The Middle Temple Murder. Joseph Smith Fletcher

of grey paper, which he had carefully bestowed in a much-worn memorandum-book. "I wished to ask a question, Mr. Breton," he said. "This morning, about a quarter to three, a man—elderly man—was found dead in Middle Temple Lane, and there seems little doubt that he was murdered. Mr. Spargo here—he was present when the body was found."

      "Soon after," corrected Spargo. "A few minutes after."

      ​"When this body was examined at the mortuary," continued Rathbury, in his matter-of-fact, business-like tones, "nothing was found that could lead to identification. The man appears to have been robbed. There was nothing whatever on him—but this bit of torn paper, which was found in a hole in the lining of his waistcoat pocket. It's got your name and address on it, Mr. Breton. See?"

      Ronald Breton took the scrap of paper and looked at it with knitted brows.

      "By Jove!" he muttered. "So it has; that's queer. What's he like, this man?"

      Rathbury glanced at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece.

      "Will you step round and take a look at him, Mr. Breton?" he said. "It's close by."

      "Well—I—the fact is, I've got a case on, in Mr. Justice Borrow's court," Breton answered, also glancing at his clock. "But it won't be called until after eleven. Will——"

      "Plenty of time, sir," said Rathbury; "it won't take you ten minutes to go round and back again—a look will do. You don't recognize this handwriting, I suppose?"

      Breton still held the scrap of paper in his fingers. He looked at it again, intently.

      "No!" he answered. "I don't. I don't know it at all—I can't think, of course, who this man could be, to have my name and address. I thought he might have been some country solicitor, wanting my professional services, you know," he went on, with a shy smile at ​Spargo; "but, three—three o'clock in the morning, eh?"

      "The doctor," observed Rathbury, "the doctor thinks he had been dead about two and a half hours."

      Breton turned to the inner door.

      "I'll—I'll just tell these ladies I'm going out for a quarter of an hour," he said. "They're going over to the court with me—I got my first brief yesterday," he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right and left at his visitors. "It's nothing much—small case—but I promised my fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you know. A moment."

      He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door.

      "Well, come on," said Breton. "Let's go straight there."

      The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose face the detective was ​turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head.

      "No!" he said with decision. "Don't know him—don't know him from Adam. Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of."

      Rathbury replaced the cloth.

      "I didn't suppose you would," he remarked. "Well, I expect we must go on the usual lines. Somebody'll identify him."

      "You say he was murdered?" said Breton. "Is that—certain?"

      Rathbury jerked his thumb at the corpse.

      "The back of his skull is smashed in," he said laconically. "The doctor says he must have been struck down from behind—and a fearful blow, too. I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Breton."

      "Oh, all right!" said Breton. "Well, you know where to find me if you want me. I shall be curious about this. Good-bye—good-bye, Mr. Spargo."

      The young barrister hurried away, and Rathbury turned to the journalist.

      "I didn't expect anything from that," he remarked. "However, it was a thing to be done. You are going to write about this for your paper?"

      Spargo nodded.

      "Well," continued Rathbury, "I've sent a man to Fiskie's, the hatter's, where that cap came from, you know. We may get a bit of information from that quarter—it's possible. If you like to meet me here at twelve o'clock I'll tell you anything I've heard. Just now I'm going to get some breakfast."

      ​"I'll meet you here," said Spargo, "at twelve o'clock."

      He watched Rathbury go away round one corner; he himself suddenly set off round another. He went to the Watchman office, wrote a few lines, which he enclosed in an envelope for the day-editor, and went out again. Somehow or other, his feet led him up Fleet Street, and before he quite realized what he was doing he found himself turning into the Law Courts.

      THE CLUE OF THE CAP

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      CHAPTER THREE

      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,