“And supposing you saw a photograph of the tall gentleman with the grey beard?” suggested Spargo. “Could you recognize him from that?”
“Make no doubt of it, sir,” answered Mr. Webster. “I observed him particular.”
Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes.
“Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,” he said.
The farmer went across the room.
“There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of Commons here,” said Spargo. “Now, pick out the one you saw. Take your time—and be sure.”
He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton.
“There!” he whispered. “Getting nearer—a bit nearer—eh?”
“To what?” asked Breton. “I don’t see—”
A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark.
“This is him, sir!” answered Mr. Webster. “That’s the gentleman—know him anywhere!”
The two young men crossed the room. The farmer was pointing a stubby finger to a photograph, beneath which was written Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P. for Brookminster
.
VII
Mr. Aylmore
Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing.
“Oh!” he said. “That he?”
“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster. “Done to the life, that is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo. “There are a lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards are grey.”
But Webster wagged his head.
“That’s him, sir!” he repeated. “I’m as sure of that as I am that my name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw talking to him whose picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no more, sir.”
“Very good,” said Spargo. “I’m much obliged to you. I’ll see Mr. Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How long do you remain in town?”
“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be there for another week,” answered the farmer. “Hope I’ve been of some use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife—”
Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits.
“There!—what did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I say I should get some news? There it is.”
Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I say, Spargo!”
“Well?”
“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.”
“Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his daughters—only yesterday?”
“But—how did you know they were his daughters?”
Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk.
“Instinct—intuition,” he answered. “However, never mind that, just now. Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if that is the dead man’s real name, and anyway, it’s all we know him by—was in the company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!”
“What are you going to do about it?” asked Breton.
“Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course.”
He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk.
“Look here,” said Breton. “I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and Pacific Club, you know, in St. James’s. If you like, I’ll go with you.”
Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone.
“All right,” he said. “Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve something to do. I’ll meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon.”
“I’ll be there,” agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand on it, turned. “What do you expect from—from what we’ve just heard?” he asked.
Spargo shrugged his shoulders.
“Wait—until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say,” he answered. “I suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.”
Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to mutter to himself.
“Good God!” he says. “Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one of the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much observation. Ah!—and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. Stephen Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?”
Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud:
“Aylmore, Stephen, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, St. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South American enterprise.”
“Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s not very illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now we’ll make another.”
Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, leaving the office, hailed a taxicab, and ordered its driver to take him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone.
Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour.
“I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the detective—Mr. Rathbury.”
“Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo.
“Not since,” replied Mrs. Walters. “No—and I was wondering if he’d be coming round, because—” She paused there and looked at Spargo with particular enquiry—“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” she asked. “I suppose you know as much as he does—about this?”
“He and I,” replied Spargo, with easy confidence, “are working this case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell him.”
The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an inner compartment of
