“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall, dark woman, I think, before that.” “Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself. “All right, Breton,” he went on aloud. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you’re the only child of the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone’s staircase!” Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he do?—what would he say?—what—— Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the eyes. “Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. “Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!” Spargo nodded. “I will—every word,” he answered. “It’s the right thing. Listen, then.” It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him. “That’s all,” said Spargo at last. “It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically. He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. “What do you really think?” he asked. “About—what?” said Spargo. “This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.” “I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw Elphick in last night. And it’s evident that Cardlestone shares in that fright, or they wouldn’t have gone off in this way together.” “Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?” Spargo shook his head. “I don’t know. Probably. They know something. And—look here!” Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously. “What’s this?” he demanded. “Stamps?” “That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. I picked it up just now in Cardlestone’s room, when you were looking into his bedroom.” “But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn’t be the identical stamps. And whether they are or not——” “What are the probabilities?” interrupted Spargo sharply. “I believe that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had on him, and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone’s rooms. And I will know.” Breton handed the stamps back. “But the general thing, Spargo?” he said. “If they didn’t murder—I can’t realize the thing yet!—my father——”