Rathbury laughed.
"He was a clumsy fellow who did it, whether he was Aylmore or whoever he was!" he replied. "Do you know, it had been dropped into a sewer-trap in Middle Temple Lane—actually! Perhaps the murderer thought it would be washed out into the Thames and float away. But, of course, it was bound to come to light. A sewer man found it yesterday evening, and it was quickly recognized by the woman who cleans up for Aylmore as having been in his rooms ever since she knew them."
"What does Aylmore say about it?" asked Spargo. "I suppose he's said something?"
"Says that the bludgeon is certainly his, and that he brought it from South America with him," announced Rathbury; "but that he doesn't remember seeing it in his rooms for some time, and thinks that it was stolen from them."
"Um!" said Spargo, musingly. "But—how do you know that was the thing that Marbury was struck down with?"
Rathbury smiled grimly.
"There's some of his hair on it—mixed with blood," he answered. "No doubt about that. Well—anything come of your jaunt westward?"
"Yes," replied Spargo. "Lots!"
"Good?" asked Rathbury.
"Extra good. I've found out who Marbury really was."
"No! Really?"
"No doubt, to my mind. I'm certain of it."
Rathbury sat down at his desk, watching Spargo with rapt attention.
"And who was he?" he asked.
"John Maitland, once of Market Milcaster," replied Spargo. "Ex-bank manager. Also ex-convict."
"Ex-convict!"
"Ex-convict. He was sentenced, at Market Milcaster Quarter Sessions, in autumn, 1891, to ten years' penal servitude, for embezzling the bank's money, to the tune of over two hundred thousand pounds. Served his term at Dartmoor. Went to Australia as soon, or soon after, he came out. That's who Marbury was—Maitland. Dead—certain!"
Rathbury still stared at his caller.
"Go on!" he said. "Tell all about it, Spargo. Let's hear every detail. I'll tell you all I know after. But what I know's nothing to that."
Spargo told him the whole story of his adventures at Market Milcaster, and the detective listened with rapt attention.
"Yes," he said at the end. "Yes—I don't think there's much doubt about that. Well, that clears up a lot, doesn't it?"
Spargo yawned.
"Yes, a whole slate full is wiped off there," he said. "I haven't so much interest in Marbury, or Maitland now. My interest is all in Aylmore."
Rathbury nodded.
"Yes," he said. "The thing to find out is—who is Aylmore, or who was he, twenty years ago?"
"Your people haven't found anything out, then?" asked Spargo.
"Nothing beyond the irreproachable history of Mr. Aylmore since he returned to this country, a very rich man, some ten years since," answered Rathbury, smiling. "They've no previous dates to go on. What are you going to do next, Spargo?"
"Seek out that Miss Baylis," replied Spargo.
"You think you could get something there?" asked Rathbury.
"Look here!" said Spargo. "I don't believe for a second Aylmore killed Marbury. I believe I shall get at the truth by following up what I call the Maitland trail. This Miss Baylis must know something—if she's alive. Well, now I'm going to report at the office. Keep in touch with me, Rathbury."
He went on then to the Watchman office, and as he got out of his taxi-cab at its door, another cab came up and set down Mr. Aylmore's daughters.
Chapter XXII. The Blank Past
Jessie Aylmore came forward to meet Spargo with ready confidence; the elder girl hung back diffidently.
"May we speak to you?" said Jessie. "We have come on purpose to speak to you. Evelyn didn't want to come, but I made her come."
Spargo shook hands silently with Evelyn Aylmore and motioned them both to follow him. He took them straight upstairs to his room and bestowed them in his easiest chairs before he addressed them.
"I've only just got back to town," he said abruptly. "I was sorry to hear the news about your father. That's what's brought you here, of course. But—I'm afraid I can't do much."
"I told you that we had no right to trouble Mr. Spargo, Jessie," said Evelyn Aylmore. "What can he do to help us?"
Jessie shook her head impatiently.
"The Watchman's about the most powerful paper in London, isn't it?" she said. "And isn't Mr. Spargo writing all these articles about the Marbury case? Mr. Spargo, you must help us!"
Spargo sat down at his desk and began turning over the letters and papers which had accumulated during his absence.
"To be absolutely frank with you," he said, presently, "I don't see how anybody's going to help, so long as your father keeps up that mystery about the past."
"That," said Evelyn, quietly, "is exactly what Ronald says, Jessie. But we can't make our father speak, Mr. Spargo. That he is as innocent as we are of this terrible crime we are certain, and we don't know why he wouldn't answer the questions put to him at the inquest. And—we know no more than you know or anyone knows, and though I have begged my father to speak, he won't say a word. We saw his danger: Ronald—Mr. Breton—told us, and we implored him to tell everything he knew about Mr. Marbury. But so far he has simply laughed at the idea that he had anything to do with the murder, or could be arrested for it, and now——"
"And now he's locked up," said Spargo in his usual matter-of-fact fashion. "Well, there are people who have to be saved from themselves, you know. Perhaps you'll have to save your father from the consequences of his own—shall we say obstinacy? Now, look here, between ourselves, how much do you know about your father's—past?"
The two sisters looked at each other and then at Spargo.
"Nothing," said the elder.
"Absolutely nothing!" said the younger.
"Answer a few plain questions," said Spargo. "I'm not going to print your replies, nor make use of them in any way: I'm only asking the questions with a desire to help you. Have you any relations in England?"
"None that we know of," replied Evelyn.
"Nobody you could go to for information about the past?" asked Spargo.
"No—nobody!"
Spargo drummed his fingers on his blotting-pad. He was thinking hard.
"How old is your father?" he asked suddenly.
"He was fifty-nine a few weeks ago," answered Evelyn.
"And how old are you, and how old is your sister?" demanded Spargo.
"I am twenty, and Jessie is nearly nineteen."
"Where were you born?"
"Both of us at San Gregorio, which is in the San José province of Argentina, north of Monte Video."
"Your father was in business there?"
"He was in business in the export trade, Mr. Spargo. There's no secret about that. He exported all sorts of things to England and to France—skins, hides, wools, dried salts, fruit. That's how he made his money."
"You don't know how long he'd been there when you were born?"
"No."
"Was he married when he went out there?"
"No,