“Nothing of the sort.  I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell.  I am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all about Maitland, alias Marbury.  I made him confess last night that he knew this dead man to be John Maitland.”

“You did!”

“I did.  And now, Breton, since it’s got to come out, well have the truth.  Pull yourself together—­get your nerves ready, for you’ll have to stand a shock or two.  But I know what I’m talking about—­I can prove every word I’m going to say to you.  And first let me ask you a few questions.  Do you know anything about your parentage?”

“Nothing—­beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me.”

“And what was that?”

“That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me.”

“And he’s never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove the truth of that story?”

“Never!  I never questioned his statement.  Why should I?”

“You never remember anything of your childhood—­I mean of any person who was particularly near you in your childhood?”

“I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years old.  And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall, dark woman, I think, before that.”

“Miss Baylis,” said Spargo to himself.  “All right, Breton,” he went on aloud.  “I’m going to tell you the truth.  I’ll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations afterwards.  Your real name is not Breton at all.  Your real name is Maitland, and you’re the only child of the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone’s staircase!”

Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at him with some anxiety as he got out the last words.  What would he do?—­what would he say?—­what——­

Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the eyes.

“Prove that to me, Spargo,” he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones.  “Prove it to me, every word.  Every word, Spargo!”

Spargo nodded.

“I will—­every word,” he answered.  “It’s the right thing.  Listen, then.”

It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought it to an end.  And all that time Breton listened with the keenest attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him.

“That’s all,” said Spargo at last.

“It’s plenty,” observed Breton laconically.

He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo.  “What do you really think?” he asked.

“About—­what?” said Spargo.

“This flight of Elphick’s and Cardlestone’s.”