“Honour bright, no!” exclaimed Spargo. “It isn’t—it isn’t! I don’t think it. I think there’s a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of Marbury’s death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about Marbury that he won’t tell, but I’m certain sure that he neither killed Marbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I’m out to clear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing’ll make me more glad 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!” exclaimed 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 stood vacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the shoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him.
“All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!” he said. “Well, it’s a pleasant change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look here, are you going to start your writing just now?”
“I’m not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I’ve dined at seven o’clock and given myself time to digest my modest dinner,” answered Spargo. “What is it?”
“Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box,” said Rathbury. “I’ve got it in my room, and I’d like to examine it for myself. Come on!”
“The thing’s empty,” said Spargo.
“There might be a false bottom in it,” remarked Rathbury. “One never knows. Here, jump into this!”
He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the driver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen him before.