“Where did you leave him, sir?” asked Spargo.  “You left the hotel together, I believe?”

“Yes.  We strolled along when we left it.  Having once met, we had much to talk of, and it was a fine night.  We walked across Waterloo Bridge and very shortly afterwards he left me.  And that is really all I know.  My own impression——­” He paused for a moment and Spargo waited silently.

“My own impression—­though I confess it may seem to have no very solid grounds—­is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him.  There is the fact that he was robbed, at any rate.”

“I’ve had a notion,” said Breton, diffidently.  “Mayn’t be worth much, but I’ve had it, all the same.  Some fellow-passenger of Marbury’s may have tracked him all day—­Middle Temple Lane’s pretty lonely at night, you know.”

No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door.

“Well, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo,” he said.  “You see, it’s not much, after all.  Of course, there’ll be an inquest on Marbury, and I shall have to re-tell it.  But you’re welcome to print what I’ve told you.”

Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards New Scotland Yard.  He and Rathbury had promised to share news—­now he had some to communicate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE MAN FROM THE SAFE DEPOSIT

Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy.  There was a plain writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of reference.  The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper.  He looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand.

“Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the Watchman this morning,” he said.  “Made extra good reading, I thought.  They did right to let you tackle that job.  Going straight through with it now, I suppose, Mr. Spargo?”

Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury’s right hand.  He lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his question answered in the affirmative.

“Look here,” he said.  “We settled yesterday, didn’t we, that you and I are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job?  That’s all right,” he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly.  “Very well—­have you made any further progress?”