hour," he said. "They're going over to the court with me--I got my
first brief yesterday," he went on with a boyish laugh, glancing right
and left at his visitors. "It's nothing much--small case--but I
promised my fiancée and her sister that they should be present, you
know. A moment."

He disappeared into the next room and came back a moment later in all
the glory of a new silk hat. Spargo, a young man who was never very
particular about his dress, began to contrast his own attire with the
butterfly appearance of this youngster; he had been quick to notice
that the two girls who had whisked into the inner room had been
similarly garbed in fine raiment, more characteristic of Mayfair than
of Fleet Street. Already he felt a strange curiosity about Breton, and
about the young ladies whom he heard talking behind the inner door.

"Well, come on," said Breton. "Let's go straight there."

The mortuary to which Rathbury led the way was cold, drab, repellent to
the general gay sense of the summer morning. Spargo shivered
involuntarily as he entered it and took a first glance around. But the
young barrister showed no sign of feeling or concern; he looked quickly
about him and stepped alertly to the side of the dead man, from whose
face the detective was turning back a cloth. He looked steadily and
earnestly at the fixed features. Then he drew back, shaking his head.

"No!" he said with decision. "Don't know him--don't know him from Adam.
Never set eyes on him in my life, that I know of."

Rathbury replaced the cloth.