critical eye. "Yes--merely a new method," he continued. "The question
is--will it achieve its object?"

"What's the object?" asked Breton.

Spargo fished out a box of cigarettes from an untidy drawer, pushed it
over to his visitor, helped himself, and tilting back his chair, put
his feet on his desk.

"The object?" he said, drily. "Oh, well, the object is the ultimate
detection of the murderer."

"You're after that?"

"I'm after that--just that."

"And not--not simply out to make effective news?"

"I'm out to find the murderer of John Marbury," said Spargo
deliberately slow in his speech. "And I'll find him."

"Well, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of clues, so far,"
remarked Breton. "I see--nothing. Do you?"

Spargo sent a spiral of scented smoke into the air.

"I want to know an awful lot," he said. "I'm hungering for news. I want
to know who John Marbury is. I want to know what he did with himself
between the time when he walked out of the Anglo-Orient Hotel, alive
and well, and the time when he was found in Middle Temple Lane, with