“What, precisely, have we found out?” asked the editor.

“A great deal more than I’d anticipated,” answered Spargo, “and I don’t know what fields it doesn’t open out.  If you look back, you’ll remember that the only thing found on Marbury’s body was a scrap of grey paper on which was a name and address—­Ronald Breton, King’s Bench Walk.”

“Well?”

“Breton is a young barrister.  Also he writes a bit—­I have accepted two or three articles of his for our literary page.”

“Well?”

“Further, he is engaged to Miss Aylmore, the eldest daughter of Aylmore, the Member of Parliament who has been charged at Bow Street today with the murder of Marbury.”

“I know.  Well, what then, Spargo?”

“But the most important matter,” continued Spargo, speaking very deliberately, “is this—­that is, taking that old woman’s statement to be true, as I personally believe it is—­that Breton, as he has told me himself (I have seen a good deal of him) was brought up by a guardian.  That guardian is Mr. Septimus Elphick, the barrister.”

The proprietor and the editor looked at each other.  Their faces wore the expression of men thinking on the same lines and arriving at the same conclusion.  And the proprietor suddenly turned on Spargo with a sharp interrogation:  “You think then——­”

Spargo nodded.

“I think that Mr. Septimus Elphick is the Elphick, and that Breton is the young Maitland of whom Mrs. Gutch has been talking,” he answered.

The editor got up, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the room.

“If that’s so,” he said, “if that’s so, the mystery deepens.  What do you propose to do, Spargo?”

“I think,” said Spargo, slowly, “I think that without telling him anything of what we have learnt, I should like to see young Breton and get an introduction from him to Mr. Elphick.  I can make a good excuse for wanting an interview with him.  If you will leave it in my hands—­”

“Yes, yes!” said the proprietor, waving a hand.  “Leave it entirely in Spargo’s hands.”

“Keep me informed,” said the editor.  “Do what you think.  It strikes me you’re on the track.”

Spargo left their presence, and going back to his own room, still faintly redolent of the personality of Mrs. Gutch, got hold of the reporter who had been present at Bow Street when Aylmore was brought up that morning.  There was nothing new; the authorities had merely asked for another remand.  So far as the reporter knew, Aylmore had said nothing fresh to anybody.

Spargo went round to the Temple and up to Ronald Breton’s chambers.  He found the young barrister just preparing to leave, and looking unusually grave and thoughtful.  At sight of Spargo he turned back from his outer door, beckoned the journalist to follow him, and led him into an inner room.

“I say, Spargo!” he said, as he motioned his visitor to take a chair.  “This is becoming something more than serious.  You know what you told me to do yesterday as regards Aylmore?”