“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. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South American enterprise.” “Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s not very illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now we’ll make another.” Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone. Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour. “I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the detective—Mr. Rathbury.” “Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo.