The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head. “No!” he said with decision. “Don’t know him—don’t know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of.” Rathbury replaced the cloth. “I didn’t suppose you would,” he remarked. “Well, I expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody’ll identify him.” “You say he was murdered?” said Breton. “Is that—certain?” Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse. “The back of his skull is smashed in,” he said laconically. “The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind—and a fearful blow, too. I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Breton.” “Oh, all right!” said Breton. “Well, you know where to find me if you want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr. Spargo.” The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist. “I didn’t expect anything from that,” he remarked. “However, it was a thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?” Spargo nodded. “Well,” continued Rathbury, “I’ve sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information from that quarter—it’s possible. If you like to meet me here at twelve o’clock I’ll tell you anything I’ve heard. Just now I’m going to get some breakfast.” “I’ll meet you here,” said Spargo, “at twelve o’clock.” He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round another. He went to the _Watchman_ office, wrote a few lines, which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts. CHAPTER THREE THE CLUE OF THE CAP Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted. For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his question. Then his mental powers reasserted themselves. “Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?” he suddenly asked. “Number seven,” replied the official. “What’s your case—when’s it down?” “I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo. “I’m a pressman—reporter, you know.” The official stuck out a finger. “Round the corner—first to your right—second on the left,” he said automatically. “You’ll find plenty of room—nothing much doing there this morning.”