“My opinion,” said a voice at Spargo’s elbow, “my opinion is that it was done elsewhere.  Not there!  He was put there.  That’s what I say.”  Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side.  He, too, was accompanying the body.

“Oh!” said Spargo.  “You think—­”

“I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there,” said the porter.  “In somebody’s chambers, maybe.  I’ve known of some queer games in our bit of London!  Well!—­he never came in at my lodge last night—­I’ll stand to that.  And who is he, I should like to know?  From what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place.”

“That’s what we shall hear presently,” said Spargo.  “They’re going to search him.”

But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found nothing.  The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt, been struck down from behind by a terrible blow which had fractured the skull and caused death almost instantaneously.  In Driscoll’s opinion, the murder had been committed for the sake of plunder.  For there was nothing whatever on the body.  It was reasonable to suppose that a man who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers.  But there was nothing valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that could lead to identification—­no letters, no papers, nothing.  It was plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently stripped him of whatever was on him.  The only clue to possible identity lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End.

Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for.  He ate his food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping.  He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at last that the morning’s event had destroyed his chance of rest; he accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went out.  He was not sure of any particular idea when he strolled away from Bloomsbury, but it did not surprise him when, half an hour later he found that he had walked down to the police station near which the unknown man’s body lay in the mortuary.  And there he met Driscoll, just going off duty.  Driscoll grinned at sight of him.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “’Tisn’t five minutes since they found a bit of grey writing paper crumpled up in the poor man’s waistcoat pocket—­it had slipped into a crack.  Come in, and you’ll see it.”

Spargo went into the inspector’s office.  In another minute he found himself staring at the scrap of paper.  There was nothing on it but an address, scrawled in pencil:—­Ronald Breton, Barrister, King’s Bench Walk, Temple, London.

CHAPTER TWO

HIS FIRST BRIEF

Spargo looked up at the inspector with a quick jerk of his head.  “I know this man,” he said.