g
that attention to this Herapath business had come to interfere with his
love-making and his Sunday feast of mirth and gladness. More than once he
had been obliged to let Carver go alone to the usual rendezvous; he himself
had been running hither and thither after chances of news which never
materialized, while his sweetheart played gooseberry to the more favoured
people. 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. The hue-and-cry after
the missing Burchill was dying down--the police (so Davidge told Triffitt
in strict confidence) were of the firm opinion that Burchill had escaped
to the continent--probably within a few hours of the moment wherein he
made his unceremonious exit from Mr. Halfpenny's office. Even Markledew was
not so keen about the Herapath affair as he had been. His policy was--a
new day, a new affair. The Herapath mystery was becoming a little stale--it
would get staler unless a fresh and startling development took place. As
it was, nothing was likely to arise which would titillate the public until
Barthorpe Herapath, now safely lodged in the remand prison, was brought
to trial, or unless Burchill was arrested. Consequently, Triffitt was not
expected to make up a half or a whole column of recent and sensational
Herapath news every morning. And so he gladly took this Sunday for a return
to the primrose paths. He and Carver met their sweethearts; they took them
to the Albert Hall Sunday afternoon concert--nothing better offering in
the middle of winter--they went to tea at the sweethearts' lodgings; later
in the evening they carried them off to the accustomed Sunday dinner.

Triffitt and Carver had become thoroughly seasoned men of the world in
the matter of finding out good places whereat to dine well and cheaply.
They knew all the Soho restaurants. They had sampled several in Oxford
Street and in Tottenham Court Road. But by sheer luck they had found
one--an Italian restaurant--in South Kensington which was, in their
opinion, superior to all of their acquaintance. This establishment had
many advantages for lovers. To begin with, it bore a poetical name--the
Cafe Venez