"Indeed, sir?" he said. "A very nice bit of reading, I'm sure. And what
might your name be, now, sir? I can always talk free-er to a man when I
know what his name is."

"So can I," answered Spargo. "My name is Spargo--Frank Spargo. What's
yours?"

"Name of Webster, sir--William Webster. I farm at One Ash Farm, at
Gosberton, in Oakshire. Me and my wife," continued Mr. Webster, again
smiling and distributing his smile between both his hearers, "is at
present in London on a holiday. And very pleasant we find it--weather
and all."

"That's right," said Spargo. "And--you wanted to see me about this
murder, Mr. Webster?"

"I did, sir. Me, I believe, knowing, as I think, something that'll do
for you to put in your paper. You see, Mr. Spargo, it come about in
this fashion--happen you'll be for me to tell it in my own way."

"That," answered Spargo, "is precisely what I desire."

"Well, to be sure, I couldn't tell it in no other," declared Mr.
Webster. "You see, sir, I read your paper this morning while I was
waiting for my breakfast--they take their breakfasts so late in them
hotels--and when I'd read it, and looked at the pictures, I says to my
wife 'As soon as I've had my breakfast,' I says, 'I'm going to where
they print this newspaper to tell 'em something.' 'Aye?' she says,
'Why, what have you to tell, I should like to know?' just like that,
Mr. Spargo."