"Quite so," remarked Spargo. "That's what I expected to hear.

Cardlestone, you see, Breton, is also--off!"

Breton made no reply. He rushed after the charwoman, with Spargo in
close attendance.

"Good God--another!" groaned Breton.

If the confusion in Elphick's rooms had been bad, that in Cardlestone's
chambers was worse. Here again all the features of the previous scene
were repeated--drawers had been torn open, papers thrown about; the
hearth was choked with light ashes; everything was at sixes and sevens.
An open door leading into an inner room showed that Cardlestone, like
Elphick, had hastily packed a bag; like Elphick had changed his
clothes, and had thrown his discarded garments anywhere, into any
corner. Spargo began to realize what had taken place--Elphick, having
made his own preparations for flight, had come to Cardlestone, and had
expedited him, and they had fled together. But--why?

The charwoman sat down in the nearest chair and began to moan and sob;
Breton strode forward, across the heaps of papers and miscellaneous
objects tossed aside in that hurried search and clearing up, into the
inner room. And Spargo, looking about him, suddenly caught sight of
something lying on the floor at which he made a sharp clutch. He had
just secured it and hurried it into his pocket when Breton came back.

"I don't know what all this means, Spargo," he said, almost wearily. "I
suppose you do. Look here," he went on, turning to the charwoman, "stop
that row--that'll do no good, you know. I suppose Mr. Cardlestone's
gone away in a hurry. You'd better--what had she better do, Spargo?"

"Leave things exactly as they are, lock up the chambers, and as you're
a friend of Mr. Cardlestone's give you the key," answered Spargo, with
a significant glance. "Do that, now, and let's go--I've something to
do." Once outside, with the startled charwoman gone away, Spargo turned
to Breton.

"I'll tell you all I know, presently, Breton," he said. "In the
meantime, I want to find out if the lodge porter saw Mr. Elphick or Mr.
Cardlestone leave. I must know where they've gone--if I can only find
out. I don't suppose they went on foot."

"All right," responded Breton, gloomily. "We'll go and ask. But this is
all beyond me. You don't mean to say----"

"Wait a while," answered Spargo. "One thing at once," he continued, as
they walked up Middle Temple Lane. "This is the first thing. You ask
the porter if he's seen anything of either of them--he knows you."

The porter, duly interrogated, responded with alacrity.

"Anything of Mr. Elphick this morning, Mr. Breton?" he answered.
"Certainly, sir. I got a taxi for Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone early
this morning--soon after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to
Paris, and they'd breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left."

"Say when they'd be back?" asked Breton, with an assumption of entire
carelessness.

"No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn't," answered the porter. "But I should say
they wouldn't be long because they'd only got small suit-cases with
them--such as they'd put a day or two's things in, sir."

"All right," said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already
moved off. "What next?" he asked. "Charing Cross, I suppose!"

Spargo smiled and shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I've no use for Charing Cross. They haven't gone to
Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let's go back to your
chambers. Then I'll talk to you."

Once within Breton's inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo
dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with
earnest attention.

"Breton!" he said. "I believe we're coming in sight of land. You want
to save your prospective father-in-law, don't you?"

"Of course!" growled Breton. "That goes without saying. But----"

"But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it," said
Spargo. "You see----"

"Sacrifices!" exclaimed Breton. "What----"

"You may have to sacrifice some ideas--you may find that you'll not be
able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought
of them in the past. For instance--Mr. Elphick."

Breton's face grew dark.

"Speak plainly, Spargo!" he said. "It's best with me."

"Very well," replied Spargo. "Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way
connected with this affair."

"You mean the--murder?"

"I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I'm now dead certain.
And that's why they're off. I startled Elphick last night. It's evident
that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a
rapid exit. Why?"

"Why? That's what I'm asking you! Why? Why? Why?"

"Because they're afraid of something coming out. And being afraid,
their first instinct is to--run. They've run at the first alarm.
Foolish--but instinctive."

Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped
to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad.

"Spargo!" he exclaimed. "Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian
and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone. of being--murderers?"

"Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of
knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I
am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all
about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he
knew this dead man to be John Maitland."

"You did!"

"I did. And now, Breton, since it's got to come out, well have the
truth. Pull yourself together--get your nerves ready, for you'll have
to stand a shock or two. But I know what I'm talking about--I can prove
every word I'm going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few
questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?"

"Nothing--beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me."

"And what was that?"

"That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me
unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me."

"And he's never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove
the truth of that story?"

"Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?"

"You never remember anything of your childhood--I mean of any person
who was particularly near you in your childhood?"

"I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three
years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman,
a tall, dark woman, I think, before that."

"Miss Baylis," said Spargo to himself. "All right, Breton," he went on
aloud. "I'm going to tell you the truth. I'll tell it to you straight
out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not
Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you're the only child of
the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone's staircase!"

Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at
him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he
do?--what would he say?--what----

Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the
eyes.

"Prove that to me, Spargo," he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones.
"Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!"

Spargo nodded.

"I will--every word," he answered. "It's the right thing. Listen,
then."

It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the
clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought
it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest
attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a
brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him.

"That's all," said Spargo at last.

"It's plenty," observed Breton laconically.

He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo.
"What do you really think?" he asked.

"About--what?" said Spargo.

"This flight of Elphick's and Cardlestone's."

"I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be
forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw
Elphick in last night. And it's evident that Cardlestone shares in that
fright, or they wouldn't have gone off in this way together."

"Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?"

Spargo shook his head.

"I don't know. Probably. They know something. And--look here!"

Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which
he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously.

"What's this?" he demanded. "Stamps?"

"That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of
those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him--carried on him.
I picked it up just now in Cardlestone's room, when you were looking
into his bedroom."

"But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn't be the identical
stamps. And whether they are or not----" "What are the probabilities?"
interrupted Spargo sharply. "I believe that those are the stamps which
Maitland--your father!--had on him, and I want to know how they came to
be in Cardlestone's rooms. And I will know."

Breton handed the stamps back.

"But the general thing, Spargo?" he said. "If they didn't murder--I
can't realize the thing yet!--my father----"

"If they didn't murder your father, they know who did!" exclaimed
Spargo. "Now, then, it's time for more action. Let Elphick and
Cardlestone alone for the moment--they'll be tracked easily enough. I
want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an
authority from the Government to open a grave?"

"Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by
showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made."

"Good! We'll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened."

"A grave opened! Whose grave?"

"The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster," replied
Spargo.

Breton started.

"His? In Heaven's name, why?" he demanded.

Spargo laughed as he got up.

"Because I believe it's empty," he answered. "Because I believe that
Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is--Cardlestone!"




CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE PENITENT WINDOW-CLEANER


That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his
proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to
the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the _Watchman_ when
it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate
application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne
grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning
there appeared in the _Watchman_ a notice which set half the mouths of
London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:--

"ONE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD.

"WHEREAS, on some date within the past twelve months, there was
stolen, abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court,
Temple, occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr.
Anderson, a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of
curious workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of
John Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of
June 21-22 last, and is now in the hands of the police:

"This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the _Watchman_
newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (ONE THOUSAND POUNDS
STERLING) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or she
stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said chambers,
and will further give full information as to his or her disposal of
the same, and the Proprietor of the _Watchman_ moreover engages to
treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the most strictly
private and confidential manner, and to abstain from using it in any
way detrimental to the informant, who should call at the _Watchman_
office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time between eleven and
one o'clock midday, and seven and eleven o'clock in the evening."

"And you really expect to get some information through that?" asked
Breton, who came into Spargo's room about noon on the day on which the
promising announcement came out. "You really do?"

"Before today is out," said Spargo confidently. "There is more magic in
a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I'll have the history
of that stick before midnight."

"How are you to tell that you won't be imposed upon?" suggested Breton.
"Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick."

"Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me
how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick," said
Spargo. "I haven't the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken
away from Aylmore's rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the
hands of--"

"Yes, of whom?"

"That's what I want to know in some fashion. I've an idea, already. But
I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing--when I
get that information--as I shall--we shall be a long way on the road
towards establishing Aylmore's innocence."

Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a
meditative expression.

"Spargo," he said, suddenly, "do you think you'll get that order for
the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?"

"I was talking to the solicitors over the 'phone just now," answered
Spargo. "They've every confidence about it. In fact, it's possible it
may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made
early tomorrow morning."

"Shall you go?" asked Breton.

"Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch
with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there--you're
concerned."

"I should like to go--I will go," said Breton. "And if that grave
proves to be--empty--I'll--I'll tell you something."

Spargo looked up with sharp instinct.

"You'll tell me something? Something? What?"

"Never mind--wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or
lead and sawdust. If there's no body there----"

At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached
Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity,
showed signs of something very like excitement.

"There's a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo," he said. "He's
been hanging about a bit, sir,--seems very shy about coming up. He
won't say what he wants, and he won't fill up a form, sir. Says all he
wants is a word or two with you."

"Bring him up at once!" commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the
boy had gone. "There!" he said, laughing. "This is the man about the
stick--you see if it isn't."

"You're such a cock-sure chap, Spargo," said Breton. "You're always
going on a straight line."

"Trying to, you mean," retorted Spargo. "Well, stop here, and hear what
this chap has to say: it'll no doubt be amusing."

The messenger boy, deeply conscious that he was ushering into Spargo's
room an individual who might shortly carry away a thousand pounds of
good _Watchman_ money in his pocket, opened the door and introduced a
shy and self-conscious young man, whose nervousness was painfully
apparent to everybody and deeply felt by himself. He halted on the
threshold, looking round the comfortably-furnished room, and at the two
well-dressed young men which it framed as if he feared to enter on a
scene of such grandeur.

"Come in, come in!" said Spargo, rising and pointing to an easy-chair
at the side of his desk. "Take a seat. You've called about that reward,
of course."

The man in the chair eyed the two of them cautiously, and not without
suspicion. He cleared his throat with a palpable effort.

"Of course," he said. "It's all on the strict private. Name of Edward
Mollison, sir."

"And where do you live, and what do you do?" asked Spargo.

"You might put it down Rowton House, Whitechapel," answered Edward
Mollison. "Leastways, that's where I generally hang out when I can
afford it. And--window-cleaner. Leastways, I was window cleaning
when--when----"

"When you came in contact with the stick we've been advertising about,"
suggested Spargo. "Just so. Well, Mollison--what about the stick?"

Mollison looked round at the door, and then at the windows, and then at
Breton.

"There ain't no danger of me being got into trouble along of that
stick?" he asked. "'Cause if there is, I ain't a-going to say a
word--no, not for no thousand pounds! Me never having been in no
trouble of any sort, guv'nor--though a poor man."

"Not the slightest danger in the world, Mollison," replied Spargo. "Not
the least. All you've got to do is to tell the truth--and prove that it
is the truth. So it was you who took that queer-looking stick out of
Mr. Aylmore's rooms in Fountain Court, was it?"

Mollison appeared to find this direct question soothing to his
feelings. He smiled weakly.

"It was cert'nly me as took it, sir," he said. "Not that I meant to
pinch it--not me! And, as you might say, I didn't take it, when all's
said and done. It was--put on me."

"Put on you, was it?" said Spargo. "That's interesting. And how was it
put on you?"

Mollison grinned again and rubbed his chin.

"It was this here way," he answered. "You see, I was working at that
time--near on to nine months since, it is--for the Universal Daylight
Window Cleaning Company, and I used to clean a many windows here and
there in the Temple, and them windows at Mr. Aylmore's--only I knew
them as Mr. Anderson's--among 'em. And I was there one morning, early
it was, when the charwoman she says to me, 'I wish you'd take these two
or three hearthrugs,' she says, 'and give 'em a good beating,' she
says. And me being always a ready one to oblige, 'All right!' I says,
and takes 'em. 'Here's something to wallop 'em with,' she says, and
pulls that there old stick out of a lot that was in a stand in a corner
of the lobby. And that's how I came to handle it, sir."

"I see," said Spargo. "A good explanation. And when you had beaten the
hearthrugs--what then?"

Mollison smiled his weak smile again.

"Well, sir, I looked at that there stick and I see it was something
uncommon," he answered. "And I thinks--'Well, this Mr. Anderson, he's
got a bundle of sticks and walking canes up there--hell never miss this
old thing,' I thinks. And so I left it in a corner when I'd done
beating the rugs, and when I went away with my things I took it with
me."

"You took it with you?" said Spargo. "Just so. To keep as a curiosity,
I suppose?"

Mollison's weak smile turned to one of cunning. He was obviously losing
his nervousness; the sound of his own voice and the reception of his
news was imparting confidence to him.

"Not half!" he answered. "You see, guv'nor, there was an old cove as I
knew in the Temple there as is, or was, 'cause I ain't been there
since, a collector of antikities, like, and I'd sold him a queer old
thing, time and again. And, of course, I had him in my eye when I took
the stick away--see?"

"I see. And you took the stick to him?"

"I took it there and then," replied Mollison. "Pitched him a tale, I
did, about it having been brought from foreign parts by Uncle
Simon--which I never had no Uncle Simon. Made out it was a rare
curiosity--which it might ha' been one, for all I know."

"Exactly. And the old cove took a fancy to it, eh?"

"Bought it there and then," answered Mollison, with something very like
a wink.

"Ah! Bought it there and then. And how much did he give you for it?"
asked Spargo. "Something handsome, I hope?"

"Couple o' quid," replied Mollison. "Me not wishing to part with a
family heirloom for less."

"Just so. And do you happen to be able to tell me the old cove's name
and his address, Mollison?" asked Spargo.

"I do, sir. Which they've painted on his entry--the fifth or sixth as
you go down Middle Temple Lane," answered Mollison. "Mr. Nicholas
Cardlestone, first floor up the staircase."

Spargo rose from his seat without as much as a look at Breton.

"Come this way, Mollison," he said. "We'll go and see about your little
reward. Excuse me, Breton."

Breton kicked his heels in solitude for half an hour. Then Spargo came
back.

"There--that's one matter settled, Breton," he said. "Now for the next.
The Home Secretary's made the order for the opening of the grave at
Market Milcaster. I'm going down there at once, and I suppose you're
coming. And remember, if that grave's empty----"

"If that grave's empty," said Breton, "I'll tell you--a good deal."




CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE CONTENTS OF THE COFFIN


There travelled down together to Market Milcaster late that afternoon,
Spargo, Breton, the officials from the Home Office, entrusted with the
order for the opening of the Chamberlayne grave, and a solicitor acting
on behalf of the proprietor of the _Watchman_. It was late in the
evening when they reached the little town, but Spargo, having looked in
at the parlour of the "Yellow Dragon" and ascertained that Mr.
Quarterpage had only just gone home, took Breton across the street to
the old gentleman's house. Mr. Quarterpage himself came to the door,
and recognized Spargo immediately. Nothing would satisfy him but that
the two should go in; his family, he said, had just retired, but he
himself was going to take a final nightcap and a cigar, and they must
share it.

"For a few minutes only then, Mr. Quarterpage," said Spargo as they
followed the old man into his dining-room. "We have to be up at
daybreak. And--possibly--you, too, would like to be up just as early."

Mr. Quarterpage looked an enquiry over the top of a decanter which he
was handling.

"At daybreak?" he exclaimed.

"The fact is," said Spargo, "that grave of Chamberlayne's is going to
be opened at daybreak. We have managed to get an order from the Home
Secretary for the exhumation of Chamberlayne's body: the officials in
charge of it have come down in the same train with us; we're all
staying across there at the 'Dragon.' The officials have gone to make
the proper arrangements with your authorities. It will be at daybreak,
or as near it as can conveniently be managed. And I suppose, now that
you know of it, you'll be there?"

"God bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "You've really done that!
Well, well, so we shall know the truth at last, after all these years.
You're a very wonderful young man, Mr. Spargo, upon my word. And this
other young gentleman?"

Spargo looked at Breton, who had already given him permission to speak.
"Mr. Quarterpage," he said, "this young gentleman is, without doubt,
John Maitland's son. He's the young barrister, Mr. Ronald Breton, that
I told you of, but there's no doubt about his parentage. And I'm sure
you'll shake hands with him and wish him well."

Mr. Quarterpage set down decanter and glass and hastened to give Breton
his hand.

"My dear young sir!" he exclaimed. "That I will indeed! And as to
wishing you well--ah, I never wished anything but well to your poor
father. He was led away, sir, led away by Chamberlayne. God bless me,
what a night of surprises! Why, Mr. Spargo, supposing that coffin is
found empty--what then?"

"Then," answered Spargo, "then I think we shall be able to put our
hands on the man who is supposed to be in it."

"You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?"
observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round
Mr. Quarterpage's hospitable hearth. "You think he was unduly
influenced by him?"

Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly.

"Chamberlayne, my dear young sir," he answered. "Chamberlayne was a
plausible and a clever fellow. Nobody knew anything about him until he
came to this town, and yet before he had been here very long he had
contrived to ingratiate himself with everybody--of course, to his own
advantage. I firmly believe that he twisted your father round his
little finger. As I told Mr. Spargo there when he was making his
enquiries of me a short while back, it would never have been any
surprise to me to hear--definitely, I mean, young gentlemen--that all
this money that was in question went into Chamberlayne's pockets. Dear
me--dear me!--and you really believe that Chamberlayne is actually
alive, Mr. Spargo?"

Spargo pulled out his watch. "We shall all know whether he was buried
in that grave before another six hours are over, Mr. Quarterpage," he
said.

He might well have spoken of four hours instead of six, for it was then
nearly midnight, and before three o'clock Spargo and Breton, with the
other men who had accompanied them from London were out of the "Yellow
Dragon" and on their way to the cemetery just outside the little town.
Over the hills to the eastward the grey dawn was slowly breaking: the
long stretch of marshland which lies between Market Milcaster and the
sea was white with fog: on the cypresses and acacias of the cemetery
hung veils and webs of gossamer: everything around them was quiet as
the dead folk who lay beneath their feet. And the people actively
concerned went quietly to work, and those who could do nothing but
watch stood around in silence.

"In all my long life of over ninety years," whispered old Quarterpage,
who had met them at the cemetery gates, looking fresh and brisk in
spite of his shortened rest, "I have never seen this done before. It
seems a strange, strange thing to interfere with a dead man's last
resting-place--a dreadful thing."

"If there is a dead man there," said Spargo.

He himself was mainly curious about the details of this exhumation; he
had no scruples, sentimental or otherwise, about the breaking in upon
the dead. He watched all that was done. The men employed by the local
authorities, instructed over-night, had fenced in the grave with
canvas; the proceedings were accordingly conducted in strict privacy; a
man was posted to keep away any very early passersby, who might be
attracted by the unusual proceedings. At first there was nothing to do
but wait, and Spargo occupied himself by reflecting that every spadeful
of earth thrown out of that grave was bringing him nearer to the truth;
he had an unconquerable intuition that the truth of at any rate one
phase of the Marbury case was going to be revealed to them. If the
coffin to which they were digging down contained a body, and that the
body of the stockbroker, Chamberlayne, then a good deal of his,
Spargo's, latest theory, would be dissolved to nothingness. But if that
coffin contained no body at all, then--"

"They're down to it!" whispered Breton.

Presently they all went and looked down into the grave. The workmen had
uncovered the coffin preparatory to lifting it to the surface; one of
them was brushing the earth away from the name-plate. And in the now
strong light they could all read the lettering on it.

JAMES CARTWRIGHT CHAMBERLAYNE
Born 1852
Died 1891

Spargo turned away as the men began to lift the coffin out of the
grave.

"We shall know now!" he whispered to Breton. "And yet--what is it we
shall know if----"

"If what?" said Breton. "If--what?"

But Spargo shook his head. This was one of the great moments he had
lately been working for, and the issues were tremendous.

"Now for it!" said the _Watchman's_ solicitor in an undertone. "Come,
Mr. Spargo, now we shall see."

They all gathered round the coffin, set on low trestles at the