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 just by St. Mary Abbot church at two o’clock on the morning of the Herapath murder,” replied Carver. “That’s a dead certainty! I risked five pounds on it, anyway, for which I’ll trouble you. I went on the lines of rounding up all the cabbies I could find who were as a rule on night duty round about that quarter, and bit by bit I got on to this fellow, and, as I say, I gave him a fiver for just telling me a mere bit. And it’s here—he’s already given some information to that old Mr. Tertius—you know—and Tertius commanded him to keep absolutely quiet until the moment came for a move. Well, that moment has not come yet, evidently—the chap hasn’t been called on since, anyhow—and when I mentioned money he began to prick his ears. He’s willing to tell—for money—if we keep dark what he tells us. The truth is, he’s out to get what he can out of anybody. If you make it worth his while, he’ll tell.”
“Aye!” said Triffitt. “But the question is, what has he got to tell? What does he know?—actually know?”
“He knows,” replied Carver, “he actually knows who the man was that he drove that morning! He didn’t know who he was when he first gave information to Tertius, but he knows now, and, as I say, he’s willing to sell his knowledge—in private.”