“That’s so, sir,” assented Mr. Quarterpage.  “Yes, a middling-sized man, and fair—­very fair.  Deary me, Mr. Spargo!—­this is a revelation.  And you really think, sir, that John Maitland and John Marbury are one and the same person?”

“I’m sure of it, now,” said Spargo.  “I see it in this way.  Maitland, on his release, went out to Australia, and there he stopped.  At last he comes back, evidently well-to-do.  He’s murdered the very day of his arrival.  Aylmore is the only man who knows anything of him—­Aylmore won’t tell all he knows; that’s flat.  But Aylmore’s admitted that he knew him at some vague date, say from twenty-one to twenty-two or three years ago.  Now, where did Aylmore know him?  He says in London.  That’s a vague term.  He won’t say where—­he won’t say anything definite—­he won’t even say what he, Aylmore, himself was in those days.  Do you recollect anything of anybody like Aylmore coming here to see Maitland, Mr. Quarterpage?”

“I don’t,” answered Mr. Quarterpage.  “Maitland was a very quiet, retiring fellow, sir:  he was about the quietest man in the town.  I never remember that he had visitors; certainly I’ve no recollection of such a friend of his as this Aylmore, from your description of him, would be at that time.”

“Did Maitland go up to London much in those days?” asked Spargo.

Mr. Quarterpage laughed.

“Well, now, to show you what a good memory I have,” he said, “I’ll tell you of something that occurred across there at the ‘Dragon’ only a few months before the Maitland affair came out.  There were some of us in there one evening, and, for a rare thing, Maitland came in with Chamberlayne.  Chamberlayne happened to remark that he was going up to town next day—­he was always to and fro—­and we got talking about London.  And Maitland said in course of conversation, that he believed he was about the only man of his age in England—­and, of course, he meant of his class and means—­who’d never even seen London!  And I don’t think he ever went there between that time and his trial:  in fact, I’m sure he didn’t, for if he had, I should have heard of it.”

“Well, that’s queer,” remarked Spargo.  “It’s very queer.  For I’m certain Maitland and Marbury are one and the same person.  My theory about that old leather box is that Maitland had that carefully planted before his arrest; that he dug it up when he came put of Dartmoor; that he took it off to Australia with him; that he brought it back with him; and that, of course, the silver ticket and the photograph had been in it all these years.  Now——­”

At that moment the door of the library was opened, and a parlourmaid looked in at her master.

“There’s the boots from the ‘Dragon’ at the front door, sir,” she said.  “He’s brought two telegrams across from there for Mr. Spargo, thinking he might like to have them at once.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE