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 asked 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