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"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.
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.
"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.
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!
Sit you down and read your book and smoke your pipe and drink your drop and maybe we'll have something to tell you when our job's through." "You've no fear of interruption?" asked Triffitt, who would vastly have preferred action to inaction. "Supposing you know how things do and will turn out sometimes supposing he came back?" Davidge shook his head and smiled grimly and knowingly. "No," he said.
"Very kind of you," replied Davidge. "A slight amount of the liquid'll do us no harm, but no cigars, thank you, Mr. Triffitt. Cigars are apt to leave a scent, an odour, about one's clothes, however careful you may be, and we don't want to leave any traces of our presence where we're going, do we, Jim?" "Not much," assented Mr. Milsey, laconically. "Wouldn't do."
"Well?" said Triffitt. "Any luck?" Davidge drew the curtains over the balcony window before he turned and answered this question. "Mr. Triffitt," he said, when at last he faced round, "you'll have to put us up for the night. After what I've found, I'm not going to lose sight, or get out of touch with this man. Now listen, and I'll tell you, at any rate, something.
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.
William Davidge, comedian, from the asthmatic clarionet of Jem Bags, in the farce of the "Wandering Minstrel."
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.
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