Davidge had kept up this flow of talk while he took stock of his surroundings, and now, with another nudge of his companion’s elbow, he took a chair between the door and the table, planted himself firmly in it, put his hands on top of his stout stick, and propped his chin on his hands. He looked at Mrs. Engledew once more, and then let his eyes make another inspection of her guests.
“What have I come for, ma’am?” he repeated. “To hear those revelations you spoke of when you called on me this afternoon? Just so. Well, ma’am, the only question now is—who’s going to make ’em? For,” he added, sitting up again after his further inspection, and bestowing a general smile all round, “revelations, ma’am, is what I chiefly hanker after, and I shall be glad—delighted!—to hear any specimens from—anybody as chooses to make ’em!”
Mrs. Engledew looked at Burchill as she resumed her seat.
“I think Mr. Burchill is the most likely person to tell you what there is to tell,” she said. “His friend——”
“Ah!—the gentleman at the other end of the table, no doubt,” observed Davidge. “How do you do, sir? And what might that gentleman’s name be, now?”
Burchill, who had been watching the detective carefully, threw away his cigarette and showed an inclination to speak.
“Look here, Davidge!” he said. “You know very well why you’re here—you’re here to hear the real truth about the Herapath murder! Mrs. Engledew told you that this afternoon, when she called on you at Scotland Yard. Now the only two people who know the real truth are myself and my friend there—Mr. Dimambro.”
Selwood and Cox-Raythwaite, who until then had remained in ignorance of the little foreigner’s identity, started and looked at him with interest. So this was the missing witness! But Davidge remained cool and unimpressed.
“Ah, just so!” he said. “Foreign gentleman, no doubt. And you and Mr. Dimambro are the only persons who know the real truth about that little affair, eh, Mr. Burchill. Very good, so as——”
“As Mr. Dimambro doesn’t speak English very well——” began Burchill.