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Updated: May 23, 2025
"Aylmore's identified," he said lazily. Spargo sat up, sharply. "Identified!" "Identified, my son. Beyond doubt." "But as whom as what?" exclaimed Spargo. Rathbury laughed. "He's an old lag an ex-convict. Served his time partly at Dartmoor. That, of course, is where he met Maitland or Marbury. D'ye see? Clear as noontide now, Spargo." Spargo sat drumming his fingers on the desk before him.
Before Spargo could reply to this suggestion an official entered the room and whispered a few words in the detective's ear. "Show him in at once," said Rathbury. He turned to Spargo as the man quitted the room and smiled significantly. "Here's somebody wants to tell something about the Marbury case," he remarked. "Let's hope it'll be news worth hearing." Spargo smiled in his queer fashion.
He paused, as if it were not worth while to continue, and turned to Rathbury, who was regarding him with amusement. "Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Is it possible to get that box opened?" "It'll have to be opened," answered Rathbury, rising. "It's got to be opened. It probably contains the clue we want. I'm going to ask Mr.
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." "We'll 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.
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 Breton 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.
"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 lighter feminine. "Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway," said Rathbury. "Mr.
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.
"I was trying to, while that chap was talking. But it's somebody that's got in before us. Not Rathbury, anyhow he's not serious-faced. Heavens, Breton, however are you going to find your way in this darkness?" "You'll see presently. We follow the road a little. Then we turn up the fell side there.
He whispered something of his notions to the detective; Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding. "Let's hope we're going to see something!" he said. In the secretary's room a man waited who touched his forelock respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box on the table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members of the procession gathered round.
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, he took a chair and, sitting down, looked at Mrs. Walters. "What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma'am?" he asked. "Had you noticed anything?" Mrs. Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question.
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