Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand. “Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the _Watchman_ this morning,” he said. “Made extra good reading, I thought. They did right to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I suppose, Mr. Spargo?” Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury’s right hand. He lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his question answered in the affirmative. “Look here,” he said. “We settled yesterday, didn’t we, that you and I are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? That’s all right,” he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. “Very well—have you made any further progress?” Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning back in his chair, shook his head. “Frankly, I haven’t,” he replied. “Of course, there’s a lot being done in the usual official-routine way. We’ve men out making various enquiries. We’re enquiring about Marbury’s voyage to England. All that we know up to now is that he was certainly a passenger on a liner which landed at Southampton in accordance with what he told those people at the Anglo-Orient, that he left the ship in the usual way and was understood to take the train to town—as he did. That’s all. There’s nothing in that. We’ve cabled to Melbourne for any news of him from there. But I expect little from that.” “All right,” said Spargo. “And—what are you doing—you, yourself? Because, if we’re to share facts, I must know what my partner’s after. Just now, you seemed to be—drawing.” Rathbury laughed. “Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “when I want to work things out, I come into this room—it’s quiet, as you see—and I scribble anything on paper while I think. I was figuring on my next step, and—” “Do you see it?” asked Spargo, quickly. “Well—I want to find the man who went with Marbury to that hotel,” replied Rathbury. “It seems to me—” Spargo wagged his finger at his fellow-contriver. “I’ve found him,” he said. “That’s what I wrote that article for—to find him. I knew it would find him. I’ve never had any training in your sort of work, but I knew that article would get him. And it has got him.” Rathbury accorded the journalist a look of admiration. “Good!” he said. “And—who is he?”