“Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily.  “I suppose so.  He might have had—­nothing on him, eh?”

The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were printed.

“We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except that Mr. Breton is on the fourth floor.  By which I conclude that it isn’t long since he was eating his dinner.”

“Oh, he’s young—­he’s quite young,” said Spargo.  “I should say he’s about four-and-twenty.  I’ve met him only—­”

At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down the staircase.  Two girls seemed to be laughing—­presently masculine laughter mingled with the lighter feminine.

“Seems to be studying law in very pleasant fashion up here, anyway,” said Rathbury.  “Mr. Breton’s chambers, too.  And the door’s open.”

The outer oak door of Ronald Breton’s chambers stood thrown wide; the inner one was well ajar; through the opening thus made Spargo and the detective obtained a full view of the interior of Mr. Ronald Breton’s rooms.  There, against a background of law books, bundles of papers tied up with pink tape, and black-framed pictures of famous legal notabilities, they saw a pretty, vivacious-eyed girl, who, perched on a chair, wigged and gowned, and flourishing a mass of crisp paper, was haranguing an imaginary judge and jury, to the amusement of a young man who had his back to the door, and of another girl who leant confidentially against his shoulder.

“I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury—­I put it to you with confidence, feeling that you must be, must necessarily be, some, perhaps brothers, perhaps husbands, and fathers, can you, on your consciences do my client the great wrong, the irreparable injury, the—­the—­”

“Think of some more adjectives!” exclaimed the young man.  “Hot and strong ’uns—­pile ’em up.  That’s what they like—­they—­Hullo!”

This exclamation arose from the fact that at this point of the proceedings the detective rapped at the inner door, and then put his head round its edge.  Whereupon the young lady who was orating from the chair, jumped hastily down; the other young lady withdrew from the young man’s protecting arm; there was a feminine giggle and a feminine swishing of skirts, and a hasty bolt into an inner room, and Mr. Ronald Breton came forward, blushing a little, to greet the interrupter.

“Come in, come in!” he exclaimed hastily.  “I—­”

Then he paused, catching sight of Spargo, and held out his hand with a look of surprise.

“Oh—­Mr. Spargo?” he said.  “How do you do?—­we—­I—­we were just having a lark—­I’m off to court in a few minutes.  What can I do for you, Mr. Spargo?”

He had backed to the inner door as he spoke, and he now closed it and turned again to the two men, looking from one to the other.  The detective, on his part, was looking at the young barrister.  He saw a tall, slimly-built youth, of handsome features and engaging presence, perfectly groomed, and immaculately garbed, and having upon him a general air of well-to-do-ness, and he formed the impression from these matters that Mr. Breton was one of those fortunate young men who may take up a profession but are certainly not dependent upon it.  He turned and glanced at the journalist.