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"It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here," she remarked. "It's about all that one ever does see." "Are there many?" asked Spargo. "Do the inhabitants die much of inanition?" The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection. "Oh, you're joking!" she said. "It's well you can. Nothing ever happens here. This place is a back number."
"You'll be for getting one o' them big play-cards out with something about a mystery on it," suggested Driscoll. "You never know what lies at the bottom o' 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."
Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone. "That's a 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.
"Good-night!" he said gruffly. "Good-night, Rathbury," replied Spargo and sat down at his desk. But that night Spargo wrote nothing for the Watchman. All he wrote was a short telegram addressed to Aylmore's daughters. There were only three words on it Have no fear.
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." Breton 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."
"It's well past that now, and my guardian's a very martinet in the matter of punctuality." But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton with troubled eyes. "So am I," he answered. "I was trained to it. Your guardian isn't there, Breton." "Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense I never knew him miss an appointment!"
"Just so," said Mr. Criedir. "Which makes me think that he was going to see Mr. Cardlestone when he was set upon, murdered, and robbed." Spargo looked fixedly at the retired stamp-dealer. "What, going to see an elderly gentleman in his rooms in the Temple, to offer to sell him philatelic rarities at past midnight?" he said. "I think not much!" "All right," replied Mr. Criedir.
Breton." Then 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." "Oh?" said Spargo blankly. "I see what," he went on, with sudden abruptness, "what shall you do about Breton?" "Get him to come and look at the body," replied Rathbury. "He may know the man and he mayn't.
"Then why, in the sacred name of common sense did no one ever take steps to make certain?" asked Spargo. "Why didn't they get an order for exhumation?" "Because it was nobody's particular business to do so," answered Mr. Quarterpage. "You don't know country-town life, my dear sir. In towns like Market Milcaster folks talk and gossip a great deal, but they're always slow to do anything.
All the same, I do know that man he's Mr. Cardlestone, another barrister. He and Mr. Elphick are friends they're both enthusiastic philatelists stamp collectors, you know and I dare say Mr. Elphick was round there last night examining something new Cardlestone's got hold of. Why?" "I'd like to go round there and make some enquiries," replied Spargo. "If you'd be kind enough to "
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