Mr. Quarterpage rose and put on his hat.

“There’s only one photographer in this town, sir,” he said, “and he’s been here for a good many years—­Cooper.  I’ll take you to him—­it’s only a few doors away.”

Spargo wasted no time in letting the photographer know what he wanted.  He put a direct question to Mr. Cooper—­an elderly man.

“Do you remember taking a photograph of the child of John Maitland, the bank manager, some twenty or twenty-one years ago?” he asked, after Mr. Quarterpage had introduced him as a gentleman from London who wanted to ask a few questions.

“Quite well, sir,” replied Mr. Cooper.  “As well as if it had been yesterday.”

“Do you still happen to have a copy of it?” asked Spargo.

But Mr. Cooper had already turned to a row of file albums.  He took down one labelled 1891, and began to search its pages.  In a minute or two he laid it on his table before his callers.

“There you are, sir,” he said.  “That’s the child!”

Spargo gave one glance at the photograph and turned to Mr. Quarterpage.  “Just as I thought,” he said.  “That’s the same photograph we found in the leather box with the silver ticket.  I’m obliged to you, Mr. Cooper.  Now, there’s just one more question I want to ask.  Did you ever supply any further copies of this photograph to anybody after the Maitland affair?—­that is; after the family had left the town?”

“Yes,” replied the photographer.  “I supplied half a dozen copies to Miss Baylis, the child’s aunt, who, as a matter of fact, brought him here to be photographed.  And I can give you her address, too,” he continued, beginning to turn over another old file.  “I have it somewhere.”

Mr. Quarterpage nudged Spargo.

“That’s something I couldn’t have done!” he remarked.  “As I told you, she’d disappeared from Brighton when enquiries were made after Maitland’s release.”

“Here you are,” said Mr. Cooper.  “I sent six copies of that photograph to Miss Baylis in April, 1895.  Her address was then 6, Chichester Square, Bayswater, W.”

Spargo rapidly wrote this address down, thanked the photographer for his courtesy, and went out with Mr. Quarterpage.  In the street he turned to the old gentleman with a smile.

“Well, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that!” he exclaimed.  “Maitland and Marbury are the same man, Mr. Quarterpage.  I’m as certain of that as that I see your Town Hall there.”

“And what will you do next, sir?” enquired Mr. Quarterpage.

“Thank you—­as I do—­for all your kindness and assistance, and get off to town by this 1.20,” replied Spargo.  “And I shan’t fail to let you know how things go on.”

“One moment,” said the old gentleman, as Spargo was hurrying away, “do you think this Mr. Aylmore really murdered Maitland?”

“No!” answered Spargo with emphasis.  “I don’t!  And I think we’ve got a good deal to do before we find out who did.”