"She shall never want for aught until he's free," he said to himself. "And when he's free they shall have a new life. But from to-day she and I shall never meet again."
Then he went within, and found Wroxdale, and gave him instructions as to Rhoda's care, and himself went away. And as the wicket-gate closed upon him with a harsh clang, he lifted his head and drew a deep and long breath. He knew that he had passed out of a worse prison, a harder captivity, than any Abel Perris would ever know.
THE END
The Middle Temple Murder
Chapter I. The Scrap of Grey Paper
Chapter III. The Clue of the Cap
Chapter IV. The Anglo-Orient Hotel
Chapter V. Spargo Wishes to Specialize
Chapter VI. Witness to a Meeting
Chapter VIII. The Man From the Safe Deposit
Chapter IX. The Dealer in Rare Stamps
Chapter XI. Mr. Aylmore is Questioned
Chapter XIV. The Silver Ticket
Chapter XVI. The "Yellow Dragon"
Chapter XVII. Mr. Quarterpage Harks Back
Chapter XVIII. An Old Newspaper
Chapter XIX. The Chamberlayne Story
Chapter XX. Maitland alias MARBURY
Chapter XXVII. Mr. Elphick's Chambers
Chapter XXVIII. Of Proved Identity
Chapter XXIX. The Closed Doors
Chapter XXXI. The Penitent Window-Cleaner
Chapter XXXII. The Contents of the Coffin
Chapter XXXVI. The Final Telegram
Chapter I. The Scrap of Grey Paper
As a rule, Spargo left the Watchman office at two o'clock. The paper had then gone to press. There was nothing for him, recently promoted to a sub-editorship, to do after he had passed the column for which he was responsible; as a matter of fact he could have gone home before the machines began their clatter. But he generally hung about, trifling, until two o'clock came. On this occasion, the morning of the 22nd of June, 1912, he stopped longer than usual, chatting with Hacket, who had charge of the foreign news, and who began telling him about a telegram which had just come through from Durazzo. What Hacket had to tell was interesting: Spargo lingered to hear all about it, and to discuss it. Altogether it was well beyond half-past two when he went out of the office, unconsciously puffing away from him as he reached the threshold the last breath of the atmosphere in which he had spent his midnight. In Fleet Street the air was fresh, almost to sweetness, and the first grey of the coming dawn was breaking faintly around the high silence of St. Paul's.
Spargo lived in Bloomsbury, on the west side of Russell Square. Every night and every morning he walked to and from the Watchman office by the same route—Southampton Row, Kingsway, the Strand, Fleet Street. He came to know several faces, especially amongst the police; he formed the habit of exchanging greetings with various officers whom he encountered at