ton?"

"I left them on purpose to speak to you," she answered. "They knew I
did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself."

Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with
him.

"Tea," he said, "is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place
close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and
have some."

Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo
said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat
pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had
installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old
tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot
tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her.

"You want," he said, "to talk to me about your father."

"Yes," she answered. "I do."

"Why?" asked Spargo.

The girl gave him a searching look.

"Ronald Breton says you're the man who's written all those special
articles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case," she answered. "Are
you?"

"I am," said Spargo.

"Then you're a man of great influence," she went on. "You can stir the
public mind. Mr. Spargo--what are you going to write about my father
and today's proceedings?"

Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He
seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake,
and bit a great lump out of it.

"Frankly," he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, "frankly, I don't
know. I don't know--yet. But I'll tell you this--it's best to be
candid--I shouldn't allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making
up my conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?"

Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the
unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners.

"I'm not wanting to prejudice or bias you," she said. "All I want is
that you should be very sure before you say--anything."

"I'll be sure," said Spargo. "Don't bother. Is the tea all right?"

"Beautiful!" she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her
again. "Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!--what did you think
about--about what has just happened?"

Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally
ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy
hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea.

"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I'm no great hand at talking. I can
write pretty de