But on that Sunday which saw the white-haired lady interviewing Peggie Wynne and Selwood, Triffitt, to his great delight, found that newspaper requirements were not going to interfere with him. The hue-and-cry after the missing Burchill was dying down—the police (so Davidge told Triffitt in strict confidence) were of the firm opinion that Burchill had escaped to the continent—probably within a few hours of the moment wherein he made his unceremonious exit from Mr. Halfpenny's office. Even Markledew was not so keen about the Herapath affair as he had been. His policy was—a new day, a new affair. The Herapath mystery was becoming a little stale—it would get staler unless a fresh and startling development took place. As it was, nothing was likely to arise which would titillate the public until Barthorpe Herapath, now safely lodged in the remand prison, was brought to trial, or unless Burchill was arrested. Consequently, Triffitt was not expected to make up a half or a whole column of recent and sensational Herapath news every morning. And so he gladly took this Sunday for a return to the primrose paths. He and Carver met their sweethearts; they took them to the Albert Hall Sunday afternoon concert—nothing better offering in the middle of winter—they went to tea at the sweethearts' lodgings; later in the evening they carried them off to the accustomed Sunday dinner.

Triffitt and Carver had become thoroughly seasoned men of the world in the matter of finding out good places whereat to dine well and cheaply. They knew all the Soho restaurants. They had sampled several in Oxford Street and in Tottenham Court Road. But by sheer luck they had found one—an Italian restaurant—in South Kensington which was, in their opinion, superior to all of their acquaintance. This establishment had many advantages for lovers. To begin with, it bore a poetical name—the Cafe Venezia—Triffitt, who frequently read Byron and Shelley to his adored one, said it made one think of moonlight and gondolas, and similar adjuncts to what he called parfaite amour. Then it was divided off into little cabinets, just holding four people—that was an advantage when you were sure of your company. And for the prix fixe of two shillings they gave you quite a good dinner; also their Chianti was of exceptional quality, and according to the proprietor, it came straight from Siena.

On this Sunday evening, then, Triffitt on one side of a table with his lady-love, Carver on the other with his, made merry, with no thought of anything but the joys of the moment. They had arrived at the last stages of the feast; the heroes puffed cigarettes and sipped Benedictine; the heroines daintily drank their sweetened coffee. They all chattered gaily, out of the fulness of their youthful hearts; not one of them had any idea that anything was going to happen. And in the midst of their lightsomeness, Triffitt, who faced a mirror, started, dropped his cigarette, upset his liqueur glass and turned pale. For an instant he clutched the tablecloth, staring straight in front of him; then with a great effort he controlled his emotion and with a cautious hissing of his breath, gazed warningly at Carver.

"'Sh!" whispered Triffitt. "Not a word! And don't move—don't show a sign, any of you. Carver—turn your head very slowly and look behind you. At the bar!"

At the entrance to that restaurant there was a bar, whereat it was possible to get a drink. There were two or three men, so occupied, standing at this bar at that moment—Carver, leisurely turning to inspect them, suddenly started as violently as Triffitt had started a moment before.

"Good heavens!" he muttered. "Burchill!"

"Quiet!" commanded Triffitt. "Quiet, all of you. By Gad!—this is——"

He ended in an eloquent silence and with a glare at his companions which would have imposed silence on an unruly class-room. He was already at work—the quick, sure journalistic instinct had come up on top and was rapidly realizing the situation. That the man standing there, openly, calmly, taking a drink of some sort, was Frank Burchill he had no more doubt than of his own identity. The thing was—what was to be done?

Triffitt was as quick of action as of thought—in two seconds he had made up his mind. With another warning glance at the startled girls, he bent across the table to Carver.

"Carver!" he whispered. "Do exactly what I tell you. When Burchill goes out, Trixie and I'll follow him. You pay the bill—then you and Lettie jump into the first taxi you can get and go to Scotland Yard. Find Davidge! If Davidge isn't there, get somebody else. Wait there until I ring you up! What I'll do will be this—we'll follow Burchill, and if I see that he's going to take to train or cab I'll call help and stop him. You follow me? As soon as I've taken action, or run him to earth, I'll ring up Scotland Yard, and then——"

"He's going," announced Carver, who had taken advantage of the many mirrors to keep his eye on Burchill. "He's off! I understand——"

Triffitt was already leading his sweetheart quietly out. In the gloom of the street he saw Burchill's tall figure striding away towards Cromwell Road. Triffitt's companion was an athletically inclined young woman—long walks in the country on summer Sundays had toughened her powers of locomotion and she strode out manfully in response to Triffitt's command to hurry up.

"Lucky that you were with me, Trixie!" exclaimed Triffitt. "You make a splendid blind. Supposing he does look round and sees that he's being followed? Why, he'd never think that we were after him. Slip your hand in my arm—he'll think we're just a couple of sweethearts, going his way. Gad!—what a surprise! And what a cheek he has—with all those bills out against him!"

"You don't think he'll shoot you if he catches sight of you?" asked Trixie, anxiously. "He'd be sure to recognize you, wouldn't he?"

"We'll not come within shooting distance," replied Triffitt grimly. "All I want to do is to track him. Of course, if he gets into any vehicle, I'll have to act. Let's draw a bit nearer."

Burchill showed no sign of hailing any vehicle; indeed, he showed no sign of anything but cool confidence. It was certainly nearly nine o'clock of a dark winter evening, but there was plenty of artificial light in the streets, and Burchill made no attempt to escape its glare. He walked on, smoking a cigar, jauntily swinging an umbrella, he passed and was passed by innumerable people; more than one policeman glanced at his tall figure and took no notice. And Triffitt chuckled cynically.

"There you are, Trixie!" he said. "There's a fellow who's wanted about as badly as can be, whose picture's posted up outside every police-station in London, and at every port in England, and he walks about, and stares at people, and passes policemen as unconcernedly as I do. The fact of the case is that if I went to that bobby and pointed Burchill out, and told the bobby who he is, all that bobby would say would be, 'Who are you a-kiddin' of?'—or words to that equivalent. And so—still ahead he goes, and we after him! And—where?"

Burchill evidently knew very well where he was going. He crossed Cromwell Road, went up Queen's Road, turned into Queen's Gate Terrace, and leisurely pursuing his way, proceeded to cut through various streets and thoroughfares towards Kensington High Street. Always he looked forward; never once did he turn nor seem to have any suspicion that he was being followed. There was nothing here of the furtive slink, the frightened slouch of the criminal escaped from justice; the man's entire bearing was that of fearlessness; he strode across Kensington High Street in the full glare of light before the Town Hall and under the noses of several policemen.

Five minutes later Triffitt pulled himself and Trixie up with a gasp. The chase had come to an end—for that moment, at any rate. Boldly, openly, with absolute nonchalance, Burchill walked into a brilliantly-lighted entrance of the Herapath Flats!



CHAPTER XXXII

THE YORKSHIRE PROVERB

In the course of Triffitt's brief and fairly glorious journalistic career, he had enjoyed and suffered a few startling experiences. He had been fastened up in the darker regions of a London sewer in flood, wondering if he would ever breathe the fine air of Fleet Street again or go down with the rats that scurried by him. He had been down a coal-mine in the bad hour which follows an explosion. He had several times risked his neck; his limbs had often been in danger; he had known what it was to feel thumpings of the heart and catchings of the breath from sheer fright. He had come face to face with surprise, with astonishment, with audacious turnings of Fortune's glass. But never in all his life had he been so surprised as he now was, and after one long, low whistle he relieved his feelings by quoting verse:

"Is things what they seem? Or is visions about?

"Trixie!" he went on in a low, concentrated voice. "This licks all! This bangs Banagher! This—but words fail me, Trixie!"

"What is it, Herbert?" demanded Trixie anxiously. "What does it all mean?"

"Ah!" responded Triffitt, wildly smiting the crown of his deerstalker. "That's just it! What does it all mean, my dear! Gad!—this is—to use the common language of the common man, a fair licker! That that chap Burchill should march as bold as brass into those Herapath Flats, is—well, I couldn't be more surprised, Trixie, than if you were to tell me that you are the Queen of Sheba's grand-daughter! Not so much so, in fact. You see——"

But at that moment a taxi-cab came speeding round the corner, and from it presently emerged Carver and Davidge. The detective, phlegmatic, quiet as ever, nodded familiarly to Triffitt and lifted his hat to Trixie.

"Evening, Mr. Triffitt," he said quietly.

"He's in there!" exclaimed Triffitt, grabbing Davidge's arm and pointing wildly to the brilliantly lighted entrance, wherein two or three uniformed servants lounged about to open doors and attend to elevators. "Walked in as if the whole place belonged to him! You know—Burchill!"

"Ah, just so!" responded Davidge unconcernedly. "Quite so—I wouldn't name no names in the street if I were you, Mr. Triffitt. Ah!—to be sure, now. Well, of course, he would have to go in somewhere, wouldn't he?—as well here as anywhere, perhaps. Yes. Now, if this young lady would join the other young lady in the cab, Mr. Carver'll escort 'em home, and then he can come back here if he likes—we might have a bit of a job for him. And when the ladies retire, you and me can do our bit of business, d'ye see, Mr. Triffitt. What?"

Trixie, urged towards the cab, showed signs of uneasiness.

"Promise me you won't get shot, or poisoned, or anything, Herbert!" she entreated. "If you do——"

"We aren't going in for any shooting tonight, miss," said Davidge gravely. "Some other night, perhaps. All quiet and serene tonight—just a little family gathering, as it were—all pleasant!"

"But that dreadful man!" exclaimed Trixie, pointing to the door of the flats. "Supposing——"

"Ah, but we won't suppose," answered Davidge. "He's all right, he is. Mild as milk we shall find him—my word on it, miss. Now," he continued, when he had gently but firmly assisted Trixie into the cab, said a word or two to Carver, taken Triffitt's arm, and led him across the street, "now we'll talk a bit, quietly. So he's gone in there, has he, Mr. Triffitt? Just so. Alone, now?"

"Quite alone," replied Triffitt. "What's it all about—what does it mean? You seem remarkably cool about it!"

"I shouldn't be much use in my trade if I didn't keep cool, Mr. Triffitt," answered Davidge. "You see, I know a bit—perhaps a good deal—of what's going on—or what's going to go on, presently. So will you. I'll take you in there."

"There? Where?" demanded Triffitt.

"Where he's gone," said Davidge. "Where—if I'm not mistaken—that chap's going."

He pointed to a man who had come quickly round the corner from the direction of the High Street, a middle-sized, apparently well-dressed man, who hurried up the broad steps and disappeared within the glass-panelled doors.

"That's another of 'em," observed Davidge. "And I'm a Dutchman if this taxi-cab doesn't hold t'other two. You'll recognize them, easy."

Triffitt gaped with astonishment as he saw Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood descend from the taxi-cab, pass up the steps, and disappear.

"Talk of mysteries!" he said. "This——"

Davidge pulled out an old-fashioned watch.

"Nine o'clock," he remarked. "Come on—we'll go in. Now, then, Mr. Triffitt," he continued, pressing his companion's arm, "let me give you a tip. You mayn't know that I'm a Yorkshireman—I am! We've a good old proverb—it's often cast up against us: 'Hear all—say naught!' You'll see me act on it tonight—act on it yourself. And—a word in your ear!—you're going to have the biggest surprise you ever had in your life—and so's a certain somebody else that we shall see in five minutes! Come on!"

He took Triffitt's arm firmly in his, led him up the stairs, in at the doors. The hall-porter came forward.

"Take me up," said Davidge, "to Mrs. Engledew's flat."



CHAPTER XXXIII

BURCHILL FILLS THE STAGE

It seemed to Triffitt, who possessed, and sedulously cultivated, a sense of the dramatic, that the scene to which he and Davidge were presently conducted by a trim and somewhat surprised-looking parlour-maid, was one which might have been bodily lifted from the stage of any theatre devoted to work of the melodramatic order. The detective and the reporter found themselves on the threshold of a handsomely furnished dining-room, vividly lighted by lamps which threw a warm pink glow over the old oak furniture and luxurious fittings. On one side of the big table sat Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood both looking a little mystified; at the further end sat a shortish, rather fat man, obviously a foreigner, who betrayed anxiety in every line of his rather oily countenance. And posed in an elegant attitude on the hearthrug, one elbow resting on the black marble of the mantelpiece, one hand toying with a cigarette, stood Burchill, scrupulously attired as usual, and conveying, or endeavouring to convey to whoever looked upon him, that he, of all people present, was master of himself and all of the scene.

Triffitt took all this in at a glance; his next glance was at the elegant, white-haired lady who came forward to meet him and his companion. Davidge gave him a nudge as he executed a duck-like bow.

"Servant, ma'am," said Davidge in his quietest and coolest manner. "I took the liberty of bringing a friend with me. You see, ma'am, as these proceedings are in what we may call the public way, Mrs. Engledew, no objection I'm sure to having a press gentleman at them. Mr. Triffitt, ma'am, of the Argus newspaper. Known to these gentlemen—all of 'em—unless it's the gentleman at the far end, there. Known, at any rate, to Mr. Selwood and the Professor," continued Davidge, nodding with much familiarity to the person he named. "And likewise to Mr. Burchill there. How do you do, sir, this evening? You and me, I think, has met before, and shall no doubt meet again. Well, ma'am, and now that I've come, perhaps I might ask a question. What have I come for?"

Davidge had kept up this flow of talk while he took stock of his surroundings, and now, with another nudge of his companion's elbow, he took a chair between the door and the table, planted himself firmly in it, put his hands on top of his stout stick, and propped his chin on his hands. He looked at Mrs. Engledew once more, and then let his eyes make another inspection of her guests.

"What have I come for, ma'am?" he repeated. "To hear those revelations you spoke of when you called on me this afternoon? Just so. Well, ma'am, the only question now is—who's going to make 'em? For," he added, sitting up again after his further inspection, and bestowing a general smile all round, "revelations, ma'am, is what I chiefly hanker after, and I shall be glad—delighted!—to hear any specimens from—anybody as chooses to make 'em!"

Mrs. Engledew looked at Burchill as she resumed her seat.

"I think Mr. Burchill is the most likely person to tell you what there is to tell," she said. "His friend——"

"Ah!—the gentleman at the other end of the table, no doubt," observed Davidge. "How do you do, sir? And what might that gentleman's name be, now?"

Burchill, who had been watching the detective carefully, threw away his cigarette and showed an inclination to speak.

"Look here, Davidge!" he said. "You know very well why you're here—you're here to hear the real truth about the Herapath murder! Mrs. Engledew told you that this afternoon, when she called on you at Scotland Yard. Now the only two people who know the real truth are myself and my friend there—Mr. Dimambro."

Selwood and Cox-Raythwaite, who until then had remained in ignorance of the little foreigner's identity, started and looked at him with interest. So this was the missing witness! But Davidge remained cool and unimpressed.

"Ah, just so!" he said. "Foreign gentleman, no doubt. And you and Mr. Dimambro are the only persons who know the real truth about that little affair, eh, Mr. Burchill. Very good, so as——"

"As Mr. Dimambro doesn't speak English very well——" began Burchill.

"I speak it—you understand—enough to say a good many words—but not so good as him," observed Mr. Dimambro, waving a fat hand. "He say it for me—for both of us, eh?"

"To be sure, sir, to be sure," said Davidge. "Mr. Burchill is gifted that way, of course. Well, Mr. Burchill, and what might this story be, now? Deeply interesting, I'll be bound."

Burchill pulled a chair to the table, opposite Selwood and the Professor. He put the tips of his fingers together and assumed an explanatory manner.

"I shall have to begin at the beginning," he said. "You'll all please to follow me closely. Now, to commence—Mrs. Engledew permits me to speak for her as well as for Mr. Dimambro. The fact is, I can put the circumstances of the whole affair into a consecutive manner. And I will preface what I have to say by making a statement respecting a fact in the life of the late Mr. Herapath which will, I believe, be substantiated by Mr. Selwood, my successor as secretary to the deceased gentleman. Mr. Herapath, in addition to being an authority on the building of up-to-date flats, was also more or less of an expert in precious stones. He not only bought and sold in these things, but he gave advice to his friends in matters relating to them. Mr. Selwood has, I am sure, had experience of that fact?"

"To a certain extent—yes," agreed Selwood. "But I had not been long enough in Mr. Herapath's employ to know how much he went in for that sort of thing."

"That is immaterial," continued Burchill. "We establish the fact that he did. Now we come to the first chapter of our story. This lady, Mrs. Engledew, a tenant of this flat since the Herapath Estate was built, is an old acquaintance—I am permitted to say, friend—of the late Jacob Herapath. She occasionally consulted him on matters of business. On November 12th last she consulted him on another affair—though it had, of course, a business complexion. Mrs. Engledew, by the death of a relative, had just come into possession of some old family jewels—chiefly diamonds. These diamonds, which, Mrs. Engledew tells me, had been valued by Spinks at about seven thousand pounds, were in very old, considerably worn settings. Mrs. Engledew wished to have them reset. Knowing that Jacob Herapath had great taste and knowledge in that direction, she saw him at his office on the noon of November 12th, showed him the diamonds, and asked his advice. Jacob Herapath—I am giving you Mrs. Engledew's account—told her to leave the diamonds with him, as he was going to see, that very day, an expert in that line, to whom he would show the stones with the idea of his giving him his opinion on what ought to be done with them. Mrs. Engledew handed him the diamonds in a small case, which he put in his pocket. I hope," added Burchill, turning to Mrs. Engledew, "that I have given all this quite correctly?"

"Quite," assented Mrs. Engledew. "It is perfectly correct."

"Then," continued Burchill, "we pass on to Mr. Dimambro. Mr. Luigi Dimambro is a dealer in precious stones, who resides in Genoa, but travels widely about Europe in pursuance of his business. Mr. Dimambro had had several dealings with Jacob Herapath during past years, but previous to November 12th last they had not met for something like twelve months. On their last previous meeting Jacob Herapath told Mr. Dimambro that he was collecting pearls of a certain sort and size—specimens of which he showed him—with a view to presenting his niece, Miss Wynne, with a necklace which was to be formed of them. He gave Dimambro a commission to collect such pearls for him. On November 11th last Dimambro arrived in London from the Continent, and wrote to Mr. Herapath to tell him of his arrival, and to notify him that he had brought with him some pearls of the sort he wanted. Mr. Herapath thereupon made an appointment with Dimambro at the House of Commons on the evening of November 12th at half-past ten o'clock. Dimambro kept that appointment, showed Mr. Herapath the pearls which he had brought, sold them to him, and received from him, in payment for them, a cheque for three thousand guineas. This transaction being conducted, Mr. Herapath drew from his pocket (the same pocket in which he had already placed the pearls, which I understand, were wrapped up in a small bag or case of wash-leather) the diamonds which Mrs. Engledew had entrusted to him, showed them to Dimambro, and asked his opinion as to how they could best be reset. It is not material to this explanation to repeat what Dimambro said on that matter—suffice it to say that Dimambro gave an expert opinion, that Mr. Herapath once more pocketed the diamonds, and soon afterwards left the House of Commons for his estate offices with both lots of valuable stones in his possession—some ten thousand pounds' worth in all. As for Dimambro, he went home to the hotel at which he was stopping—a little place called the Ravenna, in Soho, an Italian house—next morning, first thing, he cashed his cheque, and before noon he left for the Continent. He had not heard of the murder of Jacob Herapath when he left London, and he did not hear of it until next day. I think I have given Mr. Dimambro's account accurately—his account so far," concluded Burchill, turning to the Italian. "If not, he will correct me."

"Quite right, quite right!" said Dimambro, who had listened eagerly. "I do not hear of the murder, eh, until I am in Berlin—it is, yes, next day—day after I leave London—that I hear of it, you understand? I then see it in the newspaper—English news, eh?"

"Why did you not come back at once?" asked Cox-Raythwaite.

Dimambro spread out his hands.

"Oh, I have my business—very particular," he said. "Besides, it has nothing to do with me, eh? I don't see no—no connection between me and that—no! But in time, I do come back, and then—he tell you," he broke off, pointing to Burchill. "He tell you better, see?"

"I am taking everything in order," said Burchill. "And for the present I have done with Mr. Dimambro. Now I come to myself. I shall have to go into details about myself which I should not give if it were not for these exceptional circumstances. Mr. Davidge, I am sure, will understand me. Well, about myself—you will all remember that at both the coroner's inquest and at the proceedings before the magistrate at which Barthorpe Herapath was present and I—for reasons well known!—was not, there was mention made of a letter which I had written to Jacob Herapath and was subsequently found in Barthorpe's possession, on his arrest. That letter was taken to be a blackmailing letter—I don't know whether any of you will believe me, and I don't care whether you do or not, but I declare that it was not meant to be a letter of that sort, though its wording might set up that opinion. However, Jacob Herapath resented that letter, and on its receipt he wrote to me showing that it had greatly displeased him. Now, I did not want to displease Jacob Herapath, and on receipt of his letter, I determined to see him personally at once. Being, of course, thoroughly familiar with his habits, I knew that he generally left the House of Commons about a quarter past eleven, every night when the House was sitting. I accordingly walked down to Palace Yard, intending to accost him. I arrived at the entrance to the Hall soon after eleven. A few minutes later Mountain, the coachman, drove up with the coupe brougham. I remained within the shadow of the porch—there were other people about—several Members, and men who were with them. At a quarter past eleven Jacob Herapath came down the Hall, accompanied by Dimambro. I knew Dimambro, though I had not seen him for some time—I used to see him, very occasionally, during my secretaryship to Mr. Herapath. When I saw these two in conversation, I drew back, and neither of them saw me. I did not want to accost Mr. Herapath in the presence of a second party. I watched him part from Dimambro, and I heard him tell Mountain to drive to the estate office. When both he and Dimambro had gone, I walked out into Parliament Square, and after thinking things over, I hailed a passing taxi-cab, and told the driver to go to Kensington High Street, and to pull up by the Metropolitan Station."

Burchill here paused—to give Davidge a peculiarly knowing look.

"Now I want you all—and particularly Mr. Davidge—to follow closely what I'm going to tell you," he continued. "I got out of the cab at the station in the High Street, dismissed it, walked a little way along the street, and then crossed over and made for the Herapath Flats—for the estate office entrance. I think you are all very well acquainted with that entrance. You know that it lies in a covered carriage way which leads from the side-street into the big quadrangle round which the flats are built. As I went up the side-street, on the opposite side, mind, to the entrance, I saw a man come out of the covered carriage way. That man I knew!"

Burchill made a dramatic pause, looking impressively around him amidst a dead silence.

"Knew!" he repeated, shaking his finger at the expectant faces. "Knew well! But—I am not going to tell you his name at this moment. For the present we will call him Mr. X."



CHAPTER XXXIV

DAVIDGE'S TRUMP CARD

Burchill paused for a moment, to give full effect to this dramatic announcement, which, to tell truth, certainly impressed every member of his audience but one. That one skilfully concealed his real feelings under a show of feigned interest.

"You never say!" exclaimed Davidge, dropping into a favourite colloquialism of his native county. "Dear me, today! A man that you knew, Mr. Burchill, and that for the present you'll call Mr. X. You knew him well, then?"

"Better than I know you," replied Burchill. He was beginning to be suspicious of Davidge's tone, and his resentment of it showed in his answer. "Well enough to know him and not to mistake him, anyhow! And mind you, there was nothing surprising in his being there at that time of night—that's a point that you should bear in mind, Davidge—it's in your line, that. I knew so much of Jacob Herapath's methods and doings that it was quite a reasonable thing for this man to be coming out of the estate offices just before midnight."

"Exactly, sir—I follow you," said Davidge. "Ah!—and what might this Mr. X. do then, Mr. Burchill?"

Burchill, who had addressed his remarks chiefly to the listeners on the other side of the table, and notably to Cox-Raythwaite, turned away from the detective and went on.

"This man—Mr. X," he said, "came quickly out of the door, turned down the side-street a little, then turned back, passed the carriage-entrance, and went away up the street in the opposite direction. He turned on his own tracks so quickly that I was certain he had seen somebody coming whom he did not wish to meet. He——"

"Excuse me a moment," broke in Cox-Raythwaite. "How was it X. didn't see you?"

"Because I was on the opposite side of the street, in deep shadow," replied Burchill. "Besides that, the instant I caught sight of him I quietly slipped back into a doorway. I remained there while he turned and hurried up the street, for I was sure he had seen somebody coming, and I wanted to find out who it was. And in another minute Barthorpe Herapath came along, walking quickly. Then I understood—X. had seen him in the distance, and didn't want to meet him."

"Just so, just so," murmured Davidge. "To be sure."

"Barthorpe Herapath turned into the carriageway and went into the office," continued Burchill. "Now, as I've already said, I knew Jacob Herapath's methods; I hadn't served him for nothing. He was the sort of man who makes no distinction between day and night—it was quite a common thing for him to fix up business appointments with people at midnight. I've been present at such appointments many a time. So, I dare say, has Mr. Selwood; any one who acted as secretary to Jacob Herapath knows well that he'd think nothing of transacting business at three o'clock in the morning. So I knew, of course, that Barthorpe had gone there to keep some such appointment. I also knew that it would probably last some time. Now I wanted to see Jacob Herapath alone. And as there didn't seem to be any chance of it just then, I went home to my flat in Maida Vale."

"Walked in?" asked Davidge.

"If you're particular as to the means, I took a taxi-cab at the Gardens end of the High Street," replied Burchill, half-contemptuously. He turned his attention to Selwood and the Professor again. "Now, I'm going to tell you the plain truth about what happened afterwards," he continued. "This part of the story is for the particular benefit of you two gentlemen, though it has its proper connection with all the rest of the narrative. I sat up rather late when I got home that night, and I lay in bed next day until afternoon—in fact, I'd only just risen when Barthorpe Herapath called on me at three o'clock. Now, as I don't have papers delivered, but go out to buy what I want, it's the fact that I never heard of Jacob Herapath's murder until Barthorpe told me of it, then! That's the truth. And I'll at once anticipate the question that you'll naturally want to ask. Why didn't I at once tell Barthorpe of what I'd seen the night before?—of the presence of the man whom we're calling Mr. X.?"

"Just so!" murmured Davidge. "Ah, yes, why not?"

"I'll tell you," continued Burchill. "Because Barthorpe immediately sprang upon me the matter of the will. And I just as immediately recognized—I think I may count myself as a quick thinker—that the really important matter just then was not the murder of Jacob Herapath, but the ultimate disposal of Jacob Herapath's immense wealth."

"Clever!" sighed Davidge. "Uncommonly clever!"

"Now, Professor Cox-Raythwaite, and you, Mr. Selwood," Burchill went on, adding new earnestness to his tone. "I want you to fully understand that I'm giving you the exact truth. I firmly believed at that moment, and I continued to believe until the eventful conference at Mr. Halfpenny's office, that the gentleman whom I had known as Mr. Tertius was in reality Arthur John Wynne, forger and ex-convict. I say I firmly believed it, and I'll tell you why. During my secretaryship to Jacob Herapath, he one day asked me to clear out a box full of old papers and documents. In doing so I came across an old North-country newspaper which contained a full account of the trial at Lancaster Assizes of Arthur John Wynne on various charges of forgery. Jacob Herapath's name, of course, cropped up in it, as a relative. The similarity of the names of Jacob Herapath's ward, Miss Wynne, and that of the forger, roused my suspicions, and I not only put two and two together, but I made some inquiries privately, and I formed the definite conclusion that Tertius and Wynne were identical, and that the semi-mystery of Tertius's residence in Jacob Herapath's house was then fully accounted for. So when Barthorpe told me what he did, and explained his anxiety about the will, I saw my way to upsetting that will, for his benefit and for my own. If I swore that I'd never signed that will, and could prove that Tertius was Wynne, the forger, why then, of course, the will would be upset, for it seemed to me that any jury would believe that Tertius, or Wynne, had forged the will for his daughter's benefit. And so Barthorpe and I fixed that up. Reprehensible, no doubt, gentlemen, but we all have to live, and besides, Barthorpe promised me that he'd treat Miss Wynne most handsomely. Well, that procedure was settled—with the result that we're all aware of. And now I'd like to ask Mr. Davidge there a question—as I'm about to tell him who the real murderer of Jacob Herapath was, perhaps he'll answer it. I take it, Davidge, that the only evidence you had against me in regard to the murder was the document which you found at my flat, by which Barthorpe Herapath promised to pay me ten per cent. on the value of the Herapath estate? That and the fact that Barthorpe and I were in league about the will? Come now—as all's being cleared up, isn't that so?"

Davidge rubbed his chin with affected indifference.

"Oh, well, you can put it down at something like that, if you like, Mr. Burchill," he answered. "You're a very clever young fellow, and I dare say you're as well aware of what the law about accessories is as I am. 'Tisn't necessary for a party to a murder to be actually present at the execution of the crime, sir—no! And there's such a thing as being accessory after the crime—of course. Leave it at that, Mr. Burchill, leave it at that!"

Cox-Raythwaite, who had been eyeing Burchill with ill-concealed disgust, spoke sharply.

"And—the rest?" he asked.

"I'm going along in order," answered Burchill coolly. "Well, I come to the time when Davidge there arrested Barthorpe and myself at Halfpenny and Farthing's, and when I escaped. There's no need to tell you what I did with myself," he went on, with an obvious sneer in the detective's direction. "But I can tell you that I didn't particularly restrict my movements. And eventually—a few days ago—I come into touch with Dimambro, who had returned to England. As I said before, we had met during the time I was secretary to Jacob Herapath. Dimambro, when I met him—accidentally—was on his way to the police, to tell them what he knew. I stopped him—he told his story to me instead. I told him mine. And the result of our deliberations was that we got an interview—at least I did—with Mrs. Engledew here, with respect to the diamonds which she had entrusted to Jacob Herapath. And——"

"I should like to ask you a question, Mrs. Engledew," said Cox-Raythwaite, interrupting Burchill without ceremony. "Why did you not inform the police about your diamonds as soon as you heard of the murder?"

Mrs. Engledew betrayed slight signs of confusion, and Davidge gave the questioner a look.

"I think if I were you, I shouldn't go into that matter just now, Professor," he said apologetically. "Ladies, you know, have their reasons for these little—what shall we call 'em?—peculiarities. No, I wouldn't press that point, sir. We're having a nice, straight story—quite like a printed one!—from Mr. Burchill there, and I think we'd better let him come to what we may term the last chapter in his own way—what?"

"I'm at the last chapter," said Burchill. "And it's a short one. I saw Mrs. Engledew and made certain arrangements with her. And just after they were made—yesterday in fact—Dimambro and I got a new piece of evidence. When Dimambro was collecting those pearls for Jacob Herapath he bought some from a well-known dealer in Amsterdam, a specialist in pearls. Yesterday, Dimambro got a letter from this man telling him that a small parcel of those very pearls had been sent to him from London, for sale. He gave Dimambro the name and address of the sender, who, of course, was the Mr. X. of whom I have spoken. So then Dimambro and I resolved to act, through Mrs. Engledew——"

"For a slight consideration, I think," suggested Davidge dryly. "A matter of a little cheque, I believe, Mr. Burchill."

"We've quite as much right to be paid for our detective services, amateur though they are, as you have for yours, Davidge," retorted Burchill. "However, I've come to an end, and it only remains for me to tell you who Mr. X. really is. He hasn't the slightest notion that he's suspected, and if you and your men, Davidge, go round to his house, which isn't half a mile away, you'll probably find him eating his Sunday evening supper in peace and quietness. The man is——"

Davidge suddenly rose from his chair, nudging Triffitt as he moved. He laughed—and the laugh made Burchill start to his feet.

"You needn't trouble yourself, Mr. Burchill!" said Davidge. "Much obliged to you for your talk, there's nothing like letting some folks wag their tongues till they're tired. I know who murdered Jacob Herapath as well as you do, and who your Mr. X. is. Jacob Herapath, gentlemen," he added, turning to his astonished listeners, "was shot dead and robbed by his office manager, James Frankton, and if James Frankton's eating his Sunday supper in peace and quietness, it's in one of our cells, for I arrested him at seven o'clock this very evening—and with no help from you, Mr. Burchill! I'm not quite such a fool as I may look, my lad, and if I made one mistake when I let you slip I didn't make another when I got on the track of the real man. And now, ma'am," he concluded, with an old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Engledew, "there's no more to be said—by me, at all events, and I've the honour to wish you a good night. Mr. Triffitt—we'll depart."

Outside, Davidge took the reporter's arm in a firm grip, and chuckled as he led him towards the elevator.

"That's surprise one!" he whispered. "Wait till we get downstairs and into the street, and you'll have another, and it'll be of a bit livelier nature!"



CHAPTER XXXV

THE SECOND WARRANT

Davidge preserved a strict silence as he and Triffitt went down in the elevator, but when they had reached the ground floor he took the reporter's arm again, and as they crossed the entrance hall gave it a significant squeeze.

"You'll see two or three rather heavy swells, some of 'em in evening dress, hanging about the door," he murmured. "Look like residents, coming in or going out, puffing their cigars and their cigarettes, eh? They're my men—all of 'em! Take no notice—there'll be your friend Carver outside—I gave him a hint. Join him, and hang about—you'll have something to do a bit of newspaper copy about presently."

Triffitt, greatly mystified, joined Carver at the edge of the pavement outside the wide entrance door. Glancing around him he saw several men lounging about—two, of eminently military appearance, with evening dress under their overcoats, stood chatting on the lower steps; two or three others, all very prosperous looking, were talking close by. There was nothing in their outward show to arouse suspicion—at any other time, and under any other circumstances Triffitt would certainly have taken them for residents of the Herapath Flats. Carver, however, winked at him.

"Detectives," he said. "They've gathered here while you were upstairs. What's up now, Triffitt? Heard anything?"

"Piles!" answered Triffitt. "Heaps! But I don't know what this is all about. Some new departure. Hullo!—here's the secretary and the Professor."

Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood just then appeared at the entrance door and began to descend the steps. Davidge, who had stopped on the steps to speak to a man, hailed and drew them aside.

"What has gone on up there?" asked Carver. "Anything really——"

Triffitt suddenly grasped his companion's shoulder, twisting him round towards the door. His lips emitted a warning to silence; his eyes signalled Carver to look.

Burchill came out of the doors, closely followed by Dimambro. Jauntily swinging his walking-cane he began to descend, affecting utter unconsciousness of the presence of Cox-Raythwaite, Selwood, and Davidge. He passed close by the men in evening dress, brushing the sleeve of one. And the man thus brushed turned quickly, and his companion turned too—and then something happened that made the two reporters exclaim joyfully and run up the steps.

"Gad!—that was quick—quick!" exclaimed Triffitt, with the delight of a schoolboy. "Never saw the bracelets put on more neatly. Bully for you, Davidge, old man!—got him this time, anyhow!"

Burchill, taken aback by the sudden onslaught of Davidge's satellites, drew himself up indignantly and looked down at his bands, around the wrists of which his captors had snapped a pair of handcuffs. He lifted a face white with rage and passion and glanced at Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood.

"Liars!" he hissed between his teeth. "You gave me safe conduct! It was understood that I was to come and go without interference, you hounds!"

"Not with me, nor I should think with anybody, my lad," exclaimed Davidge, bustling forward. "Not likely! You forget that you're under arrest for the old charge yet, and though you'll get off for that, you won't go scot-free, my friend! I've got a second warrant for you, and the charge'll be read to you when you get to the station. You'll clear yourself of the charge of murder, but not of t'other charge, I'm thinking!"

"Second warrant! Another charge!" growled Burchill. "What charge?"

"I should think you know as well as I do," replied Davidge quietly. "You're a bigger fool than I take you for if you don't. Conspiracy, of course! It's a good thing to have two strings to one's bow, Mr. Frank Burchill, in dealing with birds like you. This is my second string. Take him off," he added, motioning to his men, "and get him searched, and put everything carefully aside for me—especially a cheque for ten thousand pounds which you'll find in one of his pockets."

When the detectives had hurried Burchill into a taxi-cab which suddenly sprang into useful proximity to the excited group, Davidge spat on the ground and made a face. He motioned Cox-Raythwaite, Selwood, and the two reporters to go down the street; he himself turned to Dimambro. What he said to that highly-excited gentleman they did not hear, but the Italian presently walked off looking very crestfallen, while Davidge, joining them, looked highly pleased with himself.

"Of course, you'll stop payment of that cheque at the bank first thing tomorrow, gentlemen," he said. "Though that'll only be for form's sake, because I shall take charge of it when I go round to the police-station presently—they'll have got Burchill searched when I get there. Of course, I wasn't going to say anything up there, but Mrs. Engledew has been in with us at this, and she took Burchill and Dimambro in as beautifully as ever I saw it done in my life! Clever woman, that! We knew about her diamonds, gentlemen, within a few hours of the discovery of the murder, and of course, I thought Barthorpe had got them; I did, mistaken though I was! I didn't want anybody to know about those diamonds, though, and I kept it all dark until these fellows came on the scene. And, anyway, we didn't get the real culprit through the diamonds, either!"

"That's what we want to know," said Selwood. "Have you got the real culprit? Are you certain? And how on earth did you get him—a man that none of us ever suspected!"

"Just so!" answered Davidge with a grim laugh. "As nice and quiet-mannered a man as ever I entered as a candidate for the gallows! It's very often the case, gentlemen. Oh, yes—it's true enough! He's confessed—crumpled up like a bit of tissue paper when we took him—confessed everything to me just before I came along here. Of course we didn't get him through anything we've heard tonight; quite different line altogether, and a simple one."

"We should like to know about it," said Cox-Raythwaite. "Can't you give us a mere outline?"

"I was going to," answered Davidge. "No secret about it. I may as well tell you that after hearing what Barthorpe Herapath insisted on saying before the magistrate, I began to feel that he was very likely telling the truth, and that somebody'd murdered and robbed his uncle just before he got to the offices. But, of course, there was nothing to connect the murder and robbery with any person that I knew of. Well, now then, this is how we got on the track. Only two or three days ago a little, quiet man, who turned out to be a bit of a property-owner down at Fulham, came to me and said that ever since Mr. Jacob Herapath's murder he'd been what he called studying over it, and he thought he ought to tell me something. He said he was a very slow thinker, and it had taken him a long time to think all this out. Then he told me his tale. He said that for some time Jacob Herapath had been waiting to buy a certain bit of land which he had to sell. On November 12th last he called to see Jacob at these offices, and they agreed on the matter, price to be L5,000. Jacob told him to come in at ten o'clock next morning, and in accordance with his usual way of doing business, he'd hand him the money in cash—notes, of course. Well, the chap called next morning, only to hear of what had happened, and so his business had fallen through. And it wasn't until some time later—he's a bit of a slow-witted fellow, dullish of brain, you understand," continued Davidge indulgently, "that he remembered a certain conversation, or rather a remark which Jacob Herapath made during that deal. This man, James Frankton, the manager, was present when the deal was being effected, and when they'd concluded terms, Jacob said, turning to Frankton. 'I'll get the money in notes from the bank this afternoon, Frankton, and if I don't give it to you in the meantime, you'll find the notes in the top left-hand drawer of my desk tomorrow morning.' Well, that was what the man told me; said he'd been bothering his brains in wondering if Jacob did draw that money, and so on—Frankton, of course, had told him that he knew nothing about it, and that as Jacob was dead, no more could be done in the matter. Now on that, I at once began some inquiries. I found out a thing or two—never mind what—one was to trace a hundred pound note which Frankton had cashed recently. I found, only yesterday morning, that that note was one of fifty similar notes paid to Jacob Herapath by his bankers in exchange for his own cheque on the afternoon of November 12th. And, on that, I had Frankton watched all yesterday, last night, and today, and as I said, I arrested him tonight—and, in all my experience I never saw a man more surprised, and never knew one who so lost his nerve."

"And his confession?" asked Selwood.

"Oh! ordinary," answered Davidge. "Jacob had made an appointment with him for half-past eleven or so. Got there a bit late, found his master sitting at his desk with a wad of bank notes on the blotting-pad, a paper of pearls on one side of him, a lot of diamond ornaments at the other—big temptation to a chap, who, as it turns out, was hard up, and had got into the hands of money-lenders. And, oh, just the ordinary thing in such cases, happened to have on him a revolver that he'd bought abroad, yielded to temptation, shot his man, took money and valuables, went home, and turned up at the office next day to lift his hands in horror at the dreadful news. You see what truth is, gentlemen, when you get at it—just a common, vulgar murder, for the sake of robbery. And he'll swing!"

"'Just a common, vulgar murder, and he'll swing!'" softly repeated Cox-Raythwaite, as he and Selwood walked up the steps of the house in Portman Square half an hour later. "Well, that's solved, anyway. As for the other two——"

"I suppose there's no doubt of their guilt with respect to their conspiring to upset the will?" said Selwood. "And that's a serious offence, isn't it?"

"In this eminently commercial country, very," answered Cox-Raythwaite, sententiously. "Barthorpe and Burchill will inevitably retire to the shelter of a convict establishment for awhile. Um! Well, my boy, good night!"

"Not coming in?" asked Selwood, as he put a key in the latch.

The Professor gave his companion's shoulder a pressure of his big hand.

"I think," he said, turning down the steps with a shy laugh, "I think Peggie will prefer to receive you—alone."

THE END



THE MYSTERY STORIES OF

J . S . F L E T C H E R

"We always feel as though we were really spreading happiness when we can announce a genuinely satisfactory mystery story, such as J. S. Fletcher's new one."—N. P. D. in the New York Globe.

THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER [1918]

"Unquestionably, the detective story of the season and, therefore, one which no lover of detective fiction should miss."—The Broadside.

THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM [1920]

"A crackerjack mystery tale; the story of Linford Pratt, who earnestly desired to get on in life, by hook or by crook—with no objection whatever to crookedness, so long at it could be performed in safety and secrecy."—Knickerbocker Press.

THE PARADISE MYSTERY [1920]

"As a weaver of detective tales Mr. Fletcher is entitled to a seat among the elect. His numerous followers will find his latest book fully as absorbing as anything from his pen that has previously appeared."—New York Times.

DEAD MEN'S MONEY [1920]

"The story is one that holds the reader with more than the mere interest of sensational events; Mr. Fletcher writes in a notable style."—Newark Evening News.

THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND [1921]

". . . A rattling good yarn. . . . An uncommonly well written tale."—New York Times.

THE CHESTERMARKE INSTINCT [1921]

"Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot. . . . To tell a story as well as this is a literary achievement."—Boston Transcript.

THE BOROUGH TREASURER [1921]

"As mystifying a tale as even Mr. Fletcher himself has written."—New York Times.

THE HERAPATH PROPERTY [1921]

Numerous complications lead from the murder of Jacob Herapath and the search for his will.

SCARHAVEN KEEP [1922]

The mystery of the disappearance of Bassett Oliver, famous actor.

RAVENSDENE COURT [1922]

Two men are struck down by an unseen hand, at the same time in widely separated places—who killed them?

$2.00 net each at all booksellers or from the Publisher

ALFRED A. KNOPF, New York.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

The advertisement "The Mystery Stories of J. S. Fletcher" has been moved from the front of the book to the back.

Spacing around ellipses and em-dashes is as in the original.

The following corrections have been applied:

Advertisement: "As mystifying{original had mystifyng} a tale as even Mr. Fletcher himself has written."

Page vi: XXIV{original had XIV} COLD STEEL

Page 18: but when she had left the room to make ready for the drive Mr.{original omitted period} Tertius turned to Selwood.

Page 66: the detective, armed with a magnifying glass, was examining the edges of the door, the smooth backs of chairs, even the surface of the desk, presumably for finger-marks{original had fingermarks}.

Page 72: "Mr. Selwood!" she exclaimed imploringly. "You—I can't.{The original text has no em-dash, and it's not clear what the author's intention was.} You open it, and—"

Page 85: "Pardon," interrupted Burchill, "a{original had A} holograph?

Page 128: And it was as well that he was not looking{original had look-} at Triffitt

Page 160: perhaps you'll{original had you'l} drop me a line and make an appointment at your office some day—then I'll call, d'you see?"{original omitted closing quotation mark}

Page 166: "So long as justice is done," remarked Peggie.{original omitted period}

Page 178: There were peculiarities about the fellow, said Triffitt{original had Triffit}, which you couldn't forget

Page 186: "All right," said Triffitt, "keep{original had Keep} a still tongue as regards me

Page 186: {original had a quotation mark here}Outside Triffitt gave his companion's arm a confidential squeeze.

Page 187: Markledew{original had Markledek} listened to Triffitt's story next day in his usual rapt silence.

Page 196: "Then we'll get to work," said Davidge. "{original omitted quotation mark}Mr. Triffitt, I can't ask you to come with us

Page 201: "I haven't{original had haven'} the least objection to Cox-Raythwaite's presence, nor yours," said Barthorpe.

Page 211: Peggie Wynne, who during Barthorpe's last speech had manifested signs of a desire to speak, and had begun to produce a sealed packet from her muff.{original had a superfluous quotation mark here}

Page 214: as they{original had ast hey} went on, quietly rose from his chair.

Page 218: Is it not probable that if he wanted to make a will he{original had be} would have employed me

Page 273: Peggie{original had Peggy} Wynne had never been so glad of anything in her life as for Selwood's immediate presence at that moment

Page 287: You follow me? As soon as I've taken action, or run him to earth, I'll ring up Scotland Yard, and{original had an} then——"

Page 293: "Nine o'clock," he remarked. "{original omitted this quotation mark}Come on—we'll go in. Now, then, Mr. Triffitt," he continued,

The following unusual spellings are as printed:

Page 143: He flung Markledew's half-sheet of notepaper before the news editor, and the news editor, seeing the great man's sprawling caligraphy{sic}, read, wonderingly:—

The following words appear with and without a hyphen. They have been left as in the original.

bank-notes/banknotes

business-like/businesslike

hearth-rug/hearthrug

note-book/notebook

note-paper/notepaper

parlour-maid/parlourmaid

THE END