It never occurred to Spargo to knock again:  instinct told him that Elphick’s door was closed because Elphick was not there; closed because Elphick was not going to keep the appointment.  He turned and walked slowly back along the corridor.  And just as he reached the head of the stairs Ronald Breton, pale and anxious, came running up them, and at sight of Spargo paused, staring questioningly at him.  As if with a mutual sympathy the two young men shook hands.

“I’m glad you didn’t print more than those two or three lines in the Watchman this morning,” said Breton.  “It was—­considerate.  As for the other papers!—­Aylmore assured me last night, Spargo, that though he did serve that term at Dartmoor he was innocent enough!  He was scapegoat for another man who disappeared.”

Then, as Spargo merely nodded, he added, awkwardly: 

“And I’m obliged to you, too, old chap, for sending that wire to the two girls last night—­it was good of you.  They want all the comfort they can get, poor things!  But—­what are you doing here, Spargo?”

Spargo leant against the head of the stairs and folded his hands.

“I came here,” he said, “to keep an appointment with Mr. Elphick—­an appointment which he made when I called on him, as you suggested, at nine o’clock.  The appointment—­a most important one—­was for eleven o’clock.”

Breton glanced at his watch.

“Come on, then,” he said.  “It’s well past that now, and my guardian’s a very martinet in the matter of punctuality.”

But Spargo did not move.  Instead, he shook his head, regarding Breton with troubled eyes.

“So am I,” he answered.  “I was trained to it.  Your guardian isn’t there, Breton.”

“Not there?  If he made an appointment for eleven?  Nonsense—­I never knew him miss an appointment!”

“I knocked three times—­three separate times,” answered Spargo.

“You should have knocked half a dozen times—­he may have overslept himself.  He sits up late—­he and old Cardlestone often sit up half the night, talking stamps or playing piquet,” said Breton.  “Come on—­you’ll see!”

Spargo shook his head again.

“He’s not there, Breton,” he said.  “He’s gone!”

Breton stared at the journalist as if he had just announced that he had seen Mr. Septimus Elphick riding down Fleet Street on a dromedary.  He seized Spargo’s elbow.

“Come on!” he said.  “I have a key to Mr. Elphick’s door, so that I can go in and out as I like.  I’ll soon show you whether he’s gone or not.”

Spargo followed the young barrister down the corridor.

“All the same,” he said meditatively as Breton fitted a key to the latch, “he’s not there, Breton.  He’s—­off!”

“Good heavens, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” exclaimed Breton, opening the door and walking into the lobby.  “Off!  Where on earth should he be off to, when he’s made an appointment with you for eleven, and—­Hullo!”