he journalist.

"How do you do?" said Spargo slowly. "I--the fact is, I came here with
Mr. Rathbury. He--wants to see you. Detective-Sergeant Rathbury--of New
Scotland Yard."

Spargo pronounced this formal introduction as if he were repeating a
lesson. But he was watching the young barrister's face. And Breton
turned to the detective with a look of surprise.

"Oh!" he said. "You wish--"

Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper,
which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. "I
wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton," he said. "This morning, about a
quarter to three, a man--elderly man--was found dead in Middle Temple
Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo
here--he was present when the body was found."

"Soon after," corrected Spargo. "A few minutes after."

"When this body was examined at the mortuary," continued Rathbury, in
his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, "nothing was found that could
lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was
nothing whatever on him--but this bit of torn paper, which was found in
a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and
address on it, Mr. Breton. See?"

Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted
brows.

"By Jove!" he muttered. "So it has; that's queer. What's he like, this
man?"

Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece.

"Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?" he said.
"It's close by."

"Well--I--the fact is, I've got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow's
court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be
called until after eleven. Will--"

"Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to
go round and back again--a look will do. You don't recognize this
handwriting, I suppose?"

Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it
again, intently.

"No!" he answered. "I don't. I don't know it at all--I can't think, of
course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought
he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional
services, you know," he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; "but,
three--three o'clock in the morning, eh?"

"The doctor," observed Rathbury, "the doctor thinks he had been dead
about two and a half hours."

Breton turned to the inner door.

"I'll--I'll just tell these ladies I