THE CLUE OF THE CAP

Having no clear conception of what had led him to these scenes of litigation, Spargo went wandering aimlessly about in the great hall and the adjacent corridors until an official, who took him to be lost, asked him if there was any particular part of the building he wanted.  For a moment Spargo stared at the man as if he did not comprehend his question.  Then his mental powers reasserted themselves.

“Isn’t Mr. Justice Borrow sitting in one of the courts this morning?” he suddenly asked.

“Number seven,” replied the official.  “What’s your case—­when’s it down?”

“I haven’t got a case,” said Spargo.  “I’m a pressman—­reporter, you know.”

The official stuck out a finger.

“Round the corner—­first to your right—­second on the left,” he said automatically.  “You’ll find plenty of room—­nothing much doing there this morning.”

He turned away, and Spargo recommenced his apparently aimless perambulation of the dreary, depressing corridors.

“Upon my honour!” he muttered.  “Upon my honour, I really don’t know what I’ve come up here for.  I’ve no business here.”

Just then he turned a corner and came face to face with Ronald Breton.  The young barrister was now in his wig and gown and carried a bundle of papers tied up with pink tape; he was escorting two young ladies, who were laughing and chattering as they tripped along at his side.  And Spargo, glancing at them meditatively, instinctively told himself which of them it was that he and Rathbury had overheard as she made her burlesque speech:  it was not the elder one, who walked by Ronald Breton with something of an air of proprietorship, but the younger, the girl with the laughing eyes and the vivacious smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that somewhere, deep within him, there had been a notion, a hope of seeing this girl again—­why, he could not then think.

Spargo, thus coming face to face with these three, mechanically lifted his hat.  Breton stopped, half inquisitive.  His eyes seemed to ask a question.

“Yes,” said Spargo.  “I—­the fact is, I remembered that you said you were coming up here, and I came after you.  I want—­when you’ve time—­to have a talk, to ask you a few questions.  About—­this affair of the dead man, you know.”

Breton nodded.  He tapped Spargo on the arm.

“Look here,” he said.  “When this case of mine is over, I can give you as much time as you like.  Can you wait a bit?  Yes?  Well, I say, do me a favour.  I was taking these ladies round to the gallery—­round there, and up the stairs—­and I’m a bit pressed for time—­I’ve a solicitor waiting for me.  You take them—­there’s a good fellow; then, when the case is over, bring them down here, and you and I will talk.  Here—­I’ll introduce you all—­no ceremony.  Miss Aylmore—­Miss Jessie Aylmore.  Mr. Spargo—­of the Watchman.  Now, I’m off!” Breton turned on the instant; his gown whisked round a corner, and Spargo found himself staring at two smiling girls.  He saw then that both were pretty and attractive, and that one seemed to be the elder by some three or four years.