Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual glance at the baby’s portrait.  He picked up the silver ticket again and turned it over and over.

“Look here, Rathbury,” he said.  “Let me take this silver thing.  I know where I can find out what it is.  At least, I think I do.’’

“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest care of it, and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know.  No connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.”

“Oh, all right,” said Spargo.  “Trust me.”

He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office, wondering about this singular find.  And when he had written his article that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street intent on seeking peculiar information.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MARKET MILCASTER

The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned out of the Watchman office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not elsewhere in the world.  Only certain folk knew of it.  It was, of course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was.  It is the simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of congenial spirits.  You get so many of your choice friends and acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your means and your taste:  you comply with the very easy letter of the law, and there you are.  Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what you please on your own premises.  It is much more agreeable to have a small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about Fleet Street bars.

The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the Octoneumenoi.  Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and Greek was a dark mystery:  there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate you once reached the portals.  The portals were gained by devious ways.  You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls.  Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer’s ink in your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears.  You made another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper, crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear.  After a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and found it heavily curtained off.  You lifted a curtain and found yourself in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted—­the whole