Driscoll raised an arm and signalled; then, turning, he saw Spargo. He
moved a step or two towards him. Spargo saw news in his face.

"What is it?" asked Spargo.

Driscoll jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the partly open door
of the lane. Within, Spargo saw a man hastily donning a waistcoat and
jacket.

"He says," answered Driscoll, "him, there--the porter--that there's a
man lying in one of them entries down the lane, and he thinks he's
dead. Likewise, he thinks he's murdered."

Spargo echoed the word.

"But what makes him think that?" he asked, peeping with curiosity
beyond Driscoll's burly form. "Why?"

"He says there's blood about him," answered Driscoll. He turned and
glanced at the oncoming constable, and then turned again to Spargo.
"You're a newspaper man, sir?" he suggested.

"I am," replied Spargo.

"You'd better walk down with us," said Driscoll, with a grin. "There'll
be something to write pieces in the paper about. At least, there may
be." Spargo made no answer. He continued to look down the lane,
wondering what secret it held, until the other policeman came up. At
the same moment the porter, now fully clothed, came out.