"Um!" muttered Spargo, putting the book away. "That's not very
illuminating. However, we've got one move finished. Now we'll make
another."

Going over to the album of photographs, Spargo deftly removed that of
Mr. Aylmore, put it in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket and,
leaving the office, hailed a taxi-cab, and ordered its driver to take
him to the Anglo-Orient Hotel. This was the something-to-do of which
he had spoken to Breton: Spargo wanted to do it alone.

Mrs. Walters was in her low-windowed office when Spargo entered the
hall; she recognized him at once and motioned him into her parlour.

"I remember you," said Mrs., Walters; "you came with the detective--Mr.
Rathbury."

"Have you seen him, since?" asked Spargo.

"Not since," replied Mrs. Walters. "No--and I was wondering if he'd be
coming round, because----" She paused there and looked at Spargo with
particular enquiry--"You're a friend of his, aren't you?" she asked. "I
suppose you know as much as he does--about this?"

"He and I," replied Spargo, with easy confidence, "are working this
case together. You can tell me anything you'd tell him."

The landlady rummaged in her pocket and produced an old purse, from an
inner compartment of which she brought out a small object wrapped in
tissue paper.