“What I mean is,” continued Breton, “that piles of people must have seen him, and yet it’s now hours and hours since your paper came out this morning, and nobody’s come forward to tell anything. And when you come to think of it, why should they? Who’d remember an ordinary man in a grey tweed suit?” “‘An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,’” repeated Spargo. “Good line. You haven’t any copyright in it, remember. It would make a good cross-heading.” Breton laughed. “You’re a queer chap, Spargo,” he said. “Seriously, do you think you’re getting any nearer anything?” “I’m getting nearer something with everything that’s done,” Spargo answered. “You can’t start on a business like this without evolving something out of it, you know.” “Well,” said Breton, “to me there’s not so much mystery in it. Mr. Aylmore’s explained the reason why my address was found on the body; Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained—” Spargo suddenly looked up. “What?” he said sharply. “Why, the reason of Marbury’s being found where he was found,” replied Breton. “Of course, I see it all! Marbury was mooning around Fleet Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The thing’s plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it.” “Yes, that’s it,” agreed Spargo. “That’s it.” He turned over the leaves of the diary which lay on his desk. “By the by,” he said, looking up with some interest, “the adjourned inquest is at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Are you going?” “I shall certainly go,” answered Breton. “What’s more, I’m going to take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details were over at the first sitting, and as there’ll be nothing but this new evidence tomorrow, and as they’ve never been in a coroner’s court——” “Mr. Aylmore’ll be the principal witness tomorrow,” interrupted Spargo. “I suppose he’ll be able to tell a lot more than he told—me.” Breton shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see that there’s much more to tell,” he said. “But,” he added, with a sly laugh, “I suppose you want some more good copy, eh?” Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he said. “I want to know who John Marbury was. That would make good copy. Who he was—twenty—twenty-five—forty years ago. Eh?” “And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?” asked Breton. “Mr. Aylmore,” answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, “is the only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John Marbury in the—past. But he didn’t tell me—much. Perhaps he’ll tell the coroner and his jury—more. Now, I’m off Breton—I’ve an appointment.” And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit. At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him. “Well?” said Spargo, as he sprang out: “How is it?”