away now--I've got all the
names--and attend to me a minute. 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.

"Oh!" he said. "So you know him--by sight, anyhow? And his name's
Burchill, eh? Very good. Let's get."

He walked Carver out of the cemetery, down the Harrow Road, and turned
into the saloon bar of the first tavern that presented itself.

"I'm going to have some ale and some bread and cheese," he observed, "and
if you'll follow suit, Carver, we'll sit in that corner, and I'll tell
you something that'll make your hair curl. Two nice plates of bread and
cheese, and two large tankards of your best bitter ale, if you please,"
he continued, approaching the bar and ringing a half-crown on it. "Yes,
Carver, my son--that will curl your hair for you. And," he went on, when
they had carried their simple provender over to a quiet corner, "about
that chap now known as Burchill--Burchill. Mr.--Frank--Burchill; late
secretary to the respected gentleman whose mortal remains have just been
laid to rest. Ah!"

"What's the mystery?" asked Carver, setting down his tankard. "Seems to be
one, anyway. What about Burchill?"

"Speak his name softly," answered Triffitt. "Well, my son, I suddenly
saw--him--this morning, and I just as suddenly remembered that I'd seen
him before!"

"You had, eh?" said Carver. "Where?"

Triffitt sank his voice to a still lower whisper.

"Where?" he said. "Where? In the dock!"

Carver arrested the progress of a lump of bread and cheese and turned in
astonishment.

"In the dock?" he exclaimed. "That chap? Good heavens! When--where?"

"It's a longish story," answered Triffitt. "But you've got to hear it if
we're going into this thing--as we are. Know, then, that I have an
aunt--Eliza. My aunt--maternal aunt--Eliza is married to a highly
respectable Scotsman named Kierley, who runs a flour-mill in the ancient
town of Jedburgh, which is in the county of Roxburgh, just over the
Border. And it's just about nine years (I can tell the exact date to a
day if I look at an old diary) that Mr. and Mrs. Kierley were good
enough to invite me to spend a few wee