Spargo, glancing at Mr. Elphick, saw that he was deeply interested. The elderly barrister took him—literally—by the button-hole. “My dear sir!” he said. “You—saw this poor fellow? Lying dead—in the third entry down Middle Temple Lane? The third entry, eh?” “Yes,” replied Spargo, simply. “I saw him. It was the third entry.” “Singular!” said Mr. Elphick, musingly. “I know a man who lives in that house. In fact, I visited him last night, and did not leave until nearly midnight. And this unfortunate man had Mr. Ronald Breton’s name and address in his pocket?” Spargo nodded. He looked at Breton, and pulled out his watch. Just then he had no idea of playing the part of informant to Mr. Elphick. “Yes, that’s so,” he answered shortly. Then, looking at Breton significantly, he added, “If you can give me those few minutes, now—?” “Yes—yes!” responded Ronald Breton, nodding. “I understand. Evelyn—I’ll leave you and Jessie to Mr. Elphick; I must go.” Mr. Elphick seized Spargo once more. “My dear sir!” he said, eagerly. “Do you—do you think I could possibly see—the body?” “It’s at the mortuary,” answered Spargo. “I don’t know what their regulations are.” Then he escaped with Breton. They had crossed Fleet Street and were in the quieter shades of the Temple before Spargo spoke. “About what I wanted to say to you,” he said at last. “It was—this. I—well, I’ve always wanted, as a journalist, to have a real big murder case. I think this is one. I want to go right into it—thoroughly, first and last. And—I think you can help me.” “How do you know that it is a murder case?” asked Breton quietly. “It’s a murder case,” answered Spargo, stolidly. “I feel it. Instinct, perhaps. I’m going to ferret out the truth. And it seems to me—” He paused and gave his companion a sharp glance. “It seems to me,” he presently continued, “that the clue lies in that scrap of paper. That paper and that man are connecting links between you and—somebody else.” “Possibly,” agreed Breton. “You want to find the somebody else?” “I want you to help me to find the somebody else,” answered Spargo. “I believe this is a big, very big affair: I want to do it. I don’t believe in police methods—much. By the by, I’m just going to meet Rathbury. He may have heard of something. Would you like to come?” Breton ran into his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, left his gown and wig, and walked round with Spargo to the police office. Rathbury came out as they were stepping in. “Oh!” he said. “Ah!—I’ve got what may be helpful, Mr. Spargo. I told you I’d sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter! Well, he’s just returned. The cap which the dead man was wearing was bought at Fiskie’s yesterday afternoon, and it was sent to Mr. Marbury, Room 20, at the Anglo-Orient Hotel.” “Where is that?” asked Spargo. “Waterloo district,” answered Rathbury. “A small house, I believe. Well, I’m going there. Are you coming?” “Yes,” replied Spargo. “Of course. And Mr. Breton wants to come, too.”