He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the
witness-box--a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was
only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a
well-drilled soldier's, who carried about him an air of conscious
power. Aylmore's two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite
Spargo, with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had
encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given
him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time; it
was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of
entertainment; they might have been idlers in some Eastern bazaar,
listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional
tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at
them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in
their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes.

"All that they feel," he thought, "is a bit of extra excitement at the
idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful mystery. Um!
Well--now how much is he mixed up?"

And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his
eyes off the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the
witness which he was anxious to develop.

The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr.
Aylmore's evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and
asked a question or two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell,
in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair;
and having received that permission, he went on in a calm,
unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It
sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years