Davidge took Triffitt away to Mr. Halfpenny’s office—on the way thither he talked about London fogs, one of which had come down that morning. But he never mentioned the business in hand until—having left Triffitt outside while he went in—he emerged from Mr. Halfpenny’s room. Then he took the reporter’s arm and led him away, and his manner changed to one of interest and even enthusiasm.
“Well, young fellow!” he said, leading Triffitt down the street, “you’re the chap I wanted to get hold of!—you’re a godsend. And so you really have a flat next to that occupied by the person whom we’ll refer to as F. B., eh?”
“I have,” answered Triffitt, who was full of wonderment.
“Good—good!—couldn’t be better!” murmured the detective. “Now then—I dare say you’d be quite pleased if I called on you at your flat—quietly and unobtrusively—at say seven o’clock tonight, eh?”
“Delighted!” answered Triffitt. “Of course!”
“Very good,” said Davidge. “Then at seven o’clock tonight I shall be there. In the meantime—not a word. You’re curious to know why I’m coming? All right—keep your curiosity warm till I come—I’ll satisfy it. Tonight, mind, young man—seven, sharp!”
Then he gave Triffitt’s arm a squeeze and winked an eye at him, and at once set off in one direction, while the reporter, mystified and inquisitive, turned in another.