photograph--though to be sure, it's of a dead face--and this facsimile
of the scrap of paper will lead to somebody coming forward who can----"

Just then one of the uniformed youths who hang about the marble
pillared vestibule of the _Watchman_ office came into the room with the
unmistakable look and air of one who carries news of moment.

"I dare lay a sovereign to a cent that I know what this is," muttered
Spargo in an aside. "Well?" he said to the boy. "What is it?"

The messenger came up to the desk.

"Mr. Spargo," he said, "there's a man downstairs who says that he wants
to see somebody about that murder case that's in the paper this
morning, sir. Mr. Barrett said I was to come to you."

"Who is the man?" asked Spargo.

"Won't say, sir," replied the boy. "I gave him a form to fill up, but
he said he wouldn't write anything--said all he wanted was to see the
man who wrote the piece in the paper."

"Bring him here," commanded Spargo. He turned to Breton when the boy
had gone, and he smiled. "I knew we should have somebody here sooner or
later," he said. "That's why I hurried over my breakfast and came down
at ten o'clock. Now then, what will you bet on the chances of this
chap's information proving valuable?"

"Nothing," replied Breton. "He's probably some crank or faddist who's
got some theory that he wants to ventilate."