ll, 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. Triffitt, however, gave Burchill more than a passing
look--unobtrusively. Certainly he was the man whom he had seen in the
dock nine years before in that far-off Scottish town--there was little
appreciable alteration in his appearance, except that he was now very
smartly dressed. There were peculiarities about the fellow, said
Triffitt, which you couldn't forget--certainly, Frank Burchill was
Francis Bentham.

But on the third day, two things happened--one connected directly with
Triffitt's new venture, the other not. The first was that as Triffitt
was going down the stairs that afternoon, on his way to the office, at
which he kept looking in now and then, although he was relieved from
regular attendance and duty, he met Barthorpe Herapath coming up.
Triffitt thanked his lucky stars that the staircase was badly lighted,
and that this was an unusually gloomy November day. True, Barthorpe had
only once seen him, that he knew of--that morning at the estate office,
when he, Triffitt, had asked Selwood for information--but then, some men
have sharp memories for faces, and Barthorpe might recognize him and
wonder what an _Argus_ man was doing there in Calengrove Mansions. So
Triffitt quickly pulled the flap of the Trilby hat about his nose, and
sank his chin lower into the turned-up collar of his overcoat, and
hurried past the tall figure. And Barthorpe on his part never looked at
the reporter--or if he did, took no more heed of him than of the
balustrade at his side.

"That's one thing established, anyway!" mused Triffitt as he went his
way. "Barthorpe Herapath is in touch with Burchill. The dead man's
nephew and the dead man's ex-secretary--um! Putting their heads
together--about what?"

He was still pondering this question when he reached the office and
found a note from Carver who wanted to see him at once. Triffitt went
round to the _Magnet_ and got speech with Carver in a quiet corner.
Carver went straight to his point.

"I've got him," he said, eyeing his fellow-conspirator triumphantly.

"Got--who?" demanded Triffitt.

"That taxi-cab chap--you know who I mean," answered Carver. "Ran him
down at noon today."

"No!" exclaimed Triffitt. "Gad! Are you sure, though?--is it certain
he's the man you were after?"

"He's the chap who drove a gentleman from near Portman Square to j