Spargo found Rathbury sitting alone in a small, somewhat dismal
apartment which was chiefly remarkable for the business-like paucity of
its furnishings and its indefinable air of secrecy. There was a plain
writing-table and a hard chair or two; a map of London, much
discoloured, on the wall; a few faded photographs of eminent bands in
the world of crime, and a similar number of well-thumbed books of
reference. The detective himself, when Spargo was shown in to him, was
seated at the table, chewing an unlighted cigar, and engaged in the
apparently aimless task of drawing hieroglyphics on scraps of paper. He
looked up as the journalist entered, and held out his hand.

"Well, I congratulate you on what you stuck in the _Watchman_ this
morning," he said. "Made extra good reading, I thought. They did right
to let you tackle that job. Going straight through with it now, I
suppose, Mr. Spargo?"

Spargo dropped into the chair nearest to Rathbury's right hand. He
lighted a cigarette, and having blown out a whiff of smoke, nodded his
head in a fashion which indicated that the detective might consider his
question answered in the affirmative.

"Look here," he said. "We settled yesterday, didn't we, that you and I
are to consider ourselves partners, as it were, in this job? That's all
right," he continued, as Rathbury nodded very quietly. "Very well--have
you made any further progress?"

Rathbury put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and, leaning
back in his chair, shook his head.