dew had become somewhat previous--he had
insisted that Triffitt should talk to the Scotland Yard folk at this
early--in Triffitt's view, much too early--stage of the proceedings. And
Triffitt had felt all the time he was talking that he was only telling
the high official and the apathetic Davidge something that they already
knew. He had told them about his memories of Bentham and the Scottish
murder trial--something convinced him that they were already well
acquainted with that story. He had narrated the incident of the taxi-cab
driver: he was sure that they were quite well aware that the man who had
been driven from Orchard Street to St. Mary Abbot church that morning
after the murder was Barthorpe Herapath. Their cold eyes and polite, yet
almost chillingly indifferent manner had convinced Triffitt that they
were just listening to something with which they were absolutely
familiar. Never a gleam of interest had betrayed itself in their stolid
official faces until he had referred to the fact that he himself was
living in a flat next door to Burchill's. Then, indeed, the detective
had roused himself almost to eagerness, and now he was coming to see
him, Triffitt, quietly and unobtrusively. Why?

"All the same," mused Triffitt, "I shall maybe prove a small cog in the
bigger mechanism, and that's something. And Markledew was satisfied,
anyway, so far. And if I don't get something out of that chap Davidge
tonight, write me down an ass!"

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. At a quarter to seven
Burchill went out in evening dress, cloak, and opera hat, making a fine
figure as he struck the light of the corridor lamp. And ten minutes later
Triffitt heard steps coming along the corridor and he opened the door
to confront Davidge and another man, a quiet-looking, innocent-visaged
person. Davidge waved a hand towards his companion.

"Evening, Mr. Triffitt," said he. "Friend of mine--Mr. Milsey. You'll
excuse the liberty, I'm sure."

"Glad to see both of you," answered Triffitt, cordially. He led the way
into his sitting-room, drew chairs forward, and produced refreshments
which he had carefully laid in during the afternoon in