“Make no doubt of it, sir,” answered Mr. Webster.  “I observed him particular.”

Spargo rose, and going over to a cabinet, took from it a thick volume, the leaves of which he turned over for several minutes.

“Come here, if you please, Mr. Webster,” he said.

The farmer went across the room.

“There is a full set of photographs of members of the present House of Commons here,” said Spargo.  “Now, pick out the one you saw.  Take your time—­and be sure.”

He left his caller turning over the album and went back to Breton.

“There!” he whispered.  “Getting nearer—­a bit nearer—­eh?”

“To what?” asked Breton.  “I don’t see—­”

A sudden exclamation from the farmer interrupted Breton’s remark.

“This is him, sir!” answered Mr. Webster.  “That’s the gentleman—­know him anywhere!”

The two young men crossed the room.  The farmer was pointing a stubby finger to a photograph, beneath which was written Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P. for Brookminster.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MR. AYLMORE

Spargo, keenly observant and watchful, felt, rather than saw, Breton start; he himself preserved an imperturbable equanimity.  He gave a mere glance at the photograph to which Mr. Webster was pointing.

“Oh!” he said.  “That he?”

“That’s the gentleman, sir,” replied Webster.  “Done to the life, that is.  No difficulty in recognizing of that, Mr. Spargo.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” demanded Spargo.  “There are a lot of men in the House of Commons, you know, who wear beards, and many of the beards are grey.”

But Webster wagged his head.

“That’s him, sir!” he repeated.  “I’m as sure of that as I am that my name’s William Webster.  That’s the man I saw talking to him whose picture you’ve got in your paper.  Can’t say no more, sir.”

“Very good,” said Spargo.  “I’m much obliged to you.  I’ll see Mr. Aylmore.  Leave me your address in London, Mr. Webster.  How long do you remain in town?”

“My address is the Beachcroft Hotel, Bloomsbury, sir, and I shall be there for another week,” answered the farmer.  “Hope I’ve been of some use, Mr. Spargo.  As I says to my wife——­”

Spargo cut his visitor short in polite fashion and bowed him out.  He turned to Breton, who still stood staring at the album of portraits.

“There!—­what did I tell you?” he said.  “Didn’t I say I should get some news?  There it is.”

Breton nodded his head.  He seemed thoughtful.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “Yes, I say, Spargo!”

“Well?”

“Mr. Aylmore is my prospective father-in-law, you know.”

“Quite aware of it.  Didn’t you introduce me to his daughters—­only yesterday?”

“But—­how did you know they were his daughters?”

Spargo laughed as he sat down to his desk.