He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory of a new silk hat.  Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than of Fleet Street.  Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door.

“Well, come on,” said Breton.  “Let’s go straight there.”

The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the general gay sense of the summer morning.  Spargo shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around.  But the young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was turning back a cloth.  He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features.  Then he drew back, shaking his head.

“No!” he said with decision.  “Don’t know him—­don’t know him from Adam.  Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of.”

Rathbury replaced the cloth.

“I didn’t suppose you would,” he remarked.  “Well, I expect we must go on the usual lines.  Somebody’ll identify him.”

“You say he was murdered?” said Breton.  “Is that—­certain?”

Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse.

“The back of his skull is smashed in,” he said laconically.  “The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind—­and a fearful blow, too.  I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Breton.”

“Oh, all right!” said Breton.  “Well, you know where to find me if you want me.  I shall be curious about this.  Good-bye—­good-bye, Mr. Spargo.”

The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist.

“I didn’t expect anything from that,” he remarked.  “However, it was a thing to be done.  You are going to write about this for your paper?”

Spargo nodded.

“Well,” continued Rathbury, “I’ve sent a man to Fiskie’s, the hatter’s, where that cap came from, you know.  We may get a bit of information from that quarter—­it’s possible.  If you like to meet me here at twelve o’clock I’ll tell you anything I’ve heard.  Just now I’m going to get some breakfast.”

“I’ll meet you here,” said Spargo, “at twelve o’clock.”

He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round another.  He went to the Watchman office, wrote a few lines, which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again.  Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts.

CHAPTER THREE