“There you are, sir,” he said. “Quite fresh, you see—it must be getting on to twenty years since that was taken out of the drawer that it’s been kept in. Now, that’s Maitland. And that’s Chamberlayne.”
Spargo found himself looking at a group of men who stood against an ivy-covered wall in the stiff attitudes in which photographers arrange masses of sitters. He fixed his attention on the two figures indicated by Mr. Quarterpage, and saw two medium-heighted, rather sturdily-built men about whom there was nothing very specially noticeable.
“Um!” he said, musingly. “Both bearded.”
“Yes, they both wore beards—full beards,” assented Mr. Quarterpage. “And you see, they weren’t so much alike. But Maitland was a much darker man than Chamberlayne, and he had brown eyes, while Chamberlayne’s were rather a bright blue.”
“The removal of a beard makes a great difference,” remarked Spargo. He looked at the photograph of Maitland in the group, comparing it with that of Marbury which he had taken from his pocket. “And twenty years makes a difference, too,” he added musingly.
“To some people twenty years makes a vast difference, sir,” said the old gentleman. “To others it makes none—I haven’t changed much, they tell me, during the past twenty years. But I’ve known men change—age, almost beyond recognition!—in five years. It depends, sir, on what they go through.”
Spargo suddenly laid aside the photographs, put his hands in his pockets, and looked steadfastly at Mr. Quarterpage.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I’m after, Mr. Quarterpage. I’m sure you’ve heard all about what’s known as the Middle Temple Murder—the Marbury case?”
“Yes, I’ve read of it,” replied Mr. Quarterpage.
“Have you read the accounts of it in my paper, the Watchman?” asked Spargo.