“You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burchill!” said Davidge. “Much obliged to you for your talk, there’s nothing like letting some folks wag their tongues till they’re tired. I know who murdered Jacob Herapath as well as you do, and who your Mr. X. is. Jacob Herapath, gentlemen,” he added, turning to his astonished listeners, “was shot dead and robbed by his office manager, James Frankton, and if James Frankton’s eating his Sunday supper in peace and quietness, it’s in one of our cells, for I arrested him at seven o’clock this very evening—and with no help from you, Mr. Burchill! I’m not quite such a fool as I may look, my lad, and if I made one mistake when I let you slip I didn’t make another when I got on the track of the real man. And now, ma’am,” he concluded, with an old-fashioned bow to Mrs. Engledew, “there’s no more to be said—by me, at all events, and I’ve the honour to wish you a good night. Mr. Triffitt—we’ll depart.”
Outside, Davidge took the reporter’s arm in a firm grip, and chuckled as he led him towards the elevator.
“That’s surprise one!” he whispered. “Wait till we get downstairs and into the street, and you’ll have another, and it’ll be of a bit livelier nature!”
CHAPTER XXXV
the second warrant
Davidge preserved a strict silence as he and Triffitt went down in the elevator, but when they had reached the ground floor he took the reporter’s arm again, and as they crossed the entrance hall gave it a significant squeeze.
“You’ll see two or three rather heavy swells, some of ’em in evening dress, hanging about the door,” he murmured. “Look like residents, coming in or going out, puffing their cigars and their cigarettes, eh? They’re my men—all of ’em! Take no notice—there’ll be your friend Carver outside—I gave him a hint. Join him, and hang about—you’ll have something to do a bit of newspaper copy about presently.”