"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
Aglo----"

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