“I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look here!”
Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously.
“What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?”
“That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. I picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking into his bedroom.”
“But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical stamps. And whether they are or not—”
“What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I believe that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had on him, and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. And I will know.”
Breton handed the stamps back.
“But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they didn’t murder—I can’t realize the thing yet!—my father—”
“If they didn’t murder your father, they know who did!” exclaimed Spargo. “Now, then, it’s time for more action. Let Elphick and Cardlestone alone for the moment—they’ll be tracked easily enough. I want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an authority from the Government to open a grave?”
“Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made.”
“Good! We’ll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened.”
“A grave opened! Whose grave?”
“The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster,” replied Spargo.
Breton started.
“His? In Heaven’s name, why?” he demanded.
Spargo laughed as he got up.
“Because I believe it’s empty,” he answered. “Because I believe that Chamberlayne is alive, and that his other name is—Cardlestone!”
XXXI
The Penitent Window-Cleaner
That afternoon Spargo had another of his momentous interviews with his proprietor and his editor. The first result was that all three drove to the offices of the legal gentleman who catered for the Watchman when it wanted any law, and that things were put in shape for an immediate application to the Home Office for permission to open the Chamberlayne grave at Market Milcaster; the second was that on the following morning there appeared in the Watchman a notice which set half the mouths of London a-watering. That notice; penned by Spargo, ran as follows:—
“One Thousand Pounds Reward.
“Whereas, on some date within the past twelve months, there was stolen, abstracted, or taken from the chambers in Fountain Court, Temple, occupied by Mr. Stephen Aylmore, M.P., under the name of Mr. Anderson, a walking-stick, or stout staff, of foreign make, and of curious workmanship, which stick was probably used in the murder of John Marbury, or Maitland, in Middle Temple Lane, on the night of June 21–22 last, and is now in the hands of the police:
“This is to give notice that the Proprietor of the Watchman newspaper will pay the above-mentioned reward (one thousand pounds sterling) at once and in cash to whosoever will prove that he or she stole, abstracted, or took away the said stick from the said chambers, and will further give full information as to his or her disposal of the same, and the Proprietor of the Watchman moreover engages to treat any revelation affecting the said stick in the most strictly private and confidential manner, and to abstain from using it in any way detrimental to the informant, who should call at the Watchman office, and ask for Mr. Frank Spargo at any time between eleven and one o’clock midday, and seven and eleven o’clock in the evening.”
“And you really expect to get some information through that?” asked Breton, who came into Spargo’s room about noon on the day on which the promising announcement came out. “You really do?”
“Before today is out,” said Spargo confidently. “There is more magic in a thousand-pound reward than you fancy, Breton. I’ll have the history of that stick before midnight.”
“How are you to tell that you won’t be imposed upon?” suggested Breton. “Anybody can say that he or she stole the stick.”
“Whoever comes here with any tale of a stick will have to prove to me how he or she got the stick and what was done with the stick,” said Spargo. “I haven’t the least doubt that that stick was stolen or taken away from Aylmore’s rooms in Fountain Court, and that it got into the hands of—”
“Yes, of whom?”
“That’s what I want to know in some fashion. I’ve an idea, already. But I can afford to wait for definite information. I know one thing—when I get that information—as I shall—we shall be a long way on the road towards establishing Aylmore’s innocence.”
Breton made no remark upon this. He was looking at Spargo with a meditative expression.
“Spargo,” he said, suddenly, “do you think you’ll get that order for the opening of the grave at Market Milcaster?”
“I was talking to the solicitors over the phone just now,” answered Spargo. “They’ve every confidence about it. In fact, it’s possible it may be made this afternoon. In that case, the opening will be made early tomorrow morning.”
“Shall you go?” asked Breton.
“Certainly. And you can go with me, if you like. Better keep in touch with us all day in case we hear. You ought to be there—you’re concerned.”
“I should like to go—I will go,” said Breton. “And if that grave proves to be—empty—I’ll—I’ll tell you something.”
Spargo looked up with sharp instinct.
“You’ll tell me something? Something? What?”
“Never mind—wait until we see if that coffin contains a dead body or lead and sawdust. If there’s no body there—”
At that moment one of the senior messenger boys came in and approached Spargo. His countenance, usually subdued to an official stolidity, showed signs of something very like excitement.
“There’s a man downstairs asking for you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “He’s been hanging about a bit, sir—seems very shy about coming up. He won’t say what he wants, and he won’t fill up a form, sir. Says all he wants is a word or two with you.”
“Bring him up at once!”
