didn't believe him, and he got seven years. Plain story you see, Spargo, when it all comes out, eh?"
"All stories are quite plain—when they come out," observed Spargo. "And he kept silence now, I suppose, because he didn't want his daughters to know about his past?"
"Just so," agreed Rathbury. "And I don't know that I blame him. He thought, of course, that he'd go scot-free over this Marbury affair. But he made his mistake in the initial stages, my boy—oh, yes!"
Spargo got up from his desk and walked around his room for a few minutes, Rathbury meanwhile finding and lighting another cigar. At last Spargo came back and clapped a hand on the detective's shoulder.
"Look here, Rathbury!" he said. "It's very evident that you're now going on the lines that Aylmore did murder Marbury. Eh?"
Rathbury looked up. His face showed astonishment.
"After evidence like that!" he exclaimed. "Why, of course. There's the motive, my son, the motive!"
Spargo laughed.
"Rathbury!" he said. "Aylmore no more murdered Marbury than you did!"
The detective got up and put on his hat.
"Oh!" he said. "Perhaps you know who did, then?"
"I shall know in a few days," answered Spargo.
Rathbury stared wonderingly at him. Then he suddenly walked to the door. "Good-night!" he said gruffly.
"Good-night, Rathbury," replied Spargo and sat down at his desk.
