d smilingly, "that this is
Mr. Spargo, of the _Watchman_. Mr. Spargo wrote the article about the
Marbury case of which you spoke when you came in. Mr. Spargo, you'll
gather, is deeply interested in this matter--and he and I, in our
different capacities, are working together. So--you understand?" Myerst
regarded Spargo in a new light. And while he was so looking at him.
Spargo repeated the question he had just put.

"I said--What did you say to that?"

Myerst hesitated.

"Well--er--I don't think I said anything," he replied. "Nothing that
one might call material, you know."

"Didn't ask him what he meant?" suggested Spargo.

"Oh, no--not at all," replied Myerst.

Spargo got up abruptly from his chair.

"Then you missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of!" he
said, half-sneeringly. "You might have heard such a story--"

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.
Myerst here to go with me just now to take the first steps about having
it opened. I shall have to get an order. We may get the matter through
today, but at any rate we'll have it done tomorrow morning."

"Can you arrange for me to be present when that comes off?" asked
Spargo. "You can--certain? That's all right, Rathbury. Now I'm off, and
you'll ring me up or come round if you hear anything, and I'll do the
same by you."

And without further word, Spargo went quickly away, and just as quickly
returned to the _Watchman_ office. There the assistant who had been
told off to wait upon his orders during this new crusade met him with a
business card.

"This gentleman came in to see you about an hour ago, Mr. Spargo," he
said. "He thinks he can tell you something about the Marbury affair,
and he said that as he couldn't wait, perhaps you'd step round to his
place when you came in."

Spargo took the card and read:

MR. JAMES CRIEDIR,
DEALER IN PHILATELIC RARITIES,
2,021, STRAND.

Spargo put the card in his waistcoat pocket and went out again,
wondering why Mr. James Criedir could not, would not, or did not call
himself a dealer in rare postage stamps, and so use plain English. He
went up Fleet Street and soon found the shop indicated on the card, a