Spargo nodded.
“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered.
The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the room.
“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the mystery deepens. What do you propose to do, Spargo?”
“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling him anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands—”
“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand. “Leave it entirely in Spargo’s hands.”
“Keep me informed,” said the editor. “Do what you think. It strikes me you’re on the track.”
Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up that morning. There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked for another remand. So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said nothing fresh to anybody.
Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers. He found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking unusually grave and thoughtful. At sight of Spargo he turned back from his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into an inner room.
“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair. “This is becoming something more than serious. You know what you told me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?”
“To get him to tell all?—Yes,” said Spargo.
Breton shook his head.
“Stratton—his solicitor, you know—and I saw him this morning before the police-court proceedings,” he continued. “I told him of my talk with you; I even went as far as to tell him that his daughters had been to the Watchman office. Stratton and I both begged him to take your advice and tell all, everything, no matter at what cost to his private feelings. We pointed out to him the serious nature of the evidence against him; how he had damaged himself by not telling the whole truth at once; how he had certainly done a great deal to excite suspicion against himself; how, as the evidence stands at present, any jury could scarcely do less than convict him. And it was all no good, Spargo!”
“He won’t say anything?”
“He’ll say no more. He was adamant. ‘I told the entire truth in respect to my dealings with Marbury on the night he met his death at the inquest,’ he said, over and over again, ‘and I shall say nothing further on any consideration. If the law likes to hang an innocent man on such evidence as that, let it!’ And he persisted in that until we left him. Spargo, I don’t know what’s to be done.”
“And nothing happened at the police-court?”
“Nothing—another remand. Stratton and I saw Aylmore again before he was removed. He left us with a sort of sardonic remark—‘If you all want to prove me innocent,’ he said, ‘find the guilty man.’ ”
“Well, there was a tremendous lot of common sense in that,” said Spargo.
“Yes, of course, but how, how, how is it going to be done?” exclaimed Breton. “Are you any nearer—is Rathbury any nearer? Is there the slightest clue that will fasten the guilt on anybody else?”
Spargo gave no answer to these questions. He remained silent a while, apparently thinking.
“Was Rathbury in court?” he suddenly asked.
“He was,” replied Breton. “He was there with two or three other men who I suppose were detectives, and seemed to be greatly interested in Aylmore.”
“If I don’t see Rathbury tonight I’ll see him in the morning,” said Spargo. He rose as if to go, but after lingering a moment, sat down again. “Look here,” he continued, “I don’t know how this thing stands in law, but would it be a very weak case against Aylmore if the prosecution couldn’t show some motive for his killing Marbury?”
Breton smiled.
“There’s no necessity to prove motive in murder,” he said. “But I’ll tell you what, Spargo—if the prosecution can show that Aylmore had a motive for getting rid of Marbury, if they could prove that it was to Aylmore’s advantage to silence him—why, then, I don’t think he’s a chance.”
“I see. But so far no motive, no reason for his killing Marbury has been shown.”
“I know of none.”
Spargo rose and moved to the door.
“Well, I’m off,” he said. Then, as if he suddenly recollected something, he turned back. “Oh, by the by,” he said, “isn’t your guardian, Mr. Elphick, a big authority on philately?”
“One of the biggest. Awful enthusiast.”
“Do you think he’d tell me a bit about those Australian stamps which Marbury showed to Criedir, the dealer?”
“Certain, he would—delighted. Here”—and Breton scribbled a few words on a card—“there’s his address and a word from me. I’ll tell you when you can always find him in, five nights out of seven—at nine o’clock, after he’s dined. I’d go with you tonight, but I must go to Aylmore’s. The two girls are in terrible trouble.”
“Give them a message from me,” said Spargo as they went out together. “Tell them to keep up their hearts and their courage.”
XXVII
Mr. Elphick’s Chambers
Spargo went round again to the Temple that night at nine o’clock, asking himself over and over again two questions—the first, how much does Elphick know? the second, how much shall I tell him?
The old house in the Temple to which he repaired and in which many a generation of old fogies had lived since the days of Queen Anne, was full of stairs and passages, and as Spargo had forgotten to get the exact number of the set of
