en he went to the editor's room, strangely
thoughtful. The editor and the proprietor were talking, but they
stopped when Spargo entered and looked at him eagerly. "I think we've
done it," said Spargo quietly.

"What, precisely, have we found out?" asked the editor.

"A great deal more than I'd anticipated," answered Spargo, "and I don't
know what fields it doesn't open out. If you look back, you'll remember
that the only thing found on Marbury's body was a scrap of grey paper
on which was a name and address--Ronald Breton, King's Bench Walk."

"Well?"

"Breton is a young barrister. Also he writes a bit--I have accepted two
or three articles of his for our literary page."

"Well?"

"Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of
Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street
today with the murder of Marbury."

"I know. Well, what then, Spargo?"

"But the most important matter," continued Spargo, speaking very
deliberately, "is this--that is, taking that old woman's statement to
be true, as I personally believe it is--that Breton, as he has told me
himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian.
That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister."

The proprietor and the editor looked at each other. Their faces wore
the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the
same conclusion. And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a
sharp interrogation: "You think then----"

Spargo nodded.

"I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is
the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking," he answered.

The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace
the room.

"If that's so," he said, "if that's so, the mystery deepens. What do
you propose to do, Spargo?"

"I think," said Spargo, slowly, "I think that without telling him
anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and
get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick. I can make a good excuse
for wanting an interview with him. If you will leave it in my hands--"

"Yes, yes!" said the proprietor, waving a hand. "Leave it entirely in
Spargo's hands."

"Keep me informed," said the editor. "Do what you think. It strikes me
you're on the track."

Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still
faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the
reporter who had been present at