“Great Scot!” said Barthorpe. “Police!”
Davidge came quickly and quietly in—three other men with him. And in the room from which they emerged Barthorpe saw more men, many more men, and with them an eager, excited face which he somehow recognized—the face of the little Argus reporter who had asked him and Selwood for news on the morning after Jacob Herapath’s murder.
But Barthorpe had no time to waste thoughts on Triffitt. He suddenly became alive to the fact that two exceedingly strong men had seized his arms; that two others had similarly seized Burchill. The pallor died out of his face and gave place to a dull glow of anger.
“Now, then?” he growled. “What’s all this!”
“The same for both of you, Mr. Herapath,” answered Davidge, cheerfully and in business-like fashion. “I’ll charge both you and Mr. Burchill formally when we’ve got you to the station. You’re both under arrest, you know. And I may as well warn you——”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Barthorpe. “Arrest!—on what charge?”
“Charge will be the same for both,” answered Davidge coolly. “The murder of Jacob Herapath.”
A dead silence fell on the room. Then Peggie Wynne cried out, and Barthorpe suddenly made a spring at Burchill.
“You villain!” he said in a low concentrated voice. “You’ve done me, you devil! Let me get my hands on——”
The other men, Triffitt on their heels, came bustling into the room, obedient to Davidge’s lifted finger.