Argentina, north of Monte Video."
"Your father was in business there?"

"He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There's no secret
about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to
France--skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That's how he made his
money."

"You don't know how long he'd been there when you were born?"

"No."

"Was he married when he went out there?"

"No, he wasn't. We do know that. He's told us the circumstances of his
marriage, because they were romantic. When he sailed from England to
Buenos Ayres, he met on the steamer a young lady who, he said, was like
himself, relationless and nearly friendless. She was going out to
Argentina as a governess. She and my father fell in love with each
other, and they were married in Buenos Ayres soon after the steamer
arrived."

"And your mother is dead?"

"My mother died before we came to England. I was eight years old, and
Jessie six, then."

"And you came to England--how long after that?"

"Two years."

"So that you've been in England ten years. And you know nothing
whatever of your father's past beyond what you've told me?"

"Nothing--absolutely nothing."

"Never heard him talk of--you see, according to your account, your
father was a man of getting on to forty when he went out to Argentina.
He must have had a career of some sort in this country. Have you never
heard him speak of his boyhood? Did he never talk of old times, or that
sort of thing?"

"I never remember hearing my father speak of any period antecedent to
his marriage," replied Evelyn.

"I once asked him a question about his childhood." said Jessie. "He
answered that his early days had not been very happy ones, and that he
had done his best to forget them. So I never asked him anything again."

"So that it really comes to this," remarked Spargo. "You know nothing
whatever about your father, his family, his fortunes, his life, beyond
what you yourselves have observed since you were able to observe?
That's about it, isn't it?"

"I should say that that is exactly it," answered Evelyn.

"Just so," said Spargo. "And therefore, as I told your sister the other
day, the public will say that your father has some dark secret behind
him, and that Marbury had possession of it, and that your father killed
him in order to silence him. That isn't my view. I not only believe
your father to be absolutely innocent, but I believe that he knows no
more than a child unborn of Marbury's murder, and I'm doing my best to
find out who that murderer was. By the by, since you'll see all about
it in tomorrow morning's _Watchman_, I may as well tell you that I've
found out who Marbury really was. He----"

At this moment Spargo's door was opened and in walked Ronald Breton. He
shook his head at sight of the two sisters.

"I thought I should find you here," he said. "Jessie said she was
coming to see you, Spargo. I don't know what good you can do--I don't
see what good the most powerful newspaper in the world can do. My
God!--everything's about as black as ever it can be. Mr. Aylmore--I've
just come away from him; his solicitor, Stratton, and I have been with
him for an hour--is obstinate as ever--he will not tell more than he
has told. Whatever good can you do, Spargo, when he won't speak about
that knowledge of Marbury which he must have?"

"Oh, well!" said Spargo. "Perhaps we can give him some information
about Marbury. Mr. Aylmore has forgotten that it's not such a difficult
thing to rake up the past as he seems to think it is. For example, as I
was just telling these young ladies, I myself have discovered who
Marbury really was."

Breton started.

"You have? Without doubt?" he exclaimed.

"Without reasonable doubt. Marbury was an ex-convict."

Spargo watched the effect of this sudden announcement. The two girls
showed no sign of astonishment or of unusual curiosity; they received
the news with as much unconcern as if Spargo had told them that Marbury
was a famous musician. But Ronald Breton started, and it seemed to
Spargo that he saw a sense of suspicion dawn in his eyes.

"Marbury--an ex-convict!" he exclaimed. "You mean that?"

"Read your _Watchman_ in the morning," said Spargo. "You'll find the
whole story there--I'm going to write it tonight when you people have
gone. It'll make good reading."

Evelyn and Jessie Aylmore took Spargo's hint and went away, Spargo
seeing them to the door with another assurance of his belief in their
father's innocence and his determination to hunt down the real
criminal. Ronald Breton went down with them to the street and saw them
into a cab, but in another minute he was back in Spargo's room as
Spargo had expected. He shut the door carefully behind him and turned
to Spargo with an eager face.

"I say, Spargo, is that really so?" he asked. "About Marbury being an
ex-convict?"

"That's so, Breton. I've no more doubt about it than I have that I see
you. Marbury was in reality one John Maitland, a bank manager, of
Market Milcaster, who got ten years' penal servitude in 1891 for
embezzlement."

"In 1891? Why--that's just about the time that Aylmore says he knew
him!"

"Exactly. And--it just strikes me," said Spargo, sitting down at his
desk and making a hurried note, "it just strikes me--didn't Aylmore say
he knew Marbury in London?"

"Certainly," replied Breton. "In London."

"Um!" mused Spargo. "That's queer, because Maitland had never been in
London up to the time of his going to Dartmoor, whatever he may have
done when he came out of Dartmoor, and, of course, Aylmore had gone to
South America long before that. Look here, Breton," he continued,
aloud, "have you access to Aylmore? Will you, can you, see him before
he's brought up at Bow Street tomorrow?"

"Yes," answered Breton. "I can see him with his solicitor."

"Then listen," said Spargo. "Tomorrow morning you'll find the whole
story of how I proved Marbury's identity with Maitland in the
_Watchman_. Read it as early as you can; get an interview with Aylmore
as early as you can; make him read it, every word, before he's brought
up. Beg him if he values his own safety and his daughters' peace of
mind to throw away all that foolish reserve, and to tell all he knows
about Maitland twenty years ago. He should have done that at first.
Why, I was asking his daughters some questions before you came in--they
know absolutely nothing of their father's history previous to the time
when they began to understand things! Don't you see that Aylmore's
career, previous to his return to England, is a blank past!"

"I know--I know!" said Breton. "Yes--although I've gone there a great
deal, I never heard Aylmore speak of anything earlier than his
Argentine experiences. And yet, he must have been getting on when he
went out there."

"Thirty-seven or eight, at least," remarked Spargo. "Well, Aylmore's
more or less of a public man, and no public man can keep his life
hidden nowadays. By the by, how did you get to know the Aylmores?"

"My guardian, Mr. Elphick, and I met them in Switzerland," answered
Breton. "We kept up the acquaintance after our return."

"Mr. Elphick still interesting himself in the Marbury case?" asked
Spargo.

"Very much so. And so is old Cardlestone, at the foot of whose stairs
the thing came off. I dined with them last night and they talked of
little else," said Breton.

"And their theory--"

"Oh, still the murder for the sake of robbery!" replied Breton. "Old
Cardlestone is furious that such a thing could have happened at his
very door. He says that there ought to be a thorough enquiry into every
tenant of the Temple."

"Longish business that," observed Spargo. "Well, run away now,
Breton--I must write."

"Shall you be at Bow Street tomorrow morning?" asked Breton as he moved
to the door. "It's to be at ten-thirty."

"No, I shan't!" replied Spargo. "It'll only be a remand, and I know
already just as much as I should hear there. I've got something much
more important to do. But you'll remember what I asked of you--get
Aylmore to read my story in the _Watchman_, and beg him to speak out
and tell all he knows--all!"

And when Breton had gone, Spargo again murmured those last words: "All
he knows--all!"




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MISS BAYLIS


Next day, a little before noon, Spargo found himself in one of those
pretentious yet dismal Bayswater squares, which are almost entirely
given up to the trade, calling, or occupation of the lodging and
boarding-house keeper. They are very pretentious, those squares, with
their many-storied houses, their stuccoed frontages, and their
pilastered and balconied doorways; innocent country folk, coming into
them from the neighbouring station of Paddington, take them to be the
residences of the dukes and earls who, of course, live nowhere else but
in London. They are further encouraged in this belief by the fact that
young male persons in evening dress are often seen at the doorways in
more or less elegant attitudes. These, of course, are taken by the
country folk to be young lords enjoying the air of Bayswater, but
others, more knowing, are aware that they are Swiss or German waiters
whose linen might be cleaner.

Spargo gauged the character of the house at which he called as soon as
the door was opened to him. There was the usual smell of eggs and
bacon, of fish and chops; the usual mixed and ancient collection of
overcoats, wraps, and sticks in the hall; the usual sort of parlourmaid
to answer the bell. And presently, in answer to his enquiries, there
was the usual type of landlady confronting him, a more than middle-aged
person who desired to look younger, and made attempts in the way of
false hair, teeth, and a little rouge, and who wore that somewhat air
and smile which in its wearer--under these circumstances--always means
that she is considering whether you will be able to cheat her or
whether she will be able to see you.

"You wish to see Miss Baylis?" said this person, examining Spargo
closely. "Miss Baylis does not often see anybody."

"I hope," said Spargo politely, "that Miss Baylis is not an invalid?"

"No, she's not an invalid," replied the landlady; "but she's not as
young as she was, and she's an objection to strangers. Is it anything I
can tell her?"

"No," said Spargo. "But you can, if you please, take her a message from
me. Will you kindly give her my card, and tell her that I wish to ask
her a question about John Maitland of Market Milcaster, and that I
should be much obliged if she would give me a few minutes."

"Perhaps you will sit down," said the landlady. She led Spargo into a
room which opened out upon a garden; in it two or three old ladies,
evidently inmates, were sitting. The landlady left Spargo to sit with
them and to amuse himself by watching them knit or sew or read the
papers, and he wondered if they always did these things every day, and
if they would go on doing them until a day would come when they would
do them no more, and he was beginning to feel very dreary when the door
opened and a woman entered whom Spargo, after one sharp glance at her,
decided to be a person who was undoubtedly out of the common. And as
she slowly walked across the room towards him he let his first glance
lengthen into a look of steady inspection.

The woman whom Spargo thus narrowly inspected was of very remarkable
appearance. She was almost masculine; she stood nearly six feet in
height; she was of a masculine gait and tread, and spare, muscular, and
athletic. What at once struck Spargo about her face was the strange
contrast between her dark eyes and her white hair; the hair, worn in
abundant coils round a well-shaped head, was of the most snowy
whiteness; the eyes of a real coal-blackness, as were also the eyebrows
above them. The features were well-cut and of a striking firmness; the
jaw square and determined. And Spargo's first thought on taking all
this in was that Miss Baylis seemed to have been fitted by Nature to be
a prison wardress, or the matron of a hospital, or the governess of an
unruly girl, and he began to wonder if he would ever manage to extract
anything out of those firmly-locked lips.

Miss Baylis, on her part, looked Spargo over as if she was half-minded
to order him to instant execution. And Spargo was so impressed by her
that he made a profound bow and found a difficulty in finding his
tongue.

"Mr. Spargo?" she said in a deep voice which seemed peculiarly suited
to her. "Of, I see, the _Watchman_? You wish to speak to me?"

Spargo again bowed in silence. She signed him to the window near which
they were standing.

"Open the casement, if you please," she commanded him. "We will walk in
the garden. This is not private."

Spargo obediently obeyed her orders; she swept through the opened
window and he followed her. It was not until they had reached the
bottom of the garden that she spoke again.

"I understand that you desire to ask me some question about John
Maitland, of Market Milcaster?" she said. "Before you put it. I must
ask you a question. Do you wish any reply I may give you for
publication?"

"Not without your permission," replied Spargo. "I should not think of
publishing anything you may tell me except with your express
permission."

She looked at him gloomily, seemed to gather an impression of his good
faith, and nodded her head.

"In that case," she said, "what do you want to ask?"

"I have lately had reason for making certain enquiries about John
Maitland," answered Spargo. "I suppose you read the newspapers and
possibly the _Watchman_, Miss Baylis?"

But Miss Baylis shook her head.

"I read no newspapers," she said. "I have no interest in the affairs of
the world. I have work which occupies all my time: I give my whole
devotion to it."

"Then you have not recently heard of what is known as the Marbury
case--a case of a man who was found murdered?" asked Spargo.

"I have not," she answered. "I am not likely to hear such things."

Spargo suddenly realized that the power of the Press is not quite as
great nor as far-reaching as very young journalists hold it to be, and
that there actually are, even in London, people who can live quite
cheerfully without a newspaper. He concealed his astonishment and went
on.

"Well," he said, "I believe that the murdered man, known to the police
as John Marbury, was, in reality, your brother-in-law, John Maitland.
In fact, Miss Baylis, I'm absolutely certain of it!"

He made this declaration with some emphasis, and looked at his stern
companion to see how she was impressed. But Miss Baylis showed no sign
of being impressed.

"I can quite believe that, Mr. Spargo," she said coldly. "It is no
surprise to me that John Maitland should come to such an end. He was a
thoroughly bad and unprincipled man, who brought the most terrible
disgrace on those who were, unfortunately, connected with him. He was
likely to die a bad man's death."

"I may ask you a few questions about him?" suggested Spargo in his most
insinuating manner.

"You may, so long as you do not drag my name into the papers," she
replied. "But pray, how do you know that I have the sad shame of being
John Maitland's sister-in-law?"

"I found that out at Market Milcaster," said Spargo. "The photographer
told me--Cooper."

"Ah!" she exclaimed.

"The questions I want to ask are very simple," said Spargo. "But your
answers may materially help me. You remember Maitland going to prison,
of course?"

Miss Baylis laughed--a laugh of scorn.

"Could I ever forget it?" she exclaimed.

"Did you ever visit him in prison?" asked Spargo.

"Visit him in prison!" she said indignantly. "Visits in prison are to
be paid to those who deserve them, who are repentant; not to scoundrels
who are hardened in their sin!"

"All right. Did you ever see him after he left prison?"

"I saw him, for he forced himself upon me--I could not help myself. He
was in my presence before I was aware that he had even been released."

"What did he come for?" asked Spargo.

"To ask for his son--who had been in my charge," she replied.

"That's a thing I want to know about," said Spargo. "Do you know what a
certain lot of people in Market Milcaster say to this day, Miss
Baylis?--they say that you were in at the game with Maitland; that you
had a lot of the money placed in your charge; that when Maitland went
to prison, you took the child away, first to Brighton, then
abroad--disappeared with him--and that you made a home ready for
Maitland when he came out. That's what's said by some people in Market
Milcaster."

Miss Baylis's stern lips curled.

"People in Market Milcaster!" she exclaimed. "All the people I ever
knew in Market Milcaster had about as many brains between them as that
cat on the wall there. As for making a home for John Maitland, I would
have seen him die in the gutter, of absolute want, before I would have
given him a crust of dry bread!"

"You appear to have a terrible dislike of this man," observed Spargo,
astonished at her vehemence.

"I had--and I have," she answered. "He tricked my sister into a
marriage with him when he knew that she would rather have married an
honest man who worshipped her; he treated her with quiet, infernal
cruelty; he robbed her and me of the small fortunes our father left
us."

"Ah!" said Spargo. "Well, so you say Maitland came to you, when he came
out of prison, to ask for his boy. Did he take the boy?"

"No--the boy was dead."

"Dead, eh? Then I suppose Maitland did not stop long with you?"

Miss Baylis laughed her scornful laugh.

"I showed him the door!" she said.

"Well, did he tell you that he was going to Australia?" enquired
Spargo.

"I should not have listened to anything that he told me, Mr. Spargo,"
she answered.

"Then, in short," said Spargo, "you never heard of him again?"

"I never heard of him again," she declared passionately, "and I only
hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was
Maitland!"




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MOTHER GUTCH


Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out
on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis,
when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that
formidable lady.

"I've just thought of something else," he said. "I told you that I'm
certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end--murdered."

"And I've told you," she replied scornfully, "that in my opinion no end
could be too bad for him."

"Just so--I understand you," said Spargo. "But I didn't tell you that
he was not only murdered but robbed--robbed of probably a good deal.
There's good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes,
loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount.
He'd several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South
Wales, where he'd lived quietly for some years."

Miss Baylis smiled sourly.

"What's all this to me?" she asked.

"Possibly nothing. But you see, that money, those securities, may be
recovered. And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be
somebody who's entitled to the lot. It's worth having, Miss Baylis, and
there's strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up."

This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its
effect with keen eyes. But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as
scornful as ever.

"I say again what's all that to me?" she exclaimed.

"Well, but hadn't the dead boy any relatives on his father's side?"
asked Spargo. "I know you're his aunt on the mother's side, and as
you're indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side. It's
very easy to find all these things out, you know."

Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and
majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the
interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and
glared at the young journalist.

"Easy to find all these things out?" she repeated.

Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He
was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose.

"Oh, easy enough!" he said. "I could find out all about Maitland's
family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!"

Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. "How?" she
demanded.

"I'll tell you," said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. "It is, of course,
the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I
suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and
you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die,
Miss Baylis?"

But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house.

"I shall tell you nothing more," she said angrily. "I've told you too
much already, and I believe all you're here for is to get some news for
your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this--when Maitland went
to prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he'd have
had to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn't a single relation in
the world but me, on either father's or mother's side. And even at my
age, old woman as I am, I'd rather beg my bread in the street, I'd
rather starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John
Maitland! That's all."

Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out,
she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing
no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling
sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a
queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said
distinctly and yet in a whisper:

"Young man!"

Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick
and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he
saw a nondescript shape behind. "Who's there?" he demanded. "Somebody
listening?"

There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the
cracked, husky voice spoke again.

"Young man, don't you move or look as if you were talking to anybody.
Do you know where the 'King of Madagascar' public-house is in this
quarter of the town, young man?"

"No!" answered Spargo. "Certainly not!"

"Well, anybody'll tell you when you get outside, young man," continued
the queer voice of the unseen person. "Go there, and wait at the corner
by the 'King of Madagascar,' and I'll come there to you at the end of
half an hour. Then I'll tell you something, young man--I'll tell you
something. Now run away, young man, run away to the 'King of
Madagascar'--I'm coming!"

The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel
queer. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he
immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the
privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let
himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a
policeman and asked him if he knew where the "King of Madagascar" was.

"First to the right, second to the left," answered the policeman
tersely. "You can't miss it anywhere round there--it's a landmark."

And Spargo found the landmark--a great, square-built tavern--easily,
and he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and
intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its
suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an
old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize
how dreadful old age may be.

Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was
dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her
bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was
evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle;
the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a
sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear
what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt.

"Well?" he said, almost roughly. "Well?"

"Well, young man, there you are," said his new acquaintance. "Let us go
inside, young man; there's a quiet little place where a lady can sit
and take her drop of gin--I'll show you. And if you're good to me, I'll
tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now.
But you'll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old
ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little
comforts."

Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within;
the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at
her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which
was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her
curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little
of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest
which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw
a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew
clearer with every sound she made.

"Ah, young man!" she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that
made Spargo long to get up and fly. "I wanted that! It's done me good.
When I've finished that, you'll pay for another for me--and perhaps
another? They'll do me still more good. And you'll give me a little
matter of money, won't you, young man?"

"Not till I know what I'm giving it for," replied Spargo.

"You'll be giving it because I'm going to tell you that if it's made
worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about
Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I'm not going to tell you that
now, young man--I'm sure you don't carry in your pocket what I shall
want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I'm only going to show
you that I have the secret. Eh?"

"Who are you?" asked Spargo.

The woman leered and chuckled. "What are you going to give me, young
man?" she asked.

Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two
half-sovereigns.

"Look here," he said, showing his companion the coins, "if you can tell
me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now.
And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!"

The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand.

"But let me hold one of those, young man!" she implored. "Let me hold
one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I
hold one of them. Let me--there's a good young gentleman."

Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate,
whatever it might be.

"You won't get the other unless you tell something," he said. "Who are
you, anyway?"

The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the
half-sovereign, grinned horribly.

"At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch,"
she answered; "but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a
time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went
to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came
to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to
bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?"

"Heaven knows!" answered Spargo.

"Because I've got a hold on her, young man--I've got a secret of hers,"
continued Mother Gutch. "She'd be scared to death if she knew I'd been
behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she'd be more
than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she's
grown hard and near with me, and she won't give me a penny to get a
drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her
little comforts, and if you'll buy the secret, young man, I'll split on
her, there and then, when you pay the money."

"Before I talk about buying any secret," said Spargo, "you'll have to
prove to me that you've a secret to sell that's worth my buying."

"And I will prove it!" said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. "Touch
the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I'll tell you. Now,"
she went on, more quietly--Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the
more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength
and her whole appearance to be improved--"now, you came to her to find
out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn't
you?"