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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 enquiries made." "Just so just so!" said Rathbury. "So you would, ma'am so you would. Well, something has happened to him. He's dead. What's more, there's strong reason to think he was murdered." Mr. and Mrs.
And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. "Well?" said Spargo, as he sprang out: "How is it?" "It's all right," answered Rathbury. "You can be present: I got the necessary permission.
"I'll meet you here," said Spargo, "at twelve o'clock." He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round another. He went to the Watchman office, wrote a few lines, which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again.
"Are you any nearer is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?" Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, apparently thinking. "Was Rathbury in court?" he suddenly asked. "He was," replied Breton. "He was there with two or three other men who I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in Aylmore."
For after Rathbury had left him, Spargo had sought his proprietor and his editor, and had sat long in consultation with them, and the result of their talk had been that all the Watchman thought fit to tell its readers next morning was contained in a curt paragraph: "We understand that Mr.
Walters, I presume?" The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. "What can I do for you, sir?" he enquired. "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 Breton, a barrister."
And before leaving he made, what I will term, a remarkable remark. About in fact, about his leather box." "His leather box?" said Rathbury. "And what was it, sir?" "This," replied the secretary. "'That box, he said, 'is safe now. But it's been safer. It's been buried and deep-down, too for many and many a year!" "Buried and deep-down, too for many and many a year," repeated Mr.
Stephen Aylmore, the member for Brookminster." Rathbury expressed his feelings in a sharp whistle. "I know him!" he said. "Of course I remember Mrs. Walters's description now. But his is a familiar type tall, grey-bearded, well-dressed. Um! well, we'll have to see Mr. Aylmore at once." "I've seen him," said Spargo. "Naturally! For you see, Mrs. Walters gave me a bit more evidence.
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. Breton is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn't long since he was eating his dinner."
"'John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales," said Rathbury. "Ah now I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on the scrap of paper, Mr. Breton. But, you see, it isn't it's quite different." "Quite different," said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it, and asked another question.
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