ys to my wife----"

Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He
turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits.

"There!--what did I tell you?" he said. "Didn't I say I should get some
news? There it is."

Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful.

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I say, Spargo!"

"Well?"

"Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know."

"Quite aware of it. Didn't you introduce me to his daughters--only
yesterday?"

"But--how did you know they were his daughters?"

Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk.

"Instinct--intuition," he answered. "However, never mind that, just
now. Well--I've found something out. Marbury--if that is the dead
man's real name, and anyway, it's all we know him by--was in the
company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!"

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Breton.

"Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course."

He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand
had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk.

"Look here," said Breton. "I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be
found at twelve o'clock. At the A. and P.--the Atlantic and Pacific
Club, you know, in St. James's. If you like, I'll go with you."

Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone.

"All right," he said. "Eleven o'clock, now. I've something to do. I'll
meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon."

"I'll be there," agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand
on it, turned. "What do you expect from--from what we've just heard?"
he asked.

Spargo shrugged his shoulders.

"Wait--until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say," he answered. "I
suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance."

Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to
mutter to himself.

"Good God!" he says. "Dainsworth--Painsworth--something of that
sort--one of the two. Excellent--that our farmer friend should have so
much observation. Ah!--and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized
as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr.
Stephen Aylmore--beyond being what I know him to be?"

Spargo's fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of
reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness
to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud:

"AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23,
St. Os