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Updated: June 20, 2025
The windows of the bedroom opened on to a view of the street below; those of the sitting-room on to a square of garden, on the lawn of which tenants might disport themselves, more or less sadly, with tennis or croquet in summer. Triffitt looked out of his sitting-room windows last of all.
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!"
So for the time being he closed his note-book and drew back beneath the shade of a cypress-tree, respectfully watching. In the tail-end of the procession he knew nobody; it was made up, he guessed, of Jacob Herapath's numerous clerks from the estate offices, and But suddenly Triffitt saw a face in that procession.
And as he was very much in love, Triffitt had often been tempted to throw his clues and his theories to the winds, and to vow himself to the service of Venus rather than to that of Mercury. 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.
From half-past six that evening, Triffitt, who had previously made some ingenious arrangements with the slit of his letter-box, by which he could keep an eye on the corridor outside, kept watch on Burchill's door he had an instinctive notion that Davidge, when he arrived, would be glad to know whether the gentleman opposite was in or out.
Eight o'clock came and went nine o'clock, ten o'clock followed and sped into the past, and they were still there. It was drawing near to eleven, and they had been in those rooms well over three hours, when a slight sound came at Triffitt's window and Davidge put his head in, to be presently followed by Milsey. Milsey looked as innocent as ever, but it seemed to Triffitt that Davidge looked grave.
Don't look too obtrusively but do you see that chap looks like an actor who is just coming away from the graveside tall, well-dressed chap?" Carver looked across. His face lighted up. "I know that man," he said. "I've seen him at the club he's been in once or twice, though he's not a member. He does theatre stuff for the Magnet. His name's Burchill." Triffitt dropped his friend's arm.
By the by, who's the gentleman across there just going up to the grave the gentleman who looks like an actor? Is he an actor?" "That? Oh!" answered Selwood. "No that's Mr. Frank Burchill, who used to be Mr. Herapath's secretary my predecessor." "Oh!" responded Triffitt. He had caught sight of Carver a few yards off, and he hurried his notebook into his pocket, and bustled off.
"I'm a poor chap, you know, and I don't often get a chance o' making a bit in this way. What's it worth what I can tell, you know to you? This here young gentleman was keen enough about it this afternoon, guv'nor." "Depends," answered Triffitt. "You'd better answer a question or two. First you haven't told the old gentleman in Portman Square Mr.
"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!
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