LITMIR.BIZ

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after seven. Mr. Elphick said they were going to Paris, and they'd breakfast at Charing Cross before the train left."

      "Say when they'd be back?" asked Breton, with an assumption of entire carelessness.

      "No, sir, Mr. Elphick didn't," answered the porter. "But I should say they wouldn't be long because they'd only got small suit-cases with them—such as they'd put a day or two's things in, sir."

      "All right," said Breton. He turned away towards Spargo who had already moved off. "What next?" he asked. "Charing Cross, I suppose!"

      Spargo smiled and shook his head.

      "No," he answered. "I've no use for Charing Cross. They haven't gone to Paris. That was all a blind. For the present let's go back to your chambers. Then I'll talk to you."

      Once within Breton's inner room, with the door closed upon them, Spargo dropped into an easy-chair and looked at the young barrister with earnest attention.

      "Breton!" he said. "I believe we're coming in sight of land. You want to save your prospective father-in-law, don't you?"

      "Of course!" growled Breton. "That goes without saying. But——"

      "But you may have to make some sacrifices in order to do it," said Spargo. "You see——"

      "Sacrifices!" exclaimed Breton. "What——"

      "You may have to sacrifice some ideas—you may find that you'll not be able to think as well of some people in the future as you have thought of them in the past. For instance—Mr. Elphick."

      Breton's face grew dark.

      "Speak plainly, Spargo!" he said. "It's best with me."

      "Very well," replied Spargo. "Mr. Elphick, then, is in some way connected with this affair."

      "You mean the—murder?"

      "I mean the murder. So is Cardlestone. Of that I'm now dead certain. And that's why they're off. I startled Elphick last night. It's evident that he immediately communicated with Cardlestone, and that they made a rapid exit. Why?"

      "Why? That's what I'm asking you! Why? Why? Why?"

      "Because they're afraid of something coming out. And being afraid, their first instinct is to—run. They've run at the first alarm. Foolish—but instinctive."

      Breton, who had flung himself into the elbow-chair at his desk, jumped to his feet and thumped his blotting-pad.

      "Spargo!" he exclaimed. "Are you telling me that you accuse my guardian and his friend, Mr. Cardlestone. of being—murderers?"

      "Nothing of the sort. I am accusing Mr. Elphick and Mr. Cardlestone of knowing more about the murder than they care to tell or want to tell. I am also accusing them, and especially your guardian, of knowing all about Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he knew this dead man to be John Maitland."

      "You did!"

      "I did. And now, Breton, since it's got to come out, well have the truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for you'll have to stand a shock or two. But I know what I'm talking about—I can prove every word I'm going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?"

      "Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me."

      "And what was that?"

      "That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me."

      "And he's never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove the truth of that story?"

      "Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?"

      "You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person who was particularly near you in your childhood?"

      "I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall, dark woman, I think, before that."

      "Miss Baylis," said Spargo to himself. "All right, Breton," he went on aloud. "I'm going to tell you the truth. I'll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you're the only child of the man who was found murdered at the foot of Cardlestone's staircase!"

      Spargo had been wondering how Breton would take this, and he gazed at him with some anxiety as he got out the last words. What would he do?—what would he say?—what——

      Breton sat down quietly at his desk and looked Spargo hard between the eyes.

      "Prove that to me, Spargo," he said, in hard, matter-of-fact tones. "Prove it to me, every word. Every word, Spargo!"

      Spargo nodded.

      "I will—every word," he answered. "It's the right thing. Listen, then."

      It was a quarter to twelve, Spargo noticed, throwing a glance at the clock outside, as he began his story; it was past one when he brought it to an end. And all that time Breton listened with the keenest attention, only asking a question now and then; now and then making a brief note on a sheet of paper which he had drawn to him.

      "That's all," said Spargo at last.

      "It's plenty," observed Breton laconically.

      He sat staring at his notes for a moment; then he looked up at Spargo. "What do you really think?" he asked.

      "About—what?" said Spargo.

      "This flight of Elphick's and Cardlestone's."

      "I think, as I said, that they knew something which they think may be forced upon them. I never saw a man in a greater fright than that I saw Elphick in last night. And it's evident that Cardlestone shares in that fright, or they wouldn't have gone off in this way together."

      "Do you think they know anything of the actual murder?"

      Spargo shook his head.

      "I don't know. Probably. They know something. And—look here!"

      Spargo put his hand in his breast pocket and drew something out which he handed to Breton, who gazed at it curiously.

      "What's this?" he demanded. "Stamps?"

      "That, from the description of Criedir, the stamp-dealer, is a sheet of those rare Australian stamps which Maitland had on him—carried on him. I picked it up just now in Cardlestone's room, when you were looking into his bedroom."

      "But that, after all, proves nothing. Those mayn't be the identical stamps. And whether they are or not——"

      "What are the probabilities?" interrupted Spargo sharply. "I believe that those are the stamps which Maitland—your father!—had on him, and I want to know how they came to be in Cardlestone's rooms. And I will know."

      Breton handed the stamps back.

      "But the general thing, Spargo?" he said. "If they didn't murder—I can't realize the thing yet!—my father——"

      "If they didn't murder your father, they know who did!" exclaimed Spargo. "Now, then, it's time for more action. Let Elphick and Cardlestone alone for the moment—they'll be tracked easily enough. I want to tackle something else for the moment. How do you get an authority from the Government to open a grave?"

      "Order from the Home Secretary, which will have to be obtained by showing the very strongest reasons why it should be made."

      "Good! We'll give the reasons. I want to have a grave opened."

      "A grave opened! Whose grave?"

      "The grave of the man Chamberlayne at Market Milcaster," replied Spargo.

      Breton started.

      "His? In Heaven's name, why?" he demanded.

      Spargo laughed as he got up.

      "Because

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