargo, slowly, "I think that without telling him +anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and +get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse +for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands--" + +"Yes, yes!" said the proprietor, waving a hand. "Leave it entirely in +Spargo's hands." + +"Keep me informed," said the editor. "Do what you think. It strikes me +you're on the track." + +Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still +faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the +reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up +that morning. There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked +for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said +nothing fresh to anybody. + +Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton's chambers. He +found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking +unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from +his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into +an inner room. + +"I say, Spargo!" he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair. +"This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told +me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?" + +"To get him to tell all?--Yes," said Spargo. + +Breton shook his head. + +"Stratton--his solicitor, you know--and I saw him this morning before +the police-court proceedings," he continued. "I told him of my talk +with you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been +to the _Watchman_ office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your +advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private +feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence +against him; how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth +at once; how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion +against himself; how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could +scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo!" + +"He won't say anything?" + +"He'll say no more. He was adamant. 'I told the entire truth in respect +to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the +inquest,' he said, over and over again, 'and I shall say nothing +further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man +on such evidence as that, let it!' And he persisted in that until we +left him. Spargo, I don't know what's to be done." + +"And nothing happened at the police-court?" + +"Nothing--another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he +was removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark--'If you all +want to prove me innocent,' he said, 'find the guilty man.'" + +"Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that," said +Spargo. + +"Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?" exclaimed +Breton. "Are you any nearer--is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the +slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?" + +Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, +apparently thinking. + +"Was Rathbury in court?" he suddenly asked. + +"He was," replied Breton. "He was there with two or three other men who +I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in +Aylmore." + +"If I don't see Rathbury tonight I'll see him in the morning," said +Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down +again. "Look here," he continued, "I don't know how this thing stands +in law, but would it be a very weak case against Aylmore if the +prosecution couldn't show some motive for his killing Marbury?" + +Breton smiled. + +"There's no necessity to prove motive in murder," he said. "But I'll +tell you what, Spargo--if the prosecution can show that Aylmore had a +motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that it was to +Aylmore's advantage to silence him--why, then, I don't think he's a +chance." + +"I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has +been shown." + +"I know of none." + +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. Here"--and Breton scribbled a few words +on a card--"there's his address and a word from me. I'll tell you when +you can always find him in, five nights out of seven--at nine o'clock, +after he's dined. I'd go with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore's. +The two girls are in terrible trouble." + +"Give them a message from me," said Spargo as they went out together. +"Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN + +MR. ELPHICK'S CHAMBERS + + +Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o'clock, +asking himself over and over again two questions--the first, how much +does Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him? + +The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a +generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was +full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the +exact number of the set of chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander +about in what was a deserted building. So wandering, he suddenly heard +steps, firm, decisive steps coming up a staircase which he himself had +just climbed. He looked over the banisters down into the hollow +beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure of a tall, +veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening of +his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof +with Miss Baylis. + +Spargo's mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his +extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that +Miss Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick--come, of course, to tell Mr. +Elphick that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was +on the track of the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it +before, for he had been busily engaged since the departure of Mother +Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis and Mr. Elphick would keep in +communication with each other. At any rate, here she was, and her +destination was, surely, Elphick's chambers. And the question for him, +Spargo, was--what to do? + +What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, +where he was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman +did not look up. But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she +reached a landing, turned along a corridor with decision, and marched +forward. A moment later Spargo heard a sharp double knock on a door: a +moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; he knew then that Miss +Baylis had sought and gained admittance--somewhere. + +To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the +landing which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about--he had +not, in fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he +went along the corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He +knew that all the doors in that house were double ones, and that the +outer oak in each was solid and substantial enough to be sound proof. +Yet, as men will under such circumstances, he walked softly; he said to +himself, smiling at the thought, that he would be sure to start if +somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But no hand opened any door, +and at last he came to the end of the corridor and found himself +confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters on a +black ground, Mr. Elphick's Chambers. + +Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back +as quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the +corridor from which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a +glimpse of the Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and +leaning on the sill looked out and considered matters. Should he go +and--if he could gain admittance--beard these two conspirators? Should +he wait until the woman came out and let her see that he was on the +track? Should he hide again until she went, and then see Elphick alone? + +In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things +slide for the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river +and the brown sails, and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten +minutes went by--twenty minutes--nothing happened. Then, as half-past +nine struck from all the neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a +second cigarette, marched straight down the corridor and knocked boldly +at Mr. Elphick's door. + +Greatly to Spargo's surprise, the door was opened before there was any +necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a +benevolent, yet somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and +placid face, stood Mr. Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled +smoking jacket over his dress shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. + +Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the +door well open, and motioned the journalist to enter. + +"Come in, Mr. Spargo," he said. "I was expecting you. Walk forward into +my sitting-room." + +Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room +into a handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In +spite of the fact that it was still very little past midsummer there +was a cheery fire in the grate, and on a table set near a roomy +arm-chair was set such creature comforts as a spirit-case, a syphon, a +tumbler, and a novel--from which things Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick +had been taking his ease since his dinner. But in another armchair on +the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding figure of Miss +Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She neither spoke +nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And Spargo +stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors, +touched him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat. + +"Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo," he said, as he resumed his own +chair. "I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up +your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages +of which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss +Baylis told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this +morning I felt sure that it would not be more than a few hours before +you would come to me." + +"Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at +all?" asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. + +"Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner +unexplored," replied Mr. Elphick. "The curiosity of the modern pressman +is insatiable." + +Spargo stiffened. + +"I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick," he said. "I am charged by my paper +to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found +in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, +and----" + +Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand. + +"My good young gentleman!" he said. "You exaggerate your own +importance. I don't approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In +your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John +Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and +you have been trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into----" + +Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him +which, when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused +now. He looked the old barrister full in the face. + +"Mr. Elphick," he said, "you are evidently unaware of all that I know. +So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, and I +will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs +of what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the +_Watchman_ tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know." + +"Dear me--dear me!" said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. "We are so used to +ultra-sensational stories from the _Watchman_ that--but I am a curious +and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so perhaps you will tell me +in a word what it is you do know, eh?" + +Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table +and looked the old barrister straight in the face. + +"Yes," he said quietly. "I will tell you what I know beyond doubt. I +know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without +doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is +his son, whom you took from that woman!" + +If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in +which Mr. Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more +ample one than that offered to him by the old barrister's reception of +this news. Mr. Elphick's face not only fell, but changed; his +expression of almost sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly +resembling abject terror; he dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, +recovered himself, gripped the chair's arms, and stared at Spargo as if +the young man had suddenly announced to him that in another minute he +must be led to instant execution. And Spargo, quick to see his +advantage, followed it up. + +"That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall +know it tomorrow morning!" he said firmly. "Ronald Breton is the son of +the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the +daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is +not matter of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is +fact--fact!" + +Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few +words. + +"You--did--not--tell--me--this!" + +Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the +lips and as frightened as the man. + +"I--didn't know!" she muttered. "He didn't tell me. He only told me +this morning what--what I've told you." + +Spargo picked up his hat. + +"Good-night, Mr. Elphick," he said. + +But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his +chair and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at +him. He knew then that for some reason or other he had given Mr. +Septimus Elphick a thoroughly bad fright. + +"Well?" he growled. + +"My dear young gentleman!" implored Mr. Elphick. "Don't go! I'll--I'll +do anything for you if you won't go away to print that. I'll--I'll give +you a thousand pounds!" + +Spargo shook him off. + +"That's enough!" he snarled. "Now, I am off! What, you'd try to bribe +me?" + +Mr. Elphick wrung his hands. + +"I didn't mean that--indeed I didn't!" he almost wailed. "I--I don't +know what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, stay a little, and let +us--let us talk. Let me have a word with you--as many words as you +please. I implore you!" + +Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation. + +"If I stay," he said, at last, "it will only be on the strict condition +that you answer--and answer truly--whatever questions I like to ask +you. Otherwise----" + +He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching +hands on him. + +"Stay!" he said. "I'll answer anything you like!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT + +OF PROVED IDENTITY + + +Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked +at the two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced +such a curious effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that, +while they were both frightened, they were frightened in different +ways. Miss Baylis had already recovered her composure; she now sat +sombre and stern as ever, returning Spargo's look with something of +indifferent defiance; he thought he could see that in her mind a +certain fear was battling with a certain amount of wonder that he had +discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she was +concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so +many words that now the secret was out he might do his worst. + +But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was +still trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair +and the hand with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the +glass rattled against his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The +half-contemptuous fashion of his reception of Spargo had now wholly +disappeared; he was a man who had received a shock, and a bad one. And +Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This man knows a great +deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that Marbury was +Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland's son; he knows +something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly +believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had +buried something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as +astounded as he was frightened to find that it had been at last flung +up to the broad light of day. + +"I shall wait," suddenly said Spargo, "until you are composed, Mr. +Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, that the +truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you +considerable--shall we say fear?" + +Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown +steadier, and the colour was coming back to his face. + +"If you will let me explain," he said. "If you will hear what was done +for the boy's sake--eh?" + +"That," answered Spargo, "is precisely what I wish. I can tell you +this--I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to Mr. +Breton." + +Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. "He says +that!" she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. "He says that, knowing +that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald +Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a +scoundrel, an ex-convict, a----" + +Elphick lifted his hand. + +"Hush--hush!" he said imploringly. "Mr. Spargo means well, I am sure--I +am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear me----" + +But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the +outer door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across +the room, walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A +boy's voice penetrated into the sitting-room. + +"If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_, here? He left +this address in case he was wanted." + +Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger +boys, and jumping up, went to the door. + +"What is it, Rawlins?" he asked. + +"Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There's Mr. +Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly." + +"All right," answered Spargo. "I'm coming just now." + +He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick. + +"I shall have to go," he said. "I may be kept. Now, Mr. Elphick, can I +come to see you tomorrow morning?" + +"Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!" replied Elphick eagerly. "Tomorrow +morning, certainly. At eleven--eleven o'clock. That will do?" + +"I shall be here at eleven," said Spargo. "Eleven sharp." + +He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve. + +"A word--just a word!" he said. "You--you have not told the--the +boy--Ronald--of what you know? You haven't?" + +"I haven't," replied Spargo. + +Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo's sleeve. He looked into his face +beseechingly. + +"Promise me--promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won't tell him until you +have seen me in the morning!" he implored. "I beg you to promise me +this." + +Spargo hesitated, considering matters. + +"Very well--I promise," he said. + +"And you won't print it?" continued Elphick, still clinging to him. +"Say you won't print it tonight?" + +"I shall not print it tonight," answered Spargo. "That's certain." + +Elphick released his grip on the young man's arm. + +"Come--at eleven tomorrow morning," he said, and drew back and closed +the door. + +Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And +there, calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an +evening newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as +imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a +smile. + +"Well," he said, "how's things?" + +Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair. + +"You didn't come here to tell me that," he said. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"No," he said, throwing the newspaper aside, "I didn't. I came to tell +you my latest. You're at full liberty to stick it into your paper +tonight: it may just as well be known." + +"Well?" said Spargo. + +Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. + +"Aylmore's identified," he said lazily. + +Spargo sat up, sharply. + +"Identified!" + +"Identified, my son. Beyond doubt." + +"But as whom--as what?" exclaimed Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"He's an old lag--an ex-convict. Served his time partly at Dartmoor. +That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D'ye see? Clear +as noontide now, Spargo." + +Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were +fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard +the throbbing of the printing-machines far below. But what he really +saw was the faces of the two girls; what he really heard was the voices +of two girls ... + +"Clear as noontide--as noontide," repeated Rathbury with great +cheerfulness. + +Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. + +"What's clear as noontide?" he asked sharply. + +"What? Why, the whole thing! Motive--everything," answered Rathbury. +"Don't you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is Ainsworth, by +the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just before +Aylmore's release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes +back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In +time, Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes +back. The two meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or +threatens to let folk know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is +an ex-convict. Result--Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him. +Pooh!--the whole thing's clear as noontide, as I say. As--noontide!" + +Spargo drummed his fingers again. + +"How?" he asked quietly. "How came Aylmore to be identified?" + +"My work," said Rathbury proudly. "My work, my son. You see, I thought +a lot. And especially after we'd found out that Marbury was Maitland." + +"You mean after I'd found out," remarked Spargo. + +Rathbury waved his cigar. + +"Well, well, it's all the same," he said. "You help me, and I help you, +eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I thought--now, where +did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty or twenty-two +years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in +London--at any rate, before his trial, and we haven't the least proof +that he was in London after. And why won't Aylmore tell? Clearly +because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a +sudden, it flashed on me in a moment of--what do you writing fellows +call those moments, Spargo?" + +"Inspiration, I should think," said Spargo. "Direct inspiration." + +"That's it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on me--why, +twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor--they must have met there! +And so, we got some old warders who'd been there at that time to come +to town, and we gave 'em opportunities to see Aylmore and to study him. +Of course, he's twenty years older, and he's grown a beard, but they +began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was the man +they thought he'd a certain birth-mark. And--he has!" + +"Does Aylmore know that he's been identified?" asked Spargo. + +Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. + +"Know!" he said scornfully. "Know? He's admitted it. What was the use +of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it tonight in my +presence. Oh, he knows all right!" + +"And what did he say?" + +Rathbury laughed contemptuously. + +"Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair--that +when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He's +certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game." + +"And of what was he convicted?" + +"Oh, of course, we know all about it--now. As soon as we found out who +he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or +Ainsworth (Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a +sort of what they call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up +in the North--Cloudhampton--some thirty years ago. He was nominally +secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the +working classes--Cloudhampton's a purely artisan population--and they +stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly +it came to smash, and there was nothing. He--Ainsworth, or +Aylmore--pleaded that he was robbed and duped by another man, but the +court didn't believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story you see, +Spargo, when it all comes out, eh?" + +"All stories are quite plain--when they come out," observed Spargo. +"And he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn't want his +daughters to know about his past?" + +"Just so," agreed Rathbury. "And I don't know that I blame him. He +thought, of course, that he'd go scot-free over this Marbury affair. +But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy--oh, yes!" + +Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few +minutes, Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last +Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective's shoulder. + +"Look here, Rathbury!" he said. "It's very evident that you're now +going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?" + +Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment. + +"After evidence like that!" he exclaimed. "Why, of course. There's the +motive, my son, the motive!" + +Spargo laughed. + +"Rathbury!" he said. "Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than you did!" + +The detective got up and put on his hat. + +"Oh!" he said. "Perhaps you know who did, then?" + +"I shall know in a few days," answered Spargo. + +Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the +door. "Good-night!" he said gruffly. + +"Good-night, Rathbury," replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. + +But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the _Watchman_. All he wrote +was a short telegram addressed to Aylmore's daughters. There were only +three words on it--_Have no fear._ + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE + +THE CLOSED DOORS + + +Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the _Watchman_ appeared +next day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple +Murder. The other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts +of the identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster +Division, as the _ci-devant_ Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a +time founder and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit +Society, the headquarters of which had been at Cloudhampton, in +Daleshire; the fall of which had involved thousands of honest working +folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. Most of them had +raked up Ainsworth's past to considerable journalistic purpose: it had +been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall of the +Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble +investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy, +too, to set out again the history of Ainsworth's arrest, trial, and +fate. There was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man +who by his financial ability had built up a great industrial insurance +society; had--as was alleged--converted the large sums entrusted to him +to his own purposes; had been detected and punished; had disappeared, +after his punishment, so effectually that no one knew where he had +gone; had come back, comparatively a few years later, under another +name, a very rich man, and had entered Parliament and been, in a modest +way, a public character without any of those who knew him in his new +career suspecting that he had once worn a dress liberally ornamented +with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of the morning +newspapers made a couple of columns of it. + +But the _Watchman_, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries +in keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection +with the Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement. +For after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and +his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them, and the result +of their talk had been that all the _Watchman_ thought fit to tell its +readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph: + +"We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the +murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last, +was yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen +Ainsworth, who was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection +with the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty +years ago." + +Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily +along the front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a +man on an opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which +indicated derision. + +"Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my boy!" +he remarked elegantly. "Why, you've missed one of the finest +opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A +miserable paragraph!--why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! +What were you doing last night, old man?" + +"Sleeping," said Spargo and went by with a nod. "Sleeping!" + +He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple +Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to +Mr. Elphick's chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer +door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that +hour, but Elphick's door was closed fast enough. The night before it +had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo's first +knock, nor to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he +murmured aloud: "Elphick's door is closed!" + +It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that +Elphick's door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because +Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked +slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the +stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at +sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him. As if with a +mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands. + +"I'm glad you didn't print more than those two or three lines in the +_Watchman_ this morning," said Breton. "It was--considerate. As for the +other papers!--Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he +did serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough! He was +scapegoat for another man who disappeared." + +Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: + +"And I'm obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the +two girls last night--it was good of you. They want all the comfort +they can get, poor things! But--what are you doing here, Spargo?" + +Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. + +"I came here," he said, "to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick--an +appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at +nine o'clock. The appointment--a most important one--was for eleven +o'clock." + +Breton glanced at his watch. + +"Come on, then," he said. "It's well past that now, and my guardian's a +very martinet in the matter of punctuality." + +But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton +with troubled eyes. + +"So am I," he answered. "I was trained to it. Your guardian isn't +there, Breton." + +"Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense--I never +knew him miss an appointment!" + +"I knocked three times--three separate times," answered Spargo. + +"You should have knocked half a dozen times--he may have overslept +himself. He sits up late--he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the +night, talking stamps or playing piquet," said Breton. "Come on--you'll +see!" + +Spargo shook his head again. + +"He's not there, Breton," he said. "He's gone!" + +Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had +seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He +seized Spargo's elbow. + +"Come on!" he said. "I have a key to Mr. Elphick's door, so that I can +go in and out as I like. I'll soon show you whether he's gone or not." + +Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor. + +"All the same," he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the +latch, "he's not there, Breton. He's--off!" + +"Good heavens, man, I don't know what you're talking about!" exclaimed +Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. "Off! Where on +earth should he be off to, when he's made an appointment with you for +eleven, and--Hullo!" + +He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and +Miss Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself +up on the threshold with a sharp exclamation. + +"Good God!" he cried. "What--what's all this?" + +Spargo quietly looked over Breton's shoulder. It needed but one quick +glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he +had quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he +had left Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a +hurried hand, was the little table with its spirit case, its syphon, +its glass, in which stale liquid still stood; there was the novel, +turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, was Elphick's pipe. But +the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The drawers of a bureau had +been pulled open and never put back; papers of all descriptions, old +legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the centre-table and +the floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had been +opened, its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the +grate, and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred +paper; it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, +wherever he might have disappeared to, had spent some time before his +disappearance in destroying a considerable heap of documents and +papers, and in such haste that he had not troubled to put matters +straight before he went. + +Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then +he made one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. +Together they entered an inner room--a sleeping apartment. There was no +one in it, but there were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily +packed a bag as he had destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo +had seen him wearing the previous evening were flung here, there, +everywhere: the gorgeous smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in +one corner, a dress-shirt, in the bosom of which valuable studs still +glistened, in another. One or two suitcases lay about, as if they had +been examined and discarded in favour of something more portable; here, +too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, had been +torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, +revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around +him, seemed to see all that had happened--the hasty, almost frantic +search for and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of +clothing, of packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and +then the flight the getting away, the---- + +"What on earth does all this mean?" exclaimed Breton. "What is it, +Spargo?" + +"I mean exactly what I told you," answered Spargo. "He's off! Off!" + +"Off! But why off? What--my guardian!--as quiet an old gentleman as +there is in the Temple--off!" cried Breton. "For what reason, eh? It +isn't--good God, Spargo, it isn't because of anything you said to him +last night!" + +"I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him +last night," replied Spargo. "I was a fool ever to let him out of my +sight." + +Breton turned on his companion and gasped. + +"Out--of--your--sight!" he exclaimed. "Why--why--you don't mean to say +that Mr. Elphick has anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God's +sake, Spargo----" + +Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister's shoulder. + +"I'm afraid you'll have to hear a good deal, Breton," he said. "I was +going to talk to you today in any case. You see----" + +Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which +denote the charwoman's profession, entered the room and immediately +cried out at what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely. + +"Here, you!" he said. "Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick this +morning?" + +The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. + +"Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before +half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his +breakfast. I see him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his +usual state of good health, sir, if any thing's the matter with him +now. No, sir, I ain't seen nothing of him." + +Breton let out another exclamation of impatience. + +"You'd better leave all this," he said. "Mr. Elphick's evidently gone +away in a hurry, and you mustn't touch anything here until he comes +back. I'm going to lock up the chambers: if you've a key of them give +it to me." + +The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the +rooms, and vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo. + +"What do you say?" he demanded. "I must hear--a good deal! Out with it, +then, man, for Heaven's sake." + +But Spargo shook his head. + +"Not now, Breton," he answered. "Presently, I tell you, for Miss +Aylmore's sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on your +guardian's track. We must--must, I say!--and at once." + +Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit +his own senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. + +"Come on!" he said. "I know who'll know where he is, if anybody does." + +"Who, then?" asked Spargo, as they hurried out. + +"Cardlestone," answered Breton, grimly. "Cardlestone!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY + +REVELATION + + +There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as +ever manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry +into which Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was +Breton paused at the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and +at the wall at its side. + +"Wasn't it there?" he said in a low voice, pointing at the place he +looked at. "Wasn't it there, Spargo, just there, that Marbury, or, +rather, Maitland, was found?" + +"It was just there," answered Spargo. + +"You saw him?" + +"I saw him." + +"Soon--afterwards?" + +"Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you +ask now?" + +Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his +eyes on walking into the entry, shook his head. + +"Don't know," he answered. "I--but come on--let's see if old +Cardlestone can tell us anything." + +There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside +Cardlestone's door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was +evident to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she +opened the door. + +"I don't think Mr. Cardlestone'll be in, sir," she said. "He's +generally gone out to breakfast at this time--him and Mr. Elphick goes +together." + +"Just see," said Breton. "I want to see him if he is in." The charwoman +entered the chambers and immediately screamed. + +"Quite so," remarked Spargo. "That's what I expected to hear. +Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also--off!" + +Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in +close attendance. + +"Good God--another!" groaned Breton. + +If the confusion in Elphick's rooms had been bad, that in Cardlestone's +chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene +were repeated--drawers had been torn open, papers thrown about; the +hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and sevens. +An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like +Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his +clothes, and had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any +corner. Spargo began to realize what had taken place--Elphick, having +made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had +expedited him, and they had fled together. But--why? + +The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob; +Breton strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous +objects tossed aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the +inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of +something lying on the floor at which he made a sharp clutch. He had +just secured it and hurried it into his pocket when Breton came back. + +"I don't know what all this means, Spargo," he said, almost wearily. "I +suppose you do. Look here," he went on, turning to the charwoman, "stop +that row--that'll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr. Cardlestone's +gone away in a hurry. You'd better--what had she better do, Spargo?" + +"Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as you're +a friend of Mr. Cardlestone's give you the key," answered Spargo, with +a significant glance. "Do that, now, and let's go--I've something to +do." Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned +to Breton. + +"I'll tell you all I know, presently, Breton," he said. "In the +meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick or Mr. +Cardlestone leave. I must know where they've gone--if I can only find +out. I don't suppose they went on foot." + +"All right," responded Breton, gloomily. "We'll go and ask. But this is +all beyond me. You don't mean to say----" + +"Wait a while," answered Spargo. "One thing at once," he continued, as +they walked up Middle Temple Lane. "This is the first thing. You ask +the porter if he's seen anything of either of them--he knows you." + +The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. + +"Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?" he answered. +"Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early +this morning--soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to +Paris, and they'd breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left." + +"Say when they'd be back?" asked Breton, with an assumption of entire +carelessness. + +"No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn't," answered the porter. "But I should say +they wouldn't be long because they'd only got small suit-cases with +them--such as they'd put a day or two's things in, sir." + +"All right," said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already +moved off. "What next?" he asked. "Charing Cross, I suppose!" + +Spargo smiled and shook his head. + +"No," he answered. "I've no use for Charing Cross. They haven't gone to +Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let's go back to your +chambers. Then I'll talk to you." + +Once within Breton's inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo +dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with +earnest attention. + +"Breton!" he said. "I believe we're coming in sight of land. You want +to save your prospective father-in-law, don't you?" + +"Of course!" growled Breton. "That goes without saying. But----" + +"But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it," said +Spargo. "You see----" + +"Sacrifices!" exclaimed Breton. "What----" + +"You may have to sacrifice some ideas--you may find that you'll not be +able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought +of them in the past. For instance--Mr. Elphick." + +Breton's face grew dark. + +"Speak plainly, Spargo!" he said. "It's best with me." + +"Very well," replied Spargo. "Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way +connected with this affair." + +"You mean the--murder?" + +"I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I'm now dead certain. +And that's why they're off. I startled Elphick last night. It's evident +that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a +rapid exit. Why?" + +"Why? That's what I'm asking you! Why? Why? Why?" + +"Because they're afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, +their first instinct is to--run. They've run at the first alarm. +Foolish--but instinctive." + +Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped +to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad. + +"Spargo!" he exclaimed. "Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian +and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone. of being--murderers?" + +"Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of +knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I +am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all +about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he +knew this dead man to be John Maitland." + +"You did!" + +"I did. And now, Breton, since it's got to come out, we'll have the +truth. Pull yourself together--get your nerves ready, for you'll have +to stand a shock or two. But I know what I'm talking about--I can prove +every word I'm going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few +questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?" + +"Nothing--beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me." + +"And what was that?" + +"That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me +unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me." + +"And he's never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove +the truth of that story?" + +"Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?" + +"You never remember anything of your childhood--I mean of any person +who was particularly near you in your childhood?" + +"I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three +years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, +a tall, dark woman, I think, before that." + +"Miss Baylis," said Spargo to himself. "All right, Breton," he went on +aloud. "I'm going to tell you the truth. I'll tell it to you straight +out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not +Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you're the only child of +the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone's staircase!" + +Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at +him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he +do?--what would he say?--what---- + +Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the +eyes. + +"Prove that to me, Spargo," he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. +"Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!" + +Spargo nodded. + +"I will--every word," he answered. "It's the right thing. Listen, +then." + +It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the +clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought +it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest +attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a +brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him. + +"That's all," said Spargo at last. + +"It's plenty," observed Breton laconically. + +He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. +"What do you really think?" he asked. + +"About--what?" said Spargo. + +"This flight of Elphick's and Cardlestone's." + +"I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be +forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw +Elphick in last night. And it's evident that Cardlestone shares in that +fright, or they wouldn't have gone off in this way together." + +"Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?" + +Spargo shook his head. + +"I don't know. Probably. They know something. And--look here!" + +Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which +he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. + +"What's this?" he demanded. "Stamps?" + +"That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of +those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him--carried on him. +I picked it up just now in Cardlestone's room, when you were looking +into his bedroom." + +"But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn't be the identical +stamps. And whether they are or not----" + +"What are the probabilities?" interrupted Spargo sharply. "I believe +that those are the stamps which Maitland--your father!--had on him, +and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone's rooms. +And I will know." + +Breton handed the stamps back. + +"But the general thing, Spargo?" he said. "If they didn't murder--I +can't realize the thing yet!--my father----" + +"If they didn't murder your father, they know who did!" exclaimed +Spargo. "Now, then, it's time for more action. Let Elphick and +Cardlestone alone for the moment--they'll be tracked easily enough. I +want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an +authority from the Government to open a grave?" + +"Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by +showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made." + +"Good! We'll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened." + +"A grave opened! Whose grave?" + +"The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster," replied +Spargo. + +Breton started. + +"His? In Heaven's name, why?" he demanded. + +Spargo laughed as he got up. + +"Because I believe it's empty," he answered. "Because I believe that +Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is--Cardlestone!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE + +THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + + +That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his +proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to +the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the _Watchman_ when +it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate +application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne +grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning +there appeared in the _Watchman_ a notice which set half the mouths of +London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:-- + +"ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD. + +"WHEREAS, on some date within the past twelve months, there was +stolen, abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, +Temple, occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. +Anderson, a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of +curious workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of +John Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of +June 21-22 last, and is now in the hands of the police: + +"This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ +newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (ONE THOUSAND POUNDS +STERLING) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or she +stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said chambers, +and will further give full information as to his or her disposal of +the same, and the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ moreover engages to +treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the most strictly +private and confidential manner, and to abstain from using it in any +way detrimental to the informant, who should call at the _Watchman_ +office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time between eleven and +one o'clock midday, and seven and eleven o'clock in the evening." + +"And you really expect to get some information through that?" asked +Breton, who came into Spargo's room about noon on the day on which the +promising announcement came out. "You really do?" + +"Before today is out," said Spargo confidently. "There is more magic in +a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I'll have the history +of that stick before midnight." + +"How are you to tell that you won't be imposed upon?" suggested Breton. +"Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick." + +"Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me +how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick," said +Spargo. "I haven't the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken +away from Aylmore's rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the +hands of--" + +"Yes, of whom?" + +"That's what I want to know in some fashion. I've an idea, already. But +I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing--when I +get that information--as I shall--we shall be a long way on the road +towards establishing Aylmore's innocence." + +Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a +meditative expression. + +"Spargo," he said, suddenly, "do you think you'll get that order for +the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?" + +"I was talking to the solicitors over the 'phone just now," answered +Spargo. "They've every confidence about it. In fact, it's possible it +may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made +early tomorrow morning." + +"Shall you go?" asked Breton. + +"Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch +with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there--you're +concerned." + +"I should like to go--I will go," said Breton. "And if that grave +proves to be--empty--I'll--I'll tell you something." + +Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. + +"You'll tell me something? Something? What?" + +"Never mind--wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or +lead and sawdust. If there's no body there----" + +At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached +Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, +showed signs of something very like excitement. + +"There's a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo," he said. "He's +been hanging about a bit, sir,--seems very shy about coming up. He +won't say what he wants, and he won't fill up a form, sir. Says all he +wants is a word or two with you." + +"Bring him up at once!" commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the +boy had gone. "There!" he said, laughing. "This is the man about the +stick--you see if it isn't." + +"You're such a cock-sure chap, Spargo," said Breton. "You're always +going on a straight line." + +"Trying to, you mean," retorted Spargo. "Well, stop here, and hear what +this chap has to say: it'll no doubt be amusing." + +The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo's +room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of +good _Watchman_ money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a +shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully +apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the +threshold, looking round the comfortably-furnished room, and at the two +well-dressed young men which it framed as if he feared to enter on a +scene of such grandeur. + +"Come in, come in!" said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy-chair +at the side of his desk. "Take a seat. You've called about that reward, +of course." + +The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without +suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. + +"Of course," he said. "It's all on the strict private. Name of Edward +Mollison, sir." + +"And where do you live, and what do you do?" asked Spargo. + +"You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel," answered Edward +Mollison. "Leastways, that's where I generally hang out when I can +afford it. And--window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning +when--when----" + +"When you came in contact with the stick we've been advertising about," +suggested Spargo. "Just so. Well, Mollison--what about the stick?" + +Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at +Breton. + +"There ain't no danger of me being got into trouble along of that +stick?" he asked. "'Cause if there is, I ain't a-going to say a +word--no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no +trouble of any sort, guv'nor--though a poor man." + +"Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison," replied Spargo. "Not +the least. All you've got to do is to tell the truth--and prove that it +is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of +Mr. Aylmore's rooms in Fountain Court, was it?" + +Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his +feelings. He smiled weakly. + +"It was cert'nly me as took it, sir," he said. "Not that I meant to +pinch it--not me! And, as you might say, I didn't take it, when all's +said and done. It was--put on me." + +"Put on you, was it?" said Spargo. "That's interesting. And how was it +put on you?" + +Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin. + +"It was this here way," he answered. "You see, I was working at that +time--near on to nine months since, it is--for the Universal Daylight +Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and +there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore's--only I knew +them as Mr. Anderson's--among 'em. And I was there one morning, early +it was, when the charwoman she says to me, 'I wish you'd take these two +or three hearthrugs,' she says, 'and give 'em a good beating,' she +says. And me being always a ready one to oblige, 'All right!' I says, +and takes 'em. 'Here's something to wallop 'em with,' she says, and +pulls that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner +of the lobby. And that's how I came to handle it, sir." + +"I see," said Spargo. "A good explanation. And when you had beaten the +hearthrugs--what then?" + +Mollison smiled his weak smile again. + +"Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something +uncommon," he answered. "And I thinks--'Well, this Mr. Anderson, he's +got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there--he'll never miss this +old thing,' I thinks. And so I left it in a corner when I'd done +beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things I took it with +me." + +"You took it with you?" said Spargo. "Just so. To keep as a curiosity, +I suppose?" + +Mollison's weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing +his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his +news was imparting confidence to him. + +"Not half!" he answered. "You see, guv'nor, there was an old cove as I +knew in the Temple there as is, or was, 'cause I ain't been there +since, a collector of antikities, like, and I'd sold him a queer old +thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took +the stick away--see?" + +"I see. And you took the stick to him?" + +"I took it there and then," replied Mollison. "Pitched him a tale, I +did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle +Simon--which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare +curiosity--which it might ha' been one, for all I know." + +"Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?" + +"Bought it there and then," answered Mollison, with something very like +a wink. + +"Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it?" +asked Spargo. "Something handsome, I hope?" + +"Couple o' quid," replied Mollison. "Me not wishing to part with a +family heirloom for less." + +"Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove's name +and his address, Mollison?" asked Spargo. + +"I do, sir. Which they've painted on his entry--the fifth or sixth as +you go down Middle Temple Lane," answered Mollison. "Mr. Nicholas +Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase." + +Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton. + +"Come this way, Mollison," he said. "We'll go and see about your little +reward. Excuse me, Breton." + +Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came +back. + +"There--that's one matter settled, Breton," he said. "Now for the next. +The Home Secretary's made the order for the opening of the grave at +Market Milcaster. I'm going down there at once, and I suppose you're +coming. And remember, if that grave's empty----" + +"If that grave's empty," said Breton, "I'll tell you--a good deal." + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO + +THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + + +There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon, +Spargo, Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the +order for the opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting +on behalf of the proprietor of the _Watchman_. It was late in the +evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in +at the parlour of the "Yellow Dragon" and ascertained that Mr. +Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Breton across the street to +the old gentleman's house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door, +and recognized Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that +the two should go in; his family, he said, had just retired, but he +himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must +share it. + +"For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage," said Spargo as they +followed the old man into his dining-room. "We have to be up at +daybreak. And--possibly--you, too, would like to be up just as early." + +Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he +was handling. + +"At daybreak?" he exclaimed. + +"The fact is," said Spargo, "that grave of Chamberlayne's is going to +be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home +Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne's body: the officials in +charge of it have come down in the same train with us; we're all +staying across there at the 'Dragon.' The officials have gone to make +the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak, +or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that +you know of it, you'll be there?" + +"God bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "You've really done that! +Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years. +You're a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. And this +other young gentleman?" + +Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. +"Mr. Quarterpage," he said, "this young gentleman is, without doubt, +John Maitland's son. He's the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that +I told you of, but there's no doubt about his parentage. And I'm sure +you'll shake hands with him and wish him well." + +Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton +his hand. + +"My dear young sir!" he exclaimed. "That I will indeed! And as to +wishing you well--ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor +father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me, +what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is +found empty--what then?" + +"Then," answered Spargo, "then I think we shall be able to put our +hands on the man who is supposed to be in it." + +"You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?" +observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round +Mr. Quarterpage's hospitable hearth. "You think he was unduly +influenced by him?" + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. + +"Chamberlayne, my dear young sir," he answered. "Chamberlayne was a +plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he +came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had +contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody--of course, to his own +advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father round his +little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there when he was making his +enquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any +surprise to me to hear--definitely, I mean, young gentlemen--that all +this money that was in question went into Chamberlayne's pockets. Dear +me--dear me!--and you really believe that Chamberlayne is actually +alive, Mr. Spargo?" + +Spargo pulled out his watch. "We shall all know whether he was buried +in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage," he +said. + +He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then +nearly midnight, and before three o'clock Spargo and Breton, with the +other men who had accompanied them from London were out of the "Yellow +Dragon" and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. +Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the +long stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the +sea was white with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery +hung veils and webs of gossamer: everything around them was quiet as +the dead folk who lay beneath their feet. And the people actively +concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but +watch stood around in silence. + +"In all my long life of over ninety years," whispered old Quarterpage, +who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in +spite of his shortened rest, "I have never seen this done before. It +seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man's last +resting-place--a dreadful thing." + +"If there is a dead man there," said Spargo. + +He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he +had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon +the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local +authorities, instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with +canvas; the proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a +man was posted to keep away any very early passersby, who might be +attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do +but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful +of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth; +he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one +phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the +coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the +body of the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his, +Spargo's, latest theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that +coffin contained no body at all, then--" + +"They're down to it!" whispered Breton. + +Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had +uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of +them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now +strong light they could all read the lettering on it. + + JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE + Born 1852 + Died 1891 + +Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the +grave. + +"We shall know now!" he whispered to Breton. "And yet--what is it we +shall know if----" + +"If what?" said Breton. "If--what?" + +But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had +lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous. + +"Now for it!" said the _Watchman's_ solicitor in an undertone. "Come, +Mr. Spargo, now we shall see." + +They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the +graveside, as the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The +screws were rusted in their sockets; they grated as the men slowly +worked them out. It seemed to Spargo that each man grew slower and +slower in his movements; he felt that he himself was getting fidgety. +Then he heard a voice of authority. + +"Lift the lid off!" + +A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly +raised the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick +movement. + +Sawdust! + +The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down. +The surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled +it long years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of +deceit. + +Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell. +The chief official present looked round him with a smile. + +"It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion," he +remarked. "Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies +beneath the sawdust," he added, turning to the workmen. "Turn it out!" + +The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of +them, evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, +thrust down his fingers at various places along its length. He, too, +laughed. + +"The coffin's weighted with lead!" he remarked. "See!" + +And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three +intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where +the head, the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. + +"Done it cleverly," he remarked, looking round. "You see how these +weights have been adjusted. When a body's laid out in a coffin, you +know, all the weight's in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here +you see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the +feet. Clever!" + +"Clear out all the sawdust," said some one. "Let's see if there's +anything else." + +There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of +papers, tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately +manifested great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton +along with him, forced his way to where the officials from the Home +Office and the solicitor sent by the _Watchman_ were hastily examining +their discoveries. + +The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at +Market Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to +him, Mr. Quarterpage's amongst them. He was not at all astonished to +see these things. But he was something more than astonished when, on +the second parcel being opened, a quantity of papers relating to +Cloudhampton and the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society were +revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and drew Breton aside. + +"It strikes me we've found a good deal more than we ever bargained +for!" he exclaimed. "Didn't Aylmore say that the real culprit at +Cloudhampton was another man--his clerk or something of that sort?" + +"He did," agreed Breton. "He insists on it." + +"Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man," said Spargo. +"He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What'll be done with those +papers?" he asked, turning to the officials. + +"We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London," +replied the principal person in authority. "They will be quite safe, +Mr. Spargo; have no fear. We don't know what they may reveal." + +"You don't, indeed!" said Spargo. "But I may as well tell you that I +have a strong belief that they'll reveal a good deal that nobody dreams +of, so take the greatest care of them." + +Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried +Breton out of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm. + +"Now, then, Breton!" he commanded. "Out with it!" + +"With what?" + +"You promised to tell me something--a great deal, you said--if we found +that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on--quick!" + +"All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be +found. That's all." + +"All! It's enough. Where, then, in heaven's name?" + +"Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go +fishing--right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire +moors. I expect they've gone there. Nobody knows even their names +there--they could go and lie quiet there for--ages." + +"Do you know the way to it?" + +"I do--I've been there." + +Spargo motioned him to hurry. + +"Come on, then," he said. "We're going there by the very first train +out of this. I know the train, too--we've just time to snatch a +mouthful of breakfast and to send a wire to the _Watchman_, and then +we'll be off. Yorkshire!--Gad, Breton, that's over three hundred miles +away!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE + +FORESTALLED + + +Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of +England to the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo +and Breton came late at night to Hawes' Junction, on the border of +Yorkshire and Westmoreland, and saw rising all around them in the +half-darkness the mighty bulks of the great fells which rise amongst +that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that hour of the night and +amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of some adjacent +waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to Spargo +as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of +human life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he +saw a light, but such lights were few and far between; even as he +looked some of them twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and +Breton were presently to be alone with the night. + +"How far?" he asked Breton as they walked away from the station. + +"We'd better discuss matters," answered Breton. "The place is in a +narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away across +these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish +for. It's half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good +two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is--Do +we go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There's an inn +here at this junction: there's the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the +road which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the +fells. It's going to be a black night--look at those masses of black +cloud gathering there!--and possibly a wet one, and we've no +waterproofs. But it's for you to say--I'm game for whatever you like." + +"Do you know the way?" asked Spargo. + +"I've been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I +remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find +my way. But it's rough walking." + +"We'll go straight there," said Spargo. "Every minute's precious. +But--can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale +first?" + +"Good idea! We'll call in at the 'Moor Cock.' Now then, while we're on +this firm road, step it out lively." + +The "Moor Cock" was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a +soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted +parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at +Breton. + +"Come our way again then, sir?" he remarked with a sudden grin of +recognition. + +"Ah, you remember me?" said Breton. + +"I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year," +replied the landlord. "I hear they're here again--Tom Summers was +coming across that way this morning, and said he'd seen 'em at the +little cottage. Going to join 'em, I reckon, sir?" + +Breton kicked Spargo under the table. + +"Yes, we're going to have a day or two with them," he answered. "Just +to get a breath of your moorland air." + +"Well, you'll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen," said +the landlord. "There's going to be a storm. And it's a stiffish way to +make out at this time o'night." + +"Oh, we'll manage," said Breton, nonchalantly. "I know the way, and +we're not afraid of a wet skin." + +The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his +arms and scratched his elbows. + +"There was a gentleman--London gentleman by his tongue--came in here +this afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale," he observed. "He'll be +there long since--he'd have daylight for his walk. Happen he's one of +your party?--he asked where the old gentlemen's little cottage was." + +Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. "One of their +friends, perhaps," answered Breton. "What was he like?" + +The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was +conscious of the fact. + +"Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman," he said. "Stranger +hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit--something like your +friend's there. Yes--he took some bread and cheese with him when he +heard what a long way it was." + +"Wise man," remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and +cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. "Come on," he said, +"let's be stepping." + +Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo's arm. +"Who's the man?" he said. "Can you think, Spargo?" + +"Can't" answered Spargo. "I was trying to, while that chap was talking. +But--it's somebody that's got in before us. Not Rathbury, anyhow--he's +not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going to find your +way in this darkness?" + +"You'll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the +fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see +Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat--they're both well over two thousand +feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between +them. But I warn you, Spargo, it's stiff going!" + +"Go ahead!" said Spargo. "It's the first time in my life I ever did +anything of this sort, but we're going on if it takes us all night. I +couldn't sleep in any bed now that I've heard there's somebody ahead of +us. Go first, old chap, and I'll follow." + +Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but +when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what +was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo's troubles began. It +seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw +was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint +outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the +figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was +soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than +once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising +his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on +Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his +footsteps. + +"Was there no other way than this?" he asked after a long interval of +silence. "Do you mean to say those two--Elphick and Cardlestone--would +take this way?" + +"There is another way--down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw," +answered Breton, "but it's miles and miles round. This is a straight +cut across country, and in daylight it's a delightful walk. But at +night--Gad!--here's the rain, Spargo!" + +The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a +suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey +night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a +vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight +was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his +companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as +they huddled closely together. + +"This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet +Street, Spargo," he said. "You would come on, you know." + +"I'm going on if we go through cataracts and floods," answered Spargo. +"I might have been induced to stop at the 'Moor Cock' overnight if we +hadn't heard of that chap in front. If he's after those two he's +somebody who knows something. What I can't make out is--who he can be." + +"Nor I," said Breton. "I can't think of anybody who knows of this +retreat. But--has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside +yourself may have been investigating?" + +"Possible," replied Spargo. "One never knows. I only wish we'd been a +few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with those two." + +The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the +heavens cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they +were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away +below them. + +"You see that?" he said. "That's a sheet of water lying between us and +Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, +drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down +into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There's a good two hours and a half +stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?" + +Spargo set his teeth. + +"Go on!" he said. + +Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing +his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London +lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even +the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him +that they had walked for ages and had traversed a whole continent of +mountains and valley when at last Breton, halting on the summit of a +wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his companion's shoulder and pointed +downward with the other. + +"There!" he said. "There!" + +Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to +be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a +light--a mere spark of a light. + +"That's the cottage," said Breton, "Late as it is, you see, they're up. +And here's the roughest bit of the journey. It'll take me all my time +to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so step carefully after +me--there are bogs and holes hereabouts." + +Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the +guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the +ground; always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer +to it. And now when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that +he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been +capable of imagining--so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly +never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream, +making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great +Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of +the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by a ring +of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small +building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built +by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more +than one storey in height, but of some length; a considerable part of +it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood. And from one uncurtained, +blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading +darkness without. + +Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. + +"We've got to get across there, Spargo," he said. "But as we're already +soaked to the knee it doesn't matter about getting another wetting. +Have you any idea how long we've been walking?" + +"Hours--days--years!" replied Spargo. + +"I should say quite four hours," said Breton. "In that case, it's well +past two o'clock, and the light will be breaking in another hour or so. +Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?" + +"What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!" + +"Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they've got a light, +I take it that they're up. Look there!" + +As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the +light. + +"That's not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone," said Spargo. "They're +medium-heighted men. That's a tallish man." + +"Then it's the man the landlord of the 'Moor Cock' told us about," said +Breton. "Now, look here--I know every inch of this place. When we're +across let me go up to the cottage, and I'll take an observation +through that window and see who's inside. Come on." + +He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of +boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the +bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past +the shrubs and undergrowth until he came to a great bush which stood +between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He +lingered in the shadow of this bush but for a short moment; then came +swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on +Spargo's arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. + +"Spargo!" he whispered. "Who on earth do you think the other man is?" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR + +THE WHIP HAND + + +Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the +objects of his long journey, shook off Breton's hand with a growl of +resentment. + +"And how on earth can I waste time guessing?" he exclaimed. "Who is +he?" + +Breton laughed softly. + +"Steady, Spargo, steady!" he said. "It's Myerst--the Safe Deposit man. +Myerst!" + +Spargo started as if something had bitten him. + +"Myerst!" he almost shouted. "Myerst! Good Lord!--why did I never think +of him? Myerst! Then----" + +"I don't know why you should have thought of him," said Breton. +"But--he's there." + +Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back. + +"Wait!" he said. "We've got to discuss this. I'd better tell you what +they're doing." + +"What are they doing, then?" demanded Spargo impatiently. + +"Well," answered Breton. "They're going through a quantity of papers. +The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. Myerst is +evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. I've +formed a notion, Spargo." + +"What notion?" + +"Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he's +followed them down here to blackmail them. That's my notion." + +Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank. + +"I daresay you're right," he said. "Now, what's to be done?" + +Breton, too, considered matters. + +"I wish," he said at last, "I wish we could get in there and overhear +what's going on. But that's impossible--I know that cottage. The only +thing we can do is this--we must catch Myerst unawares. He's here for +no good. Look here!" + +And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning +revolver and wagged it in his hand with a smile. + +"That's a useful thing to have, Spargo," he remarked. "I slipped it +into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did it. Now +it'll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be armed." + +"Well?" said Spargo. + +"Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will, +Myerst, when he's got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get +where I did just now, behind that bush, and I'll station myself in the +doorway. You can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I'll cover +him. Come on, Spargo; it's beginning to get light already." + +Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such +cover as the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made +their way to the front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton +posted himself in the porch, motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the +bushes and to look through the window. And Spargo noiselessly followed +his directions and slightly parting the branches which concealed him +looked in through the uncurtained glass. + +The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the +extreme. There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough +chairs and tables, plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a +corner; some food set out on a side table. At the table in the middle +of the floor the three men sat. Cardlestone's face was in the shadow; +Myerst had his back to the window; old Elphick bending over the table +was laboriously writing with shaking fingers. And Spargo twisted his +head round to his companion. + +"Elphick," he said, "is writing a cheque. Myerst has another cheque in +his hand. Be ready!--when he gets that second cheque I guess he'll be +off." + +Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again. + +"Look out, Breton! He's coming." + +Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his +protecting bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they +heard Myerst's voice, threatening, commanding in tone. + +"Now, remember all I've said! And don't you forget--I've the whip hand +of both of you--the whip hand!" + +Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light--to find himself +confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly +revolver within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a +remarkably firm and steady grip. Another glance showed him the figure +of a second business-like looking young man at his side, whose attitude +showed a desire to grapple with him. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Myerst," said Breton with cold and ironic +politeness. "We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And--I must +trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!" + +Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but +a sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his +head, whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly. + +"That's wise, Mr. Myerst," he said, keeping his revolver steadily +pointed at his prisoner's nose. "Discretion will certainly be the +better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo--may I trouble you +to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them +carefully. Not for papers or documents--just now. We can leave that +matter--we've plenty of time. See if he's got a weapon of any sort on +him, Spargo--that's the important thing." + +Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of +searching a man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing +what the prisoner carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a +revolver, while Myerst, finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily +and with profusion. + +"Excellent!" said Breton, laughing again. "Sure he's got nothing else +on him that's dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. Myerst, right +about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there are two +revolvers behind your back. March!" + +Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked +into the cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a +glance at the two old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying +back in his chair; Elphick, scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was +coming forward with trembling limbs. + +"Wait a moment," said Breton, soothingly. "Don't alarm yourself. We'll +deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit down in that +chair--it's the heaviest the place affords. Into it, now! Spargo, you +see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up--hand and foot--to that +chair. And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, and behind +him." + +Myerst suddenly laughed. "You damned young bully!" he exclaimed. "If +you put a rope round me, you're only putting ropes round the necks of +these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!" + +"We'll see about that later," answered Breton. He kept Myerst covered +while Spargo made play with the rope. "Don't be afraid of hurting him, +Spargo," he said. "Tie him well and strong. He won't shift that chair +in a hurry." + +Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done +credit to a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand +or foot, and Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains. +"That'll do," said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his +pocket and turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank +into a chair in the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook +as with palsy and muttered words which the two young men could not +catch. "Guardian," continued Breton, "don't be frightened! And don't +you be frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There's nothing to be +afraid of, just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me +that Mr. Spargo and I came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this +fellow after?" + +Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge +of tears; as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was +completely gone. And Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard. + +"Spargo," he said, "I'm pretty sure you'll find whisky in there. Give +them both a stiff dose: they've broken up. Now, guardian," he +continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, "what was he after? +Shall I suggest it? Was it--blackmail?" + +Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. "Yes, yes!" he +muttered. "Blackmail! That was it--blackmail. He--he got +money--papers--from us. They're on him." + +Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt. + +"I thought as much, Mr. Myerst," he said. "Spargo, let's see what he +has on him." + +Spargo began to search the prisoner's pockets. He laid out everything +on the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated +some sort of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of +loose gold; a number of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated +denominations; various foreign securities, realizable in Paris. And +there was an open cheque, signed by Cardlestone for ten thousand +pounds, and another, with Elphick's name at the foot, also open, for +half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as Spargo handed +them out. He turned to old Elphick. + +"Guardian," he said, "why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given this man +these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?" + +Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face +on his ward. + +"He--he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!" he faltered. +"We--we didn't see that we had a chance." + +"What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection +with it?" demanded Breton. "Come--tell me the truth now." + +"He's been investigating--so he says," answered Elphick. "He lives in +that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor rooms +above Cardlestone's. And--and he says he's the fullest evidence against +Cardlestone--and against me as an accessory after the fact." + +"And--it's a lie?" asked Breton. + +"A lie!" answered Elphick. "Of course, it's a lie. But--he's so clever +that--that----" + +"That you don't know how you could prove it otherwise," said Breton. +"Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does he? That +may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police here." +He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. "Look +here, Spargo," he continued. "I'm going to write a note to the +superintendent of police at Hawes--there's a farm half a mile from here +where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. Now, if you +want to send a wire to the _Watchman_, draft it out, and he'll take it +with him." + +Elphick began to move in his corner. + +"Must the police come?" he said. "Must----" + +"The police must come," answered Breton firmly. "Go ahead with your +wire, Spargo, while I write this note." + +Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm, +he sat down at Elphick's side and laid his hand on the old man's. + +"Now, guardian," he said, quietly, "you've got to tell us the truth." + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE + +MYERST EXPLAINS + + +It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the +cottage, that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and +fright: Cardlestone still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he +looked incapable of explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more +fitted to speak. And when Breton issued his peremptory invitation to +his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo intervened. + +"Far better leave him alone, Breton," he said in a low voice. "Don't +you see the old chap's done up? They're both done up. We don't know +what they've gone through with this fellow before we came, and it's +certain they've had no sleep. Leave it all till later--after all, we've +found them and we've found him." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder +in Myerst's direction, and Breton involuntarily followed the movement. +He caught the prisoner's eye, and Myerst laughed. + +"I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever," he said +sneeringly. "Don't you, now?" + +"We've been clever enough to catch you, anyway," retorted Breton. "And +now we've got you we'll keep you till the police can relieve us of +you." + +"Oh!" said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. "And on what charge do +you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you'll have +some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton." + +"Well see about that later," said Breton. "You've extorted money by +menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate." + +"Have I? How do you know they didn't entrust me with these cheques as +their agent?" exclaimed Myerst. "Answer me that! Or, rather, let them +answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick--didn't you +give me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!" + +Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of +Myerst's voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly. + +"Look here, Breton," he said, whispering, "this scoundrel's got some +hold on these two old chaps--they're frightened to death of him. Leave +them alone: it would be best for them if they could get some rest. Hold +your tongue, you!" he added aloud, turning to Myerst. "When we want you +to speak we'll tell you." + +But Myerst laughed again. + +"All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_!" he sneered. +"You're another of the cock-sure lot. And you're very clever, but not +clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing--" + +Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt +his hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern. + +"I say!" he exclaimed. "He's more than frightened--he's ill! What's to +be done?" + +"I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them," answered +Breton. "In the meantime, let's put him to bed--there are beds in that +inner room. We'll get him to bed and give him something hot to +drink--that's all I can think of for the present." + +Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo, +with a happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot +bottles to his feet. When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie +down in the inner room. Presently both old men fell asleep, and then +Breton and Spargo suddenly realized that they themselves were hungry +and wet and weary. + +"There ought to be food in the cupboard," said Breton, beginning to +rummage. "They've generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here we +are, Spargo--these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while +I open one of these tins." + +The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast +with eyes that eventually began to glisten. + +"I may remind you that I'm hungry, too," he said as Spargo set the +coffee on the table. "And you've no right to starve me, even if you've +the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something to eat, if +you please." + +"You shan't starve," said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample supply of +bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate +before Myerst. "Untie his right arm, Spargo," he continued. "I think we +can give him that liberty. We've got his revolver, anyhow." + +For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst +pushed his plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors. +"Look here!" he said. "You think you know a lot about all this affair, +Spargo, but there's only one person who knows all about it. That's me!" + +"We're taking that for granted," said Spargo. "We guessed as much when +we found you here. You'll have ample opportunity for explanation, you +know, later on." + +"I'll explain now, if you care to hear," said Myerst with another of +his cynical laughs. "And if I do, I'll tell you the truth. I know +you've got an idea in your heads that isn't favourable to me, but +you're utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look here!--I'll make you +a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case there--give me one, and +mix me a drink of that whisky--a good 'un--and I'll tell you what I +know about this matter. Come on!--anything's better than sitting here +doing nothing." + +The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. "Let him +talk if he likes," he said. "We're not bound to believe him. And we may +hear something that's true. Give him his cigar and his drink." + +Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo +presently set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of +his cigar. + +"As it happens, you'll hear nothing but the truth," he observed. "Now +that things are as they are, there's no reason why I shouldn't tell the +truth. The fact is, I've nothing to fear. You can't give me in charge, +for it so happens that I've got a power of attorney from these two old +chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the money they +entrusted me with. It's in an inside pocket of that letter-case, and if +you look at it, Breton, you'll see it's in order. I'm not even going to +dare you to interfere with or destroy it--you're a barrister, and +you'll respect the law. But that's a fact--and if anybody's got a case +against anybody, I have against you two for assault and illegal +detention. But I'm not a vindictive man, and----" + +Breton took up Myerst's letter-case and examined its contents. And +presently he turned to Spargo. + +"He's right!" he whispered. "This is quite in order." He turned to +Myerst. "All the same," he said, addressing him, "we shan't release +you, because we believe you're concerned in the murder of John Marbury. +We're justified in holding you on that account." + +"All right, my young friend," said Myerst. "Have your own stupid way. +But I said I'd tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain truth is that +I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know of +what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed +John Maitland. That's a fact! It may have been the old man in there +who's already at his own last gasp, or it mayn't. I tell you I don't +know--though, like you, Spargo, I've tried hard to find out. That's the +truth--I do not know." + +"You expect us to believe that?" exclaimed Breton incredulously. + +"Believe it or not, as you like--it's the truth," answered Myerst. +"Now, look here--I said nobody knew as much of this affair as I know, +and that's true also. And here's the truth of what I know. The old man +in that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, is in reality +Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name was so +freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That's another +fact!" + +"How," asked Breton, sternly, "can you prove it? How do you know it?" + +"Because," replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, "I helped to carry out +his mock death and burial--I was a solicitor in those days, and my name +was--something else. There were three of us at it: Chamberlayne's +nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried it out very +cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for our +trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well +paid for my help. The first time was in connection with the +Cloudhampton Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society affair--Aylmore, or +Ainsworth, was as innocent as a child in that!--Chamberlayne was the +man at the back. But, unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn't profit--he +lost all he got by it, pretty quick. That was why be transferred his +abilities to Market Milcaster." + +"You can prove all this, I suppose?" remarked Spargo. + +"Every word--every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: Your +father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all +the money that was got from the bank. He had--and he engineered that +mock death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who +helped him generously, as I've told you. The thing couldn't have been +better done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor +disappeared; Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck--to tell you the +truth, I was struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed +my name and became Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was +not until three years ago that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in +this way: After I became secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I took +chambers in the Temple, above Cardlestone's. And I speedily found out +who he was. Instead of going abroad, the old fox--though he was a +comparatively young 'un, then!--had shaved off his beard, settled down +in the Temple and given himself up to his two hobbies, collecting +curiosities and stamps. There he'd lived quietly all these years, and +nobody had ever recognized or suspected him. Indeed, I don't see how +they could; he lived such a quiet, secluded life, with his collections, +his old port, and his little whims and fads. But--I knew him!" + +"And you doubtless profited by your recognition," suggested Breton. + +"I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to +hold my tongue," replied Myerst, "and I was glad to take it and, +naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one +friend--Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I'll tell you about him." + +"Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him," said Breton +sternly. + +"I've no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to have +married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took +you and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of +your father's disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that +Cardlestone is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have +friends--Elphick's very fond of Cardlestone. He----" + +Spargo turned sharply on Myerst. + +"You say Elphick didn't know until last night!" he exclaimed. "Why, +then, this running away? What were they running from?" + +"I have no more notion than you have, Spargo," replied Myerst. "I tell +you one or other of them knows something that I don't. Elphick, I +gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone--then they both +vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland--I don't know. +But I'll tell you what I know about the actual murder--for I do know a +good deal about it, though, as I say, I don't know who killed Maitland. +Now, first, you know all that about Maitland's having papers and +valuables and gold on him? Very well--I've got all that. The whole lot +is locked up--safely--and I'm willing to hand it over to you, Breton, +when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given--as it will +be--that you're Maitland's son." + +Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when +he saw the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers' faces. + +"And still more," he continued, "I've got all the contents of that +leather box which Maitland deposited with me--that's safely locked up, +too, and at your disposal. I took possession of that the day after the +murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I went to Scotland Yard, as +Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a game--and it required +some ingenuity." + +"A game!" exclaimed Breton. "Good heavens--what game?" + +"I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury +was Maitland of Market Milcaster," answered Myerst. "When I did know +then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line, +independent of everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland's papers and +possessions, by that time--except one thing. That packet of Australian +stamps. And--I found out that those stamps were in the hands +of--Cardlestone!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX + +THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + +Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two +amazed listeners with a smile of conscious triumph. + +"In the hands of Cardlestone," he repeated. "Now, what did I argue from +that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone's rooms +that night. Wasn't he found lying dead at the foot of Cardlestone's +stairs? Aye--but who found him? Not the porter--not the police--not +you, Master Spargo, with all your cleverness. The man who found +Maitland lying dead there that night was--I!" + +In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what +Myerst said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his +pockets sat bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him +seriously, could not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and +conceptions are being rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he +laughed, more sneeringly than ever. + +"That's one for you, Spargo!" he said. "That surprises you--that makes +you think. Now what do you think?--if one may ask." + +"I think," said Spargo, "that you are either a consummate liar, or that +this mystery is bigger than before." + +"I can lie when it's necessary," retorted Myerst. "Just now it isn't +necessary. I'm telling you the plain truth: there's no reason why I +shouldn't. As I've said before, although you two young bullies have +tied me up in this fashion, you can't do anything against me. I've a +power of attorney from those two old men in there, and that's enough to +satisfy anybody as to my possession of their cheques and securities. +I've the whip hand of you, my sons, in all ways. And that's why I'm +telling you the truth--to amuse myself during this period of waiting. +The plain truth, my sons!" + +"In pursuance of which," observed Breton, drily, "I think you mentioned +that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?" + +"I was. That is--as far as I can gather. I'll tell you all about it. As +I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very late--it +was well past one o'clock. There was nobody about--as a matter of fact, +no one has residential chambers in that building but Cardlestone and +myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck a match +and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon--John Marbury. +Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can +be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra +speed just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of +every article it had on it--money, papers, everything. All these things +are safely locked up--they've never been tracked. Next day, using my +facilities as secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the +things in that box. Then I found out who the dead man really was. And +then I deliberately set to work to throw dust in the eyes of the police +and of the newspapers, and particularly in the eyes of young Master +Spargo there. I had an object." + +"What?" asked Breton. + +"What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather, +Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it +to myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo, +inserted news in your paper--Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity +of Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore's rooms that night, turned into +our building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met +Cardlestone accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick +together--they recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to +expose Cardlestone, or, rather, Chamberlayne--nobody, of course, could +know what happened, but my theory was that Chamberlayne killed him. +There, at any rate, was the fact that Maitland was found murdered at +Chamberlayne's very threshold. And, in the course of a few days, I +proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting access to +Chamberlayne's rooms in his absence that Maitland had been there, had +been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne's desk, the +rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was +proof positive." + +Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know--that the +stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo's breast pocket, where +they had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion +of Chamberlayne's floor. + +"Why," asked Breton, after a pause, "why did you never accuse +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?" + +"I did! I have accused him a score of times--and Elphick, too," replied +Myerst with emphasis. "Not at first, mind you--I never let Chamberlayne +know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my own game to +play. But at last--not so many days ago--I did. I accused them both. +That's how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be afraid--by +that time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone's past as +Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick's fond of Cardlestone. It's +queer, but he is. He--wants to shield him." + +"What did they say when you accused them?" asked Breton. "Let's keep to +that point--never mind their feelings for one another." + +"Just so, but that feeling's a lot more to do with this mystery than +you think, my young friend," said Myerst. "What did they say, you ask? +Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that +he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. +But--they know something about the murder. If those two old men can't +tell you definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I'm certain +that they have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! +They--" + +A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and +Spargo started to their feet and made for the door. But before they +could reach it Elphick came out, white and shaking. + +"He's gone!" he exclaimed in quavering accents. "My old friend's +gone--he's dead! I was--asleep. I woke suddenly and looked at him. +He----" + +Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton +passed quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head. + +"He's dead," he said. "He evidently died in his sleep." + +"Then his secret's gone with him," remarked Myerst, calmly. "And now we +shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he didn't. So +that's done with!" + +Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away +from his side. + +"He didn't kill John Maitland!" he cried angrily, attempting to shake +his fist at Myerst. "Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He was as +innocent as I am. You've tortured and tormented him to his death with +that charge, as you're torturing me--among you. I tell you he'd nothing +to do with John Maitland's death--nothing!" + +Myerst laughed. + +"Who had, then?" he said. + +"Hold your tongue!" commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He sat +down by Elphick's side and laid his hand soothingly on the old man's +arm. + +"Guardian," he said, "why don't you tell what you know? Don't be afraid +of that fellow there--he's safe enough. Tell Spargo and me what you +know of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt Cardlestone, or +Chamberlayne, or whoever he is or was, now." + +Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give +him another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men +with something of an appeal. + +"I'm badly shaken," he said. "I've suffered much lately--I've learnt +things that I didn't know. Perhaps I ought to have spoken before, but I +was afraid for--for him. He was a good friend, Cardlestone, whatever +else he may have been--a good friend. And--I don't know any more than +what happened that night." + +"Tell us what happened that night," said Breton. + +"Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with +Cardlestone. That was about ten o'clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came +to Cardlestone's--she'd been to my rooms to find me--wanted to see me +particularly--and she'd come on there, knowing where I should be. +Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat +down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to +twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone's door--his outer door was open, +and of course anybody outside could see lights within. 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. Upon +my honour, we didn't know him, either that night or next day!" + +"What happened when he came in?" asked Breton. + +"Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. +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." + +"No one had recognized him?" said Breton. + +"No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. +The others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that +they did--if they did." + +"Tell us," said Spargo, joining in for the first time, "tell us what +you and Miss Baylis did?" + +"At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she'd forgotten +something in Cardlestone's lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet +Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own +rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And +upon my soul and honour that's all I know!" + +Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap--a sodden and +bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the +cottage. + +"That's enough!" he almost shouted. "I've got it--at last! +Breton--where's the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this +valley? Then, here's for it! Look after things till I'm back, or, when +the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town, +anyhow, after wiring." + +"But--what are you after, Spargo?" exclaimed Breton. "Stop! What on +earth----" + +But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth +down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet +and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a +sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling +down a message in shaky handwriting:-- + + _Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London._ + _Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland._ + _Coming straight to town with full evidence._ + + _Frank Spargo_. + +Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering +operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent +in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out +again--to find the station. + +Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the +Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way +of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in +a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, +who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely +comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and +warmly. + +"But you will come--you will come today--and be properly thanked," she +said. "You will--won't you?" + +Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a +straight look into Jessie Aylmore's eyes. + +"I don't want thanks," he said. "It was all a lot of luck. And if I +come--today--it will be to see--just you!" + +Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands. + +"I think," she whispered, "I think that is what I really meant!" + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Middle Temple Murder, by J.S. Fletcher + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER *** + +***** This file should be named 10373-8.txt or 10373-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/7/10373/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Linda Cantoni and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/old/10373-8.zip b/old/old/10373-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b0c0d40 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/10373-8.zip diff --git a/old/old/10373.txt b/old/old/10373.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7190033 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/10373.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9833 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Middle Temple Murder, by J.S. Fletcher + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Middle Temple Murder + +Author: J.S. Fletcher + +Release Date: December 3, 2003 [EBook #10373] +[Last updated: October 11, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Linda Cantoni and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + +THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER + +BY + +J. S. FLETCHER + +1919 + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + +I THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + +II HIS FIRST BRIEF + +III THE CLUE OF THE CAP + +IV THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + +V SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + +VI WITNESS TO A MEETING + +VII MR. AYLMORE + +VIII THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + +IX THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + +X THE LEATHER BOX + +XI MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + +XII THE NEW WITNESS + +XIII UNDER SUSPICION + +XIV THE SILVER TICKET + +XV MARKET MILCASTER + +XVI THE "YELLOW DRAGON" + +XVII MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + +XVIII AN OLD NEWSPAPER + +XIX THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + +XX MAITLAND _alias_ MARBURY + +XXI ARRESTED + +XXII THE BLANK PAST + +XXIII MISS BAYLIS + +XXIV MOTHER GUTCH + +XXV REVELATIONS + +XXVI STILL SILENT + +XXVII MR. ELPHICK'S CHAMBERS + +XXVIII OF PROVED IDENTITY + +XXIX THE CLOSED DOORS + +XXX REVELATION + +XXXI THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + +XXXII THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + +XXXIII FORESTALLED + +XXXIV THE WHIP HAND + +XXXV MYERST EXPLAINS + +XXXVI THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + + + +CHAPTER ONE + +THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER + + +As a rule, Spargo left the _Watchman_ office at two o'clock. The paper +had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to +a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was +responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the +machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, +until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of +June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had +charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram +which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was +interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. +Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the +office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold +the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. +In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first +grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of +St. Paul's. + +Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every +night and every morning he walked to and from the _Watchman_ office by +the same route--Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. +He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed +the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he +encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his +pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he +saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance, +looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. +Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He +moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face. + +"What is it?" asked Spargo. + +Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door +of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and +jacket. + +"He says," answered Driscoll, "him, there--the porter--that there's a +man lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he's +dead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered." + +Spargo echoed the word. + +"But what makes him think that?" he asked, peeping with curiosity +beyond Driscoll's burly form. "Why?" + +"He says there's blood about him," answered Driscoll. He turned and +glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. +"You're a newspaper man, sir?" he suggested. + +"I am," replied Spargo. + +"You'd better walk down with us," said Driscoll, with a grin. "There'll +be something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there may +be." Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane, +wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At +the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. + +"Come on!" he said shortly. "I'll show you." + +Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly-arrived constable, and +then turned to the porter. + +"How came you to find him, then?" he asked + +The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. + +"I heard that door slam," he replied, irritably, as if the fact which +he mentioned caused him offence. "I know I did! So I got up to look +around. Then--well, I saw that!" + +He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his +outstretched finger. And Spargo then saw a man's foot, booted, +grey-socked, protruding from an entry on the left hand. + +"Sticking out there, just as you see it now," said the porter. "I ain't +touched it. And so--" + +He paused and made a grimace as if at the memory of some unpleasant +thing. Driscoll nodded comprehendingly. + +"And so you went along and looked?" he suggested. "Just so--just to see +who it belonged to, as it might be." + +"Just to see--what there was to see," agreed the porter. "Then I saw +there was blood. And then--well, I made up the lane to tell one of you +chaps." + +"Best thing you could have done," said Driscoll. "Well, now then--" + +The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold +and formal thing of itself; not a nice place to lie dead in, having +glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring; +something about its appearance in that grey morning air suggested to +Spargo the idea of a mortuary. And that the man whose foot projected +over the step was dead he had no doubt: the limpness of his pose +certified to it. + +For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen +unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with +their fingers; the porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully--Spargo +remembered afterwards the rasping sound of this action; he himself put +his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. +Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human +wreckage which lay before him. + +"You'll notice," suddenly observed Driscoll, speaking in a hushed +voice, "You'll notice that he's lying there in a queer way--same as +if--as if he'd been put there. Sort of propped up against that wall, at +first, and had slid down, like." + +Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at +his feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, +crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be +elderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a +good, well-made suit of grey check cloth--tweed--and the boots were +good: so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that +hung so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body; the other was +stretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted to +the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the +shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts and +stains of blood. And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a +finger at them. + +"Seems to me," he said, slowly, "seems to me as how he's been struck +down from behind as he came out of here. That blood's from his +nose--gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim?" The other policeman +coughed. + +"Better get the inspector here," he said. "And the doctor and the +ambulance. Dead--ain't he?" + +Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the +pavement. + +"As ever they make 'em," he remarked laconically. "And stiff, too. +Well, hurry up, Jim!" + +Spargo waited until the inspector arrived; waited until the +hand-ambulance came. More policemen came with it; they moved the body +for transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man's +face. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged the +limbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he came +to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other +things. There was some professionalism in Spargo's curiosity, but there +was also a natural dislike that a fellow-being should have been so +unceremoniously smitten out of the world. + +There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man's face. It was +that of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age; plain, +even homely of feature, clean-shaven, except for a fringe of white +whisker, trimmed, after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and +the point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that it +was much lined and seamed; the wrinkles were many and deep around the +corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes; this man, you would +have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mental +as well as physical. + +Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. +"Better come down to the dead-house," he muttered confidentially. + +"Why?" asked Spargo. + +"They'll go through him," whispered Driscoll. "Search him, d'ye see? +Then you'll get to know all about him, and so on. Help to write that +piece in the paper, eh?" + +Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night's work, and until his +encounter with Driscoll he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal +which would be laid out for him at his rooms, and of the bed into which +he would subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message would send a +man from the _Watchman_ to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in +his line now, now-- + +"You'll be for getting one o' them big play-cards out with something +about a mystery on it," suggested Driscoll. "You never know what lies +at the bottom o' these affairs, no more you don't." + +That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for +getting news began to assert itself. + +"All right," he said. "I'll go along with you." + +And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortege through the +streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected +on the unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was +the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a +principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to +whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surely-- + +"My opinion," said a voice at Spargo's elbow, "my opinion is that it +was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. That's what I say." +Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was +accompanying the body. + +"Oh!" said Spargo. "You think--" + +"I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there," said the +porter. "In somebody's chambers, maybe. I've known of some queer games +in our bit of London! Well!--he never came in at my lodge last +night--I'll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From +what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place." + +"That's what we shall hear presently," said Spargo. "They're going to +search him." + +But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found +nothing. The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, +been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the +skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll's opinion, +the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder. For there was +nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man +who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in +his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing +valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that +could lead to identification--no letters, no papers, nothing. It was +plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently +stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity +lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been +newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End. + +Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his +food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. +He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at +last that the morning's event had destroyed his chance of rest; he +accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went +out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from +Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he +found that he had walked down to the police station near which the +unknown man's body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll, just +going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. + +"You're in luck," he said. "'Tisn't five minutes since they found a bit +of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor man's waistcoat +pocket--it had slipped into a crack. Come in, and you'll see it." + +Spargo went into the inspector's office. In another minute he found +himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an +address, scrawled in pencil:--Ronald Breton, Barrister, King's Bench +Walk, Temple, London. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO + +HIS FIRST BRIEF + + +Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. "I +know this man," he said. + +The inspector showed new interest. + +"What, Mr. Breton?" he asked. + +"Yes. I'm on the _Watchman_, you know, sub-editor. I took an article +from him the other day--article on 'Ideal Sites for Campers-Out.' He +came to the office about it. So this was in the dead man's pocket?" + +"Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand: I wasn't present myself. +It's not much, but it may afford some clue to identity." + +Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It +seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in +clubs; it had been torn roughly from the sheet. + +"What," he asked meditatively, "what will you do about getting this man +identified?" + +The inspector shrugged his shoulders. + +"Oh, usual thing, I suppose. There'll be publicity, you know. I suppose +you'll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh? Then +there'll be the others. And we shall put out the usual notice. Somebody +will come forward to identify--sure to. And--" + +A man came into the office--a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly +attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a +stroll, and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his +desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper +which Spargo had just laid down. + +"I'll go along to King's Bench Walk and see Mr. Breton," he observed, +looking at his watch. "It's just about ten--I daresay he'll be there +now." + +"I'm going there, too," remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself. +"Yes, I'll go there." + +The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The +inspector nodded at Spargo. + +"Journalist," he said, "Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo was +there when the body was found. And he knows Mr. Breton." Then he nodded +from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. "This is Detective-Sergeant +Rathbury, from the Yard," he said to Spargo. "He's come to take charge +of this case." + +"Oh?" said Spargo blankly. "I see--what," he went on, with sudden +abruptness, "what shall you do about Breton?" + +"Get him to come and look at the body," replied Rathbury. "He may know +the man and he mayn't. Anyway, his name and address are here, aren't +they?" + +"Come along," said Spargo. "I'll walk there with you." + +Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor +Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed +that he was by nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until +the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in +King's Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton's chambers were somewhere +situate that Spargo spoke. + +"Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on +him?" he asked, suddenly turning on the detective. + +"I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that +question, Mr. Spargo," replied Rathbury, with a smile. + +"Yes," said Spargo, dreamily. "I suppose so. He might have had--nothing +on him, eh?" + +The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were +printed. + +"We don't know anything yet, sir," he observed, "except that Mr. Breton +is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn't long since he +was eating his dinner." + +"Oh, he's young--he's quite young," said Spargo. "I should say he's +about four-and-twenty. I've met him only--" + +At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down +the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing--presently masculine +laughter mingled with the lighter feminine. + +"Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway," +said Rathbury. "Mr. Breton's chambers, too. And the door's open." + +The outer oak door of Ronald Breton's chambers stood thrown wide; the +inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the +detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton's +rooms. There, against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied +up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal +notabilities, they saw a pretty, vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a +chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was +haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, to the amusement of a young man +who had his back to the door, and of another girl who leant +confidentially against his shoulder. + +"I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury--I put it to you with +confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, +perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your +consciences do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, +the--the--" + +"Think of some more adjectives!" exclaimed the young man. "Hot and +strong 'uns--pile 'em up. That's what they like--they--Hullo!" + +This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the +proceedings the detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his +head round its edge. Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the +chair, jumped hastily down; the other young lady withdrew from the +young man's protecting arm; there was a feminine giggle and a feminine +swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald +Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter. + +"Come in, come in!" he exclaimed hastily. "I--" + +Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a +look of surprise. + +"Oh--Mr. Spargo?" he said. "How do you do?--we--I--we were just having +a lark--I'm off to court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. +Spargo?" + +He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and +turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The +detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister. He saw a +tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, +perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a +general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these +matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may +take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned +and glanced at the journalist. + +"How do you do?" said Spargo slowly. "I--the fact is, I came here with +Mr. Rathbury. He--wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury--of New +Scotland Yard." + +Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a +lesson. But he was watching the young barrister's face. And Breton +turned to the detective with a look of surprise. + +"Oh!" he said. "You wish--" + +Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, +which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. "I +wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton," he said. "This morning, about a +quarter to three, a man--elderly man--was found dead in Middle Temple +Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo +here--he was present when the body was found." + +"Soon after," corrected Spargo. "A few minutes after." + +"When this body was examined at the mortuary," continued Rathbury, in +his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, "nothing was found that could +lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was +nothing whatever on him--but this bit of torn paper, which was found in +a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and +address on it, Mr. Breton. See?" + +Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted +brows. + +"By Jove!" he muttered. "So it has; that's queer. What's he like, this +man?" + +Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. + +"Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?" he said. +"It's close by." + +"Well--I--the fact is, I've got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow's +court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be +called until after eleven. Will--" + +"Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to +go round and back again--a look will do. You don't recognize this +handwriting, I suppose?" + +Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it +again, intently. + +"No!" he answered. "I don't. I don't know it at all--I can't think, of +course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought +he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional +services, you know," he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; "but, +three--three o'clock in the morning, eh?" + +"The doctor," observed Rathbury, "the doctor thinks he had been dead +about two and a half hours." + +Breton turned to the inner door. + +"I'll--I'll just tell these ladies I'm going out for a quarter of an +hour," he said. "They're going over to the court with me--I got my +first brief yesterday," he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right +and left at his visitors. "It's nothing much--small case--but I +promised my fiancee and her sister that they should be present, you +know. A moment." + +He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all +the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very +particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the +butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice +that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been +similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than +of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and +about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. + +"Well, come on," said Breton. "Let's go straight there." + +The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to +the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered +involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the +young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly +about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose +face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and +earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head. + +"No!" he said with decision. "Don't know him--don't know him from Adam. +Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of." + +Rathbury replaced the cloth. + +"I didn't suppose you would," he remarked. "Well, I expect we must go +on the usual lines. Somebody'll identify him." + +"You say he was murdered?" said Breton. "Is that--certain?" + +Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. + +"The back of his skull is smashed in," he said laconically. "The doctor +says he must have been struck down from behind--and a fearful blow, +too. I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Breton." + +"Oh, all right!" said Breton. "Well, you know where to find me if you +want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye--good-bye, Mr. +Spargo." + +The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the +journalist. + +"I didn't expect anything from that," he remarked. "However, it was a +thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?" + +Spargo nodded. + +"Well," continued Rathbury, "I've sent a man to Fiskie's, the hatter's, +where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information +from that quarter--it's possible. If you like to meet me here at +twelve o'clock I'll tell you anything I've heard. Just now I'm going to +get some breakfast." + +"I'll meet you here," said Spargo, "at twelve o'clock." + +He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set +off round another. He went to the _Watchman_ office, wrote a few lines, +which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out +again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before +he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the +Law Courts. + + + + +CHAPTER THREE + +THE CLUE OF THE CAP + + +Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of +litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and +the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, +asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. +For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his +question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves. + +"Isn't Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?" +he suddenly asked. + +"Number seven," replied the official. "What's your case--when's it +down?" + +"I haven't got a case," said Spargo. "I'm a pressman--reporter, you +know." + +The official stuck out a finger. + +"Round the corner--first to your right--second on the left," he said +automatically. "You'll find plenty of room--nothing much doing there +this morning." + +He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless +perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors. + +"Upon my honour!" he muttered. "Upon my honour, I really don't know +what I've come up here for. I've no business here." + +Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton. +The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of +papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who +were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And +Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which +of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her +burlesque speech: it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton +with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl +with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned +upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a +hope of seeing this girl again--why, he could not then think. + +Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted +his hat. Breton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a +question. + +"Yes," said Spargo. "I--the fact is, I remembered that you said you +were coming up here, and I came after you. I want--when you've time--to +have a talk, to ask you a few questions. About--this affair of the dead +man, you know." + +Breton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. + +"Look here," he said. "When this case of mine is over, I can give you +as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a +favour. I was taking these ladies round to the gallery--round there, +and up the stairs--and I'm a bit pressed for time--I've a solicitor +waiting for me. You take them--there's a good fellow; then, when the +case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here--I'll +introduce you all--no ceremony. Miss Aylmore--Miss Jessie Aylmore. Mr. +Spargo--of the _Watchman_. Now, I'm off!" Breton turned on the instant; +his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at +two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, +and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years. + +"That is very cool of Ronald," observed the elder young lady. "Perhaps +his scheme doesn't fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo? Pray don't--" + +"Oh, it's all right!" said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. +"I've nothing to do. But--where did Mr. Breton say you wished to be +taken?" + +"Into the gallery of number seven court," said the younger girl +promptly. "Round this corner--I think I know the way." + +Spargo, still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving +that morning, bestirred himself to act as cicerone, and presently led +the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries +from which idlers and specially-interested spectators may see and hear +the proceedings which obtain in the badly-ventilated, ill-lighted tanks +wherein justice is dispensed at the Law Courts. There was no one else +in that gallery; the attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be +vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter it, and he presently +opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half-way down the stairs +to meet him. + +"Nothing much going on here this morning," he whispered behind a raised +hand. "But there's a nice breach case in number five--get you three +good seats there if you like." + +Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He +had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and +her sister about eighteen; he also thought that young Breton was a +lucky dog to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an +equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss +Jessie Aylmore's side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by +his surroundings. + +"I suppose one can talk until the judge enters?" he whispered. "Is this +really Mr. Breton's first case?" + +"His very first--all on his own responsibility, any way," replied +Spargo's companion, smiling. "And he's very nervous--and so's my +sister. Aren't you, now, Evelyn?" + +Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. + +"I suppose one's always nervous about first appearances," she said. +"However, I think Ronald's got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, +it's not much of a case: it isn't even a jury case. I'm afraid you'll +find it dull, Mr. Spargo--it's only something about a promissory +note." + +"Oh, I'm all right, thank you," replied Spargo, unconsciously falling +back on a favourite formula. "I always like to hear lawyers--they +manage to say such a lot about--about--" + +"About nothing," said Jessie Aylmore. "But there--so do gentlemen who +write for the papers, don't they?" + +Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that +point when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister's attention to a man +who had just entered the well of the court. + +"Look, Jessie!" she observed. "There's Mr. Elphick!" + +Spargo looked down at the person indicated: an elderly, large-faced, +smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wigged and +gowned, was slowly making his way to a corner seat just outside that +charmed inner sanctum wherein only King's Counsel are permitted to sit. +He dropped into this in a fashion which showed that he was one of those +men who loved personal comfort; he bestowed his plump person at the +most convenient angle and fitting a monocle in his right eye, glanced +around him. There were a few of his professional brethren in his +vicinity; there were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks in +conversation with one or other of them; there were court officials. But +the gentleman of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look +and cast his eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. +Thereupon he made a most gracious bow in their direction; his broad +face beamed in a genial smile, and he waved a white hand. + +"Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo?" enquired the younger Miss +Aylmore. + +"I rather think I've seen him, somewhere about the Temple," answered +Spargo. "In fact, I'm sure I have." + +"His chambers are in Paper Buildings," said Jessie. "Sometimes he gives +tea-parties in them. He is Ronald's guardian, and preceptor, and +mentor, and all that, and I suppose he's dropped into this court to +hear how his pupil goes on." + +"Here is Ronald," whispered Miss Aylmore. + +"And here," said her sister, "is his lordship, looking very cross. Now, +Mr. Spargo, you're in for it." + +Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on +beneath him. The case which young Breton presently opened was a +commercial one, involving certain rights and properties in a promissory +note; it seemed to the journalist that Breton dealt with it very well, +showing himself master of the financial details, and speaking with +readiness and assurance. He was much more interested in his companions, +and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on how he +could improve his further acquaintance when he awoke to the fact that +the defence, realizing that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, +and that Mr. Justice Borrow was already giving judgment in Ronald +Breton's favour. + +In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two +sisters. + +"Very good--very good, indeed," he said, absent-mindedly. "I thought he +put his facts very clearly and concisely." + +Downstairs, in the corridor, Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elphick. +He pointed a finger at Spargo as the latter came up with the girls: +Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder and of his, +Spargo's, connection with it. And directly they approached, he spoke. + +"This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the _Watchman_." Breton said. "Mr. +Elphick--Mr. Spargo. I was just telling Mr. Elphick, Spargo, that you +saw this poor man soon after he was found." + +Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The +elderly barrister took him--literally--by the button-hole. + +"My dear sir!" he said. "You--saw this poor fellow? Lying dead--in the +third entry down Middle Temple Lane! The third entry, eh?" + +"Yes," replied Spargo, simply. "I saw him. It was the third entry." + +"Singular!" said Mr. Elphick, musingly. "I know a man who lives in that +house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until +nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton's name +and address in his pocket?" + +Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then +he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. + +"Yes, that's so," he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton +significantly, he added, "If you can give me those few minutes, now--?" + +"Yes--yes!" responded Ronald Breton, nodding. "I understand. +Evelyn--I'll leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must go." + +Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. + +"My dear sir!" he said, eagerly. "Do you--do you think I could possibly +see--the body?" + +"It's at the mortuary," answered Spargo. "I don't know what their +regulations are." + +Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in +the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. + +"About what I wanted to say to you," he said at last. "It was--this. +I--well, I've always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder +case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it--thoroughly, +first and last. And--I think you can help me." + +"How do you know that it is a murder case?" asked Breton quietly. + +"It's a murder case," answered Spargo, stolidly. "I feel it. Instinct, +perhaps. I'm going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me--" + +He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. + +"It seems to me," he presently continued, "that the clue lies in that +scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between +you and--somebody else." + +"Possibly," agreed Breton. "You want to find the somebody else?" + +"I want you to help me to find the somebody else," answered Spargo. "I +believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don't +believe in police methods--much. By the by, I'm just going to meet +Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?" + +Breton ran into his chambers in King's Bench Walk, left his gown and +wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came +out as they were stepping in. + +"Oh!" he said. "Ah!--I've got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told +you I'd sent a man to Fiskie's, the hatter! Well, he's just returned. +The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie's yesterday +afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient +Hotel." + +"Where is that?" asked Spargo. + +"Waterloo district," answered Rathbury. "A small house, I believe. +Well, I'm going there. Are you coming?" + +"Yes," replied Spargo. "Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too." + +"If I'm not in the way," said Breton. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper," he +observed. And he waved a signal to the nearest taxi-cab driver. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR + +THE ANGLO-ORIENT HOTEL + + +The house at which Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an +old-fashioned place in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway +Station--a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially +mid-Victorian in appearance, and suggestive, somehow, of the very early +days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern +ideas of a hotel it would have been difficult to find in London, and +Ronald Breton said so as he and the others crossed the pavement. + +"And yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to +and from Southampton in the old days," remarked Rathbury. "And I +daresay that old travellers, coming back from the East after a good +many years' absence, still rush in here. You see, it's close to the +station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place +when they've a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind +them. Look there, now!" They had crossed the threshold as the +detective spoke, and as they entered a square, heavily-furnished hall, +he made a sidelong motion of his head towards a bar on the left, +wherein stood or lounged a number of men who from their general +appearance, their slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be +Colonials, or at any rate to have spent a good part of their time +beneath Oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a +Colonial accent in it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and +Trichinopoly, and Rathbury wagged his head sagely. "Lay you anything +the dead man was a Colonial, Mr. Spargo," he remarked. "Well, now, I +suppose that's the landlord and landlady." + +There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and +woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge +on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a +fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at +some time have been a butler; the woman a tall, spare-figured, +thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an +enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence. + +"You the landlord of this house, sir?" he asked. "Mr. Walters? Just +so--and Mrs. Walters, I presume?" + +The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. + +"What can I do for you, sir?" he enquired. + +"A little matter of business, Mr. Walters," replied Rathbury, pulling +out a card. "You'll see there who I am--Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of +the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald +Breton, a barrister." + +The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side +door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying +her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour. +Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his +principal visitor. + +"What is it, Mr. Rathbury?" he enquired. "Anything wrong?" + +"We want a bit of information," answered Rathbury, almost with +indifference. + +"Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday--elderly man, +grey hair, fresh complexion?" + +Mrs. Walters started, glancing at her husband. + +"There!" she exclaimed. "I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes--a Mr. +Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train +got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But--he didn't use it last +night. He went out--very late--and he never came back." + +Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair +and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. + +"What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma'am?" he asked. "Had +you noticed anything?" + +Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her +husband gave vent to a species of growl. + +"Nothing to notice," he muttered. "Her way of speaking--that's all." + +"Well--why I said that was this," said the landlady. "He happened to +tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn't been in London for over twenty +years, and couldn't remember anything about it, him, he said, never +having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he +went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought +something had happened to him, and that there'd be enquiries made." + +"Just so--just so!" said Rathbury. "So you would, ma'am--so you would. +Well, something has happened to him. He's dead. What's more, there's +strong reason to think he was murdered." + +Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise +and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his +visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work +to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter +of course. + +"My respects," he said, lifting his glass. "Well, now, perhaps you'll +just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr. and +Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this +morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn't anything on him but +his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman's name and +address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I +traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter's +yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel." + +"Yes," said Mrs. Walters quickly, "that's so. And he went out in that +cap last night. Well--we don't know much about him. As I said, he came +in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked +Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a +bag--they're in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at +this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia--that, of +course, was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book +as John Marbury." + +"We'll look at that, if you please," said Rathbury. + +Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous +day's entries. They all bent over the dead man's writing. + +"'John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,'" said Rathbury. +"Ah--now I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on +the scrap of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn't--it's quite +different." + +"Quite different," said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting +with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it, +and asked another question. + +"Ever seen that writing before?" he suggested. + +"Never," answered Breton. "And yet--there's something very familiar +about it." + +"Then the probability is that you have seen it before," remarked +Rathbury. "Well--now we'll hear a little more about Marbury's doings +here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. Walters." + +"My wife knows most," said Walters. "I scarcely saw the man--I don't +remember speaking with him." + +"No," said Mrs. Walters. "You didn't--you weren't much in his way. +Well," she continued, "I showed him up to his room. He talked a +bit--said he'd just landed at Southampton from Melbourne." + +"Did he mention his ship?" asked Rathbury. "But if he didn't, it +doesn't matter, for we can find out." + +"I believe the name's on his things," answered the landlady. "There are +some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for +him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at +exactly one o'clock, saying to me that he expected he'd get lost, as he +didn't know London well at any time, and shouldn't know it at all now. +He went outside there--I saw him--looked about him and walked off +towards Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came +for him--from Fiskie's. So, of course, I judged he'd been Piccadilly +way. But he himself never came in until ten o'clock. And then he +brought a gentleman with him." + +"Aye?" said Rathbury. "A gentleman, now? Did you see him?" + +"Just," replied the landlady. "They went straight up to 20, and I just +caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. A +tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far +as I could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his +throat, and carrying an umbrella." + +"And they went to Marbury's room?" said Rathbury. "What then?" + +"Well, then, Mr. Marbury rang for some whiskey and soda," continued +Mrs. Walters. "He was particular to have a decanter of whiskey: that, +and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until +nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 +had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter--as, of +course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven." + +"And the other gentleman?" asked Rathbury. + +"The other gentleman," answered the landlady, "went out with him. The +hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the +last anybody in this house saw of Mr. Marbury. He certainly never came +back." + +"That," observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, "that is quite certain, +ma'am? Well--I suppose we'd better see this Number 20 room, and have a +look at what he left there." + +"Everything," said Mrs. Walters, "is just as he left it. Nothing's been +touched." + +It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the +dressing-table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet--none of them of +any quality or value: the dead man had evidently been satisfied with +the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg: Rathbury, +without ceremony, went through its pockets; just as unceremoniously he +proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid +out on the bed every article they contained and examined each +separately and carefully. And he found nothing whereby he could gather +any clue to the dead owner's identity. + +"There you are!" he said, making an end of his task. "You see, it's +just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him. +There are no papers--there's nothing to tell who he was, what he was +after, where he'd come from--though that we may find out in other +ways. But it's not often that a man travels without some clue to his +identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought +in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and +money on him. Did you see anything of his money, now, ma'am?" he asked, +suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters. "Did he pull out his purse in your +presence, now?" + +"Yes," answered the landlady, with promptitude. "He came into the bar +for a drink after he'd been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of +gold when he paid for it--a whole handful. There must have been some +thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sovereigns." + +"And he hadn't a penny piece on him--when found," muttered Rathbury. + +"I noticed another thing, too," remarked the landlady. "He was wearing +a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left +hand--little finger--gold, with a big diamond in it." + +"Yes," said the detective, thoughtfully, "I noticed that he'd worn a +ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well--now there's only +one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn +paper around--tore any letters up, or anything like that?" + +But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort; on +the contrary, the gentleman of Number 20 had left his room very tidy +indeed. So Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing +further to say, just then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the +Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and went away, followed by the two +young men. + +"What next?" asked Spargo, as they gained the street. + +"The next thing," answered Rathbury, "is to find the man with whom +Marbury left this hotel last night." + +"And how's that to be done?" asked Spargo. + +"At present," replied Rathbury, "I don't know." + +And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being +alone. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE + +SPARGO WISHES TO SPECIALIZE + + +The barrister and the journalist, left thus unceremoniously on a +crowded pavement, looked at each other. Breton laughed. + +"We don't seem to have gained much information," he remarked. "I'm +about as wise as ever." + +"No--wiser," said Spargo. "At any rate, I am. I know now that this dead +man called himself John Marbury; that he came from Australia; that he +only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the +company last night of a man whom we have had described to us--a tall, +grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman." + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +"I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in +London," he remarked. + +"Exactly--so it would," answered Spargo. "But we know that it was one +of the hundred thousand, or half-million, if you like. The thing is to +find that one--the one." + +"And you think you can do it?" + +"I think I'm going to have a big try at it." + +Breton shrugged his shoulders again. + +"What?--by going up to every man who answers the description, and +saying 'Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the +Anglo----" + +Spargo suddenly interrupted him. + +"Look here!" he said. "Didn't you say that you knew a man who lives in +that block in the entry of which Marbury was found?" + +"No, I didn't," answered Breton. "It was Mr. Elphick who said that. All +the same, I do know that man--he's Mr. Cardlestone, another barrister. +He and Mr. Elphick are friends--they're both enthusiastic +philatelists--stamp collectors, you know--and I dare say Mr. Elphick +was round there last night examining something new Cardlestone's got +hold of. Why?" + +"I'd like to go round there and make some enquiries," replied Spargo. +"If you'd be kind enough to----" + +"Oh, I'll go with you!" responded Breton, with alacrity. "I'm just as +keen about this business as you are, Spargo! I want to know who this +man Marbury is, and how he came to have my name and address on him. +Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, why--" + +"Yes," said Spargo, as they got into a cab, "yes, that would have +explained a lot. It seems to me that we'll get at the murderer through +that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury's line. Yes, +that's what I think." + +Breton looked at his companion with interest. + +"But--you don't know what Rathbury's line is," he remarked. + +"Yes, I do," said Spargo. "Rathbury's gone off to discover who the man +is with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last night. That's his +line." + +"And you want----?" + +"I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who +wrote it," answered Spargo. "I want to know why that old man was coming +to you when he was murdered." + +Breton started. + +"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "I--I never thought of that. You--you really +think he was coming to me when he was struck down?" + +"Certain. Hadn't he got an address in the Temple? Wasn't he in the +Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you." + +"But--the late hour?" + +"No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I +think he was asking his way. That's why I want to make some enquiries +in this block." + +It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of +the office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the +dead man. Being luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the +body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the +sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though +there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had +lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry +than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so +great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a +policeman to move the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion +presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as +to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and +old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously +greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion. + +"Drive them all out into the street!" exclaimed this personage. "Drive +them all away, constable--into Fleet Street or upon the +Embankment--anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a +disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a----" + +"That's old Cardlestone," whispered Breton. "He's always irascible, and +I don't suppose we'll get anything out of him. Mr. Cardlestone," he +continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now +retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as +himself. "I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a +journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He----" + +"I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mr. +Cardlestone. "And I never talk to journalists--a pack of busybodies, +sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been +committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office +boys and street loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down +these steps and broke his neck--drunk, most likely." + +He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring +smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first +landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels. + +"Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last +evening, Mr. Cardlestone," he said. "Of course, neither of you heard +anything suspicious?" + +"What should we hear that was suspicious in the Temple, sir?" demanded +Mr. Cardlestone, angrily. "I hope the Temple is free from that sort of +thing, young Mr. Breton. Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet +evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away all was +as quiet as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above +and around me I know not! Fortunately, our walls are thick, +sir--substantial. I say, sir, the man probably fell down and broke his +neck. What he was doing here, I do not presume to say." + +"Well, it's guess, you know, Mr. Cardlestone," remarked Breton, again +winking at Spargo. "But all that was found on this man was a scrap of +paper on which my name and address were written. That's practically all +that was known of him, except that he'd just arrived from Australia." + +Mr. Cardlestone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, +acute glance. + +"Eh?" he exclaimed. "What's this? You say this man had your name and +address on him, young Breton!--yours? And that he came from--Australia?" + +"That's so," answered Breton. "That's all that's known." + +Mr. Cardlestone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandanna +handkerchief of strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective +fashion. + +"That's a mysterious thing," he observed. "Um--does Elphick know all +that?" + +Breton looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of +Mr. Cardlestone's altered manner. And Spargo took up the conversation. + +"No," he said. "All that Mr. Elphick knows is that Mr. Ronald Breton's +name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. Mr. +Elphick"--here Spargo paused and looked at Breton--"Mr. Elphick," he +presently continued, slowly transferring his glance to the old +barrister, "spoke of going to view the body." + +"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone, eagerly. "It can be seen? Then I'll go +and see it. Where is it?" + +Breton started. + +"But--my dear sir!" he said. "Why?" + +Mr. Cardlestone picked up his umbrella again. + +"I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very +door," he said. "Also, I have known more than one man who went to +Australia. This might--I say might, young gentlemen--might be a man I +had once known. Show me where this body is." + +Breton looked helplessly at Spargo: it was plain that he did not +understand the turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to +seize an opportunity. In another minute he was conducting Mr. +Cardlestone through the ins and outs of the Temple towards Blackfriars. +And as they turned into Tudor Street they encountered Mr. Elphick. + +"I am going to the mortuary," he remarked. "So, I suppose, are you, +Cardlestone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?" + +Spargo tried a chance shot--at what he did not know. "The man's name +was Marbury," he said. "He was from Australia." + +He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elphick, but he failed to see that Mr. +Elphick showed any of the surprise which Mr. Cardlestone had exhibited. +Rather, he seemed indifferent. + +"Oh?" he said--"Marbury? And from Australia. Well--I should like to see +the body." + +Spargo and Breton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder +gentlemen went in. There was nothing to be learnt from either when they +reappeared. + +"We don't know the man," said Mr. Elphick, calmly. "As Mr. Cardlestone, +I understand, has said to you already--we have known men who went to +Australia, and as this man was evidently wandering about the Temple, we +thought it might have been one of them, come back. But--we don't +recognize him." + +"Couldn't recognize him," said Mr. Cardlestone. "No!" + +They went away together arm in arm, and Breton looked at Spargo. + +"As if anybody on earth ever fancied they'd recognize him!" he said. +"Well--what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must go." + +Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the +pavement, came out of a fit of abstraction. + +"I?" he said. "Oh--I'm going to the office." And he turned abruptly +away, and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at the +_Watchman_, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the +editor. "Try to get me a few minutes with the chief," he said. + +The private secretary looked up. + +"Really important?" he asked. + +"Big!" answered Spargo. "Fix it." + +Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty +well by that time, Spargo lost no time. + +"You've heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane?" he suggested. + +"The mere facts," replied the editor, tersely. + +"I was there when the body was found," continued Spargo, and gave a +brief resume of his doings. "I'm certain this is a most unusual +affair," he went on. "It's as full of mystery as--as it could be. I +want to give my attention to it. I want to specialize on it. I can make +such a story of it as we haven't had for some time--ages. Let me have +it. And to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. +I'll make it--big!" + +The editor looked across his desk at Spargo's eager face. + +"Your other work?" he said. + +"Well in hand," replied Spargo. "I'm ahead a whole week--both articles +and reviews. I can tackle both." + +The editor put his finger tips together. + +"Have you got some idea about this, young man?" he asked. + +"I've got a great idea," answered Spargo. He faced the great man +squarely, and stared at him until he had brought a smile to the +editorial face. "That's why I want to do it," he added. "And--it's not +mere boasting nor over-confidence--I know I shall do it better than +anybody else." + +The editor considered matters for a brief moment. + +"You mean to find out who killed this man?" he said at last. + +Spargo nodded his head--twice. + +"I'll find that out," he said doggedly. + +The editor picked up a pencil, and bent to his desk. + +"All right," he said. "Go ahead. You shall have your two columns." + +Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got hold of a +block of paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do +things. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX + +WITNESS TO A MEETING + + +Ronald Breton walked into the _Watchman_ office and into Spargo's room +next morning holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved +it at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. + +"I say!" he exclaimed. "That's the way to do it, Spargo! I congratulate +you. Yes, that's the way--certain!" + +Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. + +"What way?" he asked indifferently. + +"The way you've written this thing up," said Breton. "It's a hundred +thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried account of a murder. +It's--it's like a--a romance!" + +"Merely a new method of giving news," said Spargo. He picked up a copy +of the _Watchman_, and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow +managed to make themselves into three, viewing the displayed lettering, +the photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle +Temple Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grey paper, with a +critical eye. "Yes--merely a new method," he continued. "The question +is--will it achieve its object?" + +"What's the object?" asked Breton. + +Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it +over to his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put +his feet on his desk. + +"The object?" he said, drily. "Oh, well, the object is the ultimate +detection of the murderer." + +"You're after that?" + +"I'm after that--just that." + +"And not--not simply out to make effective news?" + +"I'm out to find the murderer of John Marbury," said Spargo +deliberately slow in his speech. "And I'll find him." + +"Well, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of clues, so far," +remarked Breton. "I see--nothing. Do you?" + +Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. + +"I want to know an awful lot," he said. "I'm hungering for news. I want +to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with himself +between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive +and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with +his skull beaten in and dead. I want to know where he got that scrap of +paper. Above everything, Breton, I want to know what he'd got to do +with you!" + +He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Breton nodded. + +"Yes," he said. "I confess that's a corker. But I think----" + +"Well?" said Spargo. + +"I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, or +in prospect, and had been recommended to--me," said Breton. + +Spargo smiled--a little sardonically. + +"That's good!" he said. "You had your very first brief--yesterday. +Come--your fame isn't blown abroad through all the heights yet, my +friend! Besides--don't intending clients approach--isn't it strict +etiquette for them to approach?--barristers through solicitors?" + +"Quite right--in both your remarks," replied Breton, good-humouredly. +"Of course, I'm not known a bit, but all the same I've known several +cases where a barrister has been approached in the first instance and +asked to recommend a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me a good +turn may have given this man my address." + +"Possible," said Spargo. "But he wouldn't have come to consult you at +midnight. Breton!--the more I think of it, the more I'm certain there's +a tremendous mystery in this affair! That's why I got the chief to let +me write it up as I have done--here. I'm hoping that this +photograph--though to be sure, it's of a dead face--and this facsimile +of the scrap of paper will lead to somebody coming forward who can----" + +Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble +pillared vestibule of the _Watchman_ office came into the room with the +unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment. + +"I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is," muttered +Spargo in an aside. "Well?" he said to the boy. "What is it?" + +The messenger came up to the desk. + +"Mr. Spargo," he said, "there's a man downstairs who says that he wants +to see somebody about that murder case that's in the paper this +morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you." + +"Who is the man?" asked Spargo. + +"Won't say, sir," replied the boy. "I gave him a form to fill up, but +he said he wouldn't write anything--said all he wanted was to see the +man who wrote the piece in the paper." + +"Bring him here," commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the boy +had gone, and he smiled. "I knew we should have somebody here sooner or +later," he said. "That's why I hurried over my breakfast and came down +at ten o'clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances of this +chap's information proving valuable?" + +"Nothing," replied Breton. "He's probably some crank or faddist who's +got some theory that he wants to ventilate." + +The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger seemed from +preliminary and outward appearance to justify Breton's prognostication. +He was obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, +yellow of hair, blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday-best array of +pearl-grey trousers and black coat, and sported a necktie in which were +several distinct colours. Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of +the _Watchman_ building, he had removed his hard billycock hat as he +followed the boy, and he ducked his bared head at the two young men as +he stepped on to the thick pile of the carpet which made luxurious +footing in Spargo's room. His blue eyes, opened to their widest, looked +round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness of modern +newspaper-office accommodation. + +"How do you do, sir?" said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the +easy-chairs for which the _Watchman_ office is famous. "I understand +that you wish to see me?" + +The caller ducked his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the +chair, put his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to +hang it on his knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. + +"What I want to see, sir," he observed in a rustic accent, "is the +gentleman as wrote that piece in your newspaper about this here murder +in Middle Temple Lane." + +"You see him," said Spargo. "I am that man." + +The caller smiled--generously. + +"Indeed, sir?" he said. "A very nice bit of reading, I'm sure. And what +might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk free-er to a man when I +know what his name is." + +"So can I," answered Spargo. "My name is Spargo--Frank Spargo. What's +yours?" + +"Name of Webster, sir--William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at +Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife," continued Mr. Webster, again +smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, "is at +present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it--weather +and all." + +"That's right," said Spargo. "And--you wanted to see me about this +murder, Mr. Webster?" + +"I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that'll do +for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in +this fashion--happen you'll be for me to tell it in my own way." + +"That," answered Spargo, "is precisely what I desire." + +"Well, to be sure, I couldn't tell it in no other," declared Mr. +Webster. "You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was +waiting for my breakfast--they take their breakfasts so late in them +hotels--and when I'd read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to my +wife 'As soon as I've had my breakfast,' I says, 'I'm going to where +they print this newspaper to tell 'em something.' 'Aye?' she says, +'Why, what have you to tell, I should like to know?' just like that, +Mr. Spargo." + +"Mrs. Webster," said Spargo, "is a lady of businesslike principles. And +what have you to tell?" + +Mr. Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and +smiled knowingly. + +"Well, sir," he continued, "Last night, my wife, she went out to a part +they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of +hers as lives there, and as they wanted to have a bit of woman-talk, +like, I didn't go. So thinks I to myself, I'll go and see this here +House of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all +you'd got to do was to tell the policeman at the door that you wanted +to see your own Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told 'em +that I wanted to see our M.P., Mr. Stonewood--you'll have heard tell of +him, no doubt; he knows me very well--and they passed me, and I wrote +out a ticket for him, and they told me to sit down while they found +him. So I sat down in a grand sort of hall where there were a rare lot +of people going and coming, and some fine pictures and images to look +at, and for a time I looked at them, and then I began to take a bit of +notice of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, like myself. And as +sure as I'm a christened man, sir, the gentleman whose picture you've +got in your paper--him as was murdered--was sitting next to me! I knew +that picture as soon as I saw it this morning." + +Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles on a block of paper, +suddenly looked at his visitor. + +"What time was that?" he asked. + +"It was between a quarter and half-past nine, sir," answered Mr. +Webster. "It might ha' been twenty past--it might ha' been twenty-five +past." + +"Go on, if you please," said Spargo. + +"Well, sir, me and this here dead gentleman talked a bit. About what a +long time it took to get a member to attend to you, and such-like. I +made mention of the fact that I hadn't been in there before. 'Neither +have I!' he says, 'I came in out of curiosity,' he says, and then he +laughed, sir--queer-like. And it was just after that that what I'm +going to tell you about happened." + +"Tell," commanded Spargo. + +"Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along, down this grand hall that +we were sitting in--a tall, handsome gentleman, with a grey beard. He'd +no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper and documents in his +hand, so I thought he was happen one of the members. And all of a +sudden this here man at my side, he jumps up with a sort of start and +an exclamation, and----" + +Spargo lifted his hand. He looked keenly at his visitor. + +"Now, you're absolutely sure about what you heard him exclaim?" he +asked. "Quite sure about it? Because I see you are going to tell us +what he did exclaim." + +"I'll tell you naught but what I'm certain of, sir," replied Webster. +"What he said as he jumped up was 'Good God!' he says, sharp-like--and +then he said a name, and I didn't right catch it, but it sounded like +Danesworth, or Painesworth, or something of that sort--one of them +there, or very like 'em, at any rate. And then he rushed up to this +here gentleman, and laid his hand on his arm--sudden-like." + +"And--the gentleman?" asked Spargo, quietly. + +"Well, he seemed taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he stared at the +man. Then they shook hands. And then, after they'd spoken a few words +together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I never saw no +more of 'em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that +picture in it, I said to myself 'That's the man I sat next to in that +there hall at the House of Commons!' Oh, there's no doubt of it, sir!" + +"And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey +beard?" suggested Spargo. "Could you recognize him from that?" + +"Make no doubt of it, sir," answered Mr. Webster. "I observed him +particular." + +Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, +the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes. + +"Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster," he said. + +The farmer went across the room. + +"There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of +Commons here," said Spargo. "Now, pick out the one you saw. Take your +time--and be sure." + +He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton. + +"There!" he whispered. "Getting nearer--a bit nearer--eh?" + +"To what?" asked Breton. "I don't see--" + +A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton's remark. + +"This is him, sir!" answered Mr. Webster. "That's the gentleman--know +him anywhere!" + +The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby +finger to a photograph, beneath which was written _Stephen Aylmore, +Esq., M.P. for Brookminster_. + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN + +MR. AYLMORE + + +Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton +start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere +glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. + +"Oh!" he said. "That he?" + +"That's the gentleman, sir," replied Webster. "Done to the life, that +is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo." + +"You're absolutely sure?" demanded Spargo. "There are a lot of men in +the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards +are grey." + +But Webster wagged his head. + +"That's him, sir!" he repeated. "I'm as sure of that as I am that my +name's William Webster. That's the man I saw talking to him whose +picture you've got in your paper. Can't say no more, sir." + +"Very good," said Spargo. "I'm much obliged to you. I'll see Mr. +Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How long do you +remain in town?" + +"My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be +there for another week," answered the farmer. "Hope I've been of some +use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife----" + +Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He +turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. + +"There!--what did I tell you?" he said. "Didn't I say I should get some +news? There it is." + +Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. + +"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I say, Spargo!" + +"Well?" + +"Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know." + +"Quite aware of it. Didn't you introduce me to his daughters--only +yesterday?" + +"But--how did you know they were his daughters?" + +Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. + +"Instinct--intuition," he answered. "However, never mind that, just +now. Well--I've found something out. Marbury--if that is the dead +man's real name, and anyway, it's all we know him by--was in the +company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!" + +"What are you going to do about it?" asked Breton. + +"Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course." + +He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand +had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. + +"Look here," said Breton. "I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be +found at twelve o'clock. At the A. and P.--the Atlantic and Pacific +Club, you know, in St. James's. If you like, I'll go with you." + +Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. + +"All right," he said. "Eleven o'clock, now. I've something to do. I'll +meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon." + +"I'll be there," agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand +on it, turned. "What do you expect from--from what we've just heard?" +he asked. + +Spargo shrugged his shoulders. + +"Wait--until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say," he answered. "I +suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance." + +Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to +mutter to himself. + +"Good God!" he says. "Dainsworth--Painsworth--something of that +sort--one of the two. Excellent--that our farmer friend should have so +much observation. Ah!--and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized +as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. +Stephen Aylmore--beyond being what I know him to be?" + +Spargo's fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of +reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness +to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud: + +"AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, +St. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member +Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers' Clubs. Interested in South +American enterprise." + +"Um!" muttered Spargo, putting the book away. "That's not very +illuminating. However, we've got one move finished. Now we'll make +another." + +Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of +Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, +leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take +him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which +he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. + +Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the +hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. + +"I remember you," said Mrs. Walters; "you came with the detective--Mr. +Rathbury." + +"Have you seen him, since?" asked Spargo. + +"Not since," replied Mrs. Walters. "No--and I was wondering if he'd be +coming round, because----" She paused there and looked at Spargo with +particular enquiry--"You're a friend of his, aren't you?" she asked. "I +suppose you know as much as he does--about this?" + +"He and I," replied Spargo, with easy confidence, "are working this +case together. You can tell me anything you'd tell him." + +The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an +inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in +tissue paper. + +"Well," she said, unwrapping the paper, "we found this in Number 20 +this morning--it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl that +found it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but +Walters, he says as how he shouldn't be surprised if it's a diamond. +And since we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after +Mr. Marbury came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he +went into the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of +things like this. So there?" + +Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. + +"That's a diamond--right enough," he said. "Put it away, Mrs. +Walters--I shall see Rathbury presently, and I'll tell him about it. +Now, that other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you recognize +him--I mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?" + +Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters' face that she had no +more doubt than Webster had. + +"Oh, yes!" she said. "That's the gentleman who came in with Mr. +Marbury--I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would recognize +him from that--perhaps you'd let our hall-porter and the waiter I +mentioned just now look at it?" + +"I'll see them separately and see if they've ever seen a man who +resembles this," replied Spargo. + +The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, +and Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the +Atlantic and Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the +steps. He made no reference to his recent doings, and together they +went into the house and asked for Mr. Aylmore. + +Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently +came to them in the visitors' room. He was already familiar with Mr. +Aylmore's photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; +the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of +legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and +unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest +of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or +seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met +him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalist had +expected--a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, who looked as if +he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and taught not +to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interests +in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite +expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation +--purposely shortened--of his object in calling upon him. + +"Yes," he said indifferently. "Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury +and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke +of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much +surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for--I really don't know how +many years." + +He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or +not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And +presently Mr. Aylmore went on. + +"I read your account in the _Watchman_ this morning," he said. "I was +wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with you or +with the police. The fact is--I suppose you want this for your paper, +eh?" he continued after a sudden breaking off. + +"I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print," answered +Spargo. "If you care to give me any information----" + +"Oh, well!" said Mr. Aylmore. "I don't mind. The fact is, I knew next +to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some--well, business +relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty +years--perhaps more--since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me +in the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to +recall him. He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, +and as there was little doing in the House that night, and as he had +once been--almost a friend--I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. +He told me that he had only landed from Australia that morning, and +what he wanted my advice about, principally, was--diamonds. Australian +diamonds." + +"I was unaware," remarked Spargo, "that diamonds were ever found in +Australia." + +Mr. Aylmore smiled--a little cynically. + +"Perhaps so," he said. "But diamonds have been found in Australia from +time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and in the +opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. +Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed +them to me at his hotel--a number of them. We examined them in his +room." + +"What did he do with them--afterwards?" asked Spargo. + +"He put them in his waistcoat pocket--in a very small wash-leather bag, +from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty +stones--not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some +expert--I mentioned Streeter's to him. Now, I can tell you how he got +hold of Mr. Breton's address." + +The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened +his hold on the pencil with which he was making notes. + +"He got it from me," continued Mr. Aylmore. "The handwriting on the +scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As +I knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. +Breton, Mr. Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp +solicitor. I wrote down Mr. Breton's address for him, on a scrap of +paper which he tore off a letter that he took from his pocket. By the +by, I observe that when his body was found there was nothing on it in +the shape of papers or money. I am quite sure that when I left him he +had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a breast-pocket full of +letters." + +"Where did you leave him, sir?" asked Spargo. "You left the hotel +together, I believe?" + +"Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much +to talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge +and very shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. +My own impression----" He paused for a moment and Spargo waited +silently. + +"My own impression--though I confess it may seem to have no very solid +grounds--is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was +robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. +There is the fact that he was robbed, at any rate." + +"I've had a notion," said Breton, diffidently. "Mayn't be worth much, +but I've had it, all the same. Some fellow-passenger of Marbury's may +have tracked him all day--Middle Temple Lane's pretty lonely at night, +you know." + +No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at +Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door. + +"Well, that's all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo," he said. "You see, it's +not much, after all. Of course, there'll be an inquest on Marbury, and +I shall have to re-tell it. But you're welcome to print what I've told +you." + +Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards +New Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news--now he +had some to communicate. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT + +THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT + + +Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal +apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of +its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain +writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much +discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in +the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of +reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was +seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the +apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He +looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand. + +"Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the _Watchman_ this +morning," he said. "Made extra good reading, I thought. They did right +to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I +suppose, Mr. Spargo?" + +Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury's right hand. He +lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his +head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his +question answered in the affirmative. + +"Look here," he said. "We settled yesterday, didn't we, that you and I +are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? That's all +right," he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. "Very well--have +you made any further progress?" + +Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning +back in his chair, shook his head. + +"Frankly, I haven't," he replied. "Of course, there's a lot being done +in the usual official-routine way. We've men out making various +enquiries. We're enquiring about Marbury's voyage to England. All that +we know up to now is that he was certainly a passenger on a liner which +landed at Southampton in accordance with what he told those people at +the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way and was +understood to take the train to town--as he did. That's all. There's +nothing in that. We've cabled to Melbourne for any news of him from +there. But I expect little from that." + +"All right," said Spargo. "And--what are you doing--you, yourself? +Because, if we're to share facts, I must know what my partner's after. +Just now, you seemed to be--drawing." + +Rathbury laughed. + +"Well, to tell you the truth," he said, "when I want to work things +out, I come into this room--it's quiet, as you see--and I scribble +anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, and--" + +"Do you see it?" asked Spargo, quickly. + +"Well--I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that hotel," +replied Rathbury. "It seems to me--" + +Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. + +"I've found him," he said. "That's what I wrote that article for--to +find him. I knew it would find him. I've never had any training in your +sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. And it has got +him." + +Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. + +"Good!" he said. "And--who is he?" + +"I'll tell you the story," answered Spargo, "and in a summary. This +morning a man named Webster, a farmer, a visitor to London, came to me +at the office, and said that being at the House of Commons last night +he witnessed a meeting between Marbury and a man who was evidently a +Member of Parliament, and saw them go away together. I showed him an +album of photographs of the present members, and he immediately +recognized the portrait of one of them as the man in question. I +thereupon took the portrait to the Anglo-Orient Hotel--Mrs. Walters +also at once recognized it as that of the man who came to the hotel +with Marbury, stopped with him a while in his room, and left with him. +The man is Mr. Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster." + +Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. + +"I know him!" he said. "Of course--I remember Mrs. Walters's +description now. But his is a familiar type--tall, grey-bearded, +well-dressed. Um!--well, we'll have to see Mr. Aylmore at once." + +"I've seen him," said Spargo. "Naturally! For you see, Mrs. Walters +gave me a bit more evidence. This morning they found a loose diamond on +the floor of Number 20, and after it was found the waiter who took the +drinks up to Marbury and his guest that night remembered that when he +entered the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of +similar objects. So then I went on to see Mr. Aylmore. You know young +Breton, the barrister?--you met him with me, you remember?" + +"The young fellow whose name and address were found on Marbury," +replied Rathbury. "I remember." + +"Breton is engaged to Aylmore's daughter," continued Spargo. "Breton +took me to Aylmore's club. And Aylmore gives a plain, straightforward +account of the matter which he's granted me leave to print. It clears +up a lot of things. Aylmore knew Marbury over twenty years ago. He lost +sight of him. They met accidentally in the lobby of the House on the +evening preceding the murder. Marbury told him that he wanted his +advice about those rare things, Australian diamonds. He went back with +him to his hotel and spent a while with him; then they walked out +together as far as Waterloo Bridge, where Aylmore left him and went +home. Further, the scrap of grey paper is accounted for. Marbury wanted +the address of a smart solicitor; Aylmore didn't know of one but told +Marbury that if he called on young Breton, he'd know, and would put him +in the way to find one. Marbury wrote Breton's address down. That's +Aylmore's story. But it's got an important addition. Aylmore says that +when he left Marbury, Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds +in a wash-leather bag, a lot of gold, and a breast-pocket full of +letters and papers. Now--there was nothing on him when he was found +dead in Middle Temple Lane." + +Spargo stopped and lighted a fresh cigarette. + +"That's all I know," he said. "What do you make of it?" + +Rathbury leaned back in his chair in his apparently favourite attitude +and stared hard at the dusty ceiling above him. + +"Don't know," he said. "It brings things up to a point, certainly. +Aylmore and Marbury parted at Waterloo Bridge--very late. Waterloo +Bridge is pretty well next door to the Temple. But--how did Marbury get +into the Temple, unobserved? We've made every enquiry, and we can't +trace him in any way as regards that movement. There's a clue for his +going there in the scrap of paper bearing Breton's address, but even a +Colonial would know that no business was done in the Temple at +midnight, eh?" + +"Well," said Spargo, "I've thought of one or two things. He may have +been one of those men who like to wander around at night. He may have +seen--he would see--plenty of lights in the Temple at that hour; he +may have slipped in unobserved--it's possible, it's quite possible. I +once had a moonlight saunter in the Temple myself after midnight, and +had no difficulty about walking in and out, either. But--if Marbury was +murdered for the sake of what he had on him--how did he meet with his +murderer or murderers in there? Criminals don't hang about Middle +Temple Lane." + +The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making +more hieroglyphics. + +"What's your theory, Mr. Spargo?" he asked suddenly. "I suppose you've +got one." + +"Have you?" asked Spargo, bluntly. + +"Well," returned Rathbury, hesitatingly, "I hadn't, up to now. But +now--now, after what you've told me, I think I can make one. It seems +to me that after Marbury left Aylmore he probably mooned about by +himself, that he was decoyed into the Temple, and was there murdered +and robbed. There are a lot of queer ins and outs, nooks and corners in +that old spot, Mr. Spargo, and the murderer, if he knew his ground +well, could easily hide himself until he could get away in the morning. +He might be a man who had access to chambers or offices--think how easy +it would be for such a man, having once killed and robbed his victim, +to lie hid for hours afterwards? For aught we know, the man who +murdered Marbury may have been within twenty feet of you when you first +saw his dead body that morning. Eh?" + +Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the +room and whispered a few words in the detective's ear. + +"Show him in at once," said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the man +quitted the room and smiled significantly. "Here's somebody wants to +tell something about the Marbury case," he remarked. "Let's hope it'll +be news worth hearing." + +Spargo smiled in his queer fashion. + +"It strikes me that you've only got to interest an inquisitive public +in order to get news," he said. "The principal thing is to investigate +it when you've got it. Who's this, now?" + +The official had returned with a dapper-looking gentleman in a +frock-coat and silk hat, bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp of the +city man, who inspected Rathbury with deliberation and Spargo with a +glance, and being seated turned to the detective as undoubtedly the +person he desired to converse with. + +"I understand that you are the officer in charge of the Marbury murder +case," he observed. "I believe I can give you some valuable information +in respect to that. I read the account of the affair in the _Watchman_ +newspaper this morning, and saw the portrait of the murdered man there, +and I was at first inclined to go to the _Watchman_ office with my +information, but I finally decided to approach the police instead of +the Press, regarding the police as being more--more responsible." + +"Much obliged to you, sir," said Rathbury, with a glance at Spargo. +"Whom have I the pleasure of----" + +"My name," replied the visitor, drawing out and laying down a card, "is +Myerst--Mr. E.P. Myerst, Secretary of the London and Universal Safe +Deposit Company. I may, I suppose, speak with confidence," continued +Mr. Myerst, with a side-glance at Spargo. "My information +is--confidential." + +Rathbury inclined his head and put his fingers together. + +"You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Myerst," he answered. "If +what you have to tell has any real bearing on the Marbury case, it will +probably have to be repeated in public, you know, sir. But at present +it will be treated as private." + +"It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say," replied Mr. +Myerst. "Yes, I should decidedly say so. The fact is that on June 21st +at about--to be precise--three o'clock in the afternoon, a stranger, +who gave the name of John Marbury, and his present address as the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, Waterloo, called at our establishment, and asked if +he could rent a small safe. He explained to me that he desired to +deposit in such a safe a small leather box--which, by the by, was of +remarkably ancient appearance--that he had brought with him. I showed +him a safe such as he wanted, informed him of the rent, and of the +rules of the place, and he engaged the safe, paid the rent for one year +in advance, and deposited his leather box--an affair of about a foot +square--there and then. After that, having exchanged a remark or two +about the altered conditions of London, which, I understood him to say, +he had not seen for a great many years, he took his key and his +departure. I think there can be no doubt about this being the Mr. +Marbury who was found murdered." + +"None at all, I should say, Mr. Myerst," said Rathbury. "And I'm much +obliged to you for coming here. Now you might tell me a little more, +sir. Did Marbury tell you anything about the contents of the box?" + +"No. He merely remarked that he wished the greatest care to be taken of +it," replied the secretary. + +"Didn't give you any hint as to what was in it?" asked Rathbury. + +"None. But he was very particular to assure himself that it could not +be burnt, nor burgled, nor otherwise molested," replied Mr. Myerst. "He +appeared to be greatly relieved when he found that it was impossible +for anyone but himself to take his property from his safe." + +"Ah!" said Rathbury, winking at Spargo. "So he would, no doubt. And +Marbury himself, sir, now? How did he strike you?" + +Mr. Myerst gravely considered this question. + +"Mr. Marbury struck me," he answered at last, "as a man who had +probably seen strange places. And before leaving he made, what I will +term, a remarkable remark. About--in fact, about his leather box." + +"His leather box?" said Rathbury. "And what was it, sir?" + +"This," replied the secretary. "'That box,' he said, 'is safe now. But +it's been safer. It's been buried--and deep-down, too--for many and +many a year!'" + + + + +CHAPTER NINE + +THE DEALER IN RARE STAMPS + + +"Buried--and deep-down, too--for many and many a year," repeated Mr. +Myerst, eyeing his companions with keen glances. "I consider that, +gentlemen, a very remarkable remark--very remarkable!" + +Rathbury stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat again and +began swaying backwards and forwards in his chair. He looked at Spargo. +And with his knowledge of men, he knew that all Spargo's journalistic +instincts had been aroused, and that he was keen as mustard to be off +on a new scent. + +"Remarkable--remarkable, Mr. Myerst!" he assented. "What do you say, +Mr. Spargo?" + +Spargo turned slowly, and for the first time since Myerst had entered +made a careful inspection of him. The inspection lasted several +seconds; then Spargo spoke. + +"And what did you say to that?" he asked quietly. + +Myerst looked from his questioner to Rathbury. And Rathbury thought it +time to enlighten the caller. + +"I may as well tell you, Mr. Myerst," he said smilingly, "that this is +Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo wrote the article about the +Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you'll +gather, is deeply interested in this matter--and he and I, in our +different capacities, are working together. So--you understand?" Myerst +regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him. +Spargo repeated the question he had just put. + +"I said--What did you say to that?" + +Myerst hesitated. + +"Well--er--I don't think I said anything," he replied. "Nothing that +one might call material, you know." + +"Didn't ask him what he meant?" suggested Spargo. + +"Oh, no--not at all," replied Myerst. + +Spargo got up abruptly from his chair. + +"Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!" he +said, half-sneeringly. "You might have heard such a story--" + +He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to +Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement. + +"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Is it possible to get that box +opened?" + +"It'll have to be opened," answered Rathbury, rising. "It's got to be +opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I'm going to ask Mr. +Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having +it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through +today, but at any rate we'll have it done tomorrow morning." + +"Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?" asked +Spargo. "You can--certain? That's all right, Rathbury. Now I'm off, and +you'll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I'll do the +same by you." + +And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly +returned to the _Watchman_ office. There the assistant who had been +told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a +business card. + +"This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo," he +said. "He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair, +and he said that as he couldn't wait, perhaps you'd step round to his +place when you came in." + +Spargo took the card and read: + + MR. JAMES CRIEDIR, + DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES, + 2,021, STRAND. + +Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again, +wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call +himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He +went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, and +his first glance at its exterior showed that whatever business might +have been done by Mr. 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. + +"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. Yes, I called on +you. I think, having read the _Watchman_ account of that Marbury +affair, and having seen the murdered man's photograph in your columns, +that I can give you a bit of information." + +"Material?" asked Spargo, tersely. + +Mr. Criedir cocked one of his bright eyes at his visitor. He coughed +drily. + +"That's for you to decide--when you've heard it," he said. "I should +say, considering everything, that it was material. Well, it's this--I +kept open until yesterday--everything as usual, you know--stock in the +window and so on--so that anybody who was passing would naturally have +thought that the business was going on, though as a matter of fact, I'm +retiring--retired," added Mr. Criedir with a laugh, "last night. +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. Criedir, "we'll go on then. Yesterday afternoon the +man described as Marbury came into my shop. He--" + +"What time--exact time?" asked Spargo. + +"Two--to the very minute by St. Clement Danes clock," answered Mr. +Criedir. "I'd swear twenty affidavits on that point. He was precisely +as you've described him--dress, everything--I tell you I knew his +photo as soon as I saw it. He was carrying a little box--" + +"What sort of box?" said Spargo. + +"A queer, old-fashioned, much-worn leather box--a very miniature trunk, +in fact," replied Mr. Criedir. "About a foot square; the sort of thing +you never see nowadays. It was very much worn; it attracted me for that +very reason. He set it on the counter and looked at me. 'You're a +dealer in stamps--rare stamps?' he said. 'I am,' I replied. 'I've +something here I'd like to show you,' he said, unlocking the box. +'It's--'" + +"Stop a bit," said Spargo. "Where did he take the key from with which +he unlocked the box?" + +"It was one of several which he carried on a split ring, and he took +the bunch out of his left-hand trousers pocket," replied Mr. Criedir. +"Oh, I keep my eyes open, young gentleman! Well--he opened his box. It +seemed to me to be full of papers--at any rate there were a lot of +legal-looking documents on the top, tied up with red tape. To show you +how I notice things I saw that the papers were stained with age, and +that the red tape was faded to a mere washed-out pink." + +"Good--good!" murmured Spargo. "Excellent! Proceed, sir." + +"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. '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. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from +business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single +deal, and that, therefore, I couldn't do anything. 'No matter,' he +says, 'I daresay there are lots of men in your line of trade--perhaps +you can recommend me to a good firm?' 'I could recommend you to a dozen +extra-good firms,' I answered. 'But I can do better for you. I'll give +you the name and address of a private buyer who, I haven't the least +doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from you and will give you a +big price.' 'Write it down,' he says, 'and thank you for your trouble.' +So I gave him a bit of advice as to the price he ought to get, and I +wrote the name and address of the man I referred to on the back of one +of my cards." + +"Whose name and address?" asked Spargo. + +"Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple Lane," +replied Mr. Criedir. "Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most enthusiastic +and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he didn't possess +that set of stamps." + +"I know Mr. Cardlestone," remarked Spargo. "It was at the foot of his +stairs that Marbury was found murdered." + +"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. "You think and argue on modern +lines--which are, of course, highly superior. But--how do you account +for my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone's address and for his +having been found dead--murdered--at the foot of Cardlestone's stairs +a few hours later?" + +"I don't account for it," said Spargo. "I'm trying to." + +Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down +for a moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly +offered him a cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of +thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again. + +"Yes," he said. "I'm trying to account. And I shall account. And I'm +much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you've told me. Now, then, +may I ask you a question or two?" + +"A thousand!" responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality. + +"Very well. Did Marbury say he'd call on Cardlestone?" + +"He did. Said he'd call as soon as he could--that day." + +"Have you told Cardlestone what you've just told me?" + +"I have. But not until an hour ago--on my way back from your office, in +fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him." + +"Had he received a call from Marbury?" + +"No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until +he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick, +another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could +recognize it as any man they'd ever known, but they couldn't." + +"I know they did," said Spargo. "I saw 'em at the mortuary. Um! +Well--one more question. 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. And what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over +again: + +"Six hours--six hours--six hours! Those six hours!" + +Next morning the _Watchman_ came out with four leaded columns of +up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the +four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:-- + +WHO SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY +PRECEDING HIS MURDER? + + + + +CHAPTER TEN + +THE LEATHER BOX + + +Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline +would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he +kept to himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have +set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in +that headline was certain; the problem was--What particular owner or +owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why +should they remember him? Walters and his wife had reason to remember +him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so had Myerst; so had William +Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he left the London and +Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he sat down by +Webster's side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody seemed to +have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he only +remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable +cloth cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had +come forward with any recollection of him. He must have gone West from +seeing Myerst, because he bought his cap at Fiskie's; he must +eventually have gone South-West, because he turned up at Westminster. +But where else did he go? What did he do? To whom did he speak? No +answer came to these questions. + +"That shows," observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away in +Spargo's room at the _Watchman_ at that particular hour which is +neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, "that +shows how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that +had strayed into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices." + +"You'd better go and read up a little elementary entomology, Breton," +said Spargo. "I don't know much about it myself, but I've a pretty good +idea that when an ant walks into the highways and byways of a colony to +which he doesn't belong he doesn't survive his intrusion by many +seconds." + +"Well, you know what I mean," said Breton. "London's an ant-heap, isn't +it? One human ant more or less doesn't count. This man Marbury must +have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. He'd ride on +a 'bus--almost certain. He'd get into a taxi-cab--I think that's much +more certain, because it would be a novelty to him. He'd want some +tea--anyway, he'd be sure to want a drink, and he'd turn in somewhere +to get one or the other. He'd buy things in shops--these Colonials +always do. He'd go somewhere to get his dinner. He'd--but what's the +use of enumeration in this case?" + +"A mere piling up of platitudes," answered Spargo. + +"What I mean is," continued Breton, "that piles of people must have +seen him, and yet it's now hours and hours since your paper came out +this morning, and nobody's come forward to tell anything. And when you +come to think of it, why should they? Who'd remember an ordinary man in +a grey tweed suit?" + +"'An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,'" repeated Spargo. "Good line. +You haven't any copyright in it, remember. It would make a good +cross-heading." + +Breton laughed. "You're a queer chap, Spargo," he said. "Seriously, do +you think you're getting any nearer anything?" + +"I'm getting nearer something with everything that's done," Spargo +answered. "You can't start on a business like this without evolving +something out of it, you know." + +"Well," said Breton, "to me there's not so much mystery in it. Mr. +Aylmore's explained the reason why my address was found on the body; +Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained--" + +Spargo suddenly looked up. + +"What?" he said sharply. + +"Why, the reason of Marbury's being found where he was found," replied +Breton. "Of course, I see it all! Marbury was mooning around Fleet +Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see +where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The +thing's plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it." + +"Yes, that's it," agreed Spargo. "That's it." He turned over the leaves +of the diary which lay on his desk. "By the by," he said, looking up +with some interest, "the adjourned inquest is at eleven o'clock +tomorrow morning. Are you going?" + +"I shall certainly go," answered Breton. "What's more, I'm going to +take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details were over at +the first sitting, and as there'll be nothing but this new evidence +tomorrow, and as they've never been in a coroner's court----" + +"Mr. Aylmore'll be the principal witness tomorrow," interrupted Spargo. +"I suppose he'll be able to tell a lot more than he told--me." + +Breton shrugged his shoulders. + +"I don't see that there's much more to tell," he said. "But," he added, +with a sly laugh, "I suppose you want some more good copy, eh?" + +Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. "I'll tell +you what I want," he said. "I want to know who John Marbury was. That +would make good copy. Who he was--twenty--twenty-five--forty years ago. +Eh?" + +"And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?" asked Breton. + +"Mr. Aylmore," answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, "is the +only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John +Marbury in the--past. But he didn't tell me--much. Perhaps he'll tell +the coroner and his jury--more. Now, I'm off Breton--I've an +appointment." + +And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped +into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. +At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. + +"Well?" said Spargo, as he sprang out: "How is it?" + +"It's all right," answered Rathbury. "You can be present: I got the +necessary permission. As there are no relations known, there'll only be +one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit people, and myself. +Come on--it's about time." + +"It sounds," observed Spargo, "like an exhumation." + +Rathbury laughed. "Well, we're certainly going to dig up a dead man's +secrets," he said. "At least, we may be going to do so. In my opinion, +Mr. Spargo, we'll find some clue in this leather box." + +Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room +where were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to +be the chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had +spoken. And in another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that +the company possessed duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper +authorization having been received from the proper authorities, those +present would now proceed to the safe recently tenanted by the late Mr. +John Marbury, and take from it the property which he himself had +deposited there, a small leather box, which they would afterwards bring +to that room and cause to be opened in each other's presence. + +It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and +bars before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so +recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased. +And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it +seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any +importance. In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden +locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it reminded Spargo +irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept +his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake +smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury's name had been newly painted +upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door--the +front door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly +opened by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and +expectation still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders. + +"The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please," commanded the chairman, +"the duplicate key!" + +Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a +curious-looking key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about +to christen a battleship: the steel door swung slowly back. And there, +in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box. + +It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary's room that the +procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the +chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary +authorization from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying +the box: followed two other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with +watching official and police interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up +the rear. He whispered something of his notions to the detective; +Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. + +"Let's hope we're going to see--something!" he said. + +In the secretary's room a man waited who touched his forelock +respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box +on the table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members +of the procession gathered round. + +"As we naturally possess no key to this box," announced the chairman in +grave tones, "it becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in +opening it. Jobson!" + +He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity. +He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see +that he was anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters, +Spargo looked at the box. It was pretty much what it had been described +to him as being; a small, square box of old cow-hide, very strongly +made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the +lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for +many a long day. + +There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back. + +"That's it, if you please, sir," he said. + +The chairman motioned to the high official. + +"If you would be good enough to open the box, sir," he said. "Our duty +is now concluded." + +As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered +round with craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted: +somebody sighed deeply. And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer. + +The box was empty! + +Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there +was literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of +a plain, time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned +chintz stuff, such as our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar +with, and containing--nothing. + +"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the chairman. "This is--dear me!--why, +there is nothing in the box!" + +"That," remarked the high official, drily, "appears to be obvious." + +The chairman looked at the secretary. + +"I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst," he said, with the +half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of +an exceptionally fine treat. "Valuable!" + +Myerst coughed. + +"I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin," he +answered. "The--er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of +great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he +placed it in the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest +value." + +"But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the +_Watchman_ newspaper, that it was full of papers and--and other +articles," said the chairman. "Criedir saw papers in it about an hour +before it was brought here." + +Myerst spread out his hands. + +"I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin," he answered. "I +know nothing more." + +"But why should a man deposit an empty box?" began the chairman. "I--" + +The high official interposed. + +"That the box is empty is certain," he observed. "Did you ever handle +it yourself, Mr. Myerst?" + +Myerst smiled in a superior fashion. + +"I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered +this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he +rented, the box was never out of his hands," he replied. + +Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the +chairman. + +"Very well," he said. "We've made the enquiry. Rathbury, take the box +away with you and lock it up at the Yard." + +So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if +mystifying, material for the article which had already become the daily +feature of his paper. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN + +MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED + + +It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the +adjourned inquest next day that the whole story of what was now +world-famous as the Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated +before him for the thousandth time. There was not a detail of the story +with which he had not become familiar to fulness. The first proceeding +before the coroner had been of a merely formal nature; these were +thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and twelve +good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find +out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John +Marbury came by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo +found himself tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and +noting how each successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter +to the story. The story itself ran quite easily, naturally, +consecutively--you could make it in sections. And Spargo, sitting +merely to listen, made them: + +1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the +body. + +2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death--the man had +been struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow--from some +heavy instrument, and had died immediately. + +3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was +examined nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of +grey paper. + +4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man's new fashionable +cloth cap, bought at Fiskie's well-known shop in the West-End, he +traced Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District. + +5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the +Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there. + +6. The purser of the ss. _Wambarino_ proved that Marbury sailed from +Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved +himself like any other well-regulated passenger, and left the +_Wambarino_ at Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the +last day of his life in just the ordinary manner. + +7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the +matter of the stamps. + +8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury's visit to the Safe Deposit, and further +proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official +examination, to be empty. + +9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in +one of the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing +the meeting between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to +be Mr. Aylmore, a Member of Parliament. + +All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the +witness-box. And Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for +which the crowded court was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and +realistic specials in the _Watchman_, everybody there had already +become well and thoroughly acquainted with the mass of evidence +represented by the nine witnesses who had been in the box before Mr. +Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with the facts which Mr. +Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview at the club, +which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary interest +which the Member of Parliament's appearance aroused? For everybody was +extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the last man +who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the +public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who +met Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his +hotel with him, hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the +hotel with him for a stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo +knew well why the interest was so keen--everybody knew that Aylmore was +the only man who could tell the court anything really pertinent about +Marbury; who he was, what he was after; what his life had been. + +He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the +witness-box--a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was +only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a +well-drilled soldier's, who carried about him an air of conscious +power. Aylmore's two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite +Spargo, with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had +encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given +him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time; it +was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of +entertainment; they might have been idlers in some Eastern bazaar, +listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional +tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at +them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in +their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes. + +"All that they feel," he thought, "is a bit of extra excitement at the +idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful mystery. Um! +Well--now how much is he mixed up?" + +And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his +eyes off the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the +witness which he was anxious to develop. + +The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr. +Aylmore's evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and +asked a question or two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell, +in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair; +and having received that permission, he went on in a calm, +unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It +sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years +ago. He had lost sight of him for--oh, quite twenty years. He had met +him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on +the evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having +no particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn, +he had gone back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained +awhile with him in his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had +afterwards gone out with him. He had given him the advice he wanted; +they had strolled across Waterloo Bridge; shortly afterwards they had +parted. That was all he knew. + +The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already. +It had been in print, under a big headline, in the _Watchman_. Aylmore +had now told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his +next step was to leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory +question or two from the Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a +motion as if to step down. But Spargo, who had been aware since the +beginning of the enquiry of the presence of a certain eminent counsel +who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in that gentleman's +direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his well-known, +apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, and +glance at the tall figure in the witness-box. + +"The fun is going to begin," muttered Spargo. + +The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made +a jerky bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He +looked like a man who is going to ask indifferent questions about the +state of the weather, or how Smith's wife was last time you heard of +her, or if stocks are likely to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this +man before, and he knew many signs of his in voice and manner and +glance. + +"I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your +acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some +time ago?" began the suave, seemingly careless voice. + +"A considerable time ago," answered Aylmore. + +"How long--roughly speaking?" + +"I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years." + +"Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way +you have described to us?" + +"Never." + +"Ever heard from him?" + +"No." + +"Ever heard of him?" + +"No." + +"But when you met, you knew each other at once?" + +"Well--almost at once." + +"Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each +other twenty or twenty-two years ago?" + +"We were--yes, well known to each other." + +"Close friends?" + +"I said we were acquaintances." + +"Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?" + +"His name? It was--Marbury." + +"Marbury--the same name. Where did you know him?" + +"I--oh, here in London." + +"What was he?" + +"Do you mean--what was his occupation?" + +"What was his occupation?" + +"I believe he was concerned in financial matters." + +"Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?" + +"Well, yes--on occasions." + +"What was his business address in London?" + +"I can't remember that." + +"What was his private address?" + +"That I never knew." + +"Where did you transact your business with him?" + +"Well, we met, now and then." + +"Where? What place, office, resort?" + +"I can't remember particular places. Sometimes--in the City." + +"In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or +St. Paul's Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?" + +"I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange." + +"Oh! Was he a member of that institution?" + +"Not that I know of." + +"Were you?" + +"Certainly not!" + +"What were the dealings that you had with him?" + +"Financial dealings--small ones." + +"How long did your acquaintanceship with him last--what period did it +extend over?" + +"I should say about six months to nine months." + +"No more?" + +"Certainly no more." + +"It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?" + +"Oh, quite!" + +"And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for +over twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?" + +"Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he +told me the other evening." + +"I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or +two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men +are more or less public property. You are represented in this work of +popular reference as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina, +where you made a considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that +you were in London, acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890 +to 1892. Did you then leave England soon after knowing Marbury?" + +"I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892--I am not sure which." + +"We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want +to solve the important question--who is, who was John Marbury, and how +did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who +knows anything about him. What was your business before you left +England?" + +"I was interested in financial affairs." + +"Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?" + +"In London, of course." + +"At what address?" + +For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His +brow had flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared +his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly. + +"I resent these questions about my private affairs!" he snapped out. + +"Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question." + +"And I refuse to answer it." + +"Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you +are telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?" + +"I refuse to answer that question also!" + +The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE + +THE NEW WITNESS + + +The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence. +He was addressing the witness. + +"I am sure, Mr. Aylmore," he said, "there is no wish to trouble you +with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of this +matter of John Marbury's death, and as you are the only witness we have +had who knew him personally--" + +Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner. + +"I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!" he exclaimed. "And +I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I +met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private +affairs of twenty years ago--I very much resent it! Any question that +is really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that +seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry." + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest, +and Spargo again became keenly attentive. + +"Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not +yield him offence," he remarked drily. He turned once more to the +witness, regarding him as if with interest. "Can you tell us of any +person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under +discussion--twenty to twenty-two or three years ago?" he asked. + +Aylmore shook his head angrily. + +"No, I can't,'' he replied. + +"And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at +that time who knew you both!" + +"Possibly--at that time. But when I returned to England my business and +my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don't know +of anybody who knew Marbury then--anybody." + +The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him; +Spargo saw the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the +door of the court. The Counsel looked again at the witness. + +"One more question. You told the court a little time since that you +parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of +Waterloo Bridge--at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve." + +"About that time." + +"And at that place?" + +"Yes." + +"That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore--just now," said the +Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. "I am going to ask you, sir, at this +point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the +police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important +nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be +given to you and the jury. If you would be pleased to direct that David +Lyell be called--" + +Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had +sat behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into +view, ushered by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident +young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being +called, stepped jauntily and readily into the place which the member of +Parliament just vacated. He took the oath--Scotch fashion--with the +same readiness and turned easily to the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo, +glancing quickly round, saw that the court was breathless with +anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was +going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by +Aylmore. + +"Your name is David Lyell?" + +"That is my name, sir." + +"And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?" + +"I do." + +"What are you, Mr. Lyell?" + +"Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & Soutar, +distillers, of Kilmarnock." + +"Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?" + +"They do--once every six weeks I go to Paris." + +"On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to +Paris?" + +"I was." + +"I believe you stayed at De Keyser's Hotel, at the Blackfriars end of +the Embankment?" + +"I did--it's handy for the continental trains." + +"About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go +along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?" + +"I did, sir. I'm a bad sleeper, and it's a habit of mine to take a walk +of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed." + +"How far did you walk?" + +"As far as Waterloo Bridge." + +"Always on the Temple side?" + +"Just so, sir--straight along on that side." + +"Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody +you knew?" + +"Yes." + +"Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament." + +Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder's head +was averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And +Breton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining +silk hat. + +"Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament," repeated the Counsel's suave, +clear tones. "Oh! And how did you come to recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member +of Parliament?" + +"Well, sir, in this way. At home, I'm the secretary of our Liberal Ward +Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to +arrange with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and +speak, and naturally I met him several times, in London and in +Scotland." + +"So that you knew him quite well?" + +"Oh yes, sir." + +"Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?" + +Lyell smiled and half turned in the box. + +"Why, of course!" he answered. "There is Mr. Aylmore." + +"There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore +close to Waterloo Bridge? How close?" + +"Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the +bridge on to the Embankment." + +"Alone?" + +"No." + +"Who was with him?" + +"A man, sir." + +"Did you know the man?" + +"No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I haven't +forgotten his face." + +"You haven't forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell--has anything recalled that +face to you within this last day or two?" + +"Yes, sir, indeed!" + +"What?" + +"The picture of the man they say was murdered--John Marbury." + +"You're sure of that?" + +"I'm as certain, sir, as that my name's what it is." + +"It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied +by the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?" + +"It is, sir!" + +"Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did +you do?" + +"Oh, I just turned and walked after them." + +"You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?" + +"They were walking by the way I'd come." + +"You followed them eastward?" + +"I did--I was going back to the hotel, you see." + +"What were they doing?" + +"Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir." + +"How far did you follow them?" + +"I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle +Temple Lane, sir." + +"And then?" + +"Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De Keyser's, +and to my bed." + +There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other +period of the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen +voice put the next question. + +"You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion +into the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the +occasion in question?" + +"I do! I could swear no other, sir." + +"Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?" + +"Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve." + +The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a +whispered conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the +witness. + +"You have only just given this information to the police, I +understand?" he said. + +"Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by +this morning's boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the +papers--the English papers--and seen the dead man's photographs I +determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland +Yard as soon as I got to London this morning." + +Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped +down. And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the +Coroner's attention. + +"May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?" he began. "I--" + +But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and +implacable. "I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in +the box, and that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or +even to answer questions," he said. "And before you allow him to make +any explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to +interpose at this stage. That witness is----" + +Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner. + +"After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be +heard at once!" he said with emphasis. "As matters stand at present, it +looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I am +allowed to make an explanation--" + +"I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any +explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard," said the +Treasury Counsel sternly. "There are weighty reasons." + +"I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give +an explanation," said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. "Who is +this other witness?" he asked. + +Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two +daughters was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no +distrust of her father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly +turned to the next witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment +lodge of Middle Temple Lane. The Treasury Counsel put a straight +question to him at once. + +"You see that gentleman," he said, pointing to Aylmore. "Do you know +him as an inmate of the Temple?" + +The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused. + +"Why, certainly, sir!" he answered. "Quite well, sir." + +"Very good. And now--what name do you know him by?" + +The man grew evidently more bewildered. + +"Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!" he replied. "Mr. Anderson!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN + +UNDER SUSPICION + + +A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed +court as this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified +many things--that there were people present who had expected some such +dramatic development; that there were others present who had not; that +the answer itself was only a prelude to further developments. And +Spargo, looking narrowly about him, saw that the answer had aroused +different feelings in Aylmore's two daughters. The elder one had +dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the younger was sitting +bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine bewilderment. +And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her. + +But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no +stopping the Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in +his own merciless fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the +Coroner, had whispered a word to the solicitor who sat close by him, +and now he turned again to the witness. + +"So you know that gentleman--make sure now--as Mr. Anderson, an inmate +of the Temple?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"You don't know him by any other name?" + +"No, sir, I don't." + +"How long have you known him by that name?" + +"I should say two or three years, sir." + +"See him go in and out regularly?" + +"No, sir--not regularly." + +"How often, then?" + +"Now and then, sir--perhaps once a week." + +"Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson's goings-in-and-out." + +"Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn't see him +again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir." + +"You say 'nights.' Do I understand that you never see Mr. Anderson +except at night?" + +"Yes, sir. I've never seen him except at night. Always about the same +time, sir." + +"What time?" + +"Just about midnight, sir." + +"Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?" + +"I do, sir." + +"Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?" + +"Yes, sir, just after twelve." + +"Was he alone?" + +"No, sir; there was another gentleman with him." + +"Remember anything about that other gentleman?" + +"Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the +other gentleman had grey clothes on." + +"Had grey clothes on. You didn't see his face?" + +"Not to remember it, sir. I don't remember anything but what I've told +you, sir." + +"That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr. +Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they'd passed +through?" + +"Straight up the Lane, sir." + +"Do you know where Mr. Anderson's rooms in the Temple are?" + +"Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court." + +"Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your +lodge?" + +"No, sir." + +"You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple +Lane next morning?" + +"I did, sir." + +"Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?" + +"No, sir, I didn't. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen who +live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the +matter any particular thought." + +"Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to +come here?" + +"No, sir, never, to anybody." + +"And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but +Mr. Anderson?" + +"No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson." + +The Coroner glanced at the Counsel. + +"I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give +the explanation he offered a few minutes ago," he said. "Do you suggest +anything?" + +"I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he +should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination +again on his oath," replied the Counsel. "The matter is in your hands." + +The Coroner turned to Aylmore. + +"Do you object to that?" he asked. + +Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box. + +"I object to nothing," he said in clear tones, "except to being asked +to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and +cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you +like, arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will +answer them so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me +questions about matters of twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or +not as I see fit. And I may as well say that I will take all the +consequences of my silence or my speech." + +The Treasury Counsel rose again. + +"Very well, Mr. Aylmore," he said. "I will put certain questions to +you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?" + +"I did." + +"Was that quite true as regards yourself?" + +"Quite true--absolutely true." + +"And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!" + +"Equally true." + +"Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these +witnesses came on the scene, was not true?" + +"No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true." + +"True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on +Waterloo Bridge!" + +"Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the +Anglo-Orient Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly +afterwards we parted--I did not say where we parted. I see there is a +shorthand writer here who is taking everything down--ask him if that is +not exactly what I said?" + +A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the +Treasury Counsel showed plain annoyance. + +"Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of +ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open +streets after crossing Waterloo Bridge," he said. "Now--?" + +Aylmore smiled. + +"I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten +any more than I am for your understanding," he said, with a sneer. "I +said what I now repeat--Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, +and shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth." + +"Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have +admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely +correct, perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did +part?" + +"I will--willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain +Court." + +"Then--to reiterate--it was you who took Marbury into the Temple that +night?" + +"It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night." + +There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate +was fact--solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible +course of events which he had not anticipated. + +"That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain +danger to yourself in making it." + +"I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it." + +"Very good. Why did you not make it before?" + +"For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for +the purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I +asked to be allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as +soon as Mr. Lyell had left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am +willing to make it now." + +"Make it then." + +"It is simply this," said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. "I have +found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set +of chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally--very +occasionally, as a rule--go late at night. I also found it convenient, +for my own reasons--with which, I think, no one has anything to do--to +rent those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my +chambers that Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight +with which we are dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at +the very outside: I parted from him at my outer door, and I understood +that he would leave the Temple by the way we had entered and would +drive or walk straight back to his hotel. That is the whole truth. I +wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told all this at first. I had +reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered necessary, that I +parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after midnight." + +"What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all +this at first?" asked the Treasury Counsel. + +"Reasons which are private to me." + +"Will you tell them to the court?" + +"No!" + +"Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in +Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?" + +"Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for +him for twenty years or more." + +"A document of importance?" + +"Of very great importance." + +"He would have it on him when he was--as we believe he was--murdered +and robbed?" + +"He had it on him when he left me." + +"Will you tell us what it was?" + +"Certainly not!" + +"In fact, you won't tell us any more than you choose to tell?" + +"I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night." + +"Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact +that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told +this court?" + +"That I shall not answer." + +"Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more +about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years +ago?" + +"I also decline to answer that." + +The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned +to the Coroner. + +"I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry," he said +quietly. + +"For a week," assented the Coroner, turning to the jury. + +The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming-- +spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all +mixed up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily +reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the +day's work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found +himself gazing at Jessie Aylmore. + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN + +THE SILVER TICKET + + +With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl +aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a +quiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering her +breath. + +"Yes?" he said quietly. + +Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly. + +"I want to speak to you," she said. "I must speak to you." + +"Yes," said Spargo. "But--the others? Your sister?--Breton?" + +"I left them on purpose to speak to you," she answered. "They knew I +did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself." + +Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with +him. + +"Tea," he said, "is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place +close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and +have some." + +Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo +said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat +pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had +installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old +tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot +tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her. + +"You want," he said, "to talk to me about your father." + +"Yes," she answered. "I do." + +"Why?" asked Spargo. + +The girl gave him a searching look. + +"Ronald Breton says you're the man who's written all those special +articles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case," she answered. "Are +you?" + +"I am," said Spargo. + +"Then you're a man of great influence," she went on. "You can stir the +public mind. Mr. Spargo--what are you going to write about my father +and today's proceedings?" + +Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He +seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, +and bit a great lump out of it. + +"Frankly," he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, "frankly, I don't +know. I don't know--yet. But I'll tell you this--it's best to be +candid--I shouldn't allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making +up my conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?" + +Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the +unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners. + +"I'm not wanting to prejudice or bias you," she said. "All I want is +that you should be very sure before you say--anything." + +"I'll be sure," said Spargo. "Don't bother. Is the tea all right?" + +"Beautiful!" she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her +again. "Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!--what did you think +about--about what has just happened?" + +Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally +ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy +hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea. + +"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I'm no great hand at talking. I can +write pretty decently when I've a good story to tell, but I don't talk +an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I've got a +pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When +I write my article this evening, I'll get all these things marshalled +in proper form, and I shall write clearly about 'em. But I'll tell you +one thing I do think--I wish your father had made a clean breast of +things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told +everything when he first went into that box." + +"Why?" she asked. + +"Because he's now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around +himself. People'll think--Heaven knows what they'll think! They already +know that he knows more about Marbury than he'll tell, that--" + +"But does he?" she interrupted quickly. "Do you think he does?" + +"Yes!" replied Spargo, with emphasis. "I do. A lot more! If he had only +been explicit at first--however, he wasn't. Now it's done. As things +stand--look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very +serious position?" + +"Serious?" she exclaimed. + +"Dangerous! Here's the fact--he's admitted that he took Marbury to his +rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury's found +robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!" + +"Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of +robbing him of whatever he had on him?" she laughed scornfully. "My +father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo." + +"May be," answered Spargo. "But millionaires have been known to murder +men who held secrets." + +"Secrets!" she exclaimed. + +"Have some more tea," said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. "Look +here--this way it is. The theory that people--some people--will build +up (I won't say that it hasn't suggested itself to me) is +this:--There's some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, +connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty +odd years ago. Must be. There's some mystery about your father's life, +twenty odd years ago. Must be--or else he'd have answered those +questions. Very well. 'Ha, ha!' says the general public. 'Now we have +it!' 'Marbury,' says the general public, 'was a man who had a hold on +Aylmore. He turned up. Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him +to preserve his own secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a +blind.' Eh?" + +"You think--people will say that?" she exclaimed. + +"Cock-sure! They're saying it. Heard half a dozen of 'em say it, in +more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, +they'll say it. Why, what else could they say?" + +For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then +she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new +interest in what remained of the tea-cakes. + +"Is that what you're going to say in your article tonight?" she asked, +quietly. + +"No!" replied Spargo, promptly. "It isn't. I'm going to sit on the +fence tonight. Besides, the case is _sub judice_. All I'm going to do +is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest." + +The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on +Spargo's big fist. + +"Is it what you think?" she asked in a low voice. + +"Honour bright, no!" exclaimed Spargo. "It isn't--it isn't! I don't +think it. I think there's a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of +Marbury's death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about +Marbury that he won't tell, but I'm certain sure that he neither killed +Marbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I'm out to +clear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing'll make me more glad +than to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We'll +have fresh ones--and fresh tea." + +"No, thank you," she said smiling. "And thank you for what you've just +said. I'm going now, Mr. Spargo. You've done me good." + +"Oh, rot!" exclaimed Spargo. "Nothing--nothing! I've just told you what +I'm thinking. You must go?..." + +He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood +vacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the +shoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him. + +"All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!" he said. "Well, it's a pleasant +change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look +here, are you going to start your writing just now?" + +"I'm not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I've +dined at seven o'clock and given myself time to digest my modest +dinner," answered Spargo. "What is it?" + +"Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box," +said Rathbury. "I've got it in my room, and I'd like to examine it for +myself. Come on!" + +"The thing's empty," said Spargo. + +"There might be a false bottom in it," remarked Rathbury. "One never +knows. Here, jump into this!" + +He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the +driver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and +himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen +him before. + +"What d'ye think of today's doings, Spargo?" he asked, as he proceeded +to unlock a cupboard. + +"I think," said Spargo, "that some of you fellows must have had your +ears set to tingling." + +"That's so," assented Rathbury. "Of course, the next thing'll be to +find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a man +won't tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was exactly +doing, what his precise relationship with another man was--why, then, +you've just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work on +the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already--you bet! +Well, now, Spargo, here's the famous box." + +The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which +he had been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the +lid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against the +exterior lines. + +"No false bottom in that, Rathbury," he said. "There's just the outer +leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, and +that's all. There's no room for any false bottom or anything of that +sort, d'you see?" + +Rathbury also sized up the box's capacity. + +"Looks like it," he said disappointedly. "Well, what about the lid, +then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother's +farmhouse, where I was reared--there was a pocket in the lid. Let's see +if there's anything of the sort here?" + +He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the +tips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a +sharp exclamation. + +"By George, Spargo!" he said. "I don't know about any pocket, but +there's something under this lining. Feels like--here, you feel. +There--and there." + +Spargo put a finger on the places indicated. + +"Yes, that's so," he agreed. "Feels like two cards--a large and a small +one. And the small one's harder than the other. Better cut that lining +out, Rathbury." + +"That," remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, "is just what I'm +going to do. We'll cut along this seam." + +He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining +of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects +which he dropped on his blotting pad. + +"A child's photograph," he said, glancing at one of them. "But what on +earth is that?" + +The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, +much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it +was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost +obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction, +was the figure of a horse. + +"That's a curious object," remarked Spargo, picking it up. "I never saw +anything like that before. What can it be?" + +"Don't know--I never saw anything of the sort either," said Rathbury. +"Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah--you see, the +photographer's name and address have been torn away or broken +off--there's nothing left but just two letters of what's apparently +been the name of the town--see. Er--that's all there is. Portrait of a +baby, eh?" + +Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a +casual glance at the baby's portrait. He picked up the silver ticket +again and turned it over and over. + +"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Let me take this silver thing. I know +where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.'' + +"All right," agreed the detective, "but take the greatest care of it, +and don't tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No +connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember." + +"Oh, all right," said Spargo. "Trust me." + +He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, +wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article +that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street +intent on seeking peculiar information. + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN + +MARKET MILCASTER + + +The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned +out of the _Watchman_ office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and +knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not +elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of +course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the +simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of +congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and +acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name +of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your +means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law, +and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what +you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a +small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about +Fleet Street bars. + +The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the +Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and +Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate +you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways. +You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as +if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls. +Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a +small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer's ink in +your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made +another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, +crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a +few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past +various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After +a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and +found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself +in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted--the whole and sole +work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of +lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you +saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal +legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you +were a member you went in, and if you weren't a member you tinkled an +electric bell and asked to see a member--if you knew one. + +Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the +bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a +young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly +hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course +and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled. + +"Had we known you were coming," said Mr. Starkey, "we'd have had a +brass band on the stairs." + +"I want to come in," remarked Spargo. + +"Sure!" said Mr. Starkey. "That's what you've come for." + +"Well, stand out of the way, then, and let's get in," said Spargo. +"Look here," he continued when they had penetrated into a small +vestibule, "doesn't old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every +night?" + +"Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his +nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily +column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects +of their spotting a winner tomorrow," answered Mr. Starkey. "It's five +minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?" + +"A word with him," answered Spargo. "A mere word--or two." + +He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and +sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But +the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the +canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting +around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the +great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of +their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a +small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it. + +"Name it, my son," commanded Starkey. "Try the Octoneumenoi very extra +special. Two of 'em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?" + +"I'll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal +regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a +route-map of the way from Fleet Street," answered Spargo, taking his +glass. "Phew!--what an atmosphere!" + +"We're considering a ventilating fan," said Starkey. "I'm on the house +committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting. +But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_--you know Templeson--he says what we +want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard--says no club is +proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap--second-hand +dealer, don't you know--what has a beauty to dispose of in old +Sheffield plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old +man, would you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You +see--" + +"There is Crowfoot," said Spargo. "Shout him over here, Starkey, before +anybody else collars him." + +Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously +came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights. +He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a +big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and +beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from +beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap; +his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he +looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his +flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive +cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their +wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye. + +"Hi, Crowfoot!" shouted Starkey above the din and babel. "Crowfoot, +Crowfoot! Come over here, there's a chap dying to see you!" + +"Yes, that's the way to get him, isn't it?" said Spargo. "Here, I'll +get him myself." + +He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist. + +"I want a quiet word with you," he said. "This place is like a +pandemonium." + +Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink. + +"Always is, this time," he said, yawning. "But it's companionable. What +is it, Spargo?" + +Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. "I +should say," he said, "that you know as much about sporting matters as +any man writing about 'em?" + +"Well, I think you might say it with truth," answered Crowfoot. + +"And old sporting matters?" said Spargo. + +"Yes, and old sporting matters," replied the other with a sudden flash +of the eye. "Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you +know." + +"Well, there's something that's interesting me greatly just now, +anyway," said Spargo. "And I believe it's got to do with old sporting +affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to +be the only man I know of that could tell anything." + +"Yes--what is it?" asked Crowfoot. + +Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up +silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on +Crowfoot's outstretched palm. + +"Can you tell me what that is?" he asked. + +Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman's eyes--he eagerly +turned the silver ticket over. + +"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get this?" + +"Never mind, just now," replied Spargo. "You know what it is?" + +"Certainly I know what it is! But--Gad! I've not seen one of these +things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a +young 'un again!" said Crowfoot. "Quite a young 'un!" + +"But what is it?" asked Spargo. + +Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic +device was almost worn away. + +"It's one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at +Market Milcaster," answered Crowfoot. "That's what it is. One of the +old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market +Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the +obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that's what it is! +Bless me!--most interesting." + +"Where's Market Milcaster?" enquired Spargo. "Don't know it." + +"Market Milcaster," replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket +over and over, "is what the topographers call a decayed town in +Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got +gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in +June every year. It's nearly forty years since that meeting fell +through. I went to it often when I was a lad--often!" + +"And you say that's a ticket for the stand?" asked Spargo. + +"This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like +to call 'em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses +of the town," answered Crowfoot. "It was, I remember, considered a +great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its +possessor--for life, mind you!--to the stand, the paddocks, the ring, +anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on +earth did you get this, Spargo?" + +Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting +it in his purse. + +"I'm awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot," he said, "The fact is, I can't +tell you where I got it just now, but I'll promise you that I will tell +you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue's free to do so." + +"Some mystery, eh?" suggested Crowfoot. + +"Considerable," answered Spargo. "Don't mention to anyone that I showed +it to you. You shall know everything eventually." + +"Oh, all right, my boy, all right!" said Crowfoot. "Odd how things turn +up, isn't it? Now, I'll wager anything that there aren't half a dozen +of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. As I said, there +were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. They +were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I've been +in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I've seen +these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces--oh, yes!" + +Spargo caught at a notion. + +"How do you get to Market Milcaster?" he asked. + +"Paddington," replied Crowfoot. "It's a goodish way." + +"I wonder," said Spargo, "if there's any old sporting man there who +could remember--things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?" + +"Old sporting man!" exclaimed Crowfoot. "Egad!--but no, he must be +dead--anyhow, if he isn't dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old +Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare +sportsman." + +"I may go down there," said Spargo. "I'll see if he's alive." + +"Then, if you do go down," suggested Crowfoot, "go to the old 'Yellow +Dragon' in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage's place of +business and his private house were exactly opposite the 'Dragon.' But +I'm afraid you'll find him dead--it's five and twenty years since I was +in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let's see, now. If +Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he'll be ninety years of age!" + +"Well, I've known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit of +experience," said Spargo. "I know one--now--my own grandfather. Well, +the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I'll tell you all about it some day." + +"Have another drink?" suggested Crowfoot. + +But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; +he still had something to do. And he got himself away from the +Octoneumenoi, in spite of Starkey, who wished to start a general debate +on the wisest way of expending the club's ready money balance, and went +back to the _Watchman_, and there he sought the presence of the editor, +and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, saw +him and remained closeted with him for the extraordinary space of ten +minutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed. + +But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at +Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market +Milcaster, and in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an +old-fashioned bedroom looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And +there, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick, +ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the +name, _Benjamin Quarterpage_. + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN + +THE "YELLOW DRAGON" + + +Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in +that old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in +further speculations on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He +had no particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was +that in the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury +had deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he +and Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market +Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market +Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to +trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task? + +"The first thing," said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, "is to +have a look round. That'll be no long job." + +For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from +the station to the "Yellow Dragon" Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a +very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide +thoroughfare--the High Street--with smaller streets leading from it on +either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town +could show--the ancient parish church, the town hall, the market cross, +the principal houses and shops, the bridge, beneath which ran the river +whereon ships had once come up to the town before its mouth, four miles +away, became impassably silted up. It was a bright, clean, little town, +but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo had been quick to +notice that in the "Yellow Dragon," a big, rambling old hostelry, +reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be little doing. +He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his +arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and +fifty people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter, +evidently tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like +an artist, and an unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in +it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo's +windows; little passage of people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a +countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along; there a farmer in his +light cart sat idly chatting with an aproned tradesman, who had come +out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the +sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open windows stole a +faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows outside the +old houses. + +"A veritable Sleepy Hollow," mused Spargo. "Let's go down and see if +there's anybody to talk to. Great Scott!--to think that I was in the +poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!" + +Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally +landed in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure +instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he +entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed +apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and +ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There +were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had +certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a +century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase, +and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats; +there were foxes' masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case +on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and +an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small, +old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young +woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy +needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have +looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo, +treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany +it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair. + +"This," he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, "appears to me to +be a very quiet place." + +"Quiet!" exclaimed the lady. "Quiet?" + +"That," continued Spargo, "is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see +that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of +emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far, +that the place is undoubtedly quiet." + +The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a +new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and +coming out into the room took a chair near his own. + +"It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here," she remarked. +"It's about all that one ever does see." + +"Are there many?" asked Spargo. "Do the inhabitants die much of +inanition?" + +The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. + +"Oh, you're joking!" she said. "It's well you can. Nothing ever happens +here. This place is a back number." + +"Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times," murmured +Spargo. "And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in +this town, then?" he added in a louder voice. + +"Nothing!" replied his companion. "It's fast asleep. I came here from +Birmingham, and I didn't know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you +see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months." + +"Ah!" said Spargo. "What you are suffering from is dulness. You must +have an antidote." + +"Dulness!" exclaimed the damsel. "That's the right word for Market +Milcaster. There's just a few regular old customers drop in here of a +morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in--perhaps +during the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit +round that end of the room and talk about old times. Old times, +indeed!--what they want in Market Milcaster is new times." + +Spargo pricked up his ears. + +"Well, but it's rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old +times," he said. "I love it!" + +"Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here," remarked the +barmaid. "Look in tonight any time after eight o'clock, and if you +don't know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you +did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen +drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that +they couldn't go to bed unless they've told each other stories about +old days which I should think they've heard a thousand times already!" + +"Very old men?" asked Spargo. + +"Methuselahs," replied the lady. "There's old Mr. Quarterpage, across +the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn't do any business +now--they say he's ninety, though I'm sure you wouldn't take him for +more than seventy. And there's Mr. Lummis, further down the +street--he's eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye--they're regular +patriarchs. I've sat here and listened to them till I believe I could +write a history of Market Milcaster since the year One." + +"I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation," said +Spargo. + +He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the +barmaid's spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town +until seven o'clock, the "Dragon's" hour for dinner. There were no more +people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo +was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the +bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred +part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit. + +"And mind you don't sit in one of their chairs," said the barmaid, +warningly. "They all have their own special chairs and their special +pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if +anybody touched pipe or chair. But you're all right there, and you'll +hear all they've got to say." + +To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who, +twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible, +the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the "Yellow +Dragon" at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the +eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell +began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old +gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo's eye, gave him a +glance which showed that the play was about to begin. + +"Good evening, Mr. Kaye," said the barmaid. "You're first tonight." + +"Evening," said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and +became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black +clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe +of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times +round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined +to look on life severely. "Nobody been in yet?" asked Mr. Kaye. "No, +but here's Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene," replied the barmaid. + +Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a +little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting +cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a +flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish +angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian +swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and +gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These +two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed +to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly +as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies. + +"Well?" he said, "Here's three of us. And there's a symposium." + +"Wait a bit, wait a bit," said the dapper little man. "Grandpa'll be +here in a minute. We'll start fair." + +The barmaid glanced out of the window. + +"There's Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now," she announced. +"Shall I put the things on the table?" + +"Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!" commanded the fat man. "Have +all in readiness." + +The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs, +set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for +making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she +had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening's discourse +when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old +men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the +venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he +took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his +friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight +which were positively boyish. + +Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety--a middle-sized, +sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb, +clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was +ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his +hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were +smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a +fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease +of life before him even at his age. + +Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began +their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them--the +five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made +the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out +each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to +wag. Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of +anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town +dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in +the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as +for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past. + +Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when +she said that she believed she could write a history of Market +Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local +events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to +reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident +upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of +racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a +bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the +silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device +uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a +polite bow, said quietly: + +"Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?" + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN + +MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK + + +If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen's bowl of punch--the second of +the evening--or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he +could scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought +upon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble +of conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took +his cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was +sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the +interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his +outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to +whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing +with great _empressement_ to the ticket. + +"Young gentleman!" he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble +a little, "young gentleman, where did you get that?" + +"You know what it is, then?" asked Spargo, willing to dally a little +with the matter. "You recognize it?" + +"Know it! Recognize it!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, and so does +every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a +stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think, +young gentleman, in this town." + +"No," replied Spargo. "Certainly not in this town. How should I get it +in this town if I'm a stranger?" + +"Quite true, quite true!" murmured Mr. Quarterpage. "I cannot conceive +how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those--what +shall we call them--heirlooms?--yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could +possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again--Where +did you get that, young gentleman?" + +"Before I tell you that," answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent +sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, "perhaps you will +tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, +much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings +of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. +But--what is it?" + +The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous +grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke. + +"It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, +young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges +in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now +unfortunately a thing of the past," he added. "Fifty--aye, +forty!--years ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets +was--was--" + +"A grand thing!" said one of the old gentlemen. + +"Mr. Lummis is right," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It was a grand thing--a +very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured--are treasured. +And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir--" + +Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. + +"I found this ticket--under mysterious circumstances--in London," he +answered. "I want to trace it. I want to know who its original owner +was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster." + +Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. + +"Wonderful!" he said. "Wonderful! He found this ticket--one of our +famous fifty--in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wants +to trace it--he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he has +come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal to +you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in +Market Milcaster for--I don't know how many years?" + +There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody +looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the +whole town. + +"But--why?" he asked, showing great surprise. "Why?" + +"Why?" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "Why? He asks--why? Because, young +gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of +mine, too, every man jack of 'em, to hear that any one of our fifty +tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families +to whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most +unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market +Milcaster family." + +"No, I'm not," admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until the +previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he +wisely refrained. "No, I'm certainly not," he added. + +Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe. + +"I believe," he said, "I believe that if the evening were not drawing +to a close--it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young +gentleman--I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, +give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the +race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!" + +"I'm sure you could!" asserted the little man in the loud suit. "Never +was such a memory as yours, never!" + +"Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters," said the +fat man. "Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia." + +"My memory is good," said Mr. Quarterpage. "It's the greatest blessing +I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a +little thought. And what's more, nearly every one of those fifty +families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or +if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out +how this young gentleman--from London, did you say, sir?" + +"From London," answered Spargo. + +"This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of +our tickets," continued Mr. Quarterpage. "It is--wonderful! But I tell +you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to +breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books +and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of +that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage--Benjamin +Quarterpage--and I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite +this inn, and my breakfast hour is nine o'clock sharp, and I shall bid +you heartily welcome!" + +Spargo made his best bow. + +"Sir," he said, "I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I +shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment." + +Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself +in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay +with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, +to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior--a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always +referred to by his father as something quite juvenile--and to Miss +Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than +her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the +choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and +rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a +man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a +vigorous and healthy appetite. + +Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo's possession +of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. +Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had +judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had +exhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ had +furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he +had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no +mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr. +Quarterpage's revelations would lead him. + +"You have no idea, Mr. Spargo," said the old gentleman, when, breakfast +over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which +were abundant evidences of the host's taste in sporting matters; "you +have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one +of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and +just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my +dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the +year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose +great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were +distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept +in their families for ever--nobody ever anticipated in those days that +our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great +privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and +female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder +himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand +race banquet--at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has +been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the +holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody." + +"And when the race-meeting fell through?" asked Spargo. "What then?" + +"Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as +heirlooms, to be taken great care of," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "They +were dealt with as I dealt with mine--framed on velvet, and hung up--or +locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care +of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the 'Dragon,' that I could +repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can. +But here"--the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a +parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence--"here is a +little volume of my own handwriting--memoranda relating to Market +Milcaster Races--in which is a list of the original holders, together +with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were +given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the +second list, I could trace every ticket--except the one you have in +your purse." + +"Every one?" said Spargo, in some surprise. + +"Every one! For as I told you," continued Mr. Quarterpage, "the +families are either in the town (we're a conservative people here in +Market Milcaster and we don't move far afield) or they're just outside +the town, or they're not far away. I can't conceive how the ticket you +have--and it's genuine enough--could ever get out of possession of one +of these families, and--" + +"Perhaps," suggested Spargo, "it never has been out of possession. I +told you it was found in the lining of a box--that box belonged to a +dead man." + +"A dead man!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "A dead man! Who could--ah! +Perhaps--perhaps I have an idea. Yes!--an idea. I remember something +now that I had never thought of." + +The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and +turned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. +He pointed this out to Spargo. + +"There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the +race-meetings came to an end," he said. "If you were acquainted with +this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known +inhabitants--all, of course, burgesses. There's mine, you +see--Quarterpage. There's Lummis, there's Kaye, there's Skene, there's +Templeby--the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names. +They all are--on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holders +of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the +tickets. Yes--and now that I think of it, there's only one man who held +a ticket when this list was made about whom I don't know anything--at +least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you've found must +have been his. But I thought--I thought somebody else had it!" + +"And this man, sir? Who was he?" asked Spargo, intuitively conscious +that he was coming to news. "Is his name there?" + +The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. + +"There it is!" he said. "John Maitland." + +Spargo bent over the fine writing. + +"Yes, John Maitland," he observed. "And who was John Maitland?" + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many +drawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old +newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up. + +"If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. +Spargo," he said, "you would have known who John Maitland was. For some +time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place--aye, and in this +corner of the world. But--aye, here it is--the newspaper of October +5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you'll find in this old newspaper who John +Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I'll tell you what to do. I've +just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day's business +over with my son--you take this newspaper out into the garden there +with one of these cigars, and read what'll you find in it, and when +you've read that we'll have some more talk." + +Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN + +AN OLD NEWSPAPER + + +As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the +middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar +and settled down to read. + +"MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS + +"TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND + +"The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on +Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the +Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on +the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman +Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton, +M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais +Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other +magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the +public in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of +the Market Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were +filled with the _elite_ of the town and neighbourhood, including a +considerable number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in +the proceedings. + +"The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the +very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the +occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster--he +referred to the fact that on both those occasions his friend the +Worshipful Mayor had been able to present him with a pair of white +gloves--was not to be repeated on the present occasion. It would be +their sad and regrettable lot to have before them a fellow-townsman +whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position in the +life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the +most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the +offence of embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many +years been the trusted manager, and with which he had been connected +all his life since his school days. He understood that the prisoner +who would shortly be put before the court on his trial was about to +plead guilty, and there would accordingly be no need for him to direct +the gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this matter--what he had to say +respecting the gravity and even enormity of the offence he would +reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury on the +merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later +period of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally +returned a true bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen +from well-known burgesses of the town having been duly sworn. + +"JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street, +Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd, +1891, the sum of L4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers, +the Market Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to +his own use. The prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most +acutely, and who looked very pale and much worn, was represented by +Mr. Charles Doolittle, the well-known barrister of Kingshaven; Mr. +Stephens, K.C., appeared on behalf of the prosecution. + +"Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty. + +"Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any +desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think, +had taken a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular +count in the indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound, +in the interests of justice, to set forth to the Court some +particulars of the defalcations which had arisen through the +prisoner's much lamented dishonesty. He proposed to offer a clear and +succinct account of the matter. The prisoner, John Maitland, was the +last of an old Market Milcaster family--he was, in fact, he believed, +with the exception of his own infant son, the very last of the race. +His father had been manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself +had entered the service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he +left the local Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at +the age of thirty-two; he had therefore occupied this highest position +of trust for ten years. His directors had the fullest confidence in +him; they relied on his honesty and his honour; they gave him +discretionary powers such as no bank-manager, probably, ever enjoyed +or held before. In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all +intents and purposes, the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other +words he was allowed full control over everything, and given full +licence to do what he liked. Whether the directors were wise in +extending such liberty to even the most trusted servant, it was not +for him (Mr. Stephens) to say; it was some consolation, under the +circumstances, to know that the loss would fall upon the directors, +inasmuch as they themselves held nearly the whole of the shares. But +he had to speak of the loss--of the serious defalcations which +Maitland had committed. The prisoner had wisely pleaded guilty to the +first count of the indictment. But there were no less than seventeen +counts in the indictment. He had pleaded guilty to embezzling a sum of +L4,875 odd. But the total amount of the defalcations, comprised in the +seventeen counts, was no less--it seemed a most amazing sum!--than +L221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the fact--the banking company had been +robbed of over two hundred thousand pounds by the prisoner in the dock +before a mere accident, the most trifling chance, had revealed to the +astounded directors that he was robbing them at all. And the most +serious feature of the whole case was that not one penny of this money +had been, or ever could be, recovered. He believed that the prisoner's +learned counsel was about to urge upon the Court that the prisoner +himself had been tricked and deceived by another man, unfortunately +not before the Court--a man, he understood, also well known in Market +Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore could not be called, but +whether he was so tricked or deceived was no excuse for his clever and +wholesale robbing of his employers. He had thought it necessary to put +these facts--which would not be denied--before the Court, in order +that it might be known how heavy the defalcations really had been, and +that they should be considered in dealing with the prisoner. + +"The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part +of the vast sum concerned. + +"Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the +remotest chance--the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting +on his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom +he had just made reference. + +"Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few +words to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens +for the considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had +outlined the main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the +prisoner's guilt. But, on prisoner's behalf, he desired to tell the +true story as to how these things came to be. Until as recently as +three years previously the prisoner had never made the slightest +deviation from the straight path of integrity. Unfortunately for him, +and, he believed, for some others in Market Milcaster, there came to +the town three years before the present proceedings, a man named +Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a +stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible +manners, Chamberlayne attracted a good many people--amongst them his +unfortunate client. It was matter of common knowledge that +Chamberlayne had induced numerous persons in Market Milcaster to +enter into financial transactions with him; it was matter of common +repute that those transactions had not always turned out well for +Chamberlayne's clients. Unhappily for himself, Maitland had great +faith in Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions with him in a +large way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was +involved to vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and +his methods, he had entrusted him with very large sums of money. + +"The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was +to understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner's own +money. + +"Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred +to were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in +Chamberlayne that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and +that these sums would be repaid, and that a vast profit would result +from their use. + +"The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put +the profit into his own pockets. + +"Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the +two hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question, +Chamberlayne had had the immediate handling of at least two hundred +thousand, and he, the prisoner, had not the ghost of a notion as to +what Chamberlayne had done with it. Unfortunately for everybody, for +the bank, for some other people, and especially for his unhappy +client, Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as these proceedings +were instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible to trace +anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious +circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs. + +"The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr. +Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder, +might think fit to pass. + +"Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few +remarks as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the +unfortunate man in the dock was that until three years ago he had +borne a most exemplary character, and had never committed a dishonest +action. It had been his misfortune, his folly, to allow a plausible +man to persuade him to these acts of dishonesty. That man had been +called to another account, and the prisoner was left to bear the +consequences of his association with him. It seemed as if +Chamberlayne had made away with the money for his own purposes, and it +might be that it would yet be recovered. He would only ask the Court +to remember the prisoner's antecedents and his previous good conduct, +and to bear in mind that whatever his near future might be he was, in +a commercial sense, ruined for life. + +"The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a +single word of valid excuse for Maitland's conduct. Such dishonesty +must be punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go +to penal servitude for ten years. + +"Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town +later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester." + +Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain +points in it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the +house--to see old Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window. + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN + +THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY + + +"I perceive, sir," said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the library, +"that you have read the account of the Maitland trial." + +"Twice," replied Spargo. + +"And you have come to the conclusion that--but what conclusion have you +come to?" asked Mr. Quarterpage. + +"That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland's property," said +Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once. + +"Just so," agreed the old gentleman. "I think so--I can't think +anything else. But I was under the impression that I could have +accounted for that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the +other forty-nine." + +"Yes--and how?" asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a +decanter and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully +polished the glasses with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set +glasses and decanter on a table in the window, motioning Spargo to take +a chair in proximity thereto. He himself pulled up his own elbow-chair. + +"We'll take a glass of my old brown sherry," he said. "Though I say it +as shouldn't, as the saying goes, I don't think you could find better +brown sherry than that from Land's End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr. +Spargo--no, nor further north either, where they used to have good +taste in liquor in my young days! Well, here's your good health, sir, +and I'll tell you about Maitland." + +"I'm curious," said Spargo. "And about more than Maitland. I want to +know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper report. I want +to know something about the man referred to so much--the stockbroker, +Chamberlayne." + +"Just so," observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. "I thought that would +touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when +Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then +about two years old. The child's mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss +Baylis, appeared on the scene--Maitland had married his wife from a +distance--and took possession of the child and of Maitland's personal +effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, and +all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small +personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket. +And she may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she +took the child away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in +Market Milcaster. Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things +removed to Dartmoor, and there he served his term. There were people +who were very anxious to get hold of him when he came out--the bank +people, for they believed that he knew more about the disposition of +that money than he'd ever told, and they wanted to induce him to tell +what they hoped he knew--between ourselves, Mr. Spargo, they were going +to make it worth his while to tell." + +Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old +gentleman talked. + +"Then they didn't believe what his counsel said--that Chamberlayne got +all the money?" he asked. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +"No--nor anybody else!" he answered. "There was a strong idea in the +town--you'll see why afterwards--that it was all a put-up job, and +that Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that there +was a nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the +bank people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special +agent to meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some +mistake arose--when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody's +ever heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis +has." + +"Where does this Miss Baylis live?" asked Spargo. + +"Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "She did live in +Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I +have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after +Maitland's release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to +trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in +Brighton, she'd completely disappeared, with the child, five years +before. So there wasn't a clue to Maitland. He served his time--made a +model prisoner--they did find that much out!--earned the maximum +remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there's +a theory about him in this very town to this very day!" + +"What?" asked Spargo. + +"This. That he's now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he +got from the bank," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "They say that the +sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the +child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland, +and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?" + +"I suppose that was possible," said Spargo. + +"Quite possible, sir. But now," continued the old gentleman, +replenishing the glasses, "now we come on to the Chamberlayne story. +It's a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at +first sight, I'll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions. +Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster--I don't know from +where--in 1886--five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then +about Maitland's age--a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk +to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas's place is +still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though +old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this +Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old +Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he +married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he'd +been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a +year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne +threw up his post at Vallas's, and started business as a stock-and-share +broker. He'd been a saving man; he'd got a nice bit of money with +his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his own, and +he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible manners: +he'd have coaxed butter out of a dog's throat if he'd wanted to. The +moneyed men of the town believed in him--I believed in him myself, Mr. +Spargo--I'd many a transaction with him, and I never lost aught by +him--on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for most of +his clients--there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the whole he +satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, nobody ever knew +what was going on between him and Maitland." + +"I gather from this report," said Spargo, "that everything came out +suddenly--unexpectedly?" + +"That was so, sir," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "Sudden? Unexpected? Aye, +as a crack of thunder on a fine winter's day. Nobody had the ghost of a +notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected in the +town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can +assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on +that grand jury as I did--I was its foreman, sir,--and hear a man +sentenced that you'd regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!" + +"How was the thing discovered?" asked Spargo, anxious to get at facts. + +"In this way," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "The Market Milcaster Bank is +in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the +town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father, +a young Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a +shrewd, keen young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about +Maitland, and he insisted on the other partners consenting to a special +investigation, and on their making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught +before he had a chance. But we're talking about Chamberlayne." + +"Yes, about Chamberlayne," agreed Spargo. + +"Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening," continued Mr. +Quarterpage. "Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town +like wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time--aye, and +had been for years--a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don't +think there could have been more surprise if we'd heard that the Vicar +had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all +over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear +that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often +remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland's arrest +nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again. +After his wife's death he'd taken to spending an hour or so of an +evening across there at the 'Dragon,' where you saw me and my friends +last night, but on that night he didn't go to the 'Dragon.' And next +morning he caught the eight o'clock train to London. He happened to +remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected +to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. +But Chamberlayne didn't come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn't +come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back +it was in a coffin!" + +"Dead?" exclaimed Spargo. "That was sudden!" + +"Very sudden," agreed Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, sir, he came back in his +coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he'd spoken of +being back, there came a telegram here to say that he'd died very +suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his +brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler--you'll find him down the +street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew +of Chamberlayne's, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London, +and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that +telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne +had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he'd +died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and +friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn't feel that +there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a +wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And +next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest +would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify +the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the +funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our +cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him +in it, with her." + +Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and +theories; he was taking everything in. + +"Well," continued Mr. Quarterpage, "on the second day after that, they +brought Chamberlayne's body down. Three of 'em came with it--Stephen +Chamberlayne, the doctor who'd been called in, and a solicitor. +Everything was done according to proper form and usage. As Chamberlayne +had been well known in the town, a good number of townsfolk met the +body at the station and followed it to the cemetery. Of course, many of +us who had been clients of Chamberlayne's were anxious to know how he +had come to such a sudden end. According to Stephen Chamberlayne's +account, our Chamberlayne had wired to him and to his solicitor to meet +him at the Cosmopolitan to do some business. They were awaiting him +there when he arrived, and they had lunch together. After that, they +got to their business in a private room. Towards the end of the +afternoon, Chamberlayne was taken suddenly ill, and though they got a +doctor to him at once, he died before evening. The doctor said he'd a +diseased heart. Anyhow, he was able to certify the cause of his death, +so there was no inquest and they buried him, as I have told you." + +The old gentleman paused and, taking a sip at his sherry, smiled at +some reminiscence which occurred to him. + +"Well," he said, presently going on, "of course, on that came all the +Maitland revelations, and Maitland vowed and declared that Chamberlayne +had not only had nearly all the money, but that he was absolutely +certain that most of it was in his hands in hard cash. But +Chamberlayne, Mr. Spargo, had left practically nothing. All that could +be traced was about three or four thousand pounds. He'd left everything +to his nephew, Stephen. There wasn't a trace, a clue to the vast sums +with which Maitland had entrusted him. And then people began to talk, +and they said what some of them say to this very day!" + +"What's that?" asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage leaned forward and tapped his guest on the arm. + +"That Chamberlayne never did die, and that that coffin was weighted +with lead!" he answered. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY + +MAITLAND _ALIAS_ MARBURY + + +This remarkable declaration awoke such a new conception of matters in +Spargo's mind, aroused such infinitely new possibilities in his +imagination, that for a full moment he sat silently staring at his +informant, who chuckled with quiet enjoyment at his visitor's surprise. + +"Do you mean to tell me," said Spargo at last, "that there are people +in this town who still believe that the coffin in your cemetery which +is said to contain Chamberlayne's body contains--lead?" + +"Lots of 'em, my dear sir!" replied Mr. Quarterpage. "Lots of 'em! Go +out in the street and ask the first six men you meet, and I'll go +bail that four out of the six believe it." + +"Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take +steps to make certain?" asked Spargo. "Why didn't they get an order for +exhumation?" + +"Because it was nobody's particular business to do so," answered Mr. +Quarterpage. "You don't know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns +like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they're +always slow to do anything. It's a case of who'll start first--of +initiative. And if they see it's going to cost anything--then they'll +have nothing to do with it." + +"But--the bank people?" suggested Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +"They're amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die," he +said. "They're very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the +Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the +nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now I'll tell you +something about those three. There was a man here in the town, a +gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper you've +got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and he +began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some +good--what do you call it?" + +"I suppose he'd call it 'copy,'" said Spargo. + +"'Copy'--that was his term," agreed Mr. Quarterpage. "Well, he took the +trouble to go to London to ask some quiet questions of the nephew, +Stephen. That was just twelve months after Chamberlayne had been +buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left England--months +before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they didn't know +which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the doctor--couldn't be +traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical Register. What do you +think of all that, Mr. Spargo?" + +"I think," answered Spargo, "that Market Milcaster folk are +considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired +into. The whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy." + +"Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody's business," said Mr. Quarterpage. +"The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, but it was no +good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is." + +"Mr. Quarterpage," said Spargo, "what's your own honest opinion?" + +The old gentleman smiled. + +"Ah!" he said. "I've often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I really have an +opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about the +whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it. +But we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old +silver ticket which you've got in your purse. Now----" + +"No!" said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag of +his forefinger. "No! I think we're coming nearer to it. Now you've +given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a lot, +and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I'm going to show you +something." + +And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph +of John Marbury--the original of the process-picture which he had had +made for the _Watchman_. He handed it over. + +"Do you recognize that photograph as that of anybody you know?" he +asked. "Look at it well and closely." + +Mr. Quarterpage put on a special pair of spectacles and studied the +photograph from several points of view. + +"No, sir," he said at last with a shake of the head. "I don't recognize +it at all." + +"Can't see in it any resemblance to any man you've ever known?" asked +Spargo. + +"No, sir, none!" replied Mr. Quarterpage. "None whatever." + +"Very well," said Spargo, laying the photograph on the table between +them. "Now, then, I want you to tell me what John Maitland was like +when you knew him. Also, I want you to describe Chamberlayne as he was +when he died, or was supposed to die. You remember them, of course, +quite well?" + +Mr. Quarterpage got up and moved to the door. + +"I can do better than that," he said. "I can show you photographs of +both men as they were just before Maitland's trial. I have a photograph +of a small group of Market Milcaster notabilities which was taken at a +municipal garden-party; Maitland and Chamberlayne are both in it. It's +been put away in a cabinet in my drawing-room for many a long year, and +I've no doubt it's as fresh as when it was taken." + +He left the room and presently returned with a large mounted photograph +which he laid on the table before his visitor. + +"There you are, sir," he said. "Quite fresh, you see--it must be +getting on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that +it's been kept in. Now, that's Maitland. And that's Chamberlayne." + +Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an +ivy-covered wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange +masses of sitters. He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated +by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built +men about whom there was nothing very specially noticeable. + +"Um!" he said, musingly. "Both bearded." + +"Yes, they both wore beards--full beards," assented Mr. Quarterpage. +"And you see, they weren't so much alike. But Maitland was a much +darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while +Chamberlayne's were rather a bright blue." + +"The removal of a beard makes a great difference," remarked Spargo. He +looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with +that of Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. "And twenty years +makes a difference, too," he added musingly. + +"To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir," said the +old gentleman. "To others it makes none--I haven't changed much, they +tell me, during the past twenty years. But I've known men change--age, +almost beyond recognition!--in five years. It depends, sir, on what +they go through." + +Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his +pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Look here!" he said. "I'm going to tell you what I'm after, Mr. +Quarterpage. I'm sure you've heard all about what's known as the Middle +Temple Murder--the Marbury case?" + +"Yes, I've read of it," replied Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the _Watchman_?" asked +Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. + +"I've only read one newspaper, sir, since I was a young man," he +replied. "I take the _Times_, sir--we always took it, aye, even in the +days when newspapers were taxed." + +"Very good," said Spargo. "But perhaps I can tell you a little more +than you've read, for I've been working up that case ever since the +body of the man known as John Marbury was found. Now, if you'll just +give me your attention, I'll tell you the whole story from that moment +until--now." + +And Spargo, briefly, succinctly, re-told the story of the Marbury case +from the first instant of his own connection with it until the +discovery of the silver ticket, and Mr. Quarterpage listened in rapt +attention, nodding his head from time to time as the younger man made +his points. + +"And now, Mr. Quarterpage," concluded Spargo, "this is the point I've +come to. I believe that the man who came to the Anglo-Orient Hotel as +John Marbury and who was undoubtedly murdered in Middle Temple Lane +that night, was John Maitland--I haven't a doubt about it after +learning what you tell me about the silver ticket. I've found out a +great deal that's valuable here, and I think I'm getting nearer to a +solution of the mystery. That is, of course, to find out who murdered +John Maitland, or Marbury. What you have told me about the Chamberlayne +affair has led me to think this--there may have been people, or a +person, in London, who was anxious to get Marbury, as we'll call him, +out of the way, and who somehow encountered him that night--anxious to +silence him, I mean, because of the Chamberlayne affair. And I +wondered, as there is so much mystery about him, and as he won't give +any account of himself, if this man Aylmore was really Chamberlayne. +Yes, I wondered that! But Aylmore's a tall, finely-built man, quite six +feet in height, and his beard, though it's now getting grizzled, has +been very dark, and Chamberlayne, you say, was a medium-sized, fair +man, with blue eyes." + +"That's so, sir," assented Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, a middling-sized man, +and fair--very fair. Deary me, Mr. Spargo!--this is a revelation. And +you really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury are one and +the same person?" + +"I'm sure of it, now," said Spargo. "I see it in this way. Maitland, on +his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped. At last he +comes back, evidently well-to-do. He's murdered the very day of his +arrival. Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him--Aylmore +won't tell all he knows; that's flat. But Aylmore's admitted that he +knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three +years ago. Now, where did Aylmore know him? He says in London. That's a +vague term. He won't say where--he won't say anything definite--he +won't even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those days. Do you +recollect anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see Maitland, +Mr. Quarterpage?" + +"I don't," answered Mr. Quarterpage. "Maitland was a very quiet, +retiring fellow, sir: he was about the quietest man in the town. I +never remember that he had visitors; certainly I've no recollection of +such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, +would be at that time." + +"Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?" asked Spargo. + +Mr. Quarterpage laughed. + +"Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have," he said, "I'll tell +you of something that occurred across there at the 'Dragon' only a few +months before the Maitland affair came out. There were some of us in +there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland came in with +Chamberlayne. Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up to +town next day--he was always to and fro--and we got talking about +London. And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed +he was about the only man of his age in England--and, of course, he +meant of his class and means--who'd never even seen London! And I don't +think he ever went there between that time and his trial: in fact, I'm +sure he didn't, for if he had, I should have heard of it." + +"Well, that's queer," remarked Spargo. "It's very queer. For I'm +certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person. My theory +about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully planted +before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that +he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; +and that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in +it all these years. Now----" + +At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid +looked in at her master. + +"There's the boots from the 'Dragon' at the front door, sir," she said. +"He's brought two telegrams across from there for Mr. Spargo, thinking +he might like to have them at once." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE + +ARRESTED + + +Spargo hurried out to the hall, took the two telegrams from the boots +of the "Dragon," and, tearing open the envelopes, read the messages +hastily. He went back to Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Here's important news," he said as he closed the library door and +resumed his seat. "I'll read these telegrams to you, sir, and then we +can discuss them in the light of what we've been talking about this +morning. The first is from our office. I told you we sent over to +Australia for a full report about Marbury at the place he said he +hailed from--Coolumbidgee. That report's just reached the _Watchman_, +and they've wired it on to me. It's from the chief of police at +Coolumbidgee to the editor of the _Watchman_, London:-- + +"John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was +unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable +means and bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, +Andrew Robertson, who is still here, and who says that Marbury never +told him anything about himself except that he had emigrated for health +reasons and was a widower. He mentioned that he had had a son who was +dead, and was now without relations. He lived a very quiet, steady life +on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. About six months +ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning told +Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of +some news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the +farm. Robertson bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and +Marbury shortly afterwards left for Melbourne. From what we could +gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was probably in command of five or six +thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a +man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not +say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly +the luggage he brought with him when he came--a stout portmanteau and a +small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at +Coolumbidgee." + +"That's all," said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the +table. "And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here's more +startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that +I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage--he promised, you know, to keep me +posted in what went on in my absence. Here's what he says: + +"Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. +Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You'd better hurry +back if you want material for to-morrow's paper." + +Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman +glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. + +"Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage," he said. "I looked the +trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20 +to Paddington--that'll get me in before half-past four. I've an hour +yet. Now, there's another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That's +the photographer--or a photographer. You remember I told you of the +photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I'm calculating that +that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took +it--if he's alive and I can find him." + +Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. + +"There's only one photographer in this town, sir," he said, "and he's +been here for a good many years--Cooper. I'll take you to him--it's +only a few doors away." + +Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. +He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper--an elderly man. + +"Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the +bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?" he asked, after Mr. +Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to +ask a few questions. + +"Quite well, sir," replied Mr. Cooper. "As well as if it had been +yesterday." + +"Do you still happen to have a copy of it?" asked Spargo. + +But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down +one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he +laid it on his table before his callers. + +"There you are, sir," he said. "That's the child!" + +Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage. +"Just as I thought," he said. "That's the same photograph we found in +the leather box with the silver ticket. I'm obliged to you, Mr. Cooper. +Now, there's just one more question I want to ask. Did you ever supply +any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland +affair?--that is; after the family had left the town?" + +"Yes," replied the photographer. "I supplied half a dozen copies to +Miss Baylis, the child's aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him +here to be photographed. And I can give you her address, too," he +continued, beginning to turn over another old file. "I have it +somewhere." + +Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo. + +"That's something I couldn't have done!" he remarked. "As I told you, +she'd disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after +Maitland's release." + +"Here you are," said Mr. Cooper. "I sent six copies of that photograph +to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester +Square, Bayswater, W." + +Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for +his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage. In the street he +turned to the old gentleman with a smile. + +"Well, I don't think there's much doubt about that!" he exclaimed. +"Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage. I'm as certain +of that as that I see your Town Hall there." + +"And what will you do next, sir?" enquired Mr. Quarterpage. + +"Thank you--as I do--for all your kindness and assistance, and get off +to town by this 1.20," replied Spargo. "And I shan't fail to let you +know how things go on." + +"One moment," said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, "do +you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?" + +"No!" answered Spargo with emphasis. "I don't! And I think we've got a +good deal to do before we find out who did." + +Spargo purposely let the Marbury case drop out of his mind during his +journey to town. He ate a hearty lunch in the train and talked with his +neighbours; it was a relief to let his mind and attention turn to +something else than the theme which had occupied it unceasingly for so +many days. But at Reading the newspaper boys were shouting the news of +the arrest of a Member of Parliament, and Spargo, glancing out of the +window, caught sight of a newspaper placard: + + THE MARBURY MURDER CASE + ARREST OF MR. AYLMORE + +He snatched a paper from a boy as the train moved out and, unfolding +it, found a mere announcement in the space reserved for stop-press +news: + +"Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., was arrested at two o'clock this afternoon, +on his way to the House of Commons, on a charge of being concerned in +the murder of John Marbury in Middle Temple Lane on the night of June +21st last. It is understood he will be brought up at Bow Street at ten +o'clock tomorrow morning." + +Spargo hurried to New Scotland Yard as soon as he reached Paddington. +He met Rathbury coming away from his room. At sight of him, the +detective turned back. + +"Well, so there you are!" he said. "I suppose you've heard the news?" + +Spargo nodded as he dropped into a chair. + +"What led to it?" he asked abruptly. "There must have been something." + +"There was something," he replied. "The thing--stick, bludgeon, +whatever you like to call it, some foreign article--with which Marbury +was struck down was found last night." + +"Well?" asked Spargo. + +"It was proved to be Aylmore's property," answered Rathbury. "It was a +South American curio that he had in his rooms in Fountain Court." + +"Where was it found?" asked Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever +he was!" he replied. "Do you know, it had been dropped into a +sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane--actually! Perhaps the murderer +thought it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of +course, it was bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday +evening, and it was quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for +Aylmore as having been in his rooms ever since she knew them." + +"What does Aylmore say about it?" asked Spargo. "I suppose he's said +something?" + +"Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought +it from South America with him," announced Rathbury; "but that +he doesn't remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks +that it was stolen from them." + +"Um!" said Spargo, musingly. "But--how do you know that was the thing +that Marbury was struck down with?" + +Rathbury smiled grimly. + +"There's some of his hair on it--mixed with blood," he answered. "No +doubt about that. Well--anything come of your jaunt westward?" + +"Yes," replied Spargo. "Lots!" + +"Good?" asked Rathbury. + +"Extra good. I've found out who Marbury really was." + +"No! Really?" + +"No doubt, to my mind. I'm certain of it." + +Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention. + +"And who was he?" he asked. + +"John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster," replied Spargo. "Ex-bank +manager. Also ex-convict." + +"Ex-convict!" + +"Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in +autumn, 1891, to ten years' penal servitude, for embezzling the bank's +money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his term +at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. +That's who Marbury was--Maitland. Dead--certain!" + +Rathbury still stared at his caller. + +"Go on!" he said. "Tell all about it, Spargo. Let's hear every detail. +I'll tell you all I know after. But what I know's nothing to that." + +Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, +and the detective listened with rapt attention. + +"Yes," he said at the end. "Yes--I don't think there's much doubt about +that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn't it?" + +Spargo yawned. + +"Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there," he said. "I haven't so +much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all in +Aylmore." + +Rathbury nodded. + +"Yes," he said. "The thing to find out is--who is Aylmore, or who was +he, twenty years ago?" + +"Your people haven't found anything out, then?" asked Spargo. + +"Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he +returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since," +answered Rathbury, smiling. "They've no previous dates to go on. What +are you going to do next, Spargo?" + +"Seek out that Miss Baylis," replied Spargo. + +"You think you could get something there?" asked Rathbury. + +"Look here!" said Spargo. "I don't believe for a second Aylmore killed +Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what I call +the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something--if she's +alive. Well, now I'm going to report at the office. Keep in touch with +me, Rathbury." + +He went on then to the _Watchman_ office, and as he got out of his +taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore's +daughters. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO + +THE BLANK PAST + + +Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the +elder girl hung back diffidently. + +"May we speak to you?" said Jessie. "We have come on purpose to speak +to you. Evelyn didn't want to come, but I made her come." + +Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both +to follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed +them in his easiest chairs before he addressed them. + +"I've only just got back to town," he said abruptly. "I was sorry to +hear the news about your father. That's what's brought you here, of +course. But--I'm afraid I can't do much." + +"I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie," said +Evelyn Aylmore. "What can he do to help us?" + +Jessie shook her head impatiently. + +"The _Watchman's_ about the most powerful paper in London, isn't it?" +she said. "And isn't Mr. Spargo writing all these articles about the +Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!" + +Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and +papers which had accumulated during his absence. + +"To be absolutely frank with you," he said, presently, "I don't see how +anybody's going to help, so long as your father keeps up that mystery +about the past." + +"That," said Evelyn, quietly, "is exactly what Ronald says, Jessie. But +we can't make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as innocent as +we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don't know why he +wouldn't answer the questions put to him at the inquest. And--we know +no more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have begged my +father to speak, he won't say a word. We saw his danger: Ronald--Mr. +Breton--told us, and we implored him to tell everything he knew about +Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he had +anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and +now----" + +"And now he's locked up," said Spargo in his usual matter-of-fact +fashion. "Well, there are people who have to be saved from themselves, +you know. Perhaps you'll have to save your father from the consequences +of his own--shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between ourselves, +how much do you know about your father's--past?" + +The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo. + +"Nothing," said the elder. + +"Absolutely nothing!" said the younger. + +"Answer a few plain questions," said Spargo. "I'm not going to print +your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I'm only asking the +questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in +England?" + +"None that we know of," replied Evelyn. + +"Nobody you could go to for information about the past?" asked Spargo. + +"No--nobody!" + +Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard. + +"How old is your father?" he asked suddenly. + +"He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago," answered Evelyn. + +"And how old are you, and how old is your sister?" demanded Spargo. + +"I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen." + +"Where were you born?" + +"Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San Jose province of +Argentina, north of Monte Video." + +"Your father was in business there?" + +"He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There's no secret +about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to +France--skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That's how he made his +money." + +"You don't know how long he'd been there when you were born?" + +"No." + +"Was he married when he went out there?" + +"No, he wasn't. We do know that. He's told us the circumstances of his +marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from England to +Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was like +himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to +Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each +other, and they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer +arrived." + +"And your mother is dead?" + +"My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and +Jessie six, then." + +"And you came to England--how long after that?" + +"Two years." + +"So that you've been in England ten years. And you know nothing +whatever of your father's past beyond what you've told me?" + +"Nothing--absolutely nothing." + +"Never heard him talk of--you see, according to your account, your +father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina. +He must have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never +heard him speak of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that +sort of thing?" + +"I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to +his marriage," replied Evelyn. + +"I once asked him a question about his childhood." said Jessie. "He +answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that he +had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything again." + +"So that it really comes to this," remarked Spargo. "You know nothing +whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond +what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe? +That's about it, isn't it?" + +"I should say that that is exactly it," answered Evelyn. + +"Just so," said Spargo. "And therefore, as I told your sister the other +day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind +him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed +him in order to silence him. That isn't my view. I not only believe +your father to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no +more than a child unborn of Marbury's murder, and I'm doing my best to +find out who that murderer was. By the by, since you'll see all about +it in tomorrow morning's _Watchman_, I may as well tell you that I've +found out who Marbury really was. He----" + +At this moment Spargo's door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He +shook his head at sight of the two sisters. + +"I thought I should find you here," he said. "Jessie said she was +coming to see you, Spargo. I don't know what good you can do--I don't +see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My +God!--everything's about as black as ever it can be. Mr. Aylmore--I've +just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and I have been with +him for an hour--is obstinate as ever--he will not tell more than he +has told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he won't speak about +that knowledge of Marbury which he must have?" + +"Oh, well!" said Spargo. "Perhaps we can give him some information +about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it's not such a difficult +thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as I +was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who +Marbury really was." + +Breton started. + +"You have? Without doubt?" he exclaimed. + +"Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict." + +Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls +showed no sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received +the news with as much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury +was a famous musician. But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to +Spargo that he saw a sense of suspicion dawn in his eyes. + +"Marbury--an ex-convict!" he exclaimed. "You mean that?" + +"Read your _Watchman_ in the morning," said Spargo. "You'll find the +whole story there--I'm going to write it tonight when you people have +gone. It'll make good reading." + +Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo's hint and went away, Spargo +seeing them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their +father's innocence and his determination to hunt down the real +criminal. Ronald Breton went down with them to the street and saw them +into a cab, but in another minute he was back in Spargo's room as +Spargo had expected. He shut the door carefully behind him and turned +to Spargo with an eager face. + +"I say, Spargo, is that really so?" he asked. "About Marbury being an +ex-convict?" + +"That's so, Breton. I've no more doubt about it than I have that I see +you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of +Market Milcaster, who got ten years' penal servitude in 1891 for +embezzlement." + +"In 1891? Why--that's just about the time that Aylmore says he knew +him!" + +"Exactly. And--it just strikes me," said Spargo, sitting down at his +desk and making a hurried note, "it just strikes me--didn't Aylmore say +he knew Marbury in London?" + +"Certainly," replied Breton. "In London." + +"Um!" mused Spargo. "That's queer, because Maitland had never been in +London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may have +done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to +South America long before that. Look here, Breton," he continued, +aloud, "have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before +he's brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?" + +"Yes," answered Breton. "I can see him with his solicitor." + +"Then listen," said Spargo. "Tomorrow morning you'll find the whole +story of how I proved Marbury's identity with Maitland in the +_Watchman_. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore +as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he's brought +up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters' peace of +mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows +about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first. +Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in--they +know absolutely nothing of their father's history previous to the time +when they began to understand things! Don't you see that Aylmore's +career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!" + +"I know--I know!" said Breton. "Yes--although I've gone there a great +deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his +Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he +went out there." + +"Thirty-seven or eight, at least," remarked Spargo. "Well, Aylmore's +more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life +hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?" + +"My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland," answered +Breton. "We kept up the acquaintance after our return." + +"Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?" asked +Spargo. + +"Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs +the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of +little else," said Breton. + +"And their theory--" + +"Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!" replied Breton. "Old +Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his +very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every +tenant of the Temple." + +"Longish business that," observed Spargo. "Well, run away now, +Breton--I must write." + +"Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?" asked Breton as he moved +to the door. "It's to be at ten-thirty." + +"No, I shan't!" replied Spargo. "It'll only be a remand, and I know +already just as much as I should hear there. I've got something much +more important to do. But you'll remember what I asked of you--get +Aylmore to read my story in the _Watchman_, and beg him to speak out +and tell all he knows--all!" + +And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: "All +he knows--all!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE + +MISS BAYLIS + + +Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those +pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely +given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and +boarding-house keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with +their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their +pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into +them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the +residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but +in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that +young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in +more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the +country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but +others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters +whose linen might be cleaner. + +Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as +the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and +bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of +overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid +to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there +was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged +person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of +false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air +and smile which in its wearer--under these circumstances--always means +that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or +whether she will be able to see you. + +"You wish to see Miss Baylis?" said this person, examining Spargo +closely. "Miss Baylis does not often see anybody." + +"I hope," said Spargo politely, "that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?" + +"No, she's not an invalid," replied the landlady; "but she's not as +young as she was, and she's an objection to strangers. Is it anything I +can tell her?" + +"No," said Spargo. "But you can, if you please, take her a message from +me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask +her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I +should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes." + +"Perhaps you will sit down," said the landlady. She led Spargo into a +room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies, +evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with +them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the +papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and +if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would +do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door +opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her, +decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as +she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance +lengthen into a look of steady inspection. + +The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable +appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in +height; she was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and +athletic. What at once struck Spargo about her face was the strange +contrast between her dark eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in +abundant coils round a well-shaped head, was of the most snowy +whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as were also the eyebrows +above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking firmness; the +jaw square and determined. And Spargo's first thought on taking all +this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be +a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an +unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract +anything out of those firmly-locked lips. + +Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded +to order him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her +that he made a profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his +tongue. + +"Mr. Spargo?" she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly suited +to her. "Of, I see, the _Watchman_? You wish to speak to me?" + +Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which +they were standing. + +"Open the casement, if you please," she commanded him. "We will walk in +the garden. This is not private." + +Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened +window and he followed her. It was not until they had reached the +bottom of the garden that she spoke again. + +"I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John +Maitland, of Market Milcaster?" she said. "Before you put it. I must +ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for +publication?" + +"Not without your permission," replied Spargo. "I should not think of +publishing anything you may tell me except with your express +permission." + +She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good +faith, and nodded her head. + +"In that case," she said, "what do you want to ask?" + +"I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John +Maitland," answered Spargo. "I suppose you read the newspapers and +possibly the _Watchman_, Miss Baylis?" + +But Miss Baylis shook her head. + +"I read no newspapers," she said. "I have no interest in the affairs of +the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole +devotion to it." + +"Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury +case--a case of a man who was found murdered?" asked Spargo. + +"I have not," she answered. "I am not likely to hear such things." + +Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as +great nor as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and +that there actually are, even in London, people who can live quite +cheerfully without a newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went +on. + +"Well," he said, "I believe that the murdered man, known to the police +as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John Maitland. +In fact, Miss Baylis, I'm absolutely certain of it!" + +He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern +companion to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign +of being impressed. + +"I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo," she said coldly. "It is no +surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a +thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible +disgrace on those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was +likely to die a bad man's death." + +"I may ask you a few questions about him?" suggested Spargo in his most +insinuating manner. + +"You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers," she +replied. "But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being +John Maitland's sister-in-law?" + +"I found that out at Market Milcaster," said Spargo. "The photographer +told me--Cooper." + +"Ah!" she exclaimed. + +"The questions I want to ask are very simple," said Spargo. "But your +answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to prison, +of course?" + +Miss Baylis laughed--a laugh of scorn. + +"Could I ever forget it?" she exclaimed. + +"Did you ever visit him in prison?" asked Spargo. + +"Visit him in prison!" she said indignantly. "Visits in prison are to +be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to scoundrels +who are hardened in their sin!" + +"All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?" + +"I saw him, for he forced himself upon me--I could not help myself. He +was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released." + +"What did he come for?" asked Spargo. + +"To ask for his son--who had been in my charge," she replied. + +"That's a thing I want to know about," said Spargo. "Do you know what a +certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss +Baylis?--they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you +had a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went +to prison, you took the child away, first to Brighton, then +abroad--disappeared with him--and that you made a home ready for +Maitland when he came out. That's what's said by some people in Market +Milcaster." + +Miss Baylis's stern lips curled. + +"People in Market Milcaster!" she exclaimed. "All the people I ever +knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that +cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would +have seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have +given him a crust of dry bread!" + +"You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man," observed Spargo, +astonished at her vehemence. + +"I had--and I have," she answered. "He tricked my sister into a +marriage with him when he knew that she would rather have married an +honest man who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal +cruelty; he robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left +us." + +"Ah!" said Spargo. "Well, so you say Maitland came to you, when he came +out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?" + +"No--the boy was dead." + +"Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?" + +Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh. + +"I showed him the door!" she said. + +"Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?" enquired +Spargo. + +"I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. Spargo," +she answered. + +"Then, in short," said Spargo, "you never heard of him again?" + +"I never heard of him again," she declared passionately, "and I only +hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was +Maitland!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR + +MOTHER GUTCH + + +Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out +on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, +when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that +formidable lady. + +"I've just thought of something else," he said. "I told you that I'm +certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end--murdered." + +"And I've told you," she replied scornfully, "that in my opinion no end +could be too bad for him." + +"Just so--I understand you," said Spargo. "But I didn't tell you that +he was not only murdered but robbed--robbed of probably a good deal. +There's good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes, +loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount. +He'd several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South +Wales, where he'd lived quietly for some years." + +Miss Baylis smiled sourly. + +"What's all this to me?" she asked. + +"Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be +recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be +somebody who's entitled to the lot. It's worth having, Miss Baylis, and +there's strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up." + +This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its +effect with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as +scornful as ever. + +"I say again what's all that to me?" she exclaimed. + +"Well, but hadn't the dead boy any relatives on his father's side?" +asked Spargo. "I know you're his aunt on the mother's side, and as +you're indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side. It's +very easy to find all these things out, you know." + +Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and +majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the +interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and +glared at the young journalist. + +"Easy to find all these things out?" she repeated. + +Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He +was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose. + +"Oh, easy enough!" he said. "I could find out all about Maitland's +family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!" + +Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. "How?" she +demanded. + +"I'll tell you," said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. "It is, of course, +the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I +suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and +you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, +Miss Baylis?" + +But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house. + +"I shall tell you nothing more," she said angrily. "I've told you too +much already, and I believe all you're here for is to get some news for +your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this--when Maitland went +to prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he'd have +had to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn't a single relation in +the world but me, on either father's or mother's side. And even at my +age, old woman as I am, I'd rather beg my bread in the street, I'd +rather starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John +Maitland! That's all." + +Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, +she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing +no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling +sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a +queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said +distinctly and yet in a whisper: + +"Young man!" + +Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick +and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he +saw a nondescript shape behind. "Who's there?" he demanded. "Somebody +listening?" + +There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the +cracked, husky voice spoke again. + +"Young man, don't you move or look as if you were talking to anybody. +Do you know where the 'King of Madagascar' public-house is in this +quarter of the town, young man?" + +"No!" answered Spargo. "Certainly not!" + +"Well, anybody'll tell you when you get outside, young man," continued +the queer voice of the unseen person. "Go there, and wait at the corner +by the 'King of Madagascar,' and I'll come there to you at the end of +half an hour. Then I'll tell you something, young man--I'll tell you +something. Now run away, young man, run away to the 'King of +Madagascar'--I'm coming!" + +The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel +queer. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he +immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the +privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let +himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a +policeman and asked him if he knew where the "King of Madagascar" was. + +"First to the right, second to the left," answered the policeman +tersely. "You can't miss it anywhere round there--it's a landmark." + +And Spargo found the landmark--a great, square-built tavern--easily, +and he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and +intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its +suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an +old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize +how dreadful old age may be. + +Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was +dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her +bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was +evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle; +the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a +sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear +what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt. + +"Well?" he said, almost roughly. "Well?" + +"Well, young man, there you are," said his new acquaintance. "Let us go +inside, young man; there's a quiet little place where a lady can sit +and take her drop of gin--I'll show you. And if you're good to me, I'll +tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now. +But you'll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old +ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little +comforts." + +Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; +the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at +her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which +was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her +curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little +of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest +which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw +a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew +clearer with every sound she made. + +"Ah, young man!" she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that +made Spargo long to get up and fly. "I wanted that! It's done me good. +When I've finished that, you'll pay for another for me--and perhaps +another? They'll do me still more good. And you'll give me a little +matter of money, won't you, young man?" + +"Not till I know what I'm giving it for," replied Spargo. + +"You'll be giving it because I'm going to tell you that if it's made +worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about +Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I'm not going to tell you that +now, young man--I'm sure you don't carry in your pocket what I shall +want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I'm only going to show +you that I have the secret. Eh?" + +"Who are you?" asked Spargo. + +The woman leered and chuckled. "What are you going to give me, young +man?" she asked. + +Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two +half-sovereigns. + +"Look here," he said, showing his companion the coins, "if you can tell +me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now. +And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!" + +The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand. + +"But let me hold one of those, young man!" she implored. "Let me hold +one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I +hold one of them. Let me--there's a good young gentleman." + +Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, +whatever it might be. + +"You won't get the other unless you tell something," he said. "Who are +you, anyway?" + +The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the +half-sovereign, grinned horribly. + +"At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch," +she answered; "but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a +time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went +to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came +to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to +bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?" + +"Heaven knows!" answered Spargo. + +"Because I've got a hold on her, young man--I've got a secret of hers," +continued Mother Gutch. "She'd be scared to death if she knew I'd been +behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she'd be more +than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she's +grown hard and near with me, and she won't give me a penny to get a +drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her +little comforts, and if you'll buy the secret, young man, I'll split on +her, there and then, when you pay the money." + +"Before I talk about buying any secret," said Spargo, "you'll have to +prove to me that you've a secret to sell that's worth my buying." + +"And I will prove it!" said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. "Touch +the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I'll tell you. Now," +she went on, more quietly--Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the +more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength +and her whole appearance to be improved--"now, you came to her to find +out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn't +you?" + +"Well?" demanded Spargo. + +"And about that boy of his?" she continued. + +"You heard all that was said," answered Spargo. "I'm waiting to hear +what you have to say." + +But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her +questions: + +"And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that +she told him the boy was dead, didn't she?" she went on. + +"Well?" said Spargo despairingly. "She did. What then?" + +Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled +knowingly. "What then?" she chuckled. "All lies, young man, the boy +isn't dead--any more than I am. And my secret is--" + +"Well?" demanded Spargo impatiently. "What is it?" + +"This!" answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, "I +know what she did with him!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE + +REVELATIONS + + +Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his +journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since +entering the "King of Madagascar," that he was going to hear anything +material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that +this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of +extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of +getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother +Gutch's unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only +saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her +eagerly. + +"You say that John Maitland's son didn't die!" he exclaimed. + +"The boy did not die," replied Mother Gutch. + +"And that you know where he is?" asked Spargo. + +Mother Gutch shook her head. + +"I didn't say that I know where he is, young man," she replied. "I said +I knew what she did with him." + +"What, then?" demanded Spargo. + +Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and +favoured Spargo with a look. + +"That's the secret, young man," she said. "I'm willing to sell that +secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold +gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I +was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret's worth +something." + +Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an +unexpected result of it. + +"Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland's boy," continued Mother +Gutch, "and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That's plain +language, young man." + +Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could +this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret +which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple +Murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the _Watchman_ if the +clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the +_Watchman_ was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying +out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent money like water on +much less serious matters than this. + +"How much do you want for your secret?" he suddenly asked, turning to +his companion. + +Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really +wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan +had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver +and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite +form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them; +secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most +extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of +her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke. + +"Well, young man," she said, "having considered matters, and having a +right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have +would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid +weekly--none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and +punctual, every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient +to the parties concerned--but punctual and regular. I know a good many +ladies in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it's a great +comfort to have 'em paid weekly." + +It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her +weekly dole on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be +Monday or Saturday, but that, after all, was no concern of his, so he +came back to first principles. + +"Even now you haven't said how much," he remarked. + +"Three pound a week," replied Mother Gutch. "And cheap, too!" + +Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might--might!--lead to +something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to +death within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was +nothing to the _Watchman_. He glanced at his watch. At that hour--for +the next hour--the great man of the _Watchman_ would be at the office. +He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert. + +"Here, I'll take you to see my principals," he said. "We'll run along +in a taxi-cab." + +"With all the pleasure in the world, young man," replied Mother Gutch; +"when you've given me that other half-sovereign. As for principals, I'd +far rather talk business with masters than with men--though I mean no +disrespect to you." Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over +the second half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. +But when that came round he had to wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a +third glass of gin and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in +her pocket. At last he got her off, and in due course to the _Watchman_ +office, where the hall-porter and the messenger boys stared at her in +amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, and he got +her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the presence +of the mighty. + +What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the +fortunes and workings of the _Watchman_ he never knew. It was probably +fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the +facts of the Middle Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an +advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the +conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, +intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up +there. + +Spargo's room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was +soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and +editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before +going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing +with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of +truth there was in her, but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his +own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room. + +"We'll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms," he said. +"She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest +importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as +Spargo says, she'll probably drink herself to death in about as short a +time as possible. Come back--let's hear her story." So they returned to +the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by +which the proprietor of the _Watchman_ bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch +the sum of three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the +insertion of the words "every Saturday morning, punctual and regular") +and then Mrs. Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch +settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for +word. + +"Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a +monkey's tail nor so short as a Manx cat's, gentlemen," said Mrs. +Gutch; "but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland +affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane +Baylis at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and +close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and +had saved a nice bit, and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a +little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican +here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in +this here Maitland's hands, every penny. I very well remember the day +when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss +Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and +before she'd seen it an hour she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up +to the station with her, and she told me then before she got in the +train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her +sister's, his wife's, too, and that she feared all would be lost." + +"Mrs. Maitland was then dead," observed Spargo without looking up from +his writing-block. + +"She was, young man, and a good thing, too," continued Mrs. Gutch. +"Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly +a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with +her--which was Maitland's. And she told me that night that she'd lost +every penny she had in the world, and that her sister's money, what +ought to have been the child's, was gone, too, and she said her say +about Maitland. However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have +seen better. And very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for +ten years, her and me talked about things. 'What's the use,' says I to +her, 'of your letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking +after it as you do, and educating it, and so on?' I says. 'Why not?' +says she. 'Tisn't yours,' I says, 'you haven't no right to it,' I says. +'As soon as ever its father comes out,' says I,' he'll come and claim +it, and you can't do nothing to stop him.' Well, gentlemen, if you'll +believe me, never did I see a woman look as she did when I says all +that. And she up and swore that Maitland should never see or touch the +child again--not under no circumstances whatever." + +Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, +with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, +presently, apparently refreshed. + +"Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland's taking the child away +from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times +about it, always saying the same thing--that Maitland should never have +him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers +about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and +a day or two afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a +lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again, until +one day she came to me, and she says, 'You don't know who that +gentleman is that's come so much lately?' she says. 'Not I,' I says, +'unless he's after you.' 'After me!' she says, tossing her head: +'That's the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister if that +scoundrel Maitland hadn't tricked her into throwing him over!' 'You +don't say so!' I says. 'Then by rights he ought to have been the +child's pa!' 'He's going to be a father to the boy,' she says. 'He's +going to take him and educate him in the highest fashion, and make a +gentleman of him,' she says, 'for his mother's sake.' 'Mercy on us!' +says I. 'What'll Maitland say when he comes for him?' 'Maitland'll +never come for him,' she says, 'for I'm going to leave here, and the +boy'll be gone before then. This is all being done,' she says, 'so that +the child'll never know his father's shame--he'll never know who his +father was.' And true enough, the boy was taken away, but Maitland came +before she'd gone, and she told him the child was dead, and I never see +a man so cut up. However, it wasn't no concern of mine. And so there's +so much of the secret, gentlemen, and I would like to know if I ain't +giving good value." + +"Very good," said the proprietor. "Go on." But Spargo intervened. + +"Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman who took the boy away?" he +asked. + +"Yes, I did," replied Mrs. Gutch. "Of course I did. Which it was +Elphick." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX + +STILL SILENT + + +Spargo dropped his pen on the desk before him with a sharp clatter that +made Mrs. Gutch jump. A steady devotion to the bottle had made her +nerves to be none of the strongest, and she looked at the startler of +them with angry malevolence. + +"Don't do that again, young man!" she exclaimed sharply. "I can't +a-bear to be jumped out of my skin, and it's bad manners. I observed +that the gentleman's name was Elphick." + +Spargo contrived to get in a glance at his proprietor and his editor--a +glance which came near to being a wink. + +"Just so--Elphick," he said. "A law gentleman I think you said, Mrs. +Gutch?" + +"I said," answered Mrs. Gutch, "as how he looked like a lawyer +gentleman. And since you're so particular, young man, though I wasn't +addressing you but your principals, he was a lawyer gentleman. One of +the sort that wears wigs and gowns--ain't I seen his picture in Jane +Baylis's room at the boarding-house where you saw her this morning?" + +"Elderly man?" asked Spargo. + +"Elderly he will be now," replied the informant; "but when he took the +boy away he was a middle-aged man. About his age," she added, pointing +to the editor in a fashion which made that worthy man wince and the +proprietor desire to laugh unconsumedly; "and not so very unlike him +neither, being one as had no hair on his face." + +"Ah!" said Spargo. "And where did this Mr. Elphick take the boy, Mrs. +Gutch?" + +But Mrs. Gutch shook her head. + +"Ain't no idea," she said. "He took him. Then, as I told you, Maitland +came, and Jane Baylis told him that the boy was dead. And after that +she never even told me anything about the boy. She kept a tight tongue. +Once or twice I asked her, and she says, 'Never you mind,' she says; +'he's all right for life, if he lives to be as old as Methusalem.' And +she never said more, and I never said more. But," continued Mrs. Gutch, +whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears away, "she's +treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a little comfort +such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two of you +a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, +'Now's the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam!' And I hope I +done it." + +Spargo looked at the editor and the proprietor, nodding his head +slightly. He meant them to understand that he had got all he wanted +from Mother Gutch. + +"What are you going to do, Mrs. Gutch, when you leave here?" he asked. +"You shall be driven straight back to Bayswater, if you like." + +"Which I shall be obliged for, young man," said Mrs. Gutch, "and +likewise for the first week of the annuity, and will call every +Saturday for the same at eleven punctual, or can be posted to me on a +Friday, whichever is agreeable to you gentlemen. And having my first +week in my purse, and being driven to Bayswater, I shall take my boxes +and go to a friend of mine where I shall be hearty welcome, shaking the +dust of my feet off against Jane Baylis and where I've been living with +her." + +"Yes, but, Mrs. Gutch," said Spargo, with some anxiety, "if you go back +there tonight, you'll be very careful not to tell Miss Baylis that +you've been here and told us all this?" + +Mrs. Gutch rose, dignified and composed. + +"Young man," she said, "you mean well, but you ain't used to dealing +with ladies. I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when I like. I +wouldn't tell Jane Baylis my affairs--my new affairs, gentlemen, thanks +to you--not for two annuities, paid twice a week!" + +"Take Mrs. Gutch downstairs, Spargo, and see her all right, and then +come to my room," said the editor. "And don't you forget, Mrs. +Gutch--keep a quiet tongue in your head--no more talk--or there'll be +no annuities on Saturday mornings." + +So Spargo took Mother Gutch to the cashier's department and paid her +her first week's money, and he got her a taxi-cab, and paid for it, and +saw her depart, and then he went to the editor's room, strangely +thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they +stopped when Spargo entered and looked at him eagerly. "I think we've +done it," said Spargo quietly. + +"What, precisely, have we found out?" asked the editor. + +"A great deal more than I'd anticipated," answered Spargo, "and I don't +know what fields it doesn't open out. If you look back, you'll remember +that the only thing found on Marbury's body was a scrap of grey paper +on which was a name and address--Ronald Breton, King's Bench Walk." + +"Well?" + +"Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit--I have accepted two +or three articles of his for our literary page." + +"Well?" + +"Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of +Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street +today with the murder of Marbury." + +"I know. Well, what then, Spargo?" + +"But the most important matter," continued Spargo, speaking very +deliberately, "is this--that is, taking that old woman's statement to +be true, as I personally believe it is--that Breton, as he has told me +himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian. +That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister." + +The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore +the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the +same conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a +sharp interrogation: "You think then----" + +Spargo nodded. + +"I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is +the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking," he answered. + +The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace +the room. + +"If that's so," he said, "if that's so, the mystery deepens. What do +you propose to do, Spargo?" + +"I think," said Spargo, slowly, "I think that without telling him +anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and +get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse +for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands--" + +"Yes, yes!" said the proprietor, waving a hand. "Leave it entirely in +Spargo's hands." + +"Keep me informed," said the editor. "Do what you think. It strikes me +you're on the track." + +Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still +faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the +reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up +that morning. There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked +for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said +nothing fresh to anybody. + +Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton's chambers. He +found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking +unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from +his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into +an inner room. + +"I say, Spargo!" he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair. +"This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told +me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?" + +"To get him to tell all?--Yes," said Spargo. + +Breton shook his head. + +"Stratton--his solicitor, you know--and I saw him this morning before +the police-court proceedings," he continued. "I told him of my talk +with you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been +to the _Watchman_ office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your +advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private +feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence +against him; how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth +at once; how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion +against himself; how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could +scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo!" + +"He won't say anything?" + +"He'll say no more. He was adamant. 'I told the entire truth in respect +to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the +inquest,' he said, over and over again, 'and I shall say nothing +further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man +on such evidence as that, let it!' And he persisted in that until we +left him. Spargo, I don't know what's to be done." + +"And nothing happened at the police-court?" + +"Nothing--another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he +was removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark--'If you all +want to prove me innocent,' he said, 'find the guilty man.'" + +"Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that," said +Spargo. + +"Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?" exclaimed +Breton. "Are you any nearer--is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the +slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?" + +Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, +apparently thinking. + +"Was Rathbury in court?" he suddenly asked. + +"He was," replied Breton. "He was there with two or three other men who +I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in +Aylmore." + +"If I don't see Rathbury tonight I'll see him in the morning," said +Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down +again. "Look here," he continued, "I don't know how this thing stands +in law, but would it be a very weak case against Aylmore if the +prosecution couldn't show some motive for his killing Marbury?" + +Breton smiled. + +"There's no necessity to prove motive in murder," he said. "But I'll +tell you what, Spargo--if the prosecution can show that Aylmore had a +motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that it was to +Aylmore's advantage to silence him--why, then, I don't think he's a +chance." + +"I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has +been shown." + +"I know of none." + +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. Here"--and Breton scribbled a few words +on a card--"there's his address and a word from me. I'll tell you when +you can always find him in, five nights out of seven--at nine o'clock, +after he's dined. I'd go with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore's. +The two girls are in terrible trouble." + +"Give them a message from me," said Spargo as they went out together. +"Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage." + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN + +MR. ELPHICK'S CHAMBERS + + +Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o'clock, +asking himself over and over again two questions--the first, how much +does Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him? + +The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a +generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was +full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the +exact number of the set of chambers he wanted, he was obliged to wander +about in what was a deserted building. So wandering, he suddenly heard +steps, firm, decisive steps coming up a staircase which he himself had +just climbed. He looked over the banisters down into the hollow +beneath. And there, marching up resolutely, was the figure of a tall, +veiled woman, and Spargo suddenly realized, with a sharp quickening of +his pulses, that for the second time that day he was beneath one roof +with Miss Baylis. + +Spargo's mind acted quickly. Knowing what he now knew, from his +extraordinary dealings with Mother Gutch, he had no doubt whatever that +Miss Baylis had come to see Mr. Elphick--come, of course, to tell Mr. +Elphick that he, Spargo, had visited her that morning, and that he was +on the track of the Maitland secret history. He had never thought of it +before, for he had been busily engaged since the departure of Mother +Gutch; but, naturally, Miss Baylis and Mr. Elphick would keep in +communication with each other. At any rate, here she was, and her +destination was, surely, Elphick's chambers. And the question for him, +Spargo, was--what to do? + +What Spargo did was to remain in absolute silence, motionless, tense, +where he was on the stair, and to trust to the chance that the woman +did not look up. But Miss Baylis neither looked up nor down: she +reached a landing, turned along a corridor with decision, and marched +forward. A moment later Spargo heard a sharp double knock on a door: a +moment after that he heard a door heavily shut; he knew then that Miss +Baylis had sought and gained admittance--somewhere. + +To find out precisely where that somewhere was drew Spargo down to the +landing which Miss Baylis had just left. There was no one about--he had +not, in fact, seen a soul since he entered the building. Accordingly he +went along the corridor into which he had seen Miss Baylis turn. He +knew that all the doors in that house were double ones, and that the +outer oak in each was solid and substantial enough to be sound proof. +Yet, as men will under such circumstances, he walked softly; he said to +himself, smiling at the thought, that he would be sure to start if +somebody suddenly opened a door on him. But no hand opened any door, +and at last he came to the end of the corridor and found himself +confronting a small board on which was painted in white letters on a +black ground, Mr. Elphick's Chambers. + +Having satisfied himself as to his exact whereabouts, Spargo drew back +as quietly as he had come. There was a window half-way along the +corridor from which, he had noticed as he came along, one could catch a +glimpse of the Embankment and the Thames; to this he withdrew, and +leaning on the sill looked out and considered matters. Should he go +and--if he could gain admittance--beard these two conspirators? Should +he wait until the woman came out and let her see that he was on the +track? Should he hide again until she went, and then see Elphick alone? + +In the end Spargo did none of these things immediately. He let things +slide for the moment. He lighted a cigarette and stared at the river +and the brown sails, and the buildings across on the Surrey side. Ten +minutes went by--twenty minutes--nothing happened. Then, as half-past +nine struck from all the neighbouring clocks, Spargo flung away a +second cigarette, marched straight down the corridor and knocked boldly +at Mr. Elphick's door. + +Greatly to Spargo's surprise, the door was opened before there was any +necessity to knock again. And there, calmly confronting him, a +benevolent, yet somewhat deprecating expression on his spectacled and +placid face, stood Mr. Elphick, a smoking cap on his head, a tasseled +smoking jacket over his dress shirt, and a short pipe in his hand. + +Spargo was taken aback: Mr. Elphick apparently was not. He held the +door well open, and motioned the journalist to enter. + +"Come in, Mr. Spargo," he said. "I was expecting you. Walk forward into +my sitting-room." + +Spargo, much astonished at this reception, passed through an ante-room +into a handsomely furnished apartment full of books and pictures. In +spite of the fact that it was still very little past midsummer there +was a cheery fire in the grate, and on a table set near a roomy +arm-chair was set such creature comforts as a spirit-case, a syphon, a +tumbler, and a novel--from which things Spargo argued that Mr. Elphick +had been taking his ease since his dinner. But in another armchair on +the opposite side of the hearth was the forbidding figure of Miss +Baylis, blacker, gloomier, more mysterious than ever. She neither spoke +nor moved when Spargo entered: she did not even look at him. And Spargo +stood staring at her until Mr. Elphick, having closed his doors, +touched him on the elbow, and motioned him courteously to a seat. + +"Yes, I was expecting you, Mr. Spargo," he said, as he resumed his own +chair. "I have been expecting you at any time, ever since you took up +your investigation of the Marbury affair, in some of the earlier stages +of which you saw me, you will remember, at the mortuary. But since Miss +Baylis told me, twenty minutes ago, that you had been to her this +morning I felt sure that it would not be more than a few hours before +you would come to me." + +"Why, Mr. Elphick, should you suppose that I should come to you at +all?" asked Spargo, now in full possession of his wits. + +"Because I felt sure that you would leave no stone unturned, no corner +unexplored," replied Mr. Elphick. "The curiosity of the modern pressman +is insatiable." + +Spargo stiffened. + +"I have no curiosity, Mr. Elphick," he said. "I am charged by my paper +to investigate the circumstances of the death of the man who was found +in Middle Temple Lane, and, if possible, to track his murderer, +and----" + +Mr. Elphick laughed slightly and waved his hand. + +"My good young gentleman!" he said. "You exaggerate your own +importance. I don't approve of modern journalism nor of its methods. In +your own case you have got hold of some absurd notion that the man John +Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster, and +you have been trying to frighten Miss Baylis here into----" + +Spargo suddenly rose from his chair. There was a certain temper in him +which, when once roused, led him to straight hitting, and it was roused +now. He looked the old barrister full in the face. + +"Mr. Elphick," he said, "you are evidently unaware of all that I know. +So I will tell you what I will do. I will go back to my office, and I +will write down what I do know, and give the true and absolute proofs +of what I know, and, if you will trouble yourself to read the +_Watchman_ tomorrow morning, then you, too, will know." + +"Dear me--dear me!" said Mr. Elphick, banteringly. "We are so used to +ultra-sensational stories from the _Watchman_ that--but I am a curious +and inquisitive old man, my good young sir, so perhaps you will tell me +in a word what it is you do know, eh?" + +Spargo reflected for a second. Then he bent forward across the table +and looked the old barrister straight in the face. + +"Yes," he said quietly. "I will tell you what I know beyond doubt. I +know that the man murdered under the name of John Marbury was, without +doubt, John Maitland, of Market Milcaster, and that Ronald Breton is +his son, whom you took from that woman!" + +If Spargo had desired a complete revenge for the cavalier fashion in +which Mr. Elphick had treated it he could not have been afforded a more +ample one than that offered to him by the old barrister's reception of +this news. Mr. Elphick's face not only fell, but changed; his +expression of almost sneering contempt was transformed to one clearly +resembling abject terror; he dropped his pipe, fell back in his chair, +recovered himself, gripped the chair's arms, and stared at Spargo as if +the young man had suddenly announced to him that in another minute he +must be led to instant execution. And Spargo, quick to see his +advantage, followed it up. + +"That is what I know, Mr. Elphick, and if I choose, all the world shall +know it tomorrow morning!" he said firmly. "Ronald Breton is the son of +the murdered man, and Ronald Breton is engaged to be married to the +daughter of the man charged with the murder. Do you hear that? It is +not matter of suspicion, or of idea, or of conjecture, it is +fact--fact!" + +Mr. Elphick slowly turned his face to Miss Baylis. He gasped out a few +words. + +"You--did--not--tell--me--this!" + +Then Spargo, turning to the woman, saw that she, too, was white to the +lips and as frightened as the man. + +"I--didn't know!" she muttered. "He didn't tell me. He only told me +this morning what--what I've told you." + +Spargo picked up his hat. + +"Good-night, Mr. Elphick," he said. + +But before he could reach the door the old barrister had leapt from his +chair and seized him with trembling hands. Spargo turned and looked at +him. He knew then that for some reason or other he had given Mr. +Septimus Elphick a thoroughly bad fright. + +"Well?" he growled. + +"My dear young gentleman!" implored Mr. Elphick. "Don't go! I'll--I'll +do anything for you if you won't go away to print that. I'll--I'll give +you a thousand pounds!" + +Spargo shook him off. + +"That's enough!" he snarled. "Now, I am off! What, you'd try to bribe +me?" + +Mr. Elphick wrung his hands. + +"I didn't mean that--indeed I didn't!" he almost wailed. "I--I don't +know what I meant. Stay, young gentleman, stay a little, and let +us--let us talk. Let me have a word with you--as many words as you +please. I implore you!" + +Spargo made a fine pretence of hesitation. + +"If I stay," he said, at last, "it will only be on the strict condition +that you answer--and answer truly--whatever questions I like to ask +you. Otherwise----" + +He made another move to the door, and again Mr. Elphick laid beseeching +hands on him. + +"Stay!" he said. "I'll answer anything you like!" + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT + +OF PROVED IDENTITY + + +Spargo sat down again in the chair which he had just left, and looked +at the two people upon whom his startling announcement had produced +such a curious effect. And he recognized as he looked at them that, +while they were both frightened, they were frightened in different +ways. Miss Baylis had already recovered her composure; she now sat +sombre and stern as ever, returning Spargo's look with something of +indifferent defiance; he thought he could see that in her mind a +certain fear was battling with a certain amount of wonder that he had +discovered the secret. It seemed to him that so far as she was +concerned the secret had come to an end; it was as if she said in so +many words that now the secret was out he might do his worst. + +But upon Mr. Septimus Elphick the effect was very different. He was +still trembling from excitement; he groaned as he sank into his chair +and the hand with which he poured out a glass of spirits shook; the +glass rattled against his teeth when he raised it to his lips. The +half-contemptuous fashion of his reception of Spargo had now wholly +disappeared; he was a man who had received a shock, and a bad one. And +Spargo, watching him keenly, said to himself: This man knows a great +deal more than, a great deal beyond, the mere fact that Marbury was +Maitland, and that Ronald Breton is in reality Maitland's son; he knows +something which he never wanted anybody to know, which he firmly +believed it impossible anybody ever could know. It was as if he had +buried something deep, deep down in the lowest depths, and was as +astounded as he was frightened to find that it had been at last flung +up to the broad light of day. + +"I shall wait," suddenly said Spargo, "until you are composed, Mr. +Elphick. I have no wish to distress you. But I see, of course, that the +truths which I have told you are of a sort that cause you +considerable--shall we say fear?" + +Elphick took another stiff pull at his liquor. His hand had grown +steadier, and the colour was coming back to his face. + +"If you will let me explain," he said. "If you will hear what was done +for the boy's sake--eh?" + +"That," answered Spargo, "is precisely what I wish. I can tell you +this--I am the last man in the world to wish harm of any sort to Mr. +Breton." + +Miss Baylis relieved her feelings with a scornful sniff. "He says +that!" she exclaimed, addressing the ceiling. "He says that, knowing +that he means to tell the world in his rag of a paper that Ronald +Breton, on whom every care has been lavished, is the son of a +scoundrel, an ex-convict, a----" + +Elphick lifted his hand. + +"Hush--hush!" he said imploringly. "Mr. Spargo means well, I am sure--I +am convinced. If Mr. Spargo will hear me----" + +But before Spargo could reply, a loud insistent knocking came at the +outer door. Elphick started nervously, but presently he moved across +the room, walking as if he had received a blow, and opened the door. A +boy's voice penetrated into the sitting-room. + +"If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_, here? He left +this address in case he was wanted." + +Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger +boys, and jumping up, went to the door. + +"What is it, Rawlins?" he asked. + +"Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There's Mr. +Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly." + +"All right," answered Spargo. "I'm coming just now." + +He motioned the lad away, and turned to Elphick. + +"I shall have to go," he said. "I may be kept. Now, Mr. Elphick, can I +come to see you tomorrow morning?" + +"Yes, yes, tomorrow morning!" replied Elphick eagerly. "Tomorrow +morning, certainly. At eleven--eleven o'clock. That will do?" + +"I shall be here at eleven," said Spargo. "Eleven sharp." + +He was moving away when Elphick caught him by the sleeve. + +"A word--just a word!" he said. "You--you have not told the--the +boy--Ronald--of what you know? You haven't?" + +"I haven't," replied Spargo. + +Elphick tightened his grip on Spargo's sleeve. He looked into his face +beseechingly. + +"Promise me--promise me, Mr. Spargo, that you won't tell him until you +have seen me in the morning!" he implored. "I beg you to promise me +this." + +Spargo hesitated, considering matters. + +"Very well--I promise," he said. + +"And you won't print it?" continued Elphick, still clinging to him. +"Say you won't print it tonight?" + +"I shall not print it tonight," answered Spargo. "That's certain." + +Elphick released his grip on the young man's arm. + +"Come--at eleven tomorrow morning," he said, and drew back and closed +the door. + +Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And +there, calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an +evening newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as +imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a +smile. + +"Well," he said, "how's things?" + +Spargo, half-breathless, dropped into his desk-chair. + +"You didn't come here to tell me that," he said. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"No," he said, throwing the newspaper aside, "I didn't. I came to tell +you my latest. You're at full liberty to stick it into your paper +tonight: it may just as well be known." + +"Well?" said Spargo. + +Rathbury took his cigar out of his lips and yawned. + +"Aylmore's identified," he said lazily. + +Spargo sat up, sharply. + +"Identified!" + +"Identified, my son. Beyond doubt." + +"But as whom--as what?" exclaimed Spargo. + +Rathbury laughed. + +"He's an old lag--an ex-convict. Served his time partly at Dartmoor. +That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D'ye see? Clear +as noontide now, Spargo." + +Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him. His eyes were +fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard +the throbbing of the printing-machines far below. But what he really +saw was the faces of the two girls; what he really heard was the voices +of two girls ... + +"Clear as noontide--as noontide," repeated Rathbury with great +cheerfulness. + +Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact. + +"What's clear as noontide?" he asked sharply. + +"What? Why, the whole thing! Motive--everything," answered Rathbury. +"Don't you see, Maitland and Aylmore (his real name is Ainsworth, by +the by) meet at Dartmoor, probably, or, rather, certainly, just before +Aylmore's release. Aylmore goes abroad, makes money, in time comes +back, starts new career, gets into Parliament, becomes big man. In +time, Maitland, who, after his time, has also gone abroad, also comes +back. The two meet. Maitland probably tries to blackmail Aylmore or +threatens to let folk know that the flourishing Mr. Aylmore, M.P., is +an ex-convict. Result--Aylmore lures him to the Temple and quiets him. +Pooh!--the whole thing's clear as noontide, as I say. As--noontide!" + +Spargo drummed his fingers again. + +"How?" he asked quietly. "How came Aylmore to be identified?" + +"My work," said Rathbury proudly. "My work, my son. You see, I thought +a lot. And especially after we'd found out that Marbury was Maitland." + +"You mean after I'd found out," remarked Spargo. + +Rathbury waved his cigar. + +"Well, well, it's all the same," he said. "You help me, and I help you, +eh? Well, as I say, I thought a considerable lot. I thought--now, where +did Maitland, or Marbury, know or meet Aylmore twenty or twenty-two +years ago? Not in London, because we knew Maitland never was in +London--at any rate, before his trial, and we haven't the least proof +that he was in London after. And why won't Aylmore tell? Clearly +because it must have been in some undesirable place. And then, all of a +sudden, it flashed on me in a moment of--what do you writing fellows +call those moments, Spargo?" + +"Inspiration, I should think," said Spargo. "Direct inspiration." + +"That's it. In a moment of direct inspiration, it flashed on me--why, +twenty years ago, Maitland was in Dartmoor--they must have met there! +And so, we got some old warders who'd been there at that time to come +to town, and we gave 'em opportunities to see Aylmore and to study him. +Of course, he's twenty years older, and he's grown a beard, but they +began to recall him, and then one man remembered that if he was the man +they thought he'd a certain birth-mark. And--he has!" + +"Does Aylmore know that he's been identified?" asked Spargo. + +Rathbury pitched his cigar into the fireplace and laughed. + +"Know!" he said scornfully. "Know? He's admitted it. What was the use +of standing out against proof like that. He admitted it tonight in my +presence. Oh, he knows all right!" + +"And what did he say?" + +Rathbury laughed contemptuously. + +"Say? Oh, not much. Pretty much what he said about this affair--that +when he was convicted the time before he was an innocent man. He's +certainly a good hand at playing the innocent game." + +"And of what was he convicted?" + +"Oh, of course, we know all about it--now. As soon as we found out who +he really was, we had all the particulars turned up. Aylmore, or +Ainsworth (Stephen Ainsworth his name really is) was a man who ran a +sort of what they call a Mutual Benefit Society in a town right away up +in the North--Cloudhampton--some thirty years ago. He was nominally +secretary, but it was really his own affair. It was patronized by the +working classes--Cloudhampton's a purely artisan population--and they +stuck a lot of their brass, as they call it, in it. Then suddenly +it came to smash, and there was nothing. He--Ainsworth, or +Aylmore--pleaded that he was robbed and duped by another man, but the +court didn't believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story you see, +Spargo, when it all comes out, eh?" + +"All stories are quite plain--when they come out," observed Spargo. +"And he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn't want his +daughters to know about his past?" + +"Just so," agreed Rathbury. "And I don't know that I blame him. He +thought, of course, that he'd go scot-free over this Marbury affair. +But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy--oh, yes!" + +Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few +minutes, Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last +Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective's shoulder. + +"Look here, Rathbury!" he said. "It's very evident that you're now +going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?" + +Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment. + +"After evidence like that!" he exclaimed. "Why, of course. There's the +motive, my son, the motive!" + +Spargo laughed. + +"Rathbury!" he said. "Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than you did!" + +The detective got up and put on his hat. + +"Oh!" he said. "Perhaps you know who did, then?" + +"I shall know in a few days," answered Spargo. + +Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the +door. "Good-night!" he said gruffly. + +"Good-night, Rathbury," replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. + +But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the _Watchman_. All he wrote +was a short telegram addressed to Aylmore's daughters. There were only +three words on it--_Have no fear._ + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE + +THE CLOSED DOORS + + +Alone of all the London morning newspapers, the _Watchman_ appeared +next day destitute of sensationalism in respect to the Middle Temple +Murder. The other daily journals published more or less vivid accounts +of the identification of Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P. for the Brookminster +Division, as the _ci-devant_ Stephen Ainsworth, ex-convict, once upon a +time founder and secretary of the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit +Society, the headquarters of which had been at Cloudhampton, in +Daleshire; the fall of which had involved thousands of honest working +folk in terrible distress if not in absolute ruin. Most of them had +raked up Ainsworth's past to considerable journalistic purpose: it had +been an easy matter to turn up old files, to recount the fall of the +Hearth and Home, to tell anew the story of the privations of the humble +investors whose small hoards had gone in the crash; it had been easy, +too, to set out again the history of Ainsworth's arrest, trial, and +fate. There was plenty of romance in the story: it was that of a man +who by his financial ability had built up a great industrial insurance +society; had--as was alleged--converted the large sums entrusted to him +to his own purposes; had been detected and punished; had disappeared, +after his punishment, so effectually that no one knew where he had +gone; had come back, comparatively a few years later, under another +name, a very rich man, and had entered Parliament and been, in a modest +way, a public character without any of those who knew him in his new +career suspecting that he had once worn a dress liberally ornamented +with the broad arrow. Fine copy, excellent copy: some of the morning +newspapers made a couple of columns of it. + +But the _Watchman_, up to then easily ahead of all its contemporaries +in keeping the public informed of all the latest news in connection +with the Marbury affair, contented itself with a brief announcement. +For after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and +his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them, and the result +of their talk had been that all the _Watchman_ thought fit to tell its +readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph: + +"We understand that Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., who is charged with the +murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in the Temple on June 21st last, +was yesterday afternoon identified by certain officials as Stephen +Ainsworth, who was sentenced to a term of penal servitude in connection +with the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society funds nearly thirty +years ago." + +Coming down to Fleet Street that morning, Spargo, strolling jauntily +along the front of the Law Courts, encountered a fellow-journalist, a +man on an opposition newspaper, who grinned at him in a fashion which +indicated derision. + +"Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my boy!" +he remarked elegantly. "Why, you've missed one of the finest +opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A +miserable paragraph!--why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! +What were you doing last night, old man?" + +"Sleeping," said Spargo and went by with a nod. "Sleeping!" + +He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple +Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to +Mr. Elphick's chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer +door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that +hour, but Elphick's door was closed fast enough. The night before it +had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo's first +knock, nor to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he +murmured aloud: "Elphick's door is closed!" + +It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that +Elphick's door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because +Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked +slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the +stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at +sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him. As if with a +mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands. + +"I'm glad you didn't print more than those two or three lines in the +_Watchman_ this morning," said Breton. "It was--considerate. As for the +other papers!--Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he +did serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough! He was +scapegoat for another man who disappeared." + +Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: + +"And I'm obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the +two girls last night--it was good of you. They want all the comfort +they can get, poor things! But--what are you doing here, Spargo?" + +Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. + +"I came here," he said, "to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick--an +appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at +nine o'clock. The appointment--a most important one--was for eleven +o'clock." + +Breton glanced at his watch. + +"Come on, then," he said. "It's well past that now, and my guardian's a +very martinet in the matter of punctuality." + +But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton +with troubled eyes. + +"So am I," he answered. "I was trained to it. Your guardian isn't +there, Breton." + +"Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense--I never +knew him miss an appointment!" + +"I knocked three times--three separate times," answered Spargo. + +"You should have knocked half a dozen times--he may have overslept +himself. He sits up late--he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the +night, talking stamps or playing piquet," said Breton. "Come on--you'll +see!" + +Spargo shook his head again. + +"He's not there, Breton," he said. "He's gone!" + +Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had +seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary. He +seized Spargo's elbow. + +"Come on!" he said. "I have a key to Mr. Elphick's door, so that I can +go in and out as I like. I'll soon show you whether he's gone or not." + +Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor. + +"All the same," he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the +latch, "he's not there, Breton. He's--off!" + +"Good heavens, man, I don't know what you're talking about!" exclaimed +Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby. "Off! Where on +earth should he be off to, when he's made an appointment with you for +eleven, and--Hullo!" + +He had opened the door of the room in which Spargo had met Elphick and +Miss Baylis the night before, and was walking in when he pulled himself +up on the threshold with a sharp exclamation. + +"Good God!" he cried. "What--what's all this?" + +Spargo quietly looked over Breton's shoulder. It needed but one quick +glance to show him that much had happened in that quiet room since he +had quitted it the night before. There stood the easy-chair in which he +had left Elphick; there, close by it, but pushed aside, as if by a +hurried hand, was the little table with its spirit case, its syphon, +its glass, in which stale liquid still stood; there was the novel, +turned face downwards; there, upon the novel, was Elphick's pipe. But +the rest of the room was in dire confusion. The drawers of a bureau had +been pulled open and never put back; papers of all descriptions, old +legal-looking documents, old letters, littered the centre-table and +the floor; in one corner of the room a black japanned box had been +opened, its contents strewn about, and the lid left yawning. And in the +grate, and all over the fender there were masses of burned and charred +paper; it was only too evident that the occupant of the chambers, +wherever he might have disappeared to, had spent some time before his +disappearance in destroying a considerable heap of documents and +papers, and in such haste that he had not troubled to put matters +straight before he went. + +Breton stared at this scene for a moment in utter consternation. Then +he made one step towards an inner door, and Spargo followed him. +Together they entered an inner room--a sleeping apartment. There was no +one in it, but there were evidences that Elphick had just as hastily +packed a bag as he had destroyed his papers. The clothes which Spargo +had seen him wearing the previous evening were flung here, there, +everywhere: the gorgeous smoking-jacket was tossed unceremoniously in +one corner, a dress-shirt, in the bosom of which valuable studs still +glistened, in another. One or two suitcases lay about, as if they had +been examined and discarded in favour of something more portable; here, +too, drawers, revealing stocks of linen and underclothing, had been +torn open and left open; open, too, swung the door of a wardrobe, +revealing a quantity of expensive clothing. And Spargo, looking around +him, seemed to see all that had happened--the hasty, almost frantic +search for and tearing up and burning of papers; the hurried change of +clothing, of packing necessaries into a bag that could be carried, and +then the flight the getting away, the---- + +"What on earth does all this mean?" exclaimed Breton. "What is it, +Spargo?" + +"I mean exactly what I told you," answered Spargo. "He's off! Off!" + +"Off! But why off? What--my guardian!--as quiet an old gentleman as +there is in the Temple--off!" cried Breton. "For what reason, eh? It +isn't--good God, Spargo, it isn't because of anything you said to him +last night!" + +"I should say it is precisely because of something that I said to him +last night," replied Spargo. "I was a fool ever to let him out of my +sight." + +Breton turned on his companion and gasped. + +"Out--of--your--sight!" he exclaimed. "Why--why--you don't mean to say +that Mr. Elphick has anything to do with this Marbury affair? For God's +sake, Spargo----" + +Spargo laid a hand on the young barrister's shoulder. + +"I'm afraid you'll have to hear a good deal, Breton," he said. "I was +going to talk to you today in any case. You see----" + +Before Spargo could say more a woman, bearing the implements which +denote the charwoman's profession, entered the room and immediately +cried out at what she saw. Breton turned on her almost savagely. + +"Here, you!" he said. "Have you seen anything of Mr. Elphick this +morning?" + +The charwoman rolled her eyes and lifted her hands. + +"Me, sir! Not a sign of him, sir. Which I never comes here much before +half-past eleven, sir, Mr. Elphick being then gone out to his +breakfast. I see him yesterday morning, sir, which he was then in his +usual state of good health, sir, if any thing's the matter with him +now. No, sir, I ain't seen nothing of him." + +Breton let out another exclamation of impatience. + +"You'd better leave all this," he said. "Mr. Elphick's evidently gone +away in a hurry, and you mustn't touch anything here until he comes +back. I'm going to lock up the chambers: if you've a key of them give +it to me." + +The charwoman handed over a key, gave another astonished look at the +rooms, and vanished, muttering, and Breton turned to Spargo. + +"What do you say?" he demanded. "I must hear--a good deal! Out with it, +then, man, for Heaven's sake." + +But Spargo shook his head. + +"Not now, Breton," he answered. "Presently, I tell you, for Miss +Aylmore's sake, and your own, the first thing to do is to get on your +guardian's track. We must--must, I say!--and at once." + +Breton stood staring at Spargo for a moment as if he could not credit +his own senses. Then he suddenly motioned Spargo out of the room. + +"Come on!" he said. "I know who'll know where he is, if anybody does." + +"Who, then?" asked Spargo, as they hurried out. + +"Cardlestone," answered Breton, grimly. "Cardlestone!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY + +REVELATION + + +There was as much bright sunshine that morning in Middle Temple Lane as +ever manages to get into it, and some of it was shining in the entry +into which Spargo and Breton presently hurried. Full of haste as he was +Breton paused at the foot of the stair. He looked down at the floor and +at the wall at its side. + +"Wasn't it there?" he said in a low voice, pointing at the place he +looked at. "Wasn't it there, Spargo, just there, that Marbury, or, +rather, Maitland, was found?" + +"It was just there," answered Spargo. + +"You saw him?" + +"I saw him." + +"Soon--afterwards?" + +"Immediately after he was found. You know all that, Breton. Why do you +ask now?" + +Breton, who was still staring at the place on which he had fixed his +eyes on walking into the entry, shook his head. + +"Don't know," he answered. "I--but come on--let's see if old +Cardlestone can tell us anything." + +There was another charwoman, armed with pails and buckets, outside +Cardlestone's door, into which she was just fitting a key. It was +evident to Spargo that she knew Breton, for she smiled at him as she +opened the door. + +"I don't think Mr. Cardlestone'll be in, sir," she said. "He's +generally gone out to breakfast at this time--him and Mr. Elphick goes +together." + +"Just see," said Breton. "I want to see him if he is in." The charwoman +entered the chambers and immediately screamed. + +"Quite so," remarked Spargo. "That's what I expected to hear. +Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also--off!" + +Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in +close attendance. + +"Good God--another!" groaned Breton. + +If the confusion in Elphick's rooms had been bad, that in Cardlestone's +chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene +were repeated--drawers had been torn open, papers thrown about; the +hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and sevens. +An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like +Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his +clothes, and had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any +corner. Spargo began to realize what had taken place--Elphick, having +made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had +expedited him, and they had fled together. But--why? + +The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob; +Breton strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous +objects tossed aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the +inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of +something lying on the floor at which he made a sharp clutch. He had +just secured it and hurried it into his pocket when Breton came back. + +"I don't know what all this means, Spargo," he said, almost wearily. "I +suppose you do. Look here," he went on, turning to the charwoman, "stop +that row--that'll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr. Cardlestone's +gone away in a hurry. You'd better--what had she better do, Spargo?" + +"Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as you're +a friend of Mr. Cardlestone's give you the key," answered Spargo, with +a significant glance. "Do that, now, and let's go--I've something to +do." Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned +to Breton. + +"I'll tell you all I know, presently, Breton," he said. "In the +meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick or Mr. +Cardlestone leave. I must know where they've gone--if I can only find +out. I don't suppose they went on foot." + +"All right," responded Breton, gloomily. "We'll go and ask. But this is +all beyond me. You don't mean to say----" + +"Wait a while," answered Spargo. "One thing at once," he continued, as +they walked up Middle Temple Lane. "This is the first thing. You ask +the porter if he's seen anything of either of them--he knows you." + +The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity. + +"Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?" he answered. +"Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early +this morning--soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to +Paris, and they'd breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left." + +"Say when they'd be back?" asked Breton, with an assumption of entire +carelessness. + +"No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn't," answered the porter. "But I should say +they wouldn't be long because they'd only got small suit-cases with +them--such as they'd put a day or two's things in, sir." + +"All right," said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already +moved off. "What next?" he asked. "Charing Cross, I suppose!" + +Spargo smiled and shook his head. + +"No," he answered. "I've no use for Charing Cross. They haven't gone to +Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let's go back to your +chambers. Then I'll talk to you." + +Once within Breton's inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo +dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with +earnest attention. + +"Breton!" he said. "I believe we're coming in sight of land. You want +to save your prospective father-in-law, don't you?" + +"Of course!" growled Breton. "That goes without saying. But----" + +"But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it," said +Spargo. "You see----" + +"Sacrifices!" exclaimed Breton. "What----" + +"You may have to sacrifice some ideas--you may find that you'll not be +able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought +of them in the past. For instance--Mr. Elphick." + +Breton's face grew dark. + +"Speak plainly, Spargo!" he said. "It's best with me." + +"Very well," replied Spargo. "Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way +connected with this affair." + +"You mean the--murder?" + +"I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I'm now dead certain. +And that's why they're off. I startled Elphick last night. It's evident +that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a +rapid exit. Why?" + +"Why? That's what I'm asking you! Why? Why? Why?" + +"Because they're afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, +their first instinct is to--run. They've run at the first alarm. +Foolish--but instinctive." + +Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped +to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad. + +"Spargo!" he exclaimed. "Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian +and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone. of being--murderers?" + +"Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of +knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I +am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all +about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he +knew this dead man to be John Maitland." + +"You did!" + +"I did. And now, Breton, since it's got to come out, we'll have the +truth. Pull yourself together--get your nerves ready, for you'll have +to stand a shock or two. But I know what I'm talking about--I can prove +every word I'm going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few +questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?" + +"Nothing--beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me." + +"And what was that?" + +"That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me +unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me." + +"And he's never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove +the truth of that story?" + +"Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?" + +"You never remember anything of your childhood--I mean of any person +who was particularly near you in your childhood?" + +"I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three +years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, +a tall, dark woman, I think, before that." + +"Miss Baylis," said Spargo to himself. "All right, Breton," he went on +aloud. "I'm going to tell you the truth. I'll tell it to you straight +out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not +Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you're the only child of +the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone's staircase!" + +Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at +him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he +do?--what would he say?--what---- + +Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the +eyes. + +"Prove that to me, Spargo," he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. +"Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!" + +Spargo nodded. + +"I will--every word," he answered. "It's the right thing. Listen, +then." + +It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the +clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought +it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest +attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a +brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him. + +"That's all," said Spargo at last. + +"It's plenty," observed Breton laconically. + +He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. +"What do you really think?" he asked. + +"About--what?" said Spargo. + +"This flight of Elphick's and Cardlestone's." + +"I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be +forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw +Elphick in last night. And it's evident that Cardlestone shares in that +fright, or they wouldn't have gone off in this way together." + +"Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?" + +Spargo shook his head. + +"I don't know. Probably. They know something. And--look here!" + +Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which +he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. + +"What's this?" he demanded. "Stamps?" + +"That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of +those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him--carried on him. +I picked it up just now in Cardlestone's room, when you were looking +into his bedroom." + +"But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn't be the identical +stamps. And whether they are or not----" + +"What are the probabilities?" interrupted Spargo sharply. "I believe +that those are the stamps which Maitland--your father!--had on him, +and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone's rooms. +And I will know." + +Breton handed the stamps back. + +"But the general thing, Spargo?" he said. "If they didn't murder--I +can't realize the thing yet!--my father----" + +"If they didn't murder your father, they know who did!" exclaimed +Spargo. "Now, then, it's time for more action. Let Elphick and +Cardlestone alone for the moment--they'll be tracked easily enough. I +want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an +authority from the Government to open a grave?" + +"Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by +showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made." + +"Good! We'll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened." + +"A grave opened! Whose grave?" + +"The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster," replied +Spargo. + +Breton started. + +"His? In Heaven's name, why?" he demanded. + +Spargo laughed as he got up. + +"Because I believe it's empty," he answered. "Because I believe that +Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is--Cardlestone!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE + +THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER + + +That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his +proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to +the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the _Watchman_ when +it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate +application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne +grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning +there appeared in the _Watchman_ a notice which set half the mouths of +London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:-- + +"ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD. + +"WHEREAS, on some date within the past twelve months, there was +stolen, abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, +Temple, occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. +Anderson, a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of +curious workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of +John Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of +June 21-22 last, and is now in the hands of the police: + +"This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ +newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (ONE THOUSAND POUNDS +STERLING) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or she +stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said chambers, +and will further give full information as to his or her disposal of +the same, and the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ moreover engages to +treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the most strictly +private and confidential manner, and to abstain from using it in any +way detrimental to the informant, who should call at the _Watchman_ +office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time between eleven and +one o'clock midday, and seven and eleven o'clock in the evening." + +"And you really expect to get some information through that?" asked +Breton, who came into Spargo's room about noon on the day on which the +promising announcement came out. "You really do?" + +"Before today is out," said Spargo confidently. "There is more magic in +a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I'll have the history +of that stick before midnight." + +"How are you to tell that you won't be imposed upon?" suggested Breton. +"Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick." + +"Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me +how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick," said +Spargo. "I haven't the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken +away from Aylmore's rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the +hands of--" + +"Yes, of whom?" + +"That's what I want to know in some fashion. I've an idea, already. But +I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing--when I +get that information--as I shall--we shall be a long way on the road +towards establishing Aylmore's innocence." + +Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a +meditative expression. + +"Spargo," he said, suddenly, "do you think you'll get that order for +the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?" + +"I was talking to the solicitors over the 'phone just now," answered +Spargo. "They've every confidence about it. In fact, it's possible it +may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made +early tomorrow morning." + +"Shall you go?" asked Breton. + +"Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch +with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there--you're +concerned." + +"I should like to go--I will go," said Breton. "And if that grave +proves to be--empty--I'll--I'll tell you something." + +Spargo looked up with sharp instinct. + +"You'll tell me something? Something? What?" + +"Never mind--wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or +lead and sawdust. If there's no body there----" + +At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached +Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, +showed signs of something very like excitement. + +"There's a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo," he said. "He's +been hanging about a bit, sir,--seems very shy about coming up. He +won't say what he wants, and he won't fill up a form, sir. Says all he +wants is a word or two with you." + +"Bring him up at once!" commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the +boy had gone. "There!" he said, laughing. "This is the man about the +stick--you see if it isn't." + +"You're such a cock-sure chap, Spargo," said Breton. "You're always +going on a straight line." + +"Trying to, you mean," retorted Spargo. "Well, stop here, and hear what +this chap has to say: it'll no doubt be amusing." + +The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo's +room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of +good _Watchman_ money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a +shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully +apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the +threshold, looking round the comfortably-furnished room, and at the two +well-dressed young men which it framed as if he feared to enter on a +scene of such grandeur. + +"Come in, come in!" said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy-chair +at the side of his desk. "Take a seat. You've called about that reward, +of course." + +The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without +suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort. + +"Of course," he said. "It's all on the strict private. Name of Edward +Mollison, sir." + +"And where do you live, and what do you do?" asked Spargo. + +"You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel," answered Edward +Mollison. "Leastways, that's where I generally hang out when I can +afford it. And--window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning +when--when----" + +"When you came in contact with the stick we've been advertising about," +suggested Spargo. "Just so. Well, Mollison--what about the stick?" + +Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at +Breton. + +"There ain't no danger of me being got into trouble along of that +stick?" he asked. "'Cause if there is, I ain't a-going to say a +word--no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no +trouble of any sort, guv'nor--though a poor man." + +"Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison," replied Spargo. "Not +the least. All you've got to do is to tell the truth--and prove that it +is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of +Mr. Aylmore's rooms in Fountain Court, was it?" + +Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his +feelings. He smiled weakly. + +"It was cert'nly me as took it, sir," he said. "Not that I meant to +pinch it--not me! And, as you might say, I didn't take it, when all's +said and done. It was--put on me." + +"Put on you, was it?" said Spargo. "That's interesting. And how was it +put on you?" + +Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin. + +"It was this here way," he answered. "You see, I was working at that +time--near on to nine months since, it is--for the Universal Daylight +Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and +there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore's--only I knew +them as Mr. Anderson's--among 'em. And I was there one morning, early +it was, when the charwoman she says to me, 'I wish you'd take these two +or three hearthrugs,' she says, 'and give 'em a good beating,' she +says. And me being always a ready one to oblige, 'All right!' I says, +and takes 'em. 'Here's something to wallop 'em with,' she says, and +pulls that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner +of the lobby. And that's how I came to handle it, sir." + +"I see," said Spargo. "A good explanation. And when you had beaten the +hearthrugs--what then?" + +Mollison smiled his weak smile again. + +"Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something +uncommon," he answered. "And I thinks--'Well, this Mr. Anderson, he's +got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there--he'll never miss this +old thing,' I thinks. And so I left it in a corner when I'd done +beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things I took it with +me." + +"You took it with you?" said Spargo. "Just so. To keep as a curiosity, +I suppose?" + +Mollison's weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing +his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his +news was imparting confidence to him. + +"Not half!" he answered. "You see, guv'nor, there was an old cove as I +knew in the Temple there as is, or was, 'cause I ain't been there +since, a collector of antikities, like, and I'd sold him a queer old +thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took +the stick away--see?" + +"I see. And you took the stick to him?" + +"I took it there and then," replied Mollison. "Pitched him a tale, I +did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle +Simon--which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare +curiosity--which it might ha' been one, for all I know." + +"Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?" + +"Bought it there and then," answered Mollison, with something very like +a wink. + +"Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it?" +asked Spargo. "Something handsome, I hope?" + +"Couple o' quid," replied Mollison. "Me not wishing to part with a +family heirloom for less." + +"Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove's name +and his address, Mollison?" asked Spargo. + +"I do, sir. Which they've painted on his entry--the fifth or sixth as +you go down Middle Temple Lane," answered Mollison. "Mr. Nicholas +Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase." + +Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton. + +"Come this way, Mollison," he said. "We'll go and see about your little +reward. Excuse me, Breton." + +Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came +back. + +"There--that's one matter settled, Breton," he said. "Now for the next. +The Home Secretary's made the order for the opening of the grave at +Market Milcaster. I'm going down there at once, and I suppose you're +coming. And remember, if that grave's empty----" + +"If that grave's empty," said Breton, "I'll tell you--a good deal." + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO + +THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN + + +There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon, +Spargo, Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the +order for the opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting +on behalf of the proprietor of the _Watchman_. It was late in the +evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in +at the parlour of the "Yellow Dragon" and ascertained that Mr. +Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Breton across the street to +the old gentleman's house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door, +and recognized Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that +the two should go in; his family, he said, had just retired, but he +himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must +share it. + +"For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage," said Spargo as they +followed the old man into his dining-room. "We have to be up at +daybreak. And--possibly--you, too, would like to be up just as early." + +Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he +was handling. + +"At daybreak?" he exclaimed. + +"The fact is," said Spargo, "that grave of Chamberlayne's is going to +be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home +Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne's body: the officials in +charge of it have come down in the same train with us; we're all +staying across there at the 'Dragon.' The officials have gone to make +the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak, +or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that +you know of it, you'll be there?" + +"God bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "You've really done that! +Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years. +You're a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. And this +other young gentleman?" + +Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak. +"Mr. Quarterpage," he said, "this young gentleman is, without doubt, +John Maitland's son. He's the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that +I told you of, but there's no doubt about his parentage. And I'm sure +you'll shake hands with him and wish him well." + +Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton +his hand. + +"My dear young sir!" he exclaimed. "That I will indeed! And as to +wishing you well--ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor +father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me, +what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is +found empty--what then?" + +"Then," answered Spargo, "then I think we shall be able to put our +hands on the man who is supposed to be in it." + +"You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?" +observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round +Mr. Quarterpage's hospitable hearth. "You think he was unduly +influenced by him?" + +Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. + +"Chamberlayne, my dear young sir," he answered. "Chamberlayne was a +plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he +came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had +contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody--of course, to his own +advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father round his +little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there when he was making his +enquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any +surprise to me to hear--definitely, I mean, young gentlemen--that all +this money that was in question went into Chamberlayne's pockets. Dear +me--dear me!--and you really believe that Chamberlayne is actually +alive, Mr. Spargo?" + +Spargo pulled out his watch. "We shall all know whether he was buried +in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage," he +said. + +He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then +nearly midnight, and before three o'clock Spargo and Breton, with the +other men who had accompanied them from London were out of the "Yellow +Dragon" and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town. +Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the +long stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the +sea was white with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery +hung veils and webs of gossamer: everything around them was quiet as +the dead folk who lay beneath their feet. And the people actively +concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but +watch stood around in silence. + +"In all my long life of over ninety years," whispered old Quarterpage, +who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in +spite of his shortened rest, "I have never seen this done before. It +seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man's last +resting-place--a dreadful thing." + +"If there is a dead man there," said Spargo. + +He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he +had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon +the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local +authorities, instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with +canvas; the proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a +man was posted to keep away any very early passersby, who might be +attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do +but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful +of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth; +he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one +phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the +coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the +body of the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his, +Spargo's, latest theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that +coffin contained no body at all, then--" + +"They're down to it!" whispered Breton. + +Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had +uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of +them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now +strong light they could all read the lettering on it. + + JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE + Born 1852 + Died 1891 + +Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the +grave. + +"We shall know now!" he whispered to Breton. "And yet--what is it we +shall know if----" + +"If what?" said Breton. "If--what?" + +But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had +lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous. + +"Now for it!" said the _Watchman's_ solicitor in an undertone. "Come, +Mr. Spargo, now we shall see." + +They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the +graveside, as the workmen silently went to work on the screws. The +screws were rusted in their sockets; they grated as the men slowly +worked them out. It seemed to Spargo that each man grew slower and +slower in his movements; he felt that he himself was getting fidgety. +Then he heard a voice of authority. + +"Lift the lid off!" + +A man at the head of the coffin, a man at the foot suddenly and swiftly +raised the lid: the men gathered round craned their necks with a quick +movement. + +Sawdust! + +The coffin was packed to the brim with sawdust, tightly pressed down. +The surface lay smooth, undisturbed, levelled as some hand had levelled +it long years before. They were not in the presence of death, but of +deceit. + +Somebody laughed faintly. The sound of the laughter broke the spell. +The chief official present looked round him with a smile. + +"It is evident that there were good grounds for suspicion," he +remarked. "Here is no dead body, gentlemen. See if anything lies +beneath the sawdust," he added, turning to the workmen. "Turn it out!" + +The workmen began to scoop out the sawdust with their hands; one of +them, evidently desirous of making sure that no body was in the coffin, +thrust down his fingers at various places along its length. He, too, +laughed. + +"The coffin's weighted with lead!" he remarked. "See!" + +And tearing the sawdust aside, he showed those around him that at three +intervals bars of lead had been tightly wedged into the coffin where +the head, the middle, and the feet of a corpse would have rested. + +"Done it cleverly," he remarked, looking round. "You see how these +weights have been adjusted. When a body's laid out in a coffin, you +know, all the weight's in the end where the head and trunk rest. Here +you see the heaviest bar of lead is in the middle; the lightest at the +feet. Clever!" + +"Clear out all the sawdust," said some one. "Let's see if there's +anything else." + +There was something else. At the bottom of the coffin two bundles of +papers, tied up with pink tape. The legal gentlemen present immediately +manifested great interest in these. So did Spargo, who, pulling Breton +along with him, forced his way to where the officials from the Home +Office and the solicitor sent by the _Watchman_ were hastily examining +their discoveries. + +The first bundle of papers opened evidently related to transactions at +Market Milcaster: Spargo caught glimpses of names that were familiar to +him, Mr. Quarterpage's amongst them. He was not at all astonished to +see these things. But he was something more than astonished when, on +the second parcel being opened, a quantity of papers relating to +Cloudhampton and the Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society were +revealed. He gave a hasty glance at these and drew Breton aside. + +"It strikes me we've found a good deal more than we ever bargained +for!" he exclaimed. "Didn't Aylmore say that the real culprit at +Cloudhampton was another man--his clerk or something of that sort?" + +"He did," agreed Breton. "He insists on it." + +"Then this fellow Chamberlayne must have been the man," said Spargo. +"He came to Market Milcaster from the north. What'll be done with those +papers?" he asked, turning to the officials. + +"We are going to seal them up at once, and take them to London," +replied the principal person in authority. "They will be quite safe, +Mr. Spargo; have no fear. We don't know what they may reveal." + +"You don't, indeed!" said Spargo. "But I may as well tell you that I +have a strong belief that they'll reveal a good deal that nobody dreams +of, so take the greatest care of them." + +Then, without waiting for further talk with any one, Spargo hurried +Breton out of the cemetery. At the gate, he seized him by the arm. + +"Now, then, Breton!" he commanded. "Out with it!" + +"With what?" + +"You promised to tell me something--a great deal, you said--if we found +that coffin empty. It is empty. Come on--quick!" + +"All right. I believe I know where Elphick and Cardlestone can be +found. That's all." + +"All! It's enough. Where, then, in heaven's name?" + +"Elphick has a queer little place where he and Cardlestone sometimes go +fishing--right away up in one of the wildest parts of the Yorkshire +moors. I expect they've gone there. Nobody knows even their names +there--they could go and lie quiet there for--ages." + +"Do you know the way to it?" + +"I do--I've been there." + +Spargo motioned him to hurry. + +"Come on, then," he said. "We're going there by the very first train +out of this. I know the train, too--we've just time to snatch a +mouthful of breakfast and to send a wire to the _Watchman_, and then +we'll be off. Yorkshire!--Gad, Breton, that's over three hundred miles +away!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE + +FORESTALLED + + +Travelling all that long summer day, first from the south-west of +England to the Midlands, then from the Midlands to the north, Spargo +and Breton came late at night to Hawes' Junction, on the border of +Yorkshire and Westmoreland, and saw rising all around them in the +half-darkness the mighty bulks of the great fells which rise amongst +that wild and lonely stretch of land. At that hour of the night and +amidst that weird silence, broken only by the murmur of some adjacent +waterfall the scene was impressive and suggestive; it seemed to Spargo +as if London were a million miles away, and the rush and bustle of +human life a thing of another planet. Here and there in the valleys he +saw a light, but such lights were few and far between; even as he +looked some of them twinkled and went out. It was evident that he and +Breton were presently to be alone with the night. + +"How far?" he asked Breton as they walked away from the station. + +"We'd better discuss matters," answered Breton. "The place is in a +narrow valley called Fossdale, some six or seven miles away across +these fells, and as wild a walk as any lover of such things could wish +for. It's half-past nine now, Spargo: I reckon it will take us a good +two and a half hours, if not more, to do it. Now, the question is--Do +we go straight there, or do we put up for the night? There's an inn +here at this junction: there's the Moor Cock Inn a mile or so along the +road which we must take before we turn off to the moorland and the +fells. It's going to be a black night--look at those masses of black +cloud gathering there!--and possibly a wet one, and we've no +waterproofs. But it's for you to say--I'm game for whatever you like." + +"Do you know the way?" asked Spargo. + +"I've been the way. In the daytime I could go straight ahead. I +remember all the landmarks. Even in the darkness I believe I can find +my way. But it's rough walking." + +"We'll go straight there," said Spargo. "Every minute's precious. +But--can we get a mouthful of bread and cheese and a glass of ale +first?" + +"Good idea! We'll call in at the 'Moor Cock.' Now then, while we're on +this firm road, step it out lively." + +The "Moor Cock" was almost deserted at that hour: there was scarcely a +soul in it when the two travellers turned in to its dimly-lighted +parlour. The landlord, bringing the desired refreshment, looked hard at +Breton. + +"Come our way again then, sir?" he remarked with a sudden grin of +recognition. + +"Ah, you remember me?" said Breton. + +"I call in mind when you came here with the two old gents last year," +replied the landlord. "I hear they're here again--Tom Summers was +coming across that way this morning, and said he'd seen 'em at the +little cottage. Going to join 'em, I reckon, sir?" + +Breton kicked Spargo under the table. + +"Yes, we're going to have a day or two with them," he answered. "Just +to get a breath of your moorland air." + +"Well, you'll have a roughish walk over there tonight, gentlemen," said +the landlord. "There's going to be a storm. And it's a stiffish way to +make out at this time o'night." + +"Oh, we'll manage," said Breton, nonchalantly. "I know the way, and +we're not afraid of a wet skin." + +The landlord laughed, and sitting down on his long settle folded his +arms and scratched his elbows. + +"There was a gentleman--London gentleman by his tongue--came in here +this afternoon, and asked the way to Fossdale," he observed. "He'll be +there long since--he'd have daylight for his walk. Happen he's one of +your party?--he asked where the old gentlemen's little cottage was." + +Again Spargo felt his shin kicked and made no sign. "One of their +friends, perhaps," answered Breton. "What was he like?" + +The landlord ruminated. He was not good at description and was +conscious of the fact. + +"Well, a darkish, serious-faced gentleman," he said. "Stranger +hereabouts, at all events. Wore a grey suit--something like your +friend's there. Yes--he took some bread and cheese with him when he +heard what a long way it was." + +"Wise man," remarked Breton. He hastily finished his own bread and +cheese, and drank off the rest of his pint of ale. "Come on," he said, +"let's be stepping." + +Outside, in the almost tangible darkness, Breton clutched Spargo's arm. +"Who's the man?" he said. "Can you think, Spargo?" + +"Can't" answered Spargo. "I was trying to, while that chap was talking. +But--it's somebody that's got in before us. Not Rathbury, anyhow--he's +not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going to find your +way in this darkness?" + +"You'll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the +fell side there. On the top, if the night clears a bit, we ought to see +Great Shunnor Fell and Lovely Seat--they're both well over two thousand +feet, and they stand up well. We want to make for a point clear between +them. But I warn you, Spargo, it's stiff going!" + +"Go ahead!" said Spargo. "It's the first time in my life I ever did +anything of this sort, but we're going on if it takes us all night. I +couldn't sleep in any bed now that I've heard there's somebody ahead of +us. Go first, old chap, and I'll follow." + +Breton went steadily forward along the road. That was easy work, but +when he turned off and began to thread his way up the fell-side by what +was obviously no more than a sheep-track, Spargo's troubles began. It +seemed to him that he was walking as in a nightmare; all that he saw +was magnified and heightened; the darkening sky above; the faint +outlines of the towering hills; the gaunt spectres of fir and pine; the +figure of Breton forging stolidly and surely ahead. Now the ground was +soft and spongy under his feet; now it was stony and rugged; more than +once he caught an ankle in the wire-like heather and tripped, bruising +his knees. And in the end he resigned himself to keeping his eye on +Breton, outlined against the sky, and following doggedly in his +footsteps. + +"Was there no other way than this?" he asked after a long interval of +silence. "Do you mean to say those two--Elphick and Cardlestone--would +take this way?" + +"There is another way--down the valley, by Thwaite Bridge and Hardraw," +answered Breton, "but it's miles and miles round. This is a straight +cut across country, and in daylight it's a delightful walk. But at +night--Gad!--here's the rain, Spargo!" + +The rain came down as it does in that part of the world, with a +suddenness that was as fierce as it was heavy. The whole of the grey +night was blotted out; Spargo was only conscious that he stood in a +vast solitude and was being gradually drowned. But Breton, whose sight +was keener, and who had more knowledge of the situation dragged his +companion into the shelter of a group of rocks. He laughed a little as +they huddled closely together. + +"This is a different sort of thing to pursuing detective work in Fleet +Street, Spargo," he said. "You would come on, you know." + +"I'm going on if we go through cataracts and floods," answered Spargo. +"I might have been induced to stop at the 'Moor Cock' overnight if we +hadn't heard of that chap in front. If he's after those two he's +somebody who knows something. What I can't make out is--who he can be." + +"Nor I," said Breton. "I can't think of anybody who knows of this +retreat. But--has it ever struck you, Spargo, that somebody beside +yourself may have been investigating?" + +"Possible," replied Spargo. "One never knows. I only wish we'd been a +few hours earlier. For I wanted to have the first word with those two." + +The rain ceased as suddenly as it had come. Just as suddenly the +heavens cleared. And going forward to the top of the ridge which they +were then crossing, Breton pointed an arm to something shining far away +below them. + +"You see that?" he said. "That's a sheet of water lying between us and +Cotterdale. We leave that on our right hand, climb the fell beyond it, +drop down into Cotterdale, cross two more ranges of fell, and come down +into Fossdale under Lovely Seat. There's a good two hours and a half +stiff pull yet, Spargo. Think you can stick it?" + +Spargo set his teeth. + +"Go on!" he said. + +Up hill, down dale, now up to his ankles in peaty ground, now tearing +his shins, now bruising his knees, Spargo, yearning for the London +lights, the well-paved London streets, the convenient taxi-cab, even +the humble omnibus, plodded forward after his guide. It seemed to him +that they had walked for ages and had traversed a whole continent of +mountains and valley when at last Breton, halting on the summit of a +wind-swept ridge, laid one hand on his companion's shoulder and pointed +downward with the other. + +"There!" he said. "There!" + +Spargo looked ahead into the night. Far away, at what seemed to him to +be a considerable distance, he saw the faint, very faint glimmer of a +light--a mere spark of a light. + +"That's the cottage," said Breton, "Late as it is, you see, they're up. +And here's the roughest bit of the journey. It'll take me all my time +to find the track across this moor, Spargo, so step carefully after +me--there are bogs and holes hereabouts." + +Another hour had gone by ere the two came to the cottage. Sometimes the +guiding light had vanished, blotted out by intervening rises in the +ground; always, when they saw it again, they were slowly drawing nearer +to it. And now when they were at last close to it, Spargo realized that +he found himself in one of the loneliest places he had ever been +capable of imagining--so lonely and desolate a spot he had certainly +never seen. In the dim light he could see a narrow, crawling stream, +making its way down over rocks and stones from the high ground of Great +Shunnor Fell. Opposite to the place at which they stood, on the edge of +the moorland, a horseshoe like formation of ground was backed by a ring +of fir and pine; beneath this protecting fringe of trees stood a small +building of grey stone which looked as if it had been originally built +by some shepherd as a pen for the moorland sheep. It was of no more +than one storey in height, but of some length; a considerable part of +it was hidden by shrubs and brushwood. And from one uncurtained, +blindless window the light of a lamp shone boldly into the fading +darkness without. + +Breton pulled up on the edge of the crawling stream. + +"We've got to get across there, Spargo," he said. "But as we're already +soaked to the knee it doesn't matter about getting another wetting. +Have you any idea how long we've been walking?" + +"Hours--days--years!" replied Spargo. + +"I should say quite four hours," said Breton. "In that case, it's well +past two o'clock, and the light will be breaking in another hour or so. +Now, once across this stream, what shall we do?" + +"What have we come to do? Go to the cottage, of course!" + +"Wait a bit. No need to startle them. By the fact they've got a light, +I take it that they're up. Look there!" + +As he spoke, a figure crossed the window passing between it and the +light. + +"That's not Elphick, nor yet Cardlestone," said Spargo. "They're +medium-heighted men. That's a tallish man." + +"Then it's the man the landlord of the 'Moor Cock' told us about," said +Breton. "Now, look here--I know every inch of this place. When we're +across let me go up to the cottage, and I'll take an observation +through that window and see who's inside. Come on." + +He led Spargo across the stream at a place where a succession of +boulders made a natural bridge, and bidding him keep quiet, went up the +bank to the cottage. Spargo, watching him, saw him make his way past +the shrubs and undergrowth until he came to a great bush which stood +between the lighted window and the projecting porch of the cottage. He +lingered in the shadow of this bush but for a short moment; then came +swiftly and noiselessly back to his companion. His hand fell on +Spargo's arm with a clutch of nervous excitement. + +"Spargo!" he whispered. "Who on earth do you think the other man is?" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR + +THE WHIP HAND + + +Spargo, almost irritable from desire to get at close grips with the +objects of his long journey, shook off Breton's hand with a growl of +resentment. + +"And how on earth can I waste time guessing?" he exclaimed. "Who is +he?" + +Breton laughed softly. + +"Steady, Spargo, steady!" he said. "It's Myerst--the Safe Deposit man. +Myerst!" + +Spargo started as if something had bitten him. + +"Myerst!" he almost shouted. "Myerst! Good Lord!--why did I never think +of him? Myerst! Then----" + +"I don't know why you should have thought of him," said Breton. +"But--he's there." + +Spargo took a step towards the cottage: Breton pulled him back. + +"Wait!" he said. "We've got to discuss this. I'd better tell you what +they're doing." + +"What are they doing, then?" demanded Spargo impatiently. + +"Well," answered Breton. "They're going through a quantity of papers. +The two old gentlemen look very ill and very miserable. Myerst is +evidently laying down the law to them in some fashion or other. I've +formed a notion, Spargo." + +"What notion?" + +"Myerst is in possession of whatever secret they have, and he's +followed them down here to blackmail them. That's my notion." + +Spargo thought awhile, pacing up and down the river bank. + +"I daresay you're right," he said. "Now, what's to be done?" + +Breton, too, considered matters. + +"I wish," he said at last, "I wish we could get in there and overhear +what's going on. But that's impossible--I know that cottage. The only +thing we can do is this--we must catch Myerst unawares. He's here for +no good. Look here!" + +And reaching round to his hip-pocket Breton drew out a Browning +revolver and wagged it in his hand with a smile. + +"That's a useful thing to have, Spargo," he remarked. "I slipped it +into my pocket the other day, wondering why on earth I did it. Now +it'll come in handy. For anything we know Myerst may be armed." + +"Well?" said Spargo. + +"Come up to the cottage. If things turn out as I think they will, +Myerst, when he's got what he wants, will be off. Now, you shall get +where I did just now, behind that bush, and I'll station myself in the +doorway. You can report to me, and when Myerst comes out I'll cover +him. Come on, Spargo; it's beginning to get light already." + +Breton cautiously led the way along the river bank, making use of such +cover as the willows and alders afforded. Together, he and Spargo made +their way to the front of the cottage. Arrived at the door, Breton +posted himself in the porch, motioning to Spargo to creep in behind the +bushes and to look through the window. And Spargo noiselessly followed +his directions and slightly parting the branches which concealed him +looked in through the uncurtained glass. + +The interior into which he looked was rough and comfortless in the +extreme. There were the bare accessories of a moorland cottage; rough +chairs and tables, plastered walls, a fishing rod or two piled in a +corner; some food set out on a side table. At the table in the middle +of the floor the three men sat. Cardlestone's face was in the shadow; +Myerst had his back to the window; old Elphick bending over the table +was laboriously writing with shaking fingers. And Spargo twisted his +head round to his companion. + +"Elphick," he said, "is writing a cheque. Myerst has another cheque in +his hand. Be ready!--when he gets that second cheque I guess he'll be +off." + +Breton smiled grimly and nodded. A moment later Spargo whispered again. + +"Look out, Breton! He's coming." + +Breton drew back into the angle of the porch; Spargo quitted his +protecting bush and took the other angle. The door opened. And they +heard Myerst's voice, threatening, commanding in tone. + +"Now, remember all I've said! And don't you forget--I've the whip hand +of both of you--the whip hand!" + +Then Myerst turned and stepped out into the grey light--to find himself +confronted by an athletic young man who held the muzzle of an ugly +revolver within two inches of the bridge of his nose and in a +remarkably firm and steady grip. Another glance showed him the figure +of a second business-like looking young man at his side, whose attitude +showed a desire to grapple with him. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Myerst," said Breton with cold and ironic +politeness. "We are glad to meet you so unexpectedly. And--I must +trouble you to put up your hands. Quick!" + +Myerst made one hurried movement of his right hand towards his hip, but +a sudden growl from Breton made him shift it just as quickly above his +head, whither the left followed it. Breton laughed softly. + +"That's wise, Mr. Myerst," he said, keeping his revolver steadily +pointed at his prisoner's nose. "Discretion will certainly be the +better part of your valour on this occasion. Spargo--may I trouble you +to see what Mr. Myerst carries in his pockets? Go through them +carefully. Not for papers or documents--just now. We can leave that +matter--we've plenty of time. See if he's got a weapon of any sort on +him, Spargo--that's the important thing." + +Considering that Spargo had never gone through the experience of +searching a man before, he made sharp and creditable work of seeing +what the prisoner carried. And he forthwith drew out and exhibited a +revolver, while Myerst, finding his tongue, cursed them both, heartily +and with profusion. + +"Excellent!" said Breton, laughing again. "Sure he's got nothing else +on him that's dangerous, Spargo? All right. Now, Mr. Myerst, right +about face! Walk into the cottage, hands up, and remember there are two +revolvers behind your back. March!" + +Myerst obeyed this peremptory order with more curses. The three walked +into the cottage. Breton kept his eye on his captive; Spargo gave a +glance at the two old men. Cardlestone, white and shaking, was lying +back in his chair; Elphick, scarcely less alarmed, had risen, and was +coming forward with trembling limbs. + +"Wait a moment," said Breton, soothingly. "Don't alarm yourself. We'll +deal with Mr. Myerst here first. Now, Myerst, my man, sit down in that +chair--it's the heaviest the place affords. Into it, now! Spargo, you +see that coil of rope there. Tie Myerst up--hand and foot--to that +chair. And tie him well. All the knots to be double, Spargo, and behind +him." + +Myerst suddenly laughed. "You damned young bully!" he exclaimed. "If +you put a rope round me, you're only putting ropes round the necks of +these two old villains. Mark that, my fine fellows!" + +"We'll see about that later," answered Breton. He kept Myerst covered +while Spargo made play with the rope. "Don't be afraid of hurting him, +Spargo," he said. "Tie him well and strong. He won't shift that chair +in a hurry." + +Spargo spliced his man to the chair in a fashion that would have done +credit to a sailor. He left Myerst literally unable to move either hand +or foot, and Myerst cursed him from crown to heel for his pains. +"That'll do," said Breton at last. He dropped his revolver into his +pocket and turned to the two old men. Elphick averted his eyes and sank +into a chair in the darkest corner of the room: old Cardlestone shook +as with palsy and muttered words which the two young men could not +catch. "Guardian," continued Breton, "don't be frightened! And don't +you be frightened, either, Mr. Cardlestone. There's nothing to be +afraid of, just yet, whatever there may be later on. It seems to me +that Mr. Spargo and I came just in time. Now, guardian, what was this +fellow after?" + +Old Elphick lifted his head and shook it; he was plainly on the verge +of tears; as for Cardlestone, it was evident that his nerve was +completely gone. And Breton pointed Spargo to an old corner cupboard. + +"Spargo," he said, "I'm pretty sure you'll find whisky in there. Give +them both a stiff dose: they've broken up. Now, guardian," he +continued, when Spargo had carried out this order, "what was he after? +Shall I suggest it? Was it--blackmail?" + +Cardlestone began to whimper; Elphick nodded his head. "Yes, yes!" he +muttered. "Blackmail! That was it--blackmail. He--he got +money--papers--from us. They're on him." + +Breton turned on the captive with a look of contempt. + +"I thought as much, Mr. Myerst," he said. "Spargo, let's see what he +has on him." + +Spargo began to search the prisoner's pockets. He laid out everything +on the table as he found it. It was plain that Myerst had contemplated +some sort of flight or a long, long journey. There was a quantity of +loose gold; a number of bank-notes of the more easily negotiated +denominations; various foreign securities, realizable in Paris. And +there was an open cheque, signed by Cardlestone for ten thousand +pounds, and another, with Elphick's name at the foot, also open, for +half that amount. Breton examined all these matters as Spargo handed +them out. He turned to old Elphick. + +"Guardian," he said, "why have you or Mr. Cardlestone given this man +these cheques and securities? What hold has he on you?" + +Old Cardlestone began to whimper afresh; Elphick turned a troubled face +on his ward. + +"He--he threatened to accuse us of the murder of Marbury!" he faltered. +"We--we didn't see that we had a chance." + +"What does he know of the murder of Marbury and of you in connection +with it?" demanded Breton. "Come--tell me the truth now." + +"He's been investigating--so he says," answered Elphick. "He lives in +that house in Middle Temple Lane, you know, in the top-floor rooms +above Cardlestone's. And--and he says he's the fullest evidence against +Cardlestone--and against me as an accessory after the fact." + +"And--it's a lie?" asked Breton. + +"A lie!" answered Elphick. "Of course, it's a lie. But--he's so clever +that--that----" + +"That you don't know how you could prove it otherwise," said Breton. +"Ah! And so this fellow lives over Mr. Cardlestone there, does he? That +may account for a good many things. Now we must have the police here." +He sat down at the table and drew the writing materials to him. "Look +here, Spargo," he continued. "I'm going to write a note to the +superintendent of police at Hawes--there's a farm half a mile from here +where I can get a man to ride down to Hawes with the note. Now, if you +want to send a wire to the _Watchman_, draft it out, and he'll take it +with him." + +Elphick began to move in his corner. + +"Must the police come?" he said. "Must----" + +"The police must come," answered Breton firmly. "Go ahead with your +wire, Spargo, while I write this note." + +Three quarters of an hour later, when Breton came back from the farm, +he sat down at Elphick's side and laid his hand on the old man's. + +"Now, guardian," he said, quietly, "you've got to tell us the truth." + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE + +MYERST EXPLAINS + + +It had been apparent to Spargo, from the moment of his entering the +cottage, that the two old men were suffering badly from shock and +fright: Cardlestone still sat in his corner shivering and trembling; he +looked incapable of explaining anything; Elphick was scarcely more +fitted to speak. And when Breton issued his peremptory invitation to +his guardian to tell the truth, Spargo intervened. + +"Far better leave him alone, Breton," he said in a low voice. "Don't +you see the old chap's done up? They're both done up. We don't know +what they've gone through with this fellow before we came, and it's +certain they've had no sleep. Leave it all till later--after all, we've +found them and we've found him." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder +in Myerst's direction, and Breton involuntarily followed the movement. +He caught the prisoner's eye, and Myerst laughed. + +"I daresay you two young men think yourselves very clever," he said +sneeringly. "Don't you, now?" + +"We've been clever enough to catch you, anyway," retorted Breton. "And +now we've got you we'll keep you till the police can relieve us of +you." + +"Oh!" said Myerst, with another sneering laugh. "And on what charge do +you propose to hand me over to the police? It strikes me you'll have +some difficulty in formulating one, Mr. Breton." + +"Well see about that later," said Breton. "You've extorted money by +menaces from these gentlemen, at any rate." + +"Have I? How do you know they didn't entrust me with these cheques as +their agent?" exclaimed Myerst. "Answer me that! Or, rather, let them +answer if they dare. Here you, Cardlestone, you Elphick--didn't you +give me these cheques as your agent? Speak up now, and quick!" + +Spargo, watching the two old men, saw them both quiver at the sound of +Myerst's voice; Cardlestone indeed, began to whimper softly. + +"Look here, Breton," he said, whispering, "this scoundrel's got some +hold on these two old chaps--they're frightened to death of him. Leave +them alone: it would be best for them if they could get some rest. Hold +your tongue, you!" he added aloud, turning to Myerst. "When we want you +to speak we'll tell you." + +But Myerst laughed again. + +"All very high and mighty, Mr. Spargo of the _Watchman_!" he sneered. +"You're another of the cock-sure lot. And you're very clever, but not +clever enough. Now, look here! Supposing--" + +Spargo turned his back on him. He went over to old Cardlestone and felt +his hands. And he turned to Breton with a look of concern. + +"I say!" he exclaimed. "He's more than frightened--he's ill! What's to +be done?" + +"I asked the police to bring a doctor along with them," answered +Breton. "In the meantime, let's put him to bed--there are beds in that +inner room. We'll get him to bed and give him something hot to +drink--that's all I can think of for the present." + +Between them they managed to get Cardlestone to his bed, and Spargo, +with a happy thought, boiled water on the rusty stove and put hot +bottles to his feet. When that was done they persuaded Elphick to lie +down in the inner room. Presently both old men fell asleep, and then +Breton and Spargo suddenly realized that they themselves were hungry +and wet and weary. + +"There ought to be food in the cupboard," said Breton, beginning to +rummage. "They've generally had a good stock of tinned things. Here we +are, Spargo--these are tongues and sardines. Make some hot coffee while +I open one of these tins." + +The prisoner watched the preparations for a rough and ready breakfast +with eyes that eventually began to glisten. + +"I may remind you that I'm hungry, too," he said as Spargo set the +coffee on the table. "And you've no right to starve me, even if you've +the physical ability to keep me tied up. Give me something to eat, if +you please." + +"You shan't starve," said Breton, carelessly. He cut an ample supply of +bread and meat, filled a cup with coffee and placed cup and plate +before Myerst. "Untie his right arm, Spargo," he continued. "I think we +can give him that liberty. We've got his revolver, anyhow." + +For a while the three men ate and drank in silence. At last Myerst +pushed his plate away. He looked scrutinizingly at his two captors. +"Look here!" he said. "You think you know a lot about all this affair, +Spargo, but there's only one person who knows all about it. That's me!" + +"We're taking that for granted," said Spargo. "We guessed as much when +we found you here. You'll have ample opportunity for explanation, you +know, later on." + +"I'll explain now, if you care to hear," said Myerst with another of +his cynical laughs. "And if I do, I'll tell you the truth. I know +you've got an idea in your heads that isn't favourable to me, but +you're utterly wrong, whatever you may think. Look here!--I'll make you +a fair offer. There are some cigars in my case there--give me one, and +mix me a drink of that whisky--a good 'un--and I'll tell you what I +know about this matter. Come on!--anything's better than sitting here +doing nothing." + +The two young men looked at each other. Then Breton nodded. "Let him +talk if he likes," he said. "We're not bound to believe him. And we may +hear something that's true. Give him his cigar and his drink." + +Myerst took a stiff pull at the contents of the tumbler which Spargo +presently set before him. He laughed as he inhaled the first fumes of +his cigar. + +"As it happens, you'll hear nothing but the truth," he observed. "Now +that things are as they are, there's no reason why I shouldn't tell the +truth. The fact is, I've nothing to fear. You can't give me in charge, +for it so happens that I've got a power of attorney from these two old +chaps inside there to act for them in regard to the money they +entrusted me with. It's in an inside pocket of that letter-case, and if +you look at it, Breton, you'll see it's in order. I'm not even going to +dare you to interfere with or destroy it--you're a barrister, and +you'll respect the law. But that's a fact--and if anybody's got a case +against anybody, I have against you two for assault and illegal +detention. But I'm not a vindictive man, and----" + +Breton took up Myerst's letter-case and examined its contents. And +presently he turned to Spargo. + +"He's right!" he whispered. "This is quite in order." He turned to +Myerst. "All the same," he said, addressing him, "we shan't release +you, because we believe you're concerned in the murder of John Marbury. +We're justified in holding you on that account." + +"All right, my young friend," said Myerst. "Have your own stupid way. +But I said I'd tell you the plain truth. Well, the plain truth is that +I know no more of the absolute murder of your father than I know of +what is going on in Timbuctoo at this moment! I do not know who killed +John Maitland. That's a fact! It may have been the old man in there +who's already at his own last gasp, or it mayn't. I tell you I don't +know--though, like you, Spargo, I've tried hard to find out. That's the +truth--I do not know." + +"You expect us to believe that?" exclaimed Breton incredulously. + +"Believe it or not, as you like--it's the truth," answered Myerst. +"Now, look here--I said nobody knew as much of this affair as I know, +and that's true also. And here's the truth of what I know. The old man +in that room, whom you know as Nicholas Cardlestone, is in reality +Chamberlayne, the stockbroker, of Market Milcaster, whose name was so +freely mentioned when your father was tried there. That's another +fact!" + +"How," asked Breton, sternly, "can you prove it? How do you know it?" + +"Because," replied Myerst, with a cunning grin, "I helped to carry out +his mock death and burial--I was a solicitor in those days, and my name +was--something else. There were three of us at it: Chamberlayne's +nephew; a doctor of no reputation; and myself. We carried it out very +cleverly, and Chamberlayne gave us five thousand pounds apiece for our +trouble. It was not the first time that I had helped him and been well +paid for my help. The first time was in connection with the +Cloudhampton Hearth and Home Mutual Benefit Society affair--Aylmore, or +Ainsworth, was as innocent as a child in that!--Chamberlayne was the +man at the back. But, unfortunately, Chamberlayne didn't profit--he +lost all he got by it, pretty quick. That was why be transferred his +abilities to Market Milcaster." + +"You can prove all this, I suppose?" remarked Spargo. + +"Every word--every letter! But about the Market Milcaster affair: Your +father, Breton, was right in what he said about Chamberlayne having all +the money that was got from the bank. He had--and he engineered that +mock death and funeral so that he could disappear, and he paid us who +helped him generously, as I've told you. The thing couldn't have been +better done. When it was done, the nephew disappeared; the doctor +disappeared; Chamberlayne disappeared. I had bad luck--to tell you the +truth, I was struck off the rolls for a technical offence. So I changed +my name and became Mr. Myerst, and eventually what I am now. And it was +not until three years ago that I found Chamberlayne. I found him in +this way: After I became secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I took +chambers in the Temple, above Cardlestone's. And I speedily found out +who he was. Instead of going abroad, the old fox--though he was a +comparatively young 'un, then!--had shaved off his beard, settled down +in the Temple and given himself up to his two hobbies, collecting +curiosities and stamps. There he'd lived quietly all these years, and +nobody had ever recognized or suspected him. Indeed, I don't see how +they could; he lived such a quiet, secluded life, with his collections, +his old port, and his little whims and fads. But--I knew him!" + +"And you doubtless profited by your recognition," suggested Breton. + +"I certainly did. He was glad to pay me a nice sum every quarter to +hold my tongue," replied Myerst, "and I was glad to take it and, +naturally, I gained a considerable knowledge of him. He had only one +friend--Mr. Elphick, in there. Now, I'll tell you about him." + +"Only if you are going to speak respectfully of him," said Breton +sternly. + +"I've no reason to do otherwise. Elphick is the man who ought to have +married your mother. When things turned out as they did, Elphick took +you and brought you up as he has done, so that you should never know of +your father's disgrace. Elphick never knew until last night that +Cardlestone is Chamberlayne. Even the biggest scoundrels have +friends--Elphick's very fond of Cardlestone. He----" + +Spargo turned sharply on Myerst. + +"You say Elphick didn't know until last night!" he exclaimed. "Why, +then, this running away? What were they running from?" + +"I have no more notion than you have, Spargo," replied Myerst. "I tell +you one or other of them knows something that I don't. Elphick, I +gather, took fright from you, and went to Cardlestone--then they both +vanished. It may be that Cardlestone did kill Maitland--I don't know. +But I'll tell you what I know about the actual murder--for I do know a +good deal about it, though, as I say, I don't know who killed Maitland. +Now, first, you know all that about Maitland's having papers and +valuables and gold on him? Very well--I've got all that. The whole lot +is locked up--safely--and I'm willing to hand it over to you, Breton, +when we go back to town, and the necessary proof is given--as it will +be--that you're Maitland's son." + +Myerst paused to see the effect of this announcement, and laughed when +he saw the blank astonishment which stole over his hearers' faces. + +"And still more," he continued, "I've got all the contents of that +leather box which Maitland deposited with me--that's safely locked up, +too, and at your disposal. I took possession of that the day after the +murder. Then, for purposes of my own, I went to Scotland Yard, as +Spargo there is aware. You see, I was playing a game--and it required +some ingenuity." + +"A game!" exclaimed Breton. "Good heavens--what game?" + +"I never knew until I had possession of all these things that Marbury +was Maitland of Market Milcaster," answered Myerst. "When I did know +then I began to put things together and to pursue my own line, +independent of everybody. I tell you I had all Maitland's papers and +possessions, by that time--except one thing. That packet of Australian +stamps. And--I found out that those stamps were in the hands +of--Cardlestone!" + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX + +THE FINAL TELEGRAM + + +Myerst paused, to take a pull at his glass, and to look at the two +amazed listeners with a smile of conscious triumph. + +"In the hands of Cardlestone," he repeated. "Now, what did I argue from +that? Why, of course, that Maitland had been to Cardlestone's rooms +that night. Wasn't he found lying dead at the foot of Cardlestone's +stairs? Aye--but who found him? Not the porter--not the police--not +you, Master Spargo, with all your cleverness. The man who found +Maitland lying dead there that night was--I!" + +In the silence that followed, Spargo, who had been making notes of what +Myerst said, suddenly dropped his pencil and thrusting his hands in his +pockets sat bolt upright with a look which Breton, who was watching him +seriously, could not make out. It was the look of a man whose ideas and +conceptions are being rudely upset. And Myerst, too, saw it and he +laughed, more sneeringly than ever. + +"That's one for you, Spargo!" he said. "That surprises you--that makes +you think. Now what do you think?--if one may ask." + +"I think," said Spargo, "that you are either a consummate liar, or that +this mystery is bigger than before." + +"I can lie when it's necessary," retorted Myerst. "Just now it isn't +necessary. I'm telling you the plain truth: there's no reason why I +shouldn't. As I've said before, although you two young bullies have +tied me up in this fashion, you can't do anything against me. I've a +power of attorney from those two old men in there, and that's enough to +satisfy anybody as to my possession of their cheques and securities. +I've the whip hand of you, my sons, in all ways. And that's why I'm +telling you the truth--to amuse myself during this period of waiting. +The plain truth, my sons!" + +"In pursuance of which," observed Breton, drily, "I think you mentioned +that you were the first person to find my father lying dead?" + +"I was. That is--as far as I can gather. I'll tell you all about it. As +I said, I live over Cardlestone. That night I came home very late--it +was well past one o'clock. There was nobody about--as a matter of fact, +no one has residential chambers in that building but Cardlestone and +myself. I found the body of a man lying in the entry. I struck a match +and immediately recognized my visitor of the afternoon--John Marbury. +Now, although I was so late in going home, I was as sober as a man can +be, and I think pretty quickly at all times. I thought at double extra +speed just then. And the first thing I did was to strip the body of +every article it had on it--money, papers, everything. All these things +are safely locked up--they've never been tracked. Next day, using my +facilities as secretary to the Safe Deposit Company, I secured the +things in that box. Then I found out who the dead man really was. And +then I deliberately set to work to throw dust in the eyes of the police +and of the newspapers, and particularly in the eyes of young Master +Spargo there. I had an object." + +"What?" asked Breton. + +"What! Knowing all I did, I firmly believed that Marbury, or, rather, +Maitland, had been murdered by either Cardlestone or Elphick. I put it +to myself in this way, and my opinion was strengthened as you, Spargo, +inserted news in your paper--Maitland, finding himself in the vicinity +of Cardlestone after leaving Aylmore's rooms that night, turned into +our building, perhaps just to see where Cardlestone lived. He met +Cardlestone accidentally, or he perhaps met Cardlestone and Elphick +together--they recognized each other. Maitland probably threatened to +expose Cardlestone, or, rather, Chamberlayne--nobody, of course, could +know what happened, but my theory was that Chamberlayne killed him. +There, at any rate, was the fact that Maitland was found murdered at +Chamberlayne's very threshold. And, in the course of a few days, I +proved, to my own positive satisfaction, by getting access to +Chamberlayne's rooms in his absence that Maitland had been there, had +been in those rooms. For I found there, in Chamberlayne's desk, the +rare Australian stamps of which Criedir told at the inquest. That was +proof positive." + +Spargo looked at Breton. They knew what Myerst did not know--that the +stamps of which he spoke were lying in Spargo's breast pocket, where +they had lain since he had picked them up from the litter and confusion +of Chamberlayne's floor. + +"Why," asked Breton, after a pause, "why did you never accuse +Cardlestone, or Chamberlayne, of the murder?" + +"I did! I have accused him a score of times--and Elphick, too," replied +Myerst with emphasis. "Not at first, mind you--I never let Chamberlayne +know that I ever suspected him for some time. I had my own game to +play. But at last--not so many days ago--I did. I accused them both. +That's how I got the whip hand of them. They began to be afraid--by +that time Elphick had got to know all about Cardlestone's past as +Chamberlayne. And as I tell you, Elphick's fond of Cardlestone. It's +queer, but he is. He--wants to shield him." + +"What did they say when you accused them?" asked Breton. "Let's keep to +that point--never mind their feelings for one another." + +"Just so, but that feeling's a lot more to do with this mystery than +you think, my young friend," said Myerst. "What did they say, you ask? +Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that +he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. +But--they know something about the murder. If those two old men can't +tell you definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I'm certain +that they have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! +They--" + +A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and +Spargo started to their feet and made for the door. But before they +could reach it Elphick came out, white and shaking. + +"He's gone!" he exclaimed in quavering accents. "My old friend's +gone--he's dead! I was--asleep. I woke suddenly and looked at him. +He----" + +Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton +passed quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head. + +"He's dead," he said. "He evidently died in his sleep." + +"Then his secret's gone with him," remarked Myerst, calmly. "And now we +shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he didn't. So +that's done with!" + +Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away +from his side. + +"He didn't kill John Maitland!" he cried angrily, attempting to shake +his fist at Myerst. "Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He was as +innocent as I am. You've tortured and tormented him to his death with +that charge, as you're torturing me--among you. I tell you he'd nothing +to do with John Maitland's death--nothing!" + +Myerst laughed. + +"Who had, then?" he said. + +"Hold your tongue!" commanded Breton, turning angrily on him. He sat +down by Elphick's side and laid his hand soothingly on the old man's +arm. + +"Guardian," he said, "why don't you tell what you know? Don't be afraid +of that fellow there--he's safe enough. Tell Spargo and me what you +know of the matter. Remember, nothing can hurt Cardlestone, or +Chamberlayne, or whoever he is or was, now." + +Elphick sat for a moment shaking his head. He allowed Spargo to give +him another drink; he lifted his head and looked at the two young men +with something of an appeal. + +"I'm badly shaken," he said. "I've suffered much lately--I've learnt +things that I didn't know. Perhaps I ought to have spoken before, but I +was afraid for--for him. He was a good friend, Cardlestone, whatever +else he may have been--a good friend. And--I don't know any more than +what happened that night." + +"Tell us what happened that night," said Breton. + +"Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with +Cardlestone. That was about ten o'clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came +to Cardlestone's--she'd been to my rooms to find me--wanted to see me +particularly--and she'd come on there, knowing where I should be. +Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat +down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to +twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone's door--his outer door was open, +and of course anybody outside could see lights within. 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. Upon +my honour, we didn't know him, either that night or next day!" + +"What happened when he came in?" asked Breton. + +"Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. +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." + +"No one had recognized him?" said Breton. + +"No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. +The others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that +they did--if they did." + +"Tell us," said Spargo, joining in for the first time, "tell us what +you and Miss Baylis did?" + +"At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she'd forgotten +something in Cardlestone's lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet +Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own +rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And +upon my soul and honour that's all I know!" + +Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap--a sodden and +bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the +cottage. + +"That's enough!" he almost shouted. "I've got it--at last! +Breton--where's the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this +valley? Then, here's for it! Look after things till I'm back, or, when +the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town, +anyhow, after wiring." + +"But--what are you after, Spargo?" exclaimed Breton. "Stop! What on +earth----" + +But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth +down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet +and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a +sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling +down a message in shaky handwriting:-- + + _Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London._ + _Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland._ + _Coming straight to town with full evidence._ + + _Frank Spargo_. + +Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering +operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent +in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out +again--to find the station. + +Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the +Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way +of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in +a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, +who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely +comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and +warmly. + +"But you will come--you will come today--and be properly thanked," she +said. "You will--won't you?" + +Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a +straight look into Jessie Aylmore's eyes. + +"I don't want thanks," he said. "It was all a lot of luck. And if I +come--today--it will be to see--just you!" + +Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands. + +"I think," she whispered, "I think that is what I really meant!" + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Middle Temple Murder, by J.S. Fletcher + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER *** + +***** This file should be named 10373.txt or 10373.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/3/7/10373/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Linda Cantoni and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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