“I never heard of him again,” she declared passionately, “and I only hope that what you tell me is true, and that Marbury really was Maitland!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MOTHER GUTCH

Spargo, having exhausted the list of questions which he had thought out on his way to Bayswater, was about to take his leave of Miss Baylis, when a new idea suddenly occurred to him, and he turned back to that formidable lady.

“I’ve just thought of something else,” he said.  “I told you that I’m certain Marbury was Maitland, and that he came to a sad end—­murdered.”

“And I’ve told you,” she replied scornfully, “that in my opinion no end could be too bad for him.”

“Just so—­I understand you,” said Spargo.  “But I didn’t tell you that he was not only murdered but robbed—­robbed of probably a good deal.  There’s good reason to believe that he had securities, bank notes, loose diamonds, and other things on him to the value of a large amount.  He’d several thousand pounds when he left Coolumbidgee, in New South Wales, where he’d lived quietly for some years.”

Miss Baylis smiled sourly.

“What’s all this to me?” she asked.

“Possibly nothing.  But you see, that money, those securities, may be recovered.  And as the boy you speak of is dead, there surely must be somebody who’s entitled to the lot.  It’s worth having, Miss Baylis, and there’s strong belief on the part of the police that it will turn up.”

This was a bit of ingenious bluff on the part of Spargo; he watched its effect with keen eyes.  But Miss Baylis was adamant, and she looked as scornful as ever.

“I say again what’s all that to me?” she exclaimed.

“Well, but hadn’t the dead boy any relatives on his father’s side?” asked Spargo.  “I know you’re his aunt on the mother’s side, and as you’re indifferent perhaps, I can find some on the other side.  It’s very easy to find all these things out, you know.”

Miss Baylis, who had begun to stalk back to the house in gloomy and majestic fashion, and had let Spargo see plainly that this part of the interview was distasteful to her, suddenly paused in her stride and glared at the young journalist.

“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated.

Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone.  He was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose.

“Oh, easy enough!” he said.  “I could find out all about Maitland’s family through that boy.  Quite, quite easily!”

Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him.  “How?” she demanded.

“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity.  “It is, of course, the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life.  I suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and you, of course, will tell me where he died.  By the by, when did he die, Miss Baylis?”