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Updated: May 8, 2025
"Yes, they both wore beards full beards," assented Mr. Quarterpage. "And you see, they weren't so much alike. But Maitland was a much darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while Chamberlayne's were rather a bright blue." "The removal of a beard makes a great difference," remarked Spargo.
"You think my father was worked upon by this man Chamberlayne, sir?" observed Breton a few minutes later when they had all sat down round Mr. Quarterpage's hospitable hearth. "You think he was unduly influenced by him?" Mr. Quarterpage shook his head sadly. "Chamberlayne, my dear young sir," he answered. "Chamberlayne was a plausible and a clever fellow.
He happened to remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it. But Chamberlayne didn't come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn't come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back it was in a coffin!" "Dead?" exclaimed Spargo. "That was sudden!" "Very sudden," agreed Mr. Quarterpage.
Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a vigorous and healthy appetite. Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo's possession of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr. Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect.
Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, to Mr.
Who was he?" asked Spargo, intuitively conscious that he was coming to news. "Is his name there?" The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. "There it is!" he said. "John Maitland." Spargo bent over the fine writing. "Yes, John Maitland," he observed. "And who was John Maitland?" Mr. Quarterpage shook his head.
"As I told you, she'd disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after Maitland's release." "Here you are," said Mr. Cooper. "I sent six copies of that photograph to Miss Baylis in April, 1895. Her address was then 6, Chichester Square, Bayswater, W." Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage.
"Perhaps," suggested Spargo, "it never has been out of possession. I told you it was found in the lining of a box that box belonged to a dead man." "A dead man!" exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. "A dead man! Who could ah! Perhaps perhaps I have an idea. Yes! an idea. I remember something now that I had never thought of."
Quarterpage, across the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn't do any business now they say he's ninety, though I'm sure you wouldn't take him for more than seventy. And there's Mr. Lummis, further down the street he's eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye they're regular patriarchs.
But I've known men change age, almost beyond recognition! in five years. It depends, sir, on what they go through." Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage. "Look here!" he said. "I'm going to tell you what I'm after, Mr. Quarterpage.
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