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Updated: June 20, 2025
"We've never had him out of our sight since I started," replied Davidge, coolly, "except when he's been within his own four walls where we're presently going. Oh, yes we've watched him." "He's out now," remarked Triffitt. "We know that," said Davidge. "We know where he's gone. There's a first night, a new play, at the Terpsichoreum he's gone there.
Police-court cases county-court cases fires coroners' inquests street accidents they were all exciting enough, no doubt, to the people actively concerned in them, but you never got more than twenty or thirty lines out of their details. Thenceforth Triffitt ate, drank, smoked, and slept with the case; it was the only thing he ever thought of.
If he could fathom the Herapath Mystery in such a fashion as to make a real great, smashing, all-absorbing feature of a sensational discovery, the Argus would throw police precaution and official entreaties to the first wind that swept down Fleet Street. No! he, Triffitt, was not to be balked.
What does he know? actually know?" "He knows," replied Carver, "he actually knows who the man was that he drove that morning! He didn't know who he was when he first gave information to Tertius, but he knows now, and, as I say, he's willing to sell his knowledge in private." Triffitt considered Carver's report during a moment of mutual silence.
The idea was worth thinking over, anyway, and Triffitt retired indoors to ruminate over it and over much else. For two or three days nothing happened. Twice Triffitt met Burchill on the stairs Burchill, of course, did not know him from Adam, and gave him no more than the mere glance he would have thrown at any other ordinary young man.
"The next is try to find out if there's any taxi-cab driver around the Portman Square district who took a fare resembling old Herapath from anywhere about there to Kensington on the night of the murder," said Triffitt. "There must be some chap who drove that man, and if we've got any brains about us we can find him. If we find him, and can get him to talk well, we shall know something."
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.
"I suppose this really is of a private nature?" he asked suspiciously. "You know as well as I do that Mr. Markledew'll make me suffer if it isn't." "Soul and honour, it's of the most private!" affirmed Triffitt, laying a hand on his heart. "And of the highest importance, too, and I'll be eternally grateful if you'll put it before him as soon as you can."
"I'll let you know when I do." Then he went away, got his overcoat, made a derisive and sphinx-like grin at his fellow-reporters, and left the office to find Carver. If Triffitt had stayed in Kensal Green Cemetery a little longer, he would have observed that Mr.
I've seen you with him. I'm Mr. Triffitt, of the Argus I happened to call in at the police-station just now, and they told me of what had happened here, so I rushed along. Will you tell me all about it, Mr. Selwood? it'll be a real scoop for me I'll hustle down to the office with it at once, and we'll have a special out in no time. And whether you know it or not, that'll help the police.
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