“Well, that night I went round, as I often did, to play piquet with Cardlestone.  That was about ten o’clock.  About eleven Jane Baylis came to Cardlestone’s—­she’d been to my rooms to find me—­wanted to see me particularly—­and she’d come on there, knowing where I should be.  Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat down and we all talked.  Then, about, I should think, a quarter to twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone’s door—­his outer door was open, and of course anybody outside could see lights within.  Cardlestone went to the door:  we heard a man’s voice enquire for him by name; then the voice added that Criedir, the stamp dealer, had advised him to call on Mr. Cardlestone to show him some rare Australian stamps, and that seeing a light under his door he had knocked.  Cardlestone asked him in—­he came in.  That was the man we saw next day at the mortuary.  Upon my honour, we didn’t know him, either that night or next day!”

“What happened when he came in?” asked Breton.

“Cardlestone asked him to sit down:  he offered and gave him a drink.  The man said Criedir had given him Cardlestone’s address, and that he’d been with a friend at some rooms in Fountain Court, and as he was passing our building he’d just looked to make sure where Cardlestone lived, and as he’d noticed a light he’d made bold to knock.  He and Cardlestone began to examine the stamps.  Jane Baylis said good-night, and she and I left Cardlestone and the man together.”

“No one had recognized him?” said Breton.

“No one!  Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life.  The others certainly did not recognize him.  At least, I never knew that they did—­if they did.”

“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell us what you and Miss Baylis did?”

“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d forgotten something in Cardlestone’s lobby.  As she was going out in to Fleet Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own rooms we said good-night.  She went back upstairs.  And I went home.  And upon my soul and honour that’s all I know!”

Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet.  He snatched at his cap—­a sodden and bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the cottage.

“That’s enough!” he almost shouted.  “I’ve got it—­at last!  Breton—­where’s the nearest telegraph office?  Hawes?  Straight down this valley?  Then, here’s for it!  Look after things till I’m back, or, when the police come, join me there.  I shall catch the first train to town, anyhow, after wiring.”

“But—­what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton.  “Stop!  What on earth——­”

But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth down the valley.  Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling down a message in shaky handwriting:—­