THE SILVER TICKET
With a of protection, Spargo the girl from the crowd, and a moment had her into a by-street. He looked at her as she her breath.
"Yes?" he said quietly.
Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, faintly.
"I want to speak to you," she said. "I must speak to you."
"Yes," said Spargo. "But—the others? Your sister?—Breton?"
"I left them on purpose to speak to you," she answered. "They I did. I am well to looking after myself."
Spargo moved the by-street, his to move with him.
"Tea," he said, "is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place close by here where you can the best China tea in London. Come and have some."
Jessie Aylmore and her obediently. And Spargo said nothing, along with his thumbs in his pockets, his playing outside, until he had himself and his in a in the old tea-house he had told her of, and had an order for tea and tea-cakes to a who him. Then he to her.
"You want," he said, "to talk to me about your father."
"Yes," she answered. "I do."
"Why?" asked Spargo.
The girl gave him a look.
"Ronald Breton says you're the man who's all those special articles in the Watchman about the Marbury case," she answered. "Are you?"
"I am," said Spargo.
"Then you're a man of great influence," she on. "You can the public mind. Mr. Spargo—what are you going to about my father and today's proceedings?"
Spargo to her to out the tea which had just arrived. He seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the tea-cake, and a great out of it.
"Frankly," he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, "frankly, I don't know. I don't know—yet. But I'll tell you this—it's best to be candid—I shouldn't allow myself to be or in making up my by anything that you may say to me. Understand?"
Jessie Aylmore took a to Spargo of the and of his manners.
"I'm not wanting to or you," she said. "All I want is that you should be very sure you say—anything."
"I'll be sure," said Spargo. "Don't bother. Is the tea all right?"
"Beautiful!" she answered, with a that Spargo look at her again. "Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think about—about what has just happened?"
Spargo, of the that his were with butter, a hand and his always hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and more tea.
"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I'm no great hand at talking. I can when I've a good to tell, but I don't talk an lot, I can what I unless I've got a pen in my hand. Frankly, I it hard to tell you what I think. When I my article this evening, I'll all these in proper form, and I shall about 'em. But I'll tell you one thing I do think—I wish your father had a clean of to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told when he into that box."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because he's now set up an of and around himself. People'll think—Heaven what they'll think! They already know that he more about Marbury than he'll tell, that—"
"But he?" she quickly. "Do you think he does?"
"Yes!" Spargo, with emphasis. "I do. A more! If he had only been at first—however, he wasn't. Now it's done. As stand—look here, it you that your father is in a very position?"
"Serious?" she exclaimed.
"Dangerous! Here's the fact—he's that he took Marbury to his rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next Marbury's and in an entry, not fifty yards off!"
"Does that my father would him for the of him of he had on him?" she laughed scornfully. "My father is a very man, Mr. Spargo."
"May be," answered Spargo. "But have been to men who secrets."
"Secrets!" she exclaimed.
"Have some more tea," said Spargo, at the teapot. "Look here—this way it is. The that people—some people—will up (I won't say that it hasn't itself to me) is this:—There's some about the relationship, acquaintanceship, connection, call it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty odd years ago. Must be. There's some about your father's life, twenty odd years ago. Must be—or else he'd have answered those questions. Very well. 'Ha, ha!' says the public. 'Now we have it!' 'Marbury,' says the public, 'was a man who had a on Aylmore. He up. Aylmore him into the Temple, killed him to his own secret, and him of all he had on him as a blind.' Eh?"
"You think—people will say that?" she exclaimed.
"Cock-sure! They're saying it. Heard a dozen of 'em say it, in more or less fashion as I came out of that court. Of course, they'll say it. Why, what else they say?"
For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking into her tea-cup. Then she her on Spargo, who a new in what of the tea-cakes.
"Is that what you're going to say in your article tonight?" she asked, quietly.
"No!" Spargo, promptly. "It isn't. I'm going to on the tonight. Besides, the case is judice. All I'm going to do is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest."
The girl put her hand across the table and it on
Spargo's big fist.
"Is it what you think?" she asked in a low voice.
"Honour bright, no!" Spargo. "It isn't—it isn't! I don't think it. I think there's a most at the of Marbury's death, and I think your father an about Marbury that he won't tell, but I'm sure that he neither killed Marbury anything about his death. And as I'm out to clear this up, and to do it, nothing'll make me more than to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We'll have fresh ones—and fresh tea."
"No, thank you," she said smiling. "And thank you for what you've just said. I'm going now, Mr. Spargo. You've done me good."
"Oh, rot!" Spargo. "Nothing—nothing! I've just told you what
I'm thinking. You must go?…"
He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone after the until a hand him on the shoulder. Turning, he Rathbury at him.
"All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!" he said. "Well, it's a to ladies after being all day in that court. Look here, are you going to start your just now?"
"I'm not going to start my as you call it, until after I've at seven o'clock and myself time to my dinner," answered Spargo. "What is it?"
"Come with me and have another look at that leather box," said Rathbury. "I've got it in my room, and I'd like to it for myself. Come on!"
"The thing's empty," said Spargo.
"There might be a false in it," Rathbury. "One knows. Here, jump into this!"
He pushed Spargo into a taxi-cab, and following, the driver go to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had him before.
"What d'ye think of today's doings, Spargo?" he asked, as he to a cupboard.
"I think," said Spargo, "that some of you must have had your ears set to tingling."
"That's so," Rathbury. "Of course, the next thing'll be to out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a man won't tell you where he twenty years ago, what he was doing, what his relationship with another man was—why, then, you've just got to out, eh? Oh, some of our are at work on the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already—you bet! Well, now, Spargo, here's the famous box."
The the old leather case out of the in which he had been searching, and it on his desk. Spargo the and looked inside, the against the lines.
"No false in that, Rathbury," he said. "There's just the leather case, and the lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, and that's all. There's no room for any false or anything of that sort, d'you see?"
Rathbury also sized up the box's capacity.
"Looks like it," he said disappointedly. "Well, what about the lid, then? I there was an old box like this in my grandmother's farmhouse, where I was reared—there was a pocket in the lid. Let's see if there's anything of the here?"
He the and to about the of it with the of his fingers, and presently he to his with a exclamation.
"By George, Spargo!" he said. "I don't know about any pocket, but there's something under this lining. Feels like—here, you feel. There—and there."
Spargo put a on the places indicated.
"Yes, that's so," he agreed. "Feels like two cards—a large and a small one. And the small one's than the other. Better cut that out, Rathbury."
"That," Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, "is just what I'm going to do. We'll cut along this seam."
He the open along the upper part of the of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, out two objects which he on his pad.
"A child's photograph," he said, at one of them. "But what on earth is that?"
The object to which he pointed was a small, piece of thin, much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one of it was what to be a device or coat-of-arms, almost by rubbing; on the other, by friction, was the of a horse.
"That's a object," Spargo, it up. "I saw anything like that before. What can it be?"
"Don't know—I saw anything of the either," said Rathbury. "Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah—you see, the photographer's name and address have been away or off—there's nothing left but just two of what's been the name of the town—see. Er—that's all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh?"
Spargo gave, what might have been called in else but him, a at the baby's portrait. He up the ticket again and it over and over.
"Look here, Rathbury," he said. "Let me take this thing. I know where I can out what it is. At least, I think I do.''
"All right," the detective, "but take the of it, and don't tell a that we it in this box, you know. No with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember."
"Oh, all right," said Spargo. "Trust me."
He put the ticket in his pocket, and to the office, about this find. And when he had his article that evening, and a proof of it, Spargo into Fleet Street on information.
