That last observation decided Spargo; moreover, the old instinct for
getting news began to assert itself.

"All right," he said. "I'll go along with you."

And re-lighting his pipe he followed the little cortège through the
streets, still deserted and quiet, and as he walked behind he reflected
on the unobtrusive fashion in which murder could stalk about. Here was
the work of murder, no doubt, and it was being quietly carried along a
principal London thoroughfare, without fuss or noise, by officials to
whom the dealing with it was all a matter of routine. Surely--

"My opinion," said a voice at Spargo's elbow, "my opinion is that it
was done elsewhere. Not there! He was put there. That's what I say."
Spargo turned and saw that the porter was at his side. He, too, was
accompanying the body.

"Oh!" said Spargo. "You think--"

"I think he was struck down elsewhere and carried there," said the
porter. "In somebody's chambers, maybe. I've known of some queer games
in our bit of London! Well!--he never came in at my lodge last
night--I'll stand to that. And who is he, I should like to know? From
what I see of him, not the sort to be about our place."

"That's what we shall hear presently," said Spargo. "They're going to
search him."

But Spargo was presently made aware that the searchers had found
nothing. The police-surgeon said that the dead man had, without doubt,