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