diff options
Diffstat (limited to '10373-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 10373-0.txt | 9324 |
1 files changed, 9324 insertions, 0 deletions
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 *** |