Carver looked across. His face lighted up.
“I know that man,” he said. “I’ve seen him at the club—he’s been in once or twice, though he’s not a member. He does theatre stuff for the Magnet. His name’s Burchill.”
Triffitt dropped his friend’s arm.
“Oh!” he said. “So you know him—by sight, anyhow? And his name’s Burchill, eh? Very good. Let’s get.”
He walked Carver out of the cemetery, down the Harrow Road, and turned into the saloon bar of the first tavern that presented itself.
“I’m going to have some ale and some bread and cheese,” he observed, “and if you’ll follow suit, Carver, we’ll sit in that corner, and I’ll tell you something that’ll make your hair curl. Two nice plates of bread and cheese, and two large tankards of your best bitter ale, if you please,” he continued, approaching the bar and ringing a half-crown on it. “Yes, Carver, my son—that will curl your hair for you. And,” he went on, when they had carried their simple provender over to a quiet corner, “about that chap now known as Burchill—Burchill. Mr.—Frank—Burchill; late secretary to the respected gentleman whose mortal remains have just been laid to rest. Ah!”
“What’s the mystery?” asked Carver, setting down his tankard. “Seems to be one, anyway. What about Burchill?”
“Speak his name softly,” answered Triffitt. “Well, my son, I suddenly saw—him—this morning, and I just as suddenly remembered that I’d seen him before!”
“You had, eh?” said Carver. “Where?”
Triffitt sank his voice to a still lower whisper.