t," answered Spargo. "I want to know why that old man was coming
to you when he was murdered."

Breton started.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "I--I never thought of that. You--you really
think he was coming to me when he was struck down?"

"Certain. Hadn't he got an address in the Temple? Wasn't he in the
Temple? Of course, he was trying to find you."

"But--the late hour?"

"No matter. How else can you explain his presence in the Temple? I
think he was asking his way. That's why I want to make some enquiries
in this block."

It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of
the office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the
dead man. Being luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the
body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the
sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though
there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had
lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry
than Spargo had seen for many a day. And the nuisance had become so
great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a
policeman to move the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion
presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as
to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and
old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously
greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion.

"Drive them all out into the street!" exclaimed this personage. "Drive
them all away, constable--into Fleet Street or upon the
Embankment--anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a
disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a----"

"That's old Cardlestone," whispered Breton. "He's always irascible, and
I don't suppose we'll get anything out of him. Mr. Cardlestone," he
continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now
retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as
himself. "I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a
journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He----"

"I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mr.
Cardlestone. "And I never talk to journalists--a pack of busybodies,
sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been
committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office
boys and street loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down
these steps