presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as
to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and
old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously
greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion.

"Drive them all out into the street!" exclaimed this personage. "Drive
them all away, constable--into Fleet Street or upon the
Embankment--anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them. This is a
disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a----"

"That's old Cardlestone," whispered Breton. "He's always irascible, and
I don't suppose we'll get anything out of him. Mr. Cardlestone," he
continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now
retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as
himself. "I was just coming to see you, sir. This is Mr. Spargo, a
journalist, who is much interested in this murder. He----"

"I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mr.
Cardlestone. "And I never talk to journalists--a pack of busybodies,
sir, saving your presence. I am not aware that any murder has been
committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office
boys and street loungers. Murder indeed! I suppose the man fell down
these steps and broke his neck--drunk, most likely."

He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring
smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first
landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels.

"Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last
evening, Mr. Cardlestone," he said. "Of course, neither of you heard