“Left behind a bit, that rag of yours, this morning, Spargo, my boy!” he remarked elegantly. “Why, you’ve missed one of the finest opportunities I ever heard of in connection with that Aylmore affair. A miserable paragraph!—why, I worked off a column and a half in ours! What were you doing last night, old man?” “Sleeping,” said Spargo and went by with a nod. “Sleeping!” He left the other staring at him, and crossed the road to Middle Temple Lane. It was just on the stroke of eleven as he walked up the stairs to Mr. Elphick’s chambers; precisely eleven as he knocked at the outer door. It is seldom that outer doors are closed in the Temple at that hour, but Elphick’s door was closed fast enough. The night before it had been promptly opened, but there was no response to Spargo’s first knock, nor to his second, nor to his third. And half-unconsciously he murmured aloud: “Elphick’s door is closed!” It never occurred to Spargo to knock again: instinct told him that Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because Elphick was not going to keep the appointment. He turned and walked slowly back along the corridor. And just as he reached the head of the stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him. As if with a mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands. “I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines in the _Watchman_ this morning,” said Breton. “It was—considerate. As for the other papers!—Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he did serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough! He was scapegoat for another man who disappeared.” Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: “And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the two girls last night—it was good of you. They want all the comfort they can get, poor things! But—what are you doing here, Spargo?” Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands. “I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick—an appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at nine o’clock. The appointment—a most important one—was for eleven o’clock.” Breton glanced at his watch. “Come on, then,” he said. “It’s well past that now, and my guardian’s a very martinet in the matter of punctuality.” But Spargo did not move. Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton with troubled eyes. “So am I,” he answered. “I was trained to it. Your guardian isn’t there, Breton.” “Not there? If he made an appointment for eleven? Nonsense—I never knew him miss an appointment!” “I knocked three times—three separate times,” answered Spargo. “You should have knocked half a dozen times—he may have overslept himself. He sits up late—he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton. “Come on—you’ll see!” Spargo shook his head again.