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Updated: May 23, 2025
Justice Borrow's court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be called until after eleven. Will " "Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to go round and back again a look will do. You don't recognize this handwriting, I suppose?" Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently. "No!" he answered. "I don't.
Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. "Well, come on," said Breton. "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. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around.
"And the other gentleman?" asked Rathbury. "The other gentleman," answered the landlady, "went out with him. The hall-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?
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.
"If you please, sir, is Mr. Spargo, of the Watchman, here? He left this address in case he was wanted." Spargo recognized the voice as that of one of the office messenger boys, and jumping up, went to the door. "What is it, Rawlins?" he asked. "Will you please come back to the office, sir, at once? There's Mr. Rathbury there and says he must see you instantly." "All right," answered Spargo.
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.
This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage he promised, you know, to keep me posted in what went on in my absence. Here's what he says: "Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You'd better hurry back if you want material for to-morrow's paper."
His eyes were fixed on a map of London that hung on the opposite wall; his ears heard the throbbing of the printing-machines far below. But what he really saw was the faces of the two girls; what he really heard was the voices of two girls ... "Clear as noontide as noontide," repeated Rathbury with great cheerfulness. Spargo came back to the earth of plain and brutal fact.
"Come at eleven tomorrow morning," he said, and drew back and closed the door. Spargo ran quickly to the office and hurried up to his own room. And there, calmly seated in an easy-chair, smoking a cigar, and reading an evening newspaper, was Rathbury, unconcerned and outwardly as imperturbable as ever. He greeted Spargo with a careless nod and a smile. "Well," he said, "how's things?"
Criminals don't hang about Middle Temple Lane." The detective shook his head. He picked up his pencil and began making more hieroglyphics. "What's your theory, Mr. Spargo?" he asked suddenly. "I suppose you've got one." "Have you?" asked Spargo, 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.
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