WITNESS TO A MEETING
Ronald Breton walked into the Watchman office and into Spargo's room next a copy of the issue in his hand. He it at Spargo with an which was almost boyish.
"I say!" he exclaimed. "That's the way to do it, Spargo! I you. Yes, that's the way—certain!"
Spargo, over a of exchanges, yawned.
"What way?" he asked indifferently.
"The way you've this thing up," said Breton. "It's a hundred thousand times than the cut-and-dried account of a murder. It's—it's like a—a romance!"
"Merely a new method of news," said Spargo. He up a copy of the Watchman, and at his two columns, which had somehow managed to make themselves into three, the lettering, the photograph of the man, the line of the entry in Middle Temple Lane, and the of the of paper, with a eye. "Yes—merely a new method," he continued. "The question is—will it its object?"
"What's the object?" asked Breton.
Spargo out a box of cigarettes from an drawer, pushed it over to his visitor, helped himself, and his chair, put his on his desk.
"The object?" he said, drily. "Oh, well, the object is the of the murderer."
"You're after that?"
"I'm after that—just that."
"And not—not out to make news?"
"I'm out to the of John Marbury," said Spargo slow in his speech. "And I'll him."
"Well, there doesn't to be much in the way of clues, so far," Breton. "I see—nothing. Do you?"
Spargo sent a of into the air.
"I want to know an lot," he said. "I'm for news. I want to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with himself the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive and well, and the time when he was in Middle Temple Lane, with his in and dead. I want to know where he got that of paper. Above everything, Breton, I want to know what he'd got to do with you!"
He gave the a look, and Breton nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I that's a corker. But I think——"
"Well?" said Spargo.
"I think he may have been a man who had some legal in hand, or in prospect, and had been to—me," said Breton.
Spargo smiled—a little sardonically.
"That's good!" he said. "You had your very brief—yesterday. Come—your isn't through all the yet, my friend! Besides—don't clients approach—isn't it for them to approach?—barristers through solicitors?"
"Quite right—in your remarks," Breton, good-humouredly. "Of course, I'm not a bit, but all the same I've cases where a has been approached in the and asked to a solicitor. Somebody who wanted to do me a good turn may have this man my address."
"Possible," said Spargo. "But he wouldn't have come to you at midnight. Breton!—the more I think of it, the more I'm there's a in this affair! That's why I got the to let me it up as I have done—here. I'm that this photograph—though to be sure, it's of a face—and this of the of paper will lead to somebody who can——"
Just then one of the who about the marble of the Watchman office came into the room with the look and air of one who news of moment.
"I a to a that I know what this is," muttered
Spargo in an aside. "Well?" he said to the boy. "What is it?"
The messenger came up to the desk.
"Mr. Spargo," he said, "there's a man who says that he wants to see somebody about that case that's in the paper this morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you."
"Who is the man?" asked Spargo.
"Won't say, sir," the boy. "I gave him a to up, but he said he wouldn't anything—said all he wanted was to see the man who the piece in the paper."
"Bring him here," Spargo. He to Breton when the boy had gone, and he smiled. "I we should have somebody here sooner or later," he said. "That's why I over my and came at ten o'clock. Now then, what will you on the of this chap's valuable?"
"Nothing," Breton. "He's some or who's got some that he wants to ventilate."
The man who was presently in by the messenger from and to Breton's prognostication. He was a countryman, a tall, loosely-built, middle-aged man, yellow of hair, of eye, who was his Sunday-best of pearl-grey and black coat, and a in which were colours. Oppressed with the and of the Watchman building, he had his hard as he the boy, and he his at the two men as he on to the thick of the which in Spargo's room. His eyes, opened to their widest, looked him in at the of modern newspaper-office accommodation.
"How do you do, sir?" said Spargo, pointing a to one of the easy-chairs for which the Watchman office is famous. "I that you wish to see me?"
The his yellow again, sat on the of the chair, put his on the floor, it up again, and to it on his knee, and looked at Spargo and shyly.
"What I want to see, sir," he in a accent, "is the as that piece in your newspaper about this here in Middle Temple Lane."
"You see him," said Spargo. "I am that man."
The smiled—generously.
"Indeed, sir?" he said. "A very of reading, I'm sure. And what might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk free-er to a man when I know what his name is."
"So can I," answered Spargo. "My name is Spargo—Frank Spargo. What's yours?"
"Name of Webster, sir—William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife," Mr. Webster, again and his his hearers, "is at present in London on a holiday. And very we it—weather and all."
"That's right," said Spargo. "And—you wanted to see me about this murder, Mr. Webster?"
"I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that'll do for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in this fashion—happen you'll be for me to tell it in my own way."
"That," answered Spargo, "is what I desire."
"Well, to be sure, I couldn't tell it in no other," Mr. Webster. "You see, sir, I read your paper this while I was waiting for my breakfast—they take their so late in them hotels—and when I'd read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to my wife 'As soon as I've had my breakfast,' I says, 'I'm going to where they print this newspaper to tell 'em something.' 'Aye?' she says, 'Why, what have you to tell, I should like to know?' just like that, Mr. Spargo."
"Mrs. Webster," said Spargo, "is a lady of principles. And what have you to tell?"
Mr. Webster looked into the of his hat, looked out of it, and knowingly.
"Well, sir," he continued, "Last night, my wife, she out to a part they call Clapham, to take her tea and supper with an old friend of hers as there, and as they wanted to have a of woman-talk, like, I didn't go. So thinks I to myself, I'll go and see this here House of Commons. There was a neighbour of mine as had told me that all you'd got to do was to tell the at the door that you wanted to see your own Member of Parliament. So when I got there I told 'em that I wanted to see our M.P., Mr. Stonewood—you'll have tell of him, no doubt; he me very well—and they passed me, and I out a ticket for him, and they told me to while they him. So I sat in a of where there were a of people going and coming, and some pictures and images to look at, and for a time I looked at them, and then I to take a of notice of the near at hand, waiting, you know, like myself. And as sure as I'm a man, sir, the picture you've got in your paper—him as was murdered—was next to me! I that picture as soon as I saw it this morning."
Spargo, who had been making on a of paper, looked at his visitor.
"What time was that?" he asked.
"It was a and half-past nine, sir," answered Mr. Webster. "It might ha' been twenty past—it might ha' been twenty-five past."
"Go on, if you please," said Spargo.
"Well, sir, me and this here talked a bit. About what a long time it took to a to to you, and such-like. I mention of the that I hadn't been in there before. 'Neither have I!' he says, 'I came in out of curiosity,' he says, and then he laughed, sir—queer-like. And it was just after that that what I'm going to tell you about happened."
"Tell," Spargo.
"Well, sir, there was a came along, this that we were in—a tall, gentleman, with a beard. He'd no on, and he was a of paper and documents in his hand, so I he was one of the members. And all of a this here man at my side, he jumps up with a of start and an exclamation, and——"
Spargo his hand. He looked at his visitor.
"Now, you're sure about what you him exclaim?" he asked. "Quite sure about it? Because I see you are going to tell us what he did exclaim."
"I'll tell you but what I'm of, sir," Webster. "What he said as he jumped up was 'Good God!' he says, sharp-like—and then he said a name, and I didn't right catch it, but it like Danesworth, or Painesworth, or something of that sort—one of them there, or very like 'em, at any rate. And then he up to this here gentleman, and his hand on his arm—sudden-like."
"And—the gentleman?" asked Spargo, quietly.
"Well, he taken aback, sir. He jumped. Then he at the man. Then they hands. And then, after they'd spoken a together-like, they walked off, talking. And, of course, I saw no more of 'em. But when I saw your paper this morning, sir, and that picture in it, I said to myself 'That's the man I sat next to in that there at the House of Commons!' Oh, there's no of it, sir!"
"And you saw a photograph of the tall with the beard?" Spargo. "Could you him from that?"
"Make no of it, sir," answered Mr. Webster. "I him particular."
Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, the of which he over for minutes.
"Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster," he said.
The farmer across the room.
"There is a full set of of members of the present House of Commons here," said Spargo. "Now, out the one you saw. Take your time—and be sure."
He left his over the and to Breton.
"There!" he whispered. "Getting nearer—a nearer—eh?"
"To what?" asked Breton. "I don't see—"
A from the farmer Breton's remark.
"This is him, sir!" answered Mr. Webster. "That's the gentleman—know him anywhere!"
The two men the room. The farmer was pointing a to a photograph, which was Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P. for Brookminster.
