 CHAPTER 1 THE SCRAP OF GREY PAPER As a rule, Spargo left the Watchmen Office at two o'clock. The paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was responsible. As a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines began their clatter, but he generally hung about, trifling, until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the twenty-second of June 1912, he stopped longer than usual chatting with Hackett, who had charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through from Durazo. What Hackett had to tell was interesting. Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. All together it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the office unconsciously puffing away from him, as he reached the threshold, the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost a sweetness, and the first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of St Paul's. Spargo lived in Bloomsbury on the west side of Russell's Square. Every night and every morning he walked to and from the Watchmen Office by the same route, Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police. He formed the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at regular points as he went slowly homewards, smoking his pipe. And on this morning, as he drew near to Middle Temple Lane, he saw a policeman whom he knew, one Driscoll, standing at the entrance looking about him. Further away another policeman appeared, sauntering. Russell raised an arm and signalled. Then, turning, he saw Spargo. He moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face. What is it, asked Spargo. Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the partly open door of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and jacket. He says, answered Driscoll, him there, the porter, that there's a man lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he's dead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered. Spargo echoed the word. But what makes him think that? He asked, peeping with curiosity beyond Driscoll's burly form. Why? He says there's blood about him, answered Driscoll. He turned and glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo. You're a newspaper man, sir? He suggested. I am, replied Spargo. You better walk down with us, said Driscoll with a grin. There'll be something to write pieces in the paper about, at least there may be. Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane, wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out. Come on, he said shortly, I'll show you. Driscoll murmured a word or two to the newly arrived constable, and then turned to the porter. How came you to find him, then, he asked. The porter jerked his head at the door which they were leaving. I heard that door slam, he replied irritably, as if the fact which he mentioned caused him offence. I know I did, so I got up to look around. Then, well, I saw that. He raised a hand, pointing down the lane. The three men followed his outstretched finger, and Spargo then saw of man's foot, booted, grey salt protruding from an entry on the left hand. Sticking out there, just as you see it now, said the porter, I ain't touched it, and so he paused and made a grimace, as if at the memory of some unpleasant thing. Driscoll nodded, comprehendingly. And so you went along and looked, he suggested, just so, just to see who it belonged to as it might be. Just to see. What there was to see, agreed the porter. Then I saw there was blood, and then, well, I made up the lane to tell one of you folks, best thing you could have done, said Driscoll, well, now then. The little procession came to a halt at the entry. The entry was a cold and formal thing of itself, not a nice place to lie dead in, having glazed white tiles for its walls and concrete for its flooring, something about its appearance in that grey morning air, suggested to Spargo the idea of a mortuary, and that the man whose foot projected over the step was dead, he had no doubt, the limpness of his pose certified to it. For a moment none of the four men moved or spoke. The two policemen unconsciously stuck their thumbs in their belts and made play with their fingers. The porter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Spargo remembered afterwards the rasping sound of his action. He himself put his hands in his pockets and began to jingle his money and his keys. Each man had his own thoughts as he contemplated the piece of human wreckage which lay before him. You'll notice, suddenly observed Driscoll speaking a hushed voice, you'll notice that he's lying there in a queer way, same as if he'd been put there, sort of propped up against that wall at first and had slid down like. Spargo was taking in all the details with a professional eye. He saw at his feet the body of an elderly man. The face was turned away from him, crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be elderly because of the grey hair and whitening whisker. It was clothed in a good, well-made suit of grey-checked cloth, tweed, and the boots were good. So too was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung so limply. One leg was half doubled under the body, the other was stretched straight out across the threshold. The trunk was twisted to the wall. Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed. There were gouts and stains of blood, and Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a finger at them. Seems to me, he said slowly, seems to me as how he's been struck down from behind as he came out of here. That bloods from his nose gushed out as he fell. What do you say, Jim? The other policeman coughed. Better get the inspector here, he said, and the doctor and the ambulance. Dare, don't he? Driscoll bent down and put a thumb on the hand which lay on the pavement, as they ever make him. He remarked laconically, and stiff too, well, hurry up, Jim. Spargo waited until the inspector arrived, waited until the hand ambulance came. More policemen came with it. They moved the body for transference to the mortuary, and Spargo then saw the dead man's face. He looked long and steadily at it while the police arranged the limbs, wondering all the time who it was that he gazed at, how he came to that end, what was the object of his murderer, and many other things. There was some professionalism in Spargo's curiosity, but there was also a natural dislike that a fellow being should have been so unceremoniously smitten out of the world. There was nothing very remarkable about the dead man's face. It was that of a man of apparently sixty to sixty-five years of age, plain, even homely a feature, clean shaven, except for a fringe of white twisker, trimmed after an old-fashioned pattern, between the ear and the point of the jaw. The only remarkable thing about it was that it was much lined and seemed. The wrinkles were many, and deep, around the corners of the lips and the angles of the eyes. This man, you would have said to yourself, has led a hard life and weathered storm, mental as well as physical. Driscoll nudged Spargo with a turn of his elbow. He gave him a wink. Better come down to the dead-ass, he muttered, confidentially. Why, asked Spargo, they'll go through him, with the Driscoll, search him, do you see, then you'll get to know all about him and so on. Help to write that piece in the paper, eh? Spargo hesitated. He had had a stiff night's work, and until his encounter with Driscoll, he had cherished warm anticipation of the meal which would be laid out for him at his rooms and of the bed into which he would subsequently tumble. Besides, a telephone message was sent a man from the watchman to the mortuary. This sort of thing was not in his line now. Now you'll be forgetting one of them big play-cars out with something about a mystery on it, suggested Driscoll. You never know what lies at the bottom of these affairs, no more you don't. That last observation decided Spargo. Moreover the old instinct for getting news began to assert itself. All right, he said, I'll go along with you. And relighting his pipe, he followed the little cortege through the streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected on the unobtrusive fashion in which merger could stalk about. Here was the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surely? My opinion, said a voice at Spargo's elbow, my opinion is that it was done elsewhere, not there, he was put there, but that's what I say. Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was accompanying the body. Oh, said Spargo, you think? I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there, said the porter, in somebody's chambers, maybe. I've known of some queer games in our bitter London. Well, he never came in at my lodge last night, I'll stand to that. And who is he I should like to know, from what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place? That's what we shall hear presently, said Spargo. They're going to search him. But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found nothing. The police surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, been struck down from behind by a terrible blow, which had fractured the skull and caused death almost instantaneously. In Driscoll's opinion, the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder, for there was nothing whatever on the body. It was reasonable to suppose that a man who was well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers. But there was nothing valuable to be found. In fact, there was nothing at all to be found that could lead to identification. No letters, no papers, nothing. It was plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently stripped him of whatever was on him. The only clue to possible identity lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End. Spargo went home. There seemed to be nothing to stop for. He ate his food when he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping. He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognised at last that the morning's event had destroyed his chance of rest. He accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went out. He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later, he found that he had walked down to the police station near which the unknown man's body lay in the mortuary. And there he met Driscoll just going off duty. Driscoll grinned at sight of him. "'You're in luck,' he said. "'Tisn't five minutes since they found a bit of grey writing-paper crumpled up in the poor man's waistcoat pocket. It had slipped into a crack. Come in and you'll see it.' Spargo went into the inspector's office. In another minute he found himself staring at the scrap of paper. There was nothing on it but an address scrawled in pencil. Lord Breton, Barrister, King's Bench Walk, Temple, London. CHAPTER II His First Brief Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head. "'I know this man,' he said. The inspector showed new interest. "'Well, Mr. Breton,' he asked. "'Yes, I'm on the watchman, you know, sub-editor. I took an article from him the other day. Article on Ideal Sites for Campers Out.' He came to the office about it. So this was in the dead man's pocket? Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand. I wasn't present myself. It's not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.' Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it. It seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in clubs. It had been torn roughly from the sheet. "'What?' he asked meditatively. "'What will you do about getting this man identified?' The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "'I'll use your thing, I suppose. There'll be publicity, you know. I suppose you'll be doing a special account yourself for your paper, eh? Then there'll be the others, and we shall put out the usual notice. Somebody will come forward to identify, sure to. And a man came into the office, a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly-attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a stroll, and who gave the inspector a side-long nod as he approached his desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper which Spargo had just laid down. "'I'll go along to King's Bench-Walk and see Mr. Bratton,' he observed, looking at his watch. "'It's just about ten, I dare say, who be there now.' "'I'm going there, too,' remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself. "'Yes, I'll go there.'" The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector. The inspector nodded at Spargo. "'Journalist,' he said, "'Mr. Spargo of the Watchman.'" Mr. Spargo was there when the body was found, and he knows Mr. Bratton. And he nodded from Spargo to the stolid-faced person. "'This is Detective Sergeant Rathbury from the Yard,' he said to Spargo. "'He's come to take charge of this case.'" "'No,' said Spargo, blankly. "'I see. What?' he went on with sudden abruptness. "'What shall you do about Bratton?' "'Get him to come and look at the body,' replied Rathbury. "'He might know the man, and he may not. "'Anyway, his name and address are here, aren't they?' "'Come along,' said Spargo. "'I'll walk there with you.'" Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor Street. His companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed that he was, by nature and custom, a man a few words. It was not until the two were climbing the old ballastrated staircase of the house in King's Bench Walk in which Ronald Bratton's chambers were somewhere situate that Spargo spoke. "'Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on him?' He asked, suddenly turning to the detective. "'I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that question, Mr. Spargo,' replied Rathbury with a smile. "'Yes,' said Spargo, dreamily. "'I suppose so.' "'He might have had nothing on him, eh?' The detective laughed and pointed to a board on which names were printed. "'We don't know anything yet, sir,' he observed, except that Mr. Bratton is on the fourth floor, by which I conclude that it isn't long since he was eating his dinner. "'Oh, he's young, he's quite young,' said Spargo. "'I should say he's about four and twenty. I've met him only.'" At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing. Presently masculine laughter mingled with the light of feminine. "'Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway,' said Rathbury. "'Mr. Bratton's chambers, too, and the doors open.' The outer-oaked door of Ronald Bratton's chambers stood throne-wide. The inner one was well ajar. Through the opening thus made, Spargo and the detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Bratton's rooms. There, against the background of law-books, bundles of papers tied up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal notables, they saw a pretty vivacious-eyed girl who, perched on a chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was haranguing an imaginary judge and jury to the amusement of a young man, who had his back to the door, and of another girl who led confidentially against his shoulder. "'I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you with confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands and fathers. Can you, on your consciences, do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, thee, thee?' Think of some more adjectives,' exclaimed the young man. "'Hot and strong ands, pile them up, that's what they like, they—hello?' This exclamation arose from the fact that, at this point of the proceedings, the detective wrapped at the inner door, and then put his head round its edge, whereupon the young lady, who was arrating from the chair, jumped hastily down, and the other young lady withdrew from the young man's protecting arm. There was a feminine giggle and a feminine swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald Bretton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter. "'Come in, come in,' he exclaimed hastily, I—' Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a look of surprise. "'Oh, Mr. Spargo,' he said, "'how do you do? We—' I—' We were just having a lark, I'm off to court in a few minutes. What can I do for you, Mr. Spargo?' He had backed to the inner doors, he spoke, and he now closed it, and turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other. The detective on his part was looking at the young barrister. He saw a tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, perfectly groomed and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a general air of well-to-do-ness. And he formed the impression from these matters that Mr. Bretton was one of those fortunate young men who may take up a profession, but are certainly not dependent upon it. He turned and glanced at the journalist. "'How do you do?' said Spargo slowly. "'I—' The fact is, I came here with Mr. Rathbury. He wants to see you, Detective Sergeant Rathbury, of New Scotland Jard.' Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a lesson, but he was watching the young barrister's face, and Bretton turned to the detective with a look of surprise. "'Oh,' he said, you wish,' Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum book. "'I wish to ask a question, Mr. Bretton,' he said. "'This morning, about a quarter to three, and a man, an overly man, was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here, he was present when the body was found. "'Soon after,' corrected Spargo, a few minutes after. When this body was examined at the mortuary, continued Rathbury, in his matter-of-fact business-like tones, nothing was found that could lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing whatsoever on him, but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and address on it, Mr. Bretton. See?' Ronald Bretton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with nitty brows. "'By Joe,' he muttered, so it has. That's queer. What's he like, this man?' Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Bretton?' he said. "'It's close by.' "'Well, I—' "'The fact is, I've got a case on him, Mr. Justice borrows-court.' Bretton answered, also glancing at his clock. "'But it won't be called until after eleven.' "'Well—' "'Plenty of time, sir,' said Rathbury. "'It won't take you ten minutes to go round and back again. I look or do. You don't recognise his handwriting, I suppose?' Bretton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently. "'No,' he answered. "'I don't. I don't know it at all. I can't think, of course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor wanting my professional services, you know.' He went on with a shy smile at Spargo. "'But three, three o'clock in the morning, eh?' The doctor, observed Rathbury, the doctor thinks he had been dead about two and a half hours. Bretton turned to the inner door. "'I'll just tell these ladies I'm going out for a quarter of an hour,' he said. "'They're going over to the court with me. I got my first brief yesterday.' He went on with a broyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. It's nothing much, small case, but I promise my fiancee and her sister that they should be present, you know, a moment.' He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this youngster. He had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Bretton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. "'Well, come on,' said Bretton, let's go straight there.' The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the general gay sense of the summer morning. No shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern. He looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head. "'No,' he said with decision, don't know him, don't know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of.' Rathbury replaced the cloth. "'I didn't suppose you would,' he remarked. "'Well, I expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody will identify him.' "'You say he was murdered,' said Bretton. "'Is that certain?' Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. The back of his skull is smashed in.' He said laconically. The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind, and a fearful blow, too. "'I much obliged to you, Mr. Bretton.' "'Oh, all right,' said Bretton. "'Well, you know where to find me if you want me. I should be curious about this. Goodbye. Goodbye, Mr. Spargo.' The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist. "'I didn't expect anything from that,' he remarked. "'However, it was a thing to be done. You were going to write about this for your paper.' Spargo nodded. "'Well,' continued Rathbury. "'I've sent a man to Fiskies, the Hatters, where the cat came from, you know. We may get a bit of information from that quarter. It's possible. "'If you'd like to meet me here at twelve o'clock, I'll tell you anything I've heard. Just now I'm going to get some breakfast.' "'I'll meet you here,' said Spargo, at twelve o'clock.' He watched Rathbury go away round the corner. He himself suddenly set off round another. He went to the Watchman's office, wrote a few lines which he enclosed in an envelope for the day editor, and went out again. Somehow or other his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realized what he was doing, he found himself turning into the law-courts of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. Chapter 3 The Clue of the Cap. Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in a great hall, and the adjacent corridors until an official who took him to be lost, asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves. "'Isn't Mr. Justice Borough sitting in one of the courts this morning?' he suddenly asked. Number 7,' replied the official, "'What's your case when it's down?' "'I haven't got a case,' said Spargo. "'I'm a pressman, reporter, you know.' The official stuck out a finger. Round the corner, first to your right, second on the left,' he said automatically, "'You'll find plenty of room. Nothing much doing there this morning.'" He turned away, and Spargo recommended his apparently aimless perambulation of the dreary depressing corridors. "'Upon my honour,' he muttered, "'upon my honour, I really don't know what I've come up here for. I've no business here.'" Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Bretton. The young barrister was now in his wigan to gown, and carried a bundle of papers tied up with pink tape. He was escorting two young ladies who were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side. And Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her burlesque speech. It was not the elder one who walked by Ronald Bretton with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile. And it suddenly dawned upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a hope, of seeing this girl again. Why he could not then think?" Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted his hat. Bretton stopped, half inquisitive. His eyes seemed to ask a question. Yes, said Spargo. I, the fact is, I remember that you said you were coming up here, and I came after you. I want, when you've time, to have a talk, to ask you a few questions about this affair of the dead man, you know. Bretton nodded. He tapped Spargo on the arm. Look here, he said, when this case of mine is over, I can give you as much time as you like. Can you wait a bit? Yes? Well, I say, do me a favour. I was taking these young ladies round to the gallery, round there and up the stairs, and I'm a bit pressed for time. I've a solicitor waiting for me. You take them, there's a good fellow. Then, when the case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk. Here, I'll introduce you all. No ceremony. Miss Elmore, Miss Jessie Elmore, Mr. Spargo of the Watchman. Now, I'm off. Bretton turned on the instant, his gown whisked round the corner, and Spargo found himself staring at two smiling girls. He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years. That is very cool of Ronald, observed the elder young lady. Perhaps his scheme doesn't fit in with yours, Mr. Spargo. Pray don't. Oh, it's all right, said Spargo, feeling himself uncommonly stupid. I've nothing to do, but where did Mr. Bretton say you wished to be taken? Into the gallery of Number Seven Court, said the younger girl promptly, round this corner I think I know the way. Spargo still marvelling at the rapidity with which affairs were moving that morning, bestowed himself to act as Cicceroni, and presently led the two young ladies to the very front of one of those public galleries from which idlers and specially interested spectators may see and hear the proceedings which obtained in the badly ventilated, ill-lighted tanks where injustice is dispensed at the law courts. There was no one else in that gallery. The attendant in the corridor outside seemed to be vastly amazed that any one should wish to enter it, and he presently opened the door, beckoned to Spargo, and came half way down the stairs to meet him. Nothing much going on here this morning, he whispered behind a raised hand. But there's a nice bridge-case in Number Five. Get you three good seats there, if you like. Spargo declined this tempting offer, and went back to his charges. He had decided by that time that Miss Aylmore was about twenty-three, and her sister about eighteen. He also thought that young Bretton was a lucky dog, to be in possession of such a charming future wife and an equally charming sister-in-law. And he dropped into a seat at Miss Jessie Aylmore's side, and looked around him as if he were much awed by his surroundings. I suppose one can talk until the judge enters, he whispered. Is this really Mr. Bretton's first case? He's very first, all on his own responsibility, anyway, replied Spargo's companion, smiling. But he's very nervous, and so's my sister, aren't you now, Evelyn? Evelyn Aylmore looked at Spargo, and smiled quietly. I suppose one's always nervous about first appearances, she said. However, I think Ronald's got plenty of confidence, and, as he says, it's not much of a case. It isn't even a jury case. I'm afraid you'll find it dull, Mr. Spargo. It's only something about a promissory note. Oh, I'm all right, thank you, replied Spargo, unconsciously falling back on a favourite formula. I always like to hear lawyers, they manage to say such a lot about. About? About nothing, said Jessie Aylmore. But there, so do gentlemen who write for the papers, don't they? Spargo was about to admit that there was a good deal to be said on that point, when Miss Aylmore suddenly drew her sister's attention to a man who had just entered the well of the court. Look, Jessie! She observed. There's Mr. Elphick! Spargo looked down at the person, indicated, an elderly, large-faced, smooth-shaven man, a little inclined to stoutness, who, wicked and gowned, was slowly making his way to a corner seat, just outside that charmed inner sanctum, wherein only King's counsellor permitted to sit. He dropped into this in a fashion which showed that he was one of those men who loved personal comfort. He bestowed his plump person at the most convenient angle, and fitting a monocle in his right eye glanced around him. There were a few of his professional brethren in his vicinity. There were half a dozen solicitors and their clerks, in conversation with one or other of them. They were court officials, but the gentlemen of the monocle swept all these with an indifferent look, and cast his eyes upward until he caught sight of the two girls. Thereupon he made a most gracious bow in their direction. His broad face beamed in a genial smile, and he waved a white hand. Do you know Mr. Elphick, Mr. Spargo, in quite the younger Miss Elmore? You'd rather think I've seen him somewhere about the temple, answered Spargo. In fact, I'm sure I have. These chambers are in paper-building, said Jesse. Sometimes he gives tea-parties in them. He is Ronald's guardian, and preceptor, and mentor, and all that, and I suppose he's dropped into this court to hear how his pupil goes on. Here is Ronald, whispered Miss Elmore. And here, said her sister, is his lordship looking very cross. Now Mr. Spargo, you're in for it. Spargo, to tell the truth, paid little attention to what went on beneath him. The case which young Breton presently opened was a commercial one, involving certain rights and properties in a promissory note. It seemed to the journalist that Breton dealt with it very well, showing himself master of the financial details, and speaking with readiness and assurance. He was much more interested in his companions, and especially in the younger one, and he was meditating on how he could improve his further acquaintance, when he awoke to the fact that the defence, realising that it stood no chance, had agreed to withdraw, and that Mr. Justice Borough was already giving judgement in Ronald Breton's favour. In another minute he was walking out of the gallery in rear of the two sisters. Very good, very good indeed, he said, absentmindedly. I thought he put his facts very clearly and concisely. Downstairs in the corridor Ronald Breton was talking to Mr. Elfin. He pointed a finger at Spargo, as the latter came up with the girls. Spargo gathered that Breton was speaking of the murder, and of his Spargo's connection with it, and directly they approached. He spoke. This is Mr. Spargo, sub-editor of the Watchman, Breton said. Mr. Elfin, Mr. Spargo, I was just telling Mr. Elfin, Spargo, that you saw this poor man soon after he was found. Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elfin, saw that he was deeply interested. The elderly barrister took him, literally, by the buttonhole. My dear sir, he said, you saw this poor fellow lying dead in a third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, eh? Yes, replied Spargo, simply, I saw him. It was the third entry. Singular, said Mr. Elfin amusingly. I know a man who lives in that house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton's name and address in his pocket. Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton and pulled out his watch. Just then he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elfin. Yes, that's so, he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton significantly, he added, if you can give me those few minutes now. Yes, yes, responded Ronald Breton nodding. I understand. Evelyn, I'll leave you and Jesse to Mr. Elfin, I must go. Mr. Elfin sees Spargo once more. My dear sir, he said eagerly, do you think I could possibly see the body? It's at the mortuary, answered Spargo, I don't know what their regulations are. Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in the quieter shades of the temple before Spargo spoke about what I wanted to say to you, he said at last, it was this. I, well, I've always wanted as a journalist to have a real big murder case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it, thoroughly first and last, and I think you can help me. How do you know that it is a murder case, asked Breton quietly? It's a murder case, answered Spargo solidly. I feel it, instinct perhaps. I'm going to ferret out the truth, and it seems to me, he paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. It seems to me, he presently continued, that the clue lies in that scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between you and somebody else. He, agreed Breton, you want to find the somebody else? I want you to help me to find the somebody else, answered Spargo. I believe this is a big, very big affair. I want to do it. I don't believe in police methods much. By the by, I'm just going to meet Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come? Breton ran into his chambers in King's Bench Walk, left his gown and wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came out as they were stepping in. Oh, he said, ah, I've got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told you I'd sent that man to Fiskey's, the Hatter. Well, he's just returned. The cat which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskey's yesterday afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient Hotel. Where is that, asked Spargo. Waterloo District, answered Rathbury. A small house, I believe. Well, I'm going there. Are you coming? Yes, replied Spargo. Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too. If I'm not in the way, said Breton, Rathbury laughed. Well, we may find out something about this scrap of paper, he observed, and he waved a signal to the nearest taxi cab driver. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4. The Anglo-Orient Hotel. The house of Spargo and his companions presently drew up was an old-fashioned place, in the immediate vicinity of Waterloo Railway Station, a plain-fronted, four-square erection, essentially mid-Victorian, in appearance, and suggestive somehow of the very early days of railway travelling. Anything more in contrast with the modern ideas of a hotel, it would have been difficult to find in London, and Ronald Breton said so, as he and the others crossed the pavement. Yet a good many people used to favour this place on their way to and from Southampton in the old days, remarked Rathbury, and I dare say that old travellers, coming back from the east after a good many years' absence, still rush in here. You see it's close to the station, and travellers have a knack of walking into the nearest place when they have a few thousand miles of steamboat and railway train behind them. Look there now. They had crossed the threshold as the detective spoke, and as they entered a square heavily furnished hall, he made a side-long motion of his head towards a bar on the left, wherein stood or lounged a number of men, who from their general appearance they slouched hats, and their bronzed faces appeared to be colonials, or, at any rate, to have spent a good part of their time beneath oriental skies. There was a murmur of tongues that had a colonial accent in it, an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Chakinopoli, and Rathbury wagged his head sagely. Lay you anything, the dead man was a colonial, Mr. Spargo, he remarked. Well now I suppose that's the landlord and landlady. There was an office facing them at the rear of the hall, and a man and woman regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge on which lay a register-book. They were middle-aged folk, the man a fleshy round face, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at some time have been a butler. The woman a tall, spare-figured, thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an inquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence. You the landlord of this house, sir, he asked Mr. Walters, just so, and Mrs. Walters I presume. The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. What can I do for you, sir, he inquired. A little matter of business, Mr. Walters replied Rathbury pulling out a card. You'll see there who I am, Detective Sergeant Rathbury of the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man. This is Mr. Ronald Bretton, a barrister. The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side door and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Abaying her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small, private parlour. Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his principal visitor. What is it, Mr. Rathbury, he inquired. Anything wrong? We want a bit of information, answered Rathbury, almost with indifference. Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday? Mildly man, grey hair, fresh complexion. Mrs. Walters started glancing at her husband. There, she exclaimed, I knew some inquiry would be made. Yes, and Mr. Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train got him from Southampton. Number 20 he took, but he didn't use it last night. He went out very late and he never came back. Rathbury nodded, answering a sign from the landlord who took a chair and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. What made you think some inquiry would be made, Mum? He asked. Had you noticed anything? Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her husband gave her bent to a species of growl. Nothing to notice, he muttered, away speaking, that's all. Well, why I said that was this, said the landlady. He happened to tell us, did Mr. Marbury, that he hadn't been in London for over twenty years and couldn't remember anything about it. Him, he said, never having known much about London at any time. And of course, when he went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought something had happened to him and that there'd be inquiries made. Just so, just so, said Rathbury. So you would, Mum, so you would. Well, something has happened to him, he said. What's more, there's strong reason to think he was murdered. Mr. and Mrs. Walters received this announcement with proper surprise and horror and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his visitors. Spargo and Breton declined on the ground that they had worked to do during the afternoon. Rathbury accepted it, evidently, as a matter of course. My respects, he said, lifting his glass. Well, now, perhaps you'll just tell me what you know of this man. I may as well tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this morning, at a quarter to three, that there wasn't anything on him but his clothes and a scrap of paper which brought this gentleman's name and address, that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End Hatter's yesterday and had it sent to your hotel. Yes, said Mrs. Walters quickly, that's so, and he went out in that cap last night. Well, we don't know much about him. As I said, he came in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and book number twenty. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a bag. They're in twenty now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at this house over twenty years ago on his way to Australia. That, of course, was long before we took it, and he signed his name in the book as John Marbury. No, look at that, if you please, said Rathbury. Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous day's entries. They all bent over the dead man's writing. John Marbury, cool and bidgy, knew South Wales, said Rathbury. Now, now I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on the scrap of paper, Mr. Bretton. But, you see, it isn't, it's quite different. Quite different, said Bretton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting with great interest, and Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it and asked another question. Ever seen that writing before, he suggested? Never, answered Bretton. And yet, there's something very familiar about it. Then the probability is that you have seen it before, remarked Rathbury. Well, now we'll hear a little more about Marbury's doings here. Just tell me all you know, Mr. and Mrs. Walters. My wife knows most, said Walters. I scarcely saw the man. I don't remember speaking with him. No, said Mrs. Walters, you didn't. You weren't much in his way. Well, she continued. I showed him up to his room. He talked a bit. Said he just landed at Southampton from Melbourne. Did he mention his ship? Asked Rathbury. But if he didn't, it doesn't matter, for we can find out. I believe the names on his things, answered the landlady. There are some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at exactly one o'clock, saying to me that he expected he'd get lost, as he didn't know London well at any time, and shouldn't know it at all now. He went outside there. I saw him, looked about him, and walked off towards Blackfriars Way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came for him from Fiskies. So of course I judged he'd been Piccadilly way. But he himself never came in until ten o'clock, and then he brought a gentleman with him. I said Rathbury, a gentleman now, did you see him? Just replied the landlady. They went straight up to twenty, and I just caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. At all, well built gentleman with a grey beard, very well dressed as far as I could see, with a top pat and a white silk muffler round his throat, and carrying an umbrella. And they went to Marbury's room, said Rathbury. What then? Well then, Mr Marbury rang for some whisky and soda, continued Mrs Walters. He was particular to have a decanter of whisky. That and a siphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until nearly midnight. Then the whole porter told me that the gentleman in twenty had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night porter, as of course there is. He went out about half past eleven. And the other gentleman asked Rathbury. The other gentleman, answered the landlady, went out with him. The whole porter said they turned towards the station, and that was the last anybody in this house saw of Mr Marbury. He certainly never came back. That observed Rathbury with a quiet smile. That is quite certain, ma'am. Well, I suppose we'd better see this number twenty room and have a look at what he left there. Everything, said Mrs Walters, it's just as he left it, nothing's been touched. It seemed to two of the visitors that there was little to touch. On the dressing table lay a few ordinary articles of toilet, none of them of any quality or value. The dead man had evidently been satisfied with the plain necessities of life. An overcoat hung from a peg. Rathbury, without ceremony, went through its pockets. Just as unceremoniously he proceeded to examine trunk and bag, and finding both unlocked, he laid out on the bed every article they contained, and examined each separately and carefully. He found nothing whereby he could gather any clue to the dead owner's identity. There you are, he said, making an end of his task. You see, it's just the same with these things as with the clothes he had on him. There are no papers. There's nothing to tell who he was, what he was after, where he'd come from. Though that we may find out in other ways. But it's not often that a man travels without some clue to his identity. Beyond the fact that some of this linen was, you see, bought in Melbourne, we know nothing of him. Yet he must have had papers and money on him. Did you see anything of his money now, ma'am? He asked, suddenly turning to Mrs. Walters, did he pull out his purse in your presence now? Yes, answered the landlady with promptitude. He came into the bar for a drink after he'd been up to his room. He pulled out a handful of gold when he paid for it, a whole handful. There must have been some thirty to forty sovereigns and half-sufferings. Yet he hadn't a penny-piece on him when found, muttered Rathbury. I noticed another thing, too, remarked the landlady. He was wearing a very fine gold watch and chain, and had a splendid ring on his left hand, little finger, gold with a big diamond in it. Yes, said the detective thoughtfully, I noticed that he'd worn a ring, and that it had been a bit tight for him. Well, now there's only one thing to ask about. Did your chambermaid notice if he left any torn paper around, tore any letters up or anything like that? But the chambermaid, produced, had not noticed anything of the sort. On the contrary, the gentleman of number twenty had left his room very tidy, indeed. So Rathbury intimated that he had no more to ask, and nothing further to say. Just then, and he bade the landlord and landlady of the Anglo-Orient Hotel good morning, and went away, followed by the two young men. What next, asked Rathbury, as they gained the street? The next thing, asked Rathbury, is to find the man with whom Marbury left this hotel last night. And how's that to be done, asked Rathbury? At present, replied Rathbury, I don't know. And with a careless nod, he walked off, apparently desirous of being alone. End of chapter four. Chapter five of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Chapter five. Spargo wishes to specialise. The barrister and the journalist left thus unceremoniously on a crowded pavement, looked at each other, Breton laughed. We don't seem to have gained much information, he remarked. I'm about as wise as ever. No, wiser, said Spargo, at any rate, I am. I know now that this dead man called himself John Marbury, that he came from Australia, that he only landed at Southampton yesterday morning, and that he was in the company last night of a man whom we have had described to us, a tall, grey-bearded, well-dressed man, presumably a gentleman. Breton shrugged his shoulders. I should say that description would fit a hundred thousand men in London, he remarked. Exactly, so it would, answered Spargo. But we know that it was one of the hundred thousand, or half million, if you like. The thing is to find that one, the one, and you think you can do it? I think I'm going to have a big try at it. Breton shrugged his shoulders again. What, by going up to every man who answered the description and saying, Sir, are you the man who accompanied John Marbury to the Anglo— Spargo suddenly interrupted him. Look here, he said. Didn't you say that you knew a man who lives in that block in the entry of which Marbury was found? No, I didn't, answered Breton. It was Mr. Elfic who said that. All the same, I do know that man. He's Mr. Cardelstone, another barrister. He and Mr. Elfic are friends. They're both enthusiastic, flatterless, stamp collectors, you know. And I dare say Mr. Elfic was round there last night examining something new Cardelstone's got hold of. Why? I'd like to go round there and make some inquiries, replied Spargo. If you'd be kind enough to— Oh, I'll go with you, responded Breton, with alacrity. I'm just as keen about this business as you are, Spargo. I want to know who this man Marbury is and how he came to have my name and address on him. Now, if I had been a well-known man in my profession, you know, why— Yes, said Spargo, as they got into a cab, yes, that would have explained a lot. It seems to me that we'll get at the murderer through that scrap of paper a lot quicker than through Rathbury's line. Yes, that's what I think. He looked at his companion with interest. But you don't know what Rathbury's line is, he remarked. Yes, I do, said Spargo. Rathbury's gone off to discover who the man is, with whom Marbury left the Anglo-Orient Hotel last night. That's his line. And you want— I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who wrote it? Answered Spargo. I want to know why that old man was coming to you when he was murdered. Breton started. By Jove, he exclaimed, I never thought of that. You really think he was coming to me when he was struck down? Certain. Hadn't he gotten a dress in the temple? Wasn't he in the temple? Of course he was trying to find you. But it's a late hour. No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the temple? I think he was asking his way—that's why I want to make some inquiries in this block. It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of the office-boy variety, were desirous of making inquiries about the dead man. Being lunch an hour, that bit of middle-temple lane where the body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a policeman to move the curious away. And when Spargo and his companion presented themselves at the entry, this policeman was being lectured as to his duties by a little wizened-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk-cat, who was obviously greatly exercised by the unwanted commotion. "'Drive them all out into the street,' exclaimed this personage, "'drive them all away, Constable, into Fleet Street, or upon the embankment, anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a disgrace and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a—' "'That's old Cardelstone,' whispered Bretton, "'he's always irascible, and I don't suppose we'll get anything out of him.'" "'Mr. Cardelstone,' he continued, making his way up to the old gentleman, who was now retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as himself. "'I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He—' "'I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir,' exclaimed Mr. Cardelstone, "'and I never talk to journalists, a pack of busy-bodys, sir, saving your presence. I'm not aware that any murder has been committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office-boys and street-downgers. Murder indeed! I suppose a man fell down these steps and broke his neck, drunk, most likely.' He opened his outer door, as he spoke, and Bretton, with a reassuring smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels. "'Mr. Elfwick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last evening, Mr. Cardelstone,' he said. "'Of course, neither of you heard anything suspicious.' "'What should we hear that was suspicious in the temple, sir?' demanded Mr. Cardelstone angrily. "'I hope the temple is free from that sort of thing, young Mr. Bretton.' Your respected guardian and myself had a quiet evening on our usual peaceful pursuits, and when he went away, all was as quiet as the grave, sir. What may have gone on in the chambers above and around me, I know not. Fortunately, our walls are thick, sir, substantial.' I say, sir, the man probably fell down and broke his neck. What he was doing here, I do not presume to say. "'Well, it's guess you know, Mr. Cardelstone,' remarked Bretton, again winking at Spargo, but all that was found on this man was a scrap of paper on which my name and address were written. That's practically all that was known of him, except that he'd just arrived from Australia.' Mr. Cardelstone suddenly turned on the young barrister with a sharp, acute glance. "'Hey,' he exclaimed, "'what's this, you say this man had your name and address on him, young Bretton, yours, and that he came from Australia?' "'That's so,' answered Bretton, "'that's all that's known.' Mr. Cardelstone put aside his umbrella, produced a bandana handkerchief of strong colours, and blew his nose in a reflective fashion.' "'That's a mysterious thing,' he observed. "'Does Alphick know all that?' Mr. Cardelstone looked at Spargo as if he was asking him for an explanation of Mr. Cardelstone's alt of manner, and Spargo took up the conversation. "'No,' he said, all that Mr. Alphick knows is that Mr. Ronald Bretton's name and address were on the scrap of paper found on the body. "'Mr. Alphick,' here Spargo paused and looked at Bretton, "'Mr. Alphick,' he presently continued, slowly transferring his glance to the old barrister, spoke of going to view the body. "'Ah,' exclaimed Mr. Cardelstone, eagerly, "'it can be seen. "'Then I'll go and see it. "'Where is it?' Bretton started. "'But, my dear sir,' he said, "'why?' Mr. Cardelstone picked up his umbrella again. "'I feel a proper curiosity about a mystery which occurs at my very door,' he said. "'Also, I have known more than one man who went to Australia. "'This might,' I say, my young gentleman, "'might be a man I had once known. Show me where the body is.'" Bretton looked helplessly at Spargo. It was plain that he did not understand the turn that things were taking. But Spargo was quick to seize an opportunity. In another minute he was conducting Mr. Cardelstone through the ins and outs of the temple towards Blackfriars. As they turned into Tudor Street they encountered Mr. Elfwick. "'I'm going to the mortuary,' he remarked. "'So, I suppose, are you, Cardelstone? Has anything more been discovered, young man?' Spargo tried a chance shot, at what he did not know. "'The man's name was Marbury,' he said. He was from Australia. He was keeping a keen eye on Mr. Elfwick, but he failed to see that Mr. Elfwick showed any sign of the surprise which Mr. Cardelstone had exhibited. Rather, he seemed indifferent. "'Oh,' he said, Marbury, and from Australia. Well, I should like to see the body.'" Spargo and Bretton had to wait outside the mortuary while the two elder gentlemen went in. "'There was nothing to be learned from either when they reappeared.'" "'We don't know the man,' said Mr. Elfwick calmly. "'As Mr. Cardelstone, I understand, has said to you already, we have no men who went to Australia, and as this man was evidently wondering about the temple, we thought it might have been one of them. Come back. But we don't recognise him.'" "'Couldn't recognise him,' said Mr. Cardelstone. "'No.'" They went away together, arm in arm, and Bretton looked at Spargo, as if anybody on earth ever fancied they'd recognise him. He said, "'Well, what are you going to do now, Spargo? I must go.'" Spargo, who had been digging his walking-stick into a crack in the pavement, came out of a fit of abstraction. "'I,' he said, "'Oh, I'm going to the office,' and he turned abruptly away and walking straight off to the editorial rooms at the watchman, made for one in which sat the official guardian of the editor. "'Try to get me a few minutes with the chief,' he said. The private secretary looked up. "'Really important,' he asked. "'Big,' answered Spargo. "'Fix it!' Once closeted with the great man, whose idiosyncrasies he knew pretty well by that time, Spargo lost no time. "'You've heard about this murder in Middle Temple Lane,' he suggested. The mere facts,' replied the editor, tersely. "'I was there when the body was found,' continued Spargo, and gave a brief resume of his doings. "'I'm certain this is a most unusual affair,' he went on. "'It's as full of mystery as... as it could be. "'I want to give my attention to it. "'I want to specialise on it. "'I can make such a story of it as we haven't had for some time. "'Ages, let me have it. "'And to start with, let me have two columns for tomorrow morning. "'I'll make it big.'" The editor looked across his desk at Spargo's either face. "'Your other work,' he said. "'Well in hand,' replied Spargo. "'I'm ahead a whole week, both articles and reviews. I can tackle both.'" The editor put his fingertips together. "'Have you got some idea about this young man?' he asked. "'I've got a great idea,' answered Spargo. He faced the great man squarely and stared at him until he brought a smile to the editorial face. "'That's why I want to do it,' he added. "'And it's not mere boasting nor overconfidence. I know I shall do it better than anybody else.'" The editor considered matters for a brief moment. "'You mean to find out who killed this man?' he said at last. Spargo nodded his head twice. "'I'll find that out,' he said doggedly. The editor picked up a pencil and bent to his desk. "'All right,' he said, go ahead. "'You shall have your two columns.'" Spargo went quietly away to his own nook and corner. He got told of a block of paper and began to write. He was going to show how to do things. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of the Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Witness to a meeting Ronald Bretton walked into the Watchman office and into Spargo's room next morning, holding a copy of the current issue in his hand. He waved it at Spargo with an enthusiasm which was almost boyish. "'I say,' he exclaimed. "'That's the way to do it, Spargo. I congratulate you. Yes, that's the way. Certain.'" Spargo, idly turning over a pile of exchanges, yawned. "'What way?' he asked indifferently. "'The way you've written this thing up,' said Bretton. "'It's a hundred thousand times better than the usual cut-and-dried account of a murder. It's—it's like a romance.'" "'Million-year method of giving news,' said Spargo. He picked up a copy of the Watchman and glanced at his two columns, which had somehow managed to make themselves into three. Viewing the displayed lettering, the photograph of the dead man, the line drawing of the entry in Middle Temple Lane, and the facsimile of the scrap of grain paper with a critical eye. "'Yes, million-year method,' he continued. "'The question is, will it achieve its object?' "'What's the object?' asked Bretton. Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it over to his visitor, helped himself, and tilt him back in his chair, put his feet on his desk. "'The object,' he said dryly. "'Oh, well, the object is the ultimate detection of the murderer. "'You after that?' "'I'm after that, just that. "'And not—not simply out to make effective news. "'I'm out to find the murderer of John Marbury,' said Spargo, deliberately slowing his speech. "'And I'll find him.'" "'Well, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of clues so far,' remarked Bretton. "'I see nothing, do you?' Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air. "'I want to know an awful lot,' he said. "'I'm hungering for news. "'I want to know who John Marbury is. "'I want to know what he did with himself between the time "'when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive and well, "'and the time when he was found in Middletample Lane, "'with his skull beaten in and dead. "'I want to know where he got that scrap of paper. "'Above everything, Bretton, I want to know what he got to do with you.'" He gave the young barrister a keen look, and Bretton nodded. "'Yes,' he said. "'I confess, that's a corker, but I think—' "'Well,' said Spargo, "'I think he may have been a man who had some legal business in hand, "'or in prospect, and had been recommended to me,' said Bretton. Spargo smiled a little sardonically. "'That's good,' he said. "'You had your very first brief yesterday. "'Come, your fame isn't blown abroad through all the heights yet, my friend. "'Besides, don't intend in client's approach. "'Isn't it strictly etiquette for them to approach?' Barristers threw solicitors. "'Quite right in both your remarks,' replied Bretton, good-humidly. "'Of course, I'm not known a bit, but all the same. "'I've known several cases where a barrister has been approached in the first instance "'and asked to recommend a solicitor. "'Somebody who wanted to do me a good turn may have given this man my address.'" "'Possible,' said Spargo, "'but he wouldn't have come to consult you at midnight. "'Bretton, the more I think of it, the more I'm certain there's a tremendous mystery in this affair. "'That's why I got the chief to let me write it up, as I have done here. "'I'm hoping that this photograph, though to be sure it's of a dead face, "'and this facsimile of the scrap of paper, will lead to someone coming forward who can.' "'Just then, one of the uniformed youths, "'who hang about the marble-pillared festival of the Watchman office, "'came into the room with the unmistakable look and air "'of one who carries news at moment.' "'I dare lay a sovereign to assent. "'I know what this is,' muttered Spargo in inner side. "'Well,' he said to the boy, "'what is it?' "'The messenger came up to the desk. "'Mr. Spargo,' he said, "'there's a man downstairs who says he wants to see somebody about that murder case "'that's in the paper this morning, sir. "'Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you.' "'Who is the man?' asked Spargo. "'Won't say, sir,' replied the boy. "'I gave him a form to fill up, but he said he wouldn't write anything. "'Said all he wanted was to see the man who wrote the piece in the paper. "'Bring him here,' commanded Spargo. "'He turned to Bretton when the boy had gone and he smiled. "'I knew we should have somebody here sooner or later,' he said. "'That's why I hurried over my breakfast and came down at ten o'clock. "'Now then, what were you bet on the chances of this chap's information proving valuable?' "'Nothing,' replied Bretton. "'He's probably some crank or faddist who's got some theory that he wants to ventilate.' The man who was presently ushered in by the messenger, seemed from preliminary and outward appearance to justify Bretton's prognostication. He was obviously a countryman, a tall, loosely built middle-aged man, yellow of hair, blue of eye, who was wearing his Sunday best array of pearl-gray trousers and black coat, and sported a necktie in which were several distinct colours. Oppressed with the splendour and grandeur of the Watchman building, he had removed his hard, billy-cock hat as he followed the boy and he ducked his bare head at the two young men as he stepped onto the thick pile of the carpet which made luxurious footing in Spargo's room. His blue eyes opened to their widest, looked round him in astonishment at the sumptuousness of modern newspaper office accommodation. "'How do you do, sir?' said Spargo, pointing a finger to one of the easy chairs for which the Watchman's office is famous. I understand that you wish to see me.' The call adducted his yellow head again, sat down on the edge of the chair, put his hat on the floor, picked it up again, and endeavoured to hang it on his knee, and looked at Spargo innocently and shyly. "'What I want to see, sir,' he observed in a rustic accent, "'is the gentleman has wrote that piece in your newspaper about this ear-murder in Middle Temple Lane.' "'You see him,' said Spargo. "'I am that man.' The caller smiled generously. "'Indeed, sir,' he said. "'A very nice bit of reading, I'm sure. "'And what might your name be now, sir? "'I can always talk freer to a man when I know what his name is.' "'So can I,' answered Spargo. "'My name is Spargo, Frank Spargo. "'What's yours?' "'Name of Webster, sir, William Webster. "'I farm one ash farm in Gosburton in Oakshire. "'Me and my wife,' continued Mr Webster, "'again smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, "'is that present in London on a holiday. "'And very pleasant we find it, whether and all.' "'That's right,' said Spargo. "'And you wanted to see me about this murder, Mr Webster?' "'I did, sir. "'Me, I believe, knowing as I think "'something that'll do for you to put in your paper. "'You see, Mr Spargo, it come about in this fashion. "'Upon you'll be for me to tell it in my own way.' "'That,' answered Spargo, "'is precisely what I desire. "'Well, to be sure, I couldn't tell it no other,' declared Mr Webster. "'You see, sir, I read your paper this morning "'while I was waiting for my breakfast. "'They take their breakfast so late in their motels. "'And when I'd read it and looked at the pictures,' I says to my wife, "'as soon as I've had my breakfast,' I says, "'I'm going to where they print this newspaper "'to tell them something. "'I,' she says, "'why, what a view to tell, I should like to know.' "'Just like that, Mr Spargo.' "'Mrs Webster,' said Spargo, "'is a lady of business-like principles. "'And what have you to tell?' Mr Webster looked into the crown of his hat, looked out of it, and smiled knowingly. "'Well, sir,' he continued. "'Last night, my wife, "'she went out to a part they call Clapham "'to take her tea and supper "'with an old friend of hers as lives there. "'And as they wanted to have a bit of woman talk "'like I didn't go. "'So think, Si, to myself, "'I'll go and see this here House of Commons. "'There was a neighbour of mine "'that all you'd got to do "'was to tell the policeman at the door "'that you wanted to see your own Member of Parliament. "'So when I got there, "'I told them that I wanted to see our MP, "'Mr Stonewood. "'You'll have heard tell of him, no doubt. "'He knows me very well. "'They passed me, and I wrote out a ticket for him, "'and they told me to sit down while they found him. "'So I sat down in a grand sort of hall, "'where there are rare lot of people going and coming "'for pictures and images to look at. "'And for a time I looked at them, "'and then I began to take a bit of notice "'of the folk near at hand, waiting, you know, like myself. "'And as sure as I'm a christened man, sir, "'the gentleman whose picture you've got in your paper, "'him as was murdered, was sitting next to me. "'I knew that picture as soon as I saw it this morning.' "'Spargo, who had been making unmeaning scribbles "'on a block of paper, suddenly looked at his visitor. "'What time was that?' he asked. "'It was between a quarter and half past nine, sir,' answered Mr. Webster. "'It might have been twenty past. It might have been twenty-five past.' "'Go on, if you please,' said Spargo. "'Well, sir, me and this ear-dead gentleman talked a bit "'about what a long time it took to get a member "'to attend to you and such like. "'I made mention of the fact that I hadn't been in there before. "'Neither have I,' he said. "'I came in out of curiosity,' he says, "'and then he laughed, sir, queer-like. "'And it was just after that "'that what I'm going to tell you about happened.' "'Tell!' commanded Spargo. "'Well, sir, there was a gentleman came along "'down this grand hall that we were sitting in, "'a tall, handsome gentleman with a grey beard. "'He'd no hat on, and he was carrying a lot of paper "'and documents in his hands. "'So I thought he was up on one of the members. "'And all of a sudden this here man at my side, "'he jumps up with a sort of start and an exclamation. "'And,' Spargo listed his hand, "'he looked keenly at his visitor. "'Now you're absolutely sure about what you heard him exclaim,' "'he answered, quite sure about it, "'because I see you're going to tell us what he did exclaim. "'I'll tell you now about what I'm certain of, sir,' replied Webster. "'What he said as he jumped up was, "'Good God!' he says, sharp like. "'And then he said a name, "'and I didn't write, catch it. "'But it sounded like Dainesworth or Painsworth "'or something of that sort. "'One of them there, or very like him at any rate.' "'And then he rushed up to this here gentleman "'and laid his hand on his arm, "'sudden like, "'And the gentleman?' asked Spargo quietly. "'Well, he seemed taken aback, sir.' "'He jumped. "'And then he stared at the man. "'Then they shook hands. "'And then, after they'd spoken a few words together like, "'they walked off, talking. "'And, of course, I never saw no more of them. "'But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, "'and that picture in it, I said to myself, "'That's the man I sat next to "'in that their hall at the House of Commons. "'Oh, there's no doubt of it, sir.' "'And suppose you saw a photograph "'of the tall gentleman with the gray beard,' suggested Spargo. "'Could you recognise him from that?' "'Make no doubt of it, sir,' answered Mr. Webster. "'I observed him particular. "'Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet "'took from it a thick volume, "'the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes.' "'Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,' he said. "'The farmer went across the room. "'There is a full set of photographs "'of members of the present House of Commons here. "'Now, pick out the one you saw. "'Take your time, and be sure.'" He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Bretton. "'There,' he whispered, "'get him a bit nearer, eh?' "'To what?' asked Bretton. "'I don't see.'" A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Bretton's remark. "'This is him, sir,' answered Mr. Webster. "'That's the gentleman, know him anywhere.'" The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby finger to a photograph. Beneath which was written, Stephen Elmore, Esquire, MP for Brookminster. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 of The Middle Temple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This livrabox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 7 Mr. Elmore Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt rather than saw Bretton start. He himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave him a glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing. "'Oh,' he said. "'That he?' "'That's the gentleman, sir,' replied Webster. "'Done to the life, that is. No difficulty in recognising of that, Mr. Spargo.' "'You're absolutely sure?' demanded Spargo. "'There are a lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards are grey.' "'But Webster wagged his head.' "'That's him, sir,' he repeated. "'I'm as sure of that as I am that my name's William Webster. "'That's the man I saw talking to him whose picture you've got in your paper. "'Can't say no more, sir.' "'Very good,' said Spargo. "'I'm much obliged to you. "'I'll see Mr. Elmore. "'Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. "'How long do you remain in town?' "'My address is the Beechcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir. "'And I shall be there for another week,' answered the farmer. "'Hope I've been of some use, Mr. Spargo,' "'as I says to my wife.' Spargo cut his visit a short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He turned to Bretton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits. "'There, what did I tell you?' he said. "'Didn't I say I should get some news? "'There it is.' Bretton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful. "'Yes,' he agreed. "'Yes, I say, Spargo.' "'Well, Mr. Elmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know. "'Quite aware of it. "'Didn't you introduce me to his daughters only yesterday?' "'But how did you know they were his daughters?' Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk. "'Instinct, intuition,' he answered. "'However, never mind that just now. "'Well, I found something out. "'Marbury, if that is the dead man's real name, "'anyway, it's all we know him by, "'was in the company of Mr. Elmore that night. "'Good. "'What are you going to do about it?' asked Bretton. "'Do? "'See, Mr. Elmore, of course.' He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address book. One hand had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk. "'Look here,' said Bretton. "'You're aware Mr. Elmore is always to be found at twelve o'clock. "'At the A.M.P. "'The Atlantic and Pacific Club, you know, "'In St. James's. "'If you like, I'll go with you.' Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone. "'All right,' he said. "'Eleven o'clock now. "'Something to do. "'I'll meet you outside the A.M.T.P. "'at exactly noon.' "'I'll be there,' agreed Bretton. He made for the door and, with his hand on it, turned. "'What do you expect from what we've just heard?' he asked. Spargo shrubbed his shoulders. "'Wait until we hear what Mr. Elmore has to say,' he answered. "'I suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.' Bretton closed the door and went away. Left alone, Spargo began to mutter to himself. "'Good God,' he says. "'Dainesworth, Paynesworth, something of that sort. "'One of the two. "'Excellent that our farmer friend should have so much observation. "'Ah, and why should Mr. Stephen Elmore "'be recognised as Dainesworth or Paynesworth "'or something of that sort? "'Now, who is Mr. Stephen Elmore "'beyond being what I know him to be?' Spargo's fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of reference which stood on his desk. They turned with practice swiftness to a page over which his eye rang just as swiftly. He read aloud, "'Elmore Stephen, MP for Brookminster since 1910. "'Residences, 23 St. Osside Court, Kensington. "'Buenavista, Great Marlowe. "'Member Atlantic and Pacific and City Ventura's clubs "'inchested in South American enterprise.' "'Hmmm,' muttered Spargo, putting the book away. "'That's not very illuminating. "'However, we've got one move finished. "'Now we'll make another.'" Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr. Elmore, putting an envelope and the envelope in his pocket, and leaving the office hailed a taxi cab and ordered its driver to take him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something to do of which he had spoken to Bretton. Spargo wanted to do it alone. Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall. She recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlor. "'I remember you,' said Mrs. Walters. "'You came with the detective, Mr. Rathbury.' "'Have you seen him since?' asked Spargo. "'Not since,' replied Mrs. Walters. "'No, and I was wondering if he'd be coming round "'because she paused there and looked at Spargo "'with particular inquiry. "'You're a friend of his, aren't you?' she asked. "'I suppose you know as much as he does about this.' "'He and I,' replied Spargo, with easy confidence, "'are working this case together. "'You can tell me anything you tell him.' The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse from an inner compartment of which she brought out a small object, wrapped in tissue paper. "'Well,' she said, unwrapping the paper, "'we found this in number twenty this morning. "'It was lying under the dressing table. "'The girl that found it brought it to me, "'and I thought it was a bit of glass. "'But, Alters, he says as how he shouldn't be surprised "'if it's a diamond. "'And since we found it, the waiter who took the whiskey "'up to twenty, after Mr. Marbury came in "'with the other gentleman, has told me "'that when he went into the room "'the two gentlemen were looking at a paper "'full of things like this. "'So there?' Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. "'That's the diamond, right enough,' he said. "'Put it away, Mrs. Walters. "'I shall see Rathbury presently, "'and I'll tell him about it. "'Now, that other gentleman, you told us you saw him. "'Could you recognize him? "'I mean a photograph of him. "'Is this the man?' Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters' face that she had no more doubt than Webster had. "'Oh, yes,' she said. "'That's the gentleman who came in with Mr. Marbury. "'I should have known him in a thousand. "'Anybody would recognize him from that. "'Perhaps you'd let our hall porter "'and the waiter I mentioned just now look at it. "'I'll see them separately, "'and see if they've ever seen a man who resembles this,' replied Spargo. "'The two men recognized the photograph at once "'without any prompting, "'or after a word or two with the landlady "'road off to the Atlantic and Pacific Club "'and found Ronald Bretton awaiting him on the steps. "'He made no reference to his recent doings, "'and together they went into the house "'and asked for Mr. Alemore.' Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently came to them in the visitors' room. He was already familiar with Mr. Alemore's photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life. The member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalists had expected. A rather cold-mannered, self-contained man who looked as if he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression and taught not to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interest in Spargo when Bretton introduced him, and his face was quite expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation, purposely shortened, of his object in calling upon him. Yes, he said indifferently. Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the house. I was much surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for, I really don't know how many years. He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting, and presently Mr Elmore 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, suppose you want this for your paper, eh? He continued after a sudden breaking up. 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 Elmore. 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, 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 Elmore 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, our Spargo? He put them in his waistcoat pocket in a very small washed 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 streeters 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 Elmore. 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 observed that when his body was found there was nothing on it in the shape of papers or money. I'm quite sure that when I left him he had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds and a breast pocket full of letters. Why 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 have a notion, said Breton, diffidently, may be worth much, but I've had it all the same. Some fellow passenger of Marbury's may have trapped him all day. Middletemple Lane's pretty lonely at night, you know. No one made any comment upon this suggestion and on Spargo looking at Mr. Ailmore, 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 retell 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 Jard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news. Now he had some to communicate. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of the Middletemple Murder by J. S. Fletcher This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8 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 the eminent bands in the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown into 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 inquiries. We're inquiring 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 and it's quiet as you see, and I scribble anything on paper while I think. "'I was figuring out 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 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 Elmore, the member for Brookminster.' Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. "'I know him,' he said. "'Of course, I remember Mrs. Walters' description now. "'But his is a familiar type, tall, grey-bearded, well-dressed. "'Hmm, well, we'll have to see Mr. Elmore 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 twenty, "'and after it was found the waiter who took the drinks "'up to Marbury and his guests 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 to see Mr. Elmore. "'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 Elmore's daughter,' continued Spargo. "'Breton took me to Elmore's club "'and Elmore gives a plain straightforward account of the matter, "'which he's granted me leave to print. "'It clears up a lot of things.' "'Elmore 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 Elmore left him and went home. "'Further, the scrap of grey paper is accounted for. "'Marbury wanted the address of a smart solicitor. "'Elmore 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 Elmore's story. "'But it's got an important addition. "'Elmore says that when he left Marbury, "'Marbury had on him a quantity of those diamonds "'in a wash-letter 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 Middletemple Lane. "'Spago 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. "'Elmore 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 inquiry, "'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 a temple at midnight, eh?' "'Well,' said Spago, "'I've thought of one of 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 merger or mergers 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. "'Once your theory, Mr. Spago,' he asked suddenly, "'I suppose you've got one. "'Have you?' asked Spago, 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 Elmore "'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, "'nukes and corners in that old spot, Mr. Spago, "'and the merger, 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 ought 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 Spago could reply to this suggestion "'and official entered the room "'and whispered a few words in the detective's ear. "'Show him in at once,' said Rathbury. "'He turned to Spago as the man quitted the room "'and smiled significantly. "'Here's somebody who wants to tell something "'about the Marbury case,' he remarked. "'Let's hope it'll be news worth hearing.'" Spago 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 cat, "'bearing upon him the unmistakable stamp "'of the city-man who inspected Rathbury "'with deliberation and Spago 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 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 newspaper this morning "'and saw the portrait of the murdered man there, "'and I was at first inclined "'to go to the Watchman's office with my information. "'But I finally decided to approach the police "'instead of the press, regarding the police "'as being more... "'more responsible.' "'Not obliged to you, sir,' said Rathbury "'with a glance at Spago. "'Whom have I the pleasure of?' "'My name,' replied the visitor, "'following out and laying down a card, "'is Meist, Mr. E. P. Meist, "'secretary of the London "'and Universal Safe Deposit Company. "'I may, I suppose, speak with confidence,' continued Mr. Meist, "'with a side glance at Spago. "'My information is confidential.' "'Rathbury inclined his head "'and put his fingers together. "'You may speak with every confidence, Mr. Meist,' answered. "'If what you have to tell has any real bearing "'on the Marbury case, it will probably have to be "'repeated in public, who knows, sir, "'but at present it will be treated as private.' "'It has a very real bearing on the case, I should say,' replied Mr. Meist. "'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.' "'Not at all, I should say, Mr. Maest,' said Rathbury, "'and I 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. Maest. "'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. Maest 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, and it's been buried "'and deep down, too, for many and many a year.'" End of chapter 8