Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity. He gave a mere glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing.
“Oh!” he said. “That he?”
“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster. “Done to the life, that is. No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo. “There are a lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards are grey.”
But Webster wagged his head.
“That’s him, sir!” he repeated. “I’m as sure of that as I am that my name’s William Webster. That’s the man I saw talking to him whose picture you’ve got in your paper. Can’t say no more, sir.”
“Very good,” said Spargo. “I’m much obliged to you. I’ll see Mr. Aylmore. Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster. How long do you remain in town?”
“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be there for another week,” answered the farmer. “Hope I’ve been of some use, Mr. Spargo. As I says to my wife——”
Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out. He turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits.
“There!—what did I tell you?” he said. “Didn’t I say I should get some news? There it is.”
Breton nodded his head. He seemed thoughtful.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, I say, Spargo!”
“Well?”
“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.”
“Quite aware of it. Didn’t you introduce me to his daughters—only yesterday?”
“But—how did you know they were his daughters?”
Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk.
“Instinct—intuition,” he answered. “However, never mind that, just now. Well—I’ve found something out. Marbury—if that is the dead man’s real name, and anyway, it’s all we know him by—was in the company of Mr. Aylmore that night. Good!”
“What are you going to do about it?” asked Breton.
“Do? See Mr. Aylmore, of course.”
He was turning over the leaves of a telephone address-book; one hand had already picked up the mouthpiece of the instrument on his desk.
“Look here,” said Breton. “I know where Mr. Aylmore is always to be found at twelve o’clock. At the A. and P.—the Atlantic and Pacific Club, you know, in St. James’s. If you like, I’ll go with you.”
Spargo glanced at the clock and laid down the telephone.
“All right,” he said. “Eleven o’clock, now. I’ve something to do. I’ll meet you outside the A. and P. at exactly noon.”
“I’ll be there,” agreed Breton. He made for the door, and with his hand on it, turned. “What do you expect from—from what we’ve just heard?” he asked.
Spargo shrugged his shoulders.
“Wait—until we hear what Mr. Aylmore has to say,” he answered. “I suppose this man Marbury was some old acquaintance.”
Breton closed the door and went away: left alone, Spargo began to mutter to himself.
“Good God!” he says. “Dainsworth—Painsworth—something of that sort—one of the two. Excellent—that our farmer friend should have so much observation. Ah!—and why should Mr. Stephen Aylmore be recognized as Dainsworth or Painsworth or something of that sort. Now, who is Mr. Stephen Aylmore—beyond being what I know him to be?”
Spargo’s fingers went instinctively to one of a number of books of reference which stood on his desk: they turned with practised swiftness to a page over which his eye ran just as swiftly. He read aloud:
“AYLMORE, STEPHEN, M.P. for Brookminster since 1910. Residences: 23, St. Osythe Court, Kensington: Buena Vista, Great Marlow. Member Atlantic and Pacific and City Venturers’ Clubs. Interested in South American enterprise.”
“Um!” muttered Spargo, putting the book away. “That’s not very illuminating. However, we’ve got one move finished. Now we’ll make another.”
Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and, leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone.
Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour.
“I remember you,” said Mrs. Walters; “you came with the detective—Mr. Rathbury.”
“Have you seen him, since?” asked Spargo.
“Not since,” replied Mrs. Walters. “No—and I was wondering if he’d be coming round, because——” She paused there and looked at Spargo with particular enquiry—“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?” she asked. “I suppose you know as much as he does—about this?”
“He and I,” replied Spargo, with easy confidence, “are working this case together. You can tell me anything you’d tell him.”
The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in tissue paper.
“Well,” she said, unwrapping the paper, “we found this in Number 20 this morning—it was lying under the dressing-table. The girl that found it brought it to me, and I thought it was a bit of glass, but Walters, he says as how he shouldn’t be surprised if it’s a diamond. And since we found it, the waiter who took the whisky up to 20, after Mr. Marbury came in with the other gentleman, has told me that when he went into the room the two gentlemen were looking at a paper full of things like this. So there?”
Spargo fingered the shining bit of stone.
“That’s a diamond—right enough,” he said. “Put it away, Mrs. Walters—I shall see Rathbury presently, and I’ll tell him about it. Now, that other gentleman! You told us you saw him. Could you recognize him—I mean, a photograph of him? Is this the man?”
Spargo knew from the expression of Mrs. Walters’ face that she had no more doubt than Webster had.
“Oh, yes!” she said. “That’s the gentleman who came in with Mr. Marbury—I should have known him in a thousand. Anybody would recognize him from that—perhaps you’d let our hall-porter and the waiter I mentioned just now look at it?”
“I’ll see them separately and see if they’ve ever seen a man who resembles this,” replied Spargo.
The two men recognized the photograph at once, without any prompting, and Spargo, after a word or two with the landlady, rode off to the Atlantic and Pacific Club, and found Ronald Breton awaiting him on the steps. He made no reference to his recent doings, and together they went into the house and asked for Mr. Aylmore.
Spargo looked with more than uncommon interest at the man who presently came to them in the visitors’ room. He was already familiar with Mr. Aylmore’s photograph, but he never remembered seeing him in real life; the Member for Brookminster was one of that rapidly diminishing body of legislators whose members are disposed to work quietly and unobtrusively, doing yeoman service on committees, obeying every behest of the party whips, without forcing themselves into the limelight or seizing every opportunity to air their opinions. Now that Spargo met him in the flesh he proved to be pretty much what the journalist had expected—a rather cold-mannered, self-contained man, who looked as if he had been brought up in a school of rigid repression, and taught not to waste words. He showed no more than the merest of languid interests in Spargo when Breton introduced him, and his face was quite expressionless when Spargo brought to an end his brief explanation —purposely shortened—of his object in calling upon him.
“Yes,” he said indifferently. “Yes, it is quite true that I met Marbury and spent a little time with him on the evening your informant spoke of. I met him, as he told you, in the lobby of the House. I was much surprised to meet him. I had not seen him for—I really don’t know how many years.”
He paused and looked at Spargo as if he was wondering what he ought or not to say to a newspaper man. Spargo remained silent, waiting. And presently Mr. Aylmore went on.
“I read your account in the Watchman this morning,” he said. “I was wondering, when you called just now, if I would communicate with you or with the police. The fact is—I suppose you want this for your paper, eh?” he continued after a sudden breaking off.
“I shall not print anything that you wish me not to print,” answered Spargo. “If you care to give me any information——”
“Oh, well!” said Mr. Aylmore. “I don’t mind. The fact is, I knew next to nothing. Marbury was a man with whom I had some—well, business relations, of a sort, a great many years ago. It must be twenty years—perhaps more—since I lost sight of him. When he came up to me in the lobby the other night, I had to make an effort of memory to recall him. He wished me, having once met me, to give him some advice, and as there was little doing in the House that night, and as he had once been—almost a friend—I walked to his hotel with him, chatting. He told me that he had only landed from Australia that morning, and what he wanted my advice about, principally, was—diamonds. Australian diamonds.”
“I was unaware,” remarked Spargo, “that diamonds were ever found in Australia.”
Mr. Aylmore smiled—a little cynically.
“Perhaps so,” he said. “But diamonds have been found in Australia from time to time, ever since Australia was known to Europeans, and in the opinion of experts, they will eventually be found there in quantity. Anyhow, Marbury had got hold of some Australian diamonds, and he showed them to me at his hotel—a number of them. We examined them in his room.”
“What did he do with them—afterwards?” asked Spargo.
“He put them in his waistcoat pocket—in a very small wash-leather bag, from which he had taken them. There were, in all, sixteen or twenty stones—not more, and they were all small. I advised him to see some expert—I mentioned Streeter’s to him. Now, I can tell you how he got hold of Mr. Breton’s address.”
The two young men pricked up their ears. Spargo unconsciously tightened his hold on the pencil with which he was making notes.
“He got it from me,” continued Mr. Aylmore. “The handwriting on the scrap of paper is mine, hurriedly scrawled. He wanted legal advice. As I knew very little about lawyers, I told him that if he called on Mr. Breton, Mr. Breton would be able to tell him of a first-class, sharp solicitor. I wrote down Mr. Breton’s address for him, on a scrap of paper which he tore off a letter that he took from his pocket. By the by, I observe that when his body was found there was nothing on it in the shape of papers or money. I am quite sure that when I left him he had a lot of gold on him, those diamonds, and a breast-pocket full of letters.”
“Where did you leave him, sir?” asked Spargo. “You left the hotel together, I believe?”
“Yes. We strolled along when we left it. Having once met, we had much to talk of, and it was a fine night. We walked across Waterloo Bridge and very shortly afterwards he left me. And that is really all I know. My own impression——” He paused for a moment and Spargo waited silently.
“My own impression—though I confess it may seem to have no very solid grounds—is that Marbury was decoyed to where he was found, and was robbed and murdered by some person who knew he had valuables on him. There is the fact that he was robbed, at any rate.”
“I’ve had a notion,” said Breton, diffidently. “Mayn’t be worth much, but I’ve had it, all the same. Some fellow-passenger of Marbury’s may have tracked him all day—Middle Temple Lane’s pretty lonely at night, you know.”
No one made any comment upon this suggestion, and on Spargo looking at Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament rose and glanced at the door.
“Well, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Spargo,” he said. “You see, it’s not much, after all. Of course, there’ll be an inquest on Marbury, and I shall have to re-tell it. But you’re welcome to print what I’ve told you.”
Spargo left Breton with his future father-in-law and went away towards New Scotland Yard. He and Rathbury had promised to share news—now he had some to communicate.