Rathbury had been fumbling in his pocket for the scrap of grey paper, which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. “I wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton,” he said. “This morning, about a quarter to three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here—he was present when the body was found.” “Soon after,” corrected Spargo. “A few minutes after.” “When this body was examined at the mortuary,” continued Rathbury, in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, “nothing was found that could lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It’s got your name and address on it, Mr. Breton. See?” Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows. “By Jove!” he muttered. “So it has; that’s queer. What’s he like, this man?” Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece. “Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?” he said. “It’s close by.” “Well—I—the fact is, I’ve got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow’s court,” Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. “But it won’t be called until after eleven. Will—” “Plenty of time, sir,” said Rathbury; “it won’t take you ten minutes to go round and back again—a look will do. You don’t recognize this handwriting, I suppose?” Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently. “No!” he answered. “I don’t. I don’t know it at all—I can’t think, of course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional services, you know,” he went on, with a shy smile at Spargo; “but, three—three o’clock in the morning, eh?” “The doctor,” observed Rathbury, “the doctor thinks he had been dead about two and a half hours.” Breton turned to the inner door. “I’ll—I’ll just tell these ladies I’m going out for a quarter of an hour,” he said. “They’re going over to the court with me—I got my first brief yesterday,” he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. “It’s nothing much—small case—but I promised my fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you know. A moment.” He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door. “Well, come on,” said Breton. “Let’s go straight there.”