“I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry,” he said quietly.

“For a week,” assented the Coroner, turning to the jury.

The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming—­ spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all mixed up together.  And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the day’s work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm.  Turning he found himself gazing at Jessie Aylmore.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SILVER TICKET

With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a quiet by-street.  He looked down at her as she stood recovering her breath.

“Yes?” he said quietly.

Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly.

“I want to speak to you,” she said.  “I must speak to you.”

“Yes,” said Spargo.  “But—­the others?  Your sister?—­Breton?”

“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered.  “They knew I did.  I am well accustomed to looking after myself.”

Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with him.

“Tea,” he said, “is what you want.  I know a queer, old-fashioned place close by here where you can get the best China tea in London.  Come and have some.”

Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently.  And Spargo said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him.  Then he turned to her.

“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.”

“Yes,” she answered.  “I do.”

“Why?” asked Spargo.

The girl gave him a searching look.

“Ronald Breton says you’re the man who’s written all those special articles in the Watchman about the Marbury case,” she answered.  “Are you?”

“I am,” said Spargo.

“Then you’re a man of great influence,” she went on.  “You can stir the public mind.  Mr. Spargo—­what are you going to write about my father and today’s proceedings?”

Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived.  He seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake, and bit a great lump out of it.

“Frankly,” he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, “frankly, I don’t know.  I don’t know—­yet.  But I’ll tell you this—­it’s best to be candid—­I shouldn’t allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making up my conclusions by anything that you may say to me.  Understand?”

Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners.