The inspector showed new interest.

“What, Mr. Breton?” he asked.

“Yes.  I’m on the Watchman, you know, sub-editor.  I took an article from him the other day—­article on ‘Ideal Sites for Campers-Out.’  He came to the office about it.  So this was in the dead man’s pocket?”

“Found in a hole in his pocket, I understand:  I wasn’t present myself.  It’s not much, but it may afford some clue to identity.”

Spargo picked up the scrap of grey paper and looked closely at it.  It seemed to him to be the sort of paper that is found in hotels and in clubs; it had been torn roughly from the sheet.

“What,” he asked meditatively, “what will you do about getting this man identified?”

The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, usual thing, I suppose.  There’ll be publicity, you know.  I suppose you’ll be doing a special account yourself, for your paper, eh?  Then there’ll be the others.  And we shall put out the usual notice.  Somebody will come forward to identify—­sure to.  And—­”

A man came into the office—­a stolid-faced, quiet-mannered, soberly attired person, who might have been a respectable tradesman out for a stroll, and who gave the inspector a sidelong nod as he approached his desk, at the same time extending his hand towards the scrap of paper which Spargo had just laid down.

“I’ll go along to King’s Bench Walk and see Mr. Breton,” he observed, looking at his watch.  “It’s just about ten—­I daresay he’ll be there now.”

“I’m going there, too,” remarked Spargo, but as if speaking to himself.  “Yes, I’ll go there.”

The newcomer glanced at Spargo, and then at the inspector.  The inspector nodded at Spargo.

“Journalist,” he said, “Mr. Spargo of the Watchman.  Mr. Spargo was there when the body was found.  And he knows Mr. Breton.”  Then he nodded from Spargo to the stolid-faced person.  “This is Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, from the Yard,” he said to Spargo.  “He’s come to take charge of this case.”

“Oh?” said Spargo blankly.  “I see—­what,” he went on, with sudden abruptness, “what shall you do about Breton?”

“Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury.  “He may know the man and he mayn’t.  Anyway, his name and address are here, aren’t they?”

“Come along,” said Spargo.  “I’ll walk there with you.”

Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed that he was by nature and custom a man of few words.  It was not until the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in King’s Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere situate that Spargo spoke.

“Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective.

“I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile.