“Tell us,” said Spargo, joining in for the first time, “tell us what you and Miss Baylis did?”
“At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she’d forgotten something in Cardlestone’s lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And upon my soul and honour that’s all I know!”
Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the cottage.
“That’s enough!” he almost shouted. “I’ve got it—at last! Breton—where’s the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this valley? Then, here’s for it! Look after things till I’m back, or, when the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town, anyhow, after wiring.”
“But—what are you after, Spargo?” exclaimed Breton. “Stop! What on earth——”
But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling down a message in shaky handwriting:—
Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London.
Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland.
Coming straight to town with full evidence.
Frank Spargo.
Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out again—to find the station.
Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and warmly.