Carver, who had been listening intently to the memory of a bygone event, pushed away the remains of his frugal lunch, and shook his head as he drew out a cigarette-case.
“By gad, Triff, old man!” he said. “If I’d been that chap I’d rather have been hanged, I think. Not proven, eh?—whew! That meant——”
“Pretty much what the folk in court and the mob outside thought,” asserted Triffitt. “That scene outside, after the trial, is one of my liveliest recollections. There was a big crowd there—chiefly women. When they heard the verdict there was such yelling and hooting as you never heard in your life! You see, they were all certain about the fellow’s guilt, and they wanted him to swing. If they could have got at him, they’d have lynched him. And do you know, he actually had the cheek to leave the court by the front entrance, and show himself to that crowd! Then there was a lively scene—stones and brickbats and the mud of the street began flying. Then the police waded in—and they gave Mr. Francis Bentham pretty clearly to understand that there must be no going home for him, or the folks would pull his roof over his head. And they forced him back into the court, and got him away out of the town on the quiet—and I reckon he’s never shown his face in that quarter of the globe since.”
“That will?” asked Carver. “Did it stand good—did he get the woman’s money?”
“He did. My aunt told me afterwards that he employed some local solicitor chap—writers, as they call ’em there—to wind everything up, convert everything into cash, for him. Oh, yes!” concluded Triffitt. “He got the estate, right enough. Not an awful lot, you know—a thousand or two—perhaps three—but enough to go adventuring with elsewhere.”
“You’re sure this is the man?” asked Carver.
“As certain as that I’m myself!” answered Triffitt. “Couldn’t mistake him—even if it is nine years ago. It’s true I was only a nipper then—sixteen or so—but I’d all my wits about me, and I was so taken with him in the dock, and with his theatrical bearing there—he’s a fine hand at posing—that I couldn’t forget or mistake him. Oh, he’s the man! I’ve often wondered what had become of him.”
“And now you find out that he’s up till recently been secretary to Jacob Herapath, M.P., and is just now doing dramatic criticism for the Magnet,” observed Carver. “Well, Triffitt, what do you make of it?”
Triffitt, who had filled and lighted an old briarwood pipe, puffed solemnly and thoughtfully for a while.
“Well,” he said, “nobody can deny that there’s a deep mystery about Jacob Herapath’s death. And knowing what I do about this Bentham or Burchill, and that he’s recently been secretary to Jacob Herapath, I’d just like to know a lot more. And—I mean to!”