Part 17 (2/2)

Then Triffitt went along to the _Argus_ office, and spent the rest of the afternoon in writing up a breezy and brilliant column about the scene at the inquest, intended to preface the ordinary detailed report.

He wound it up with an artfully concocted paragraph in which he threw out many thinly veiled hints and innuendoes to the effect that the police were in possession of strange and sensational information and that ere long such a dramatic turn would be given to this Herapath Mystery that the whole town would seethe with excitement. He preened his feathers gaily over this accomplishment, and woke earlier than usual next morning on purpose to go out before breakfast and buy the _Argus_.

But when he opened that enterprising journal he found that his column had been woefully cut down, and that the paragraph over which he had so exercised his brains was omitted altogether. Triffitt had small appet.i.te for breakfast that morning, and he went early to the office and made haste to put himself in the way of the news editor, who grinned at sight of him.

”Look here, Master Triffitt,” said the news editor, ”there's such a thing as being too smart--and too previous. I was a bit doubtful about your prognostications last night, and I rang up the C.I.D. about 'em.

Don't do it again, my son!--you mean well, but the police know their job better than you do. If they want to keep quiet for a while in this matter, they've good reasons for it. So--no more hints. See?”

”So they do know something?” muttered Triffitt sourly. ”Then I was right, after all!”

”You'll be wrong, after all, if you stick your nose where it isn't wanted,” said the news editor. ”Just chuck the inspired prophet game for a while, will you? Keep to mere facts; you'll be alarming the wrong people, if you don't. Off you go now! and do old Herapath's funeral--it's at noon, at Kensal Green. There'll be some of his fellow M.P.'s there, and so on.

Get their names--make a nice, respectable thing of it on conventional lines. And no fireworks! This thing's to lie low at present.”

Triffitt went off to Kensal Green, scowling and cogitating. Of course the police knew something! But--what? What they knew would doubtless come out in time, but Triffitt had a strong desire to be beforehand with them. In spite of the douche of cold water which the news editor had just administered, Triffitt knew his _Argus_. If he could fathom the Herapath Mystery in such a fas.h.i.+on as to make a real great, smas.h.i.+ng, all-absorbing feature of a sensational discovery, the _Argus_ would throw police precaution and official entreaties to the first wind that swept down Fleet Street. No!--he, Triffitt, was not to be balked. He would do his duty--he would go and see Jacob Herapath buried, but he would also continue his attempt to find out how it was that that burial came to be. And as he turned into the cemetery and stared at its weird collection of Christian and pagan monuments he breathed a fervent prayer to the G.o.ddesses of Chance and Fortune to give him what he called ”another look-in.”

CHAPTER XIV

THE SCOTTISH VERDICT

If Triffitt had only known it, the G.o.ddesses of Chance and Fortune were already close at hand, hovering lovingly and benignly above the crown of his own Trilby hat. Triffitt, of course, did not see them, nor dream that they were near; he was too busily occupied in taking stock of the black-garmented men who paid the last tribute of respect (a conventional phrase which he felt obliged to use) to Jacob Herapath. These men were many in number; some of them were known to Triffitt, some were not. He knew Mr. Fox-Crawford, an Under-Secretary of State, who represented the Government; he knew Mr. Dayweather and Mr. Encilmore, and Mr. Camford and Mr. Wallburn; they were all well-known members of Parliament. Also, he knew Mr. Barthorpe Herapath, walking at the head of the procession of mourners. Very soon he had quite a lengthy list of names; some others, if necessary, he could get from Selwood, whom he recognized as the cortege pa.s.sed him by. So for the time being he closed his note-book and drew back beneath the shade of a cypress-tree, respectfully watching. In the tail-end of the procession he knew n.o.body; it was made up, he guessed, of Jacob Herapath's numerous clerks from the estate offices, and----

But suddenly Triffitt saw a face in that procession. The owner of that face was not looking at Triffitt; he was staring quietly ahead, with the blank, grave demeanour which people affect when they go to funerals. And it was as well that he was not looking at Triffitt, for Triffitt, seeing that face, literally started and even jumped a little, feeling as if the earth beneath him suddenly quaked.

”Gad!” exclaimed Triffitt under his breath. ”It is! It can't be! Gad, but I'm certain it is! Can't be mistaken--not likely I should ever forget him!”

Then he took off the Trilby hat, which he had resumed after the coffin had pa.s.sed, and he rubbed his head as men do when they are exceedingly bewildered or puzzled. After which he un.o.btrusively followed the procession, hovered about its fringes around the grave until the last rites were over, and eventually edged himself up to Selwood as the gathering was dispersing. He quietly touched Selwood's sleeve.

”Mr. Selwood!” he whispered. ”Just a word. I know a lot of these gentlemen--the M.P.'s and so on--but there are some I don't know. Will you oblige me, now?--I want to get a full list. Who are the two elderly gentlemen with Mr. Barthorpe Herapath--relatives, eh?”

”No--old personal friends,” answered Selwood, good-naturedly turning aside with the little reporter. ”One is Mr. Tertius--Mr. J. C.

Tertius--a very old friend of the late Mr. Herapath's; the other is Mr.

Benjamin Halfpenny, the solicitor, also an old friend.”

”Oh, I know of his firm,” said Triffitt, busily scribbling. ”Halfpenny and Farthing, of course--odd combination, isn't it? And that burly gentleman behind them, now--who's he?”

”That's Professor c.o.x-Raythwaite, the famous scientist,” answered Selwood. ”He's also an old friend. The gentleman he's speaking to is Sir Cornelius Debenham, chairman of the World Alliance a.s.sociation, with which Mr. Herapath was connected, you know.”

”I know--I know,” answered Triffitt, still busy. ”Those two behind him, now--middle-aged parties?”

”One's Mr. Frankton, the manager, and the other's Mr. Charlwood, the cas.h.i.+er, at the estate office,” replied Selwood.

”They'll go down in staff and employees,” said Triffitt. ”Um--I've got a good list. By the by, who's the gentleman across there--just going up to the grave--the gentleman who looks like an actor? Is he an actor?”

”That? Oh!” answered Selwood. ”No--that's Mr. Frank Burchill, who used to be Mr. Herapath's secretary--my predecessor.”

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