ion when he left Robertson exactly
the luggage he brought with him when he came--a stout portmanteau and a
small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at
Coolumbidgee."

"That's all," said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the
table. "And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here's more
startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that
I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage--he promised, you know, to keep me
posted in what went on in my absence. Here's what he says:

"Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand.
Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You'd better hurry
back if you want material for to-morrow's paper."

Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman
glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up.

"Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage," he said. "I looked the
trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20
to Paddington--that'll get me in before half-past four. I've an hour
yet. Now, there's another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That's
the photographer--or a photographer. You remember I told you of the
photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I'm calculating that
that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took
it--if he's alive and I can find him."

Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat.

"There's only one photographer in this town, sir," he said, "and he's
been here for a good many years--Cooper. I'll take you to him--it's
only a few doors away."

Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted.
He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper--an elderly man.

"Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the
bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?" he asked, after Mr.
Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to
ask a few questions.

"Quite well, sir," replied Mr. Cooper. "As well as if it had been
yesterday."

"Do you still happen to have a copy of it?" asked Spargo.

But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums. He took down
one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages. In a minute or two he
laid it on his table before his callers.

"There you are, sir," he said. "That's the child!"

Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage.
"Just as I thought," he said. "That's the same ph