“I want to find out the full significance of that bit of paper, and who wrote it,” answered Spargo.  “I want to know why that old man was coming to you when he was murdered.”

Breton started.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed.  “I—­I never thought of that.  You—­you really think he was coming to me when he was struck down?”

“Certain.  Hadn’t he got an address in the Temple?  Wasn’t he in the Temple?  Of course, he was trying to find you.”

“But—­the late hour?”

“No matter.  How else can you explain his presence in the Temple?  I think he was asking his way.  That’s why I want to make some enquiries in this block.”

It appeared to Spargo that a considerable number of people, chiefly of the office-boy variety, were desirous of making enquiries about the dead man.  Being luncheon-hour, that bit of Middle Temple Lane where the body was found, was thick with the inquisitive and the sensation-seeker, for the news of the murder had spread, and though there was nothing to see but the bare stones on which the body had lain, there were more open mouths and staring eyes around the entry than Spargo had seen for many a day.  And the nuisance had become so great that the occupants of the adjacent chambers had sent for a policeman to move the curious away, and when Spargo and his companion presented themselves at the entry this policeman was being lectured as to his duties by a little weazen-faced gentleman, in very snuffy and old-fashioned garments, and an ancient silk hat, who was obviously greatly exercised by the unwonted commotion.

“Drive them all out into the street!” exclaimed this personage.  “Drive them all away, constable—­into Fleet Street or upon the Embankment—­anywhere, so long as you rid this place of them.  This is a disgrace, and an inconvenience, a nuisance, a——­”

“That’s old Cardlestone,” whispered Breton.  “He’s always irascible, and I don’t suppose we’ll get anything out of him.  Mr. Cardlestone,” he continued, making his way up to the old gentleman who was now retreating up the stone steps, brandishing an umbrella as ancient as himself.  “I was just coming to see you, sir.  This is Mr. Spargo, a journalist, who is much interested in this murder.  He——­”

“I know nothing about the murder, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Cardlestone.  “And I never talk to journalists—­a pack of busybodies, sir, saving your presence.  I am not aware that any murder has been committed, and I object to my doorway being filled by a pack of office boys and street loungers.  Murder indeed!  I suppose the man fell down these steps and broke his neck—­drunk, most likely.”

He opened his outer door as he spoke, and Breton, with a reassuring smile and a nod at Spargo, followed him into his chambers on the first landing, motioning the journalist to keep at their heels.

“Mr. Elphick tells me that he was with you until a late hour last evening, Mr. Cardlestone,” he said.  “Of course, neither of you heard anything suspicious?”