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