“John Marbury came to Coolumbidgee in the winter of 1898-9. He was unaccompanied. He appeared to be in possession of fairly considerable means and bought a share in a small sheep-farm from its proprietor, Andrew Robertson, who is still here, and who says that Marbury never told him anything about himself except that he had emigrated for health reasons and was a widower. He mentioned that he had had a son who was dead, and was now without relations. He lived a very quiet, steady life on the sheep-farm, never leaving it for many years. About six months ago, however, he paid a visit to Melbourne, and on returning told Robertson that he had decided to return to England in consequence of some news he had received, and must therefore sell his share in the farm. Robertson bought it from him for three thousand pounds, and Marbury shortly afterwards left for Melbourne. From what we could gather, Robertson thinks Marbury was probably in command of five or six thousand when he left Coolumbidgee. He told Robertson that he had met a man in Melbourne who had given him news that surprised him, but did not say what news. He had in his possession when he left Robertson exactly the luggage he brought with him when he came—a stout portmanteau and a small, square leather box. There are no effects of his left behind at Coolumbidgee.” “That’s all,” said Spargo, laying the first of the telegrams on the table. “And it seems to me to signify a good deal. But now here’s more startling news. This is from Rathbury, the Scotland Yard detective that I told you of, Mr. Quarterpage—he promised, you know, to keep me posted in what went on in my absence. Here’s what he says: “Fresh evidence tending to incriminate Aylmore has come to hand. Authorities have decided to arrest him on suspicion. You’d better hurry back if you want material for to-morrow’s paper.” Spargo threw that telegram down, too, waited while the old gentleman glanced at both of them with evident curiosity, and then jumped up. “Well, I shall have to go, Mr. Quarterpage,” he said. “I looked the trains out this morning so as to be in readiness. I can catch the 1.20 to Paddington—that’ll get me in before half-past four. I’ve an hour yet. Now, there’s another man I want to see in Market Milcaster. That’s the photographer—or a photographer. You remember I told you of the photograph found with the silver ticket? Well, I’m calculating that that photograph was taken here, and I want to see the man who took it—if he’s alive and I can find him.” Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat. “There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, “and he’s been here for a good many years—Cooper. I’ll take you to him—it’s only a few doors away.” Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted. He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper—an elderly man.