the yorkshire proverb

In the course of Triffitt’s brief and fairly glorious journalistic career, he had enjoyed and suffered a few startling experiences. He had been fastened up in the darker regions of a London sewer in flood, wondering if he would ever breathe the fine air of Fleet Street again or go down with the rats that scurried by him. He had been down a coal-mine in the bad hour which follows an explosion. He had several times risked his neck; his limbs had often been in danger; he had known what it was to feel thumpings of the heart and catchings of the breath from sheer fright. He had come face to face with surprise, with astonishment, with audacious turnings of Fortune’s glass. But never in all his life had he been so surprised as he now was, and after one long, low whistle he relieved his feelings by quoting verse:

“Trixie!” he went on in a low, concentrated voice. “This licks all! This bangs Banagher! This—but words fail me, Trixie!”

“What is it, Herbert?” demanded Trixie anxiously. “What does it all mean?”

“Ah!” responded Triffitt, wildly smiting the crown of his deerstalker. “That’s just it! What does it all mean, my dear! Gad!—this is—to use the common language of the common man, a fair licker! That that chap Burchill should march as bold as brass into those Herapath Flats, is—well, I couldn’t be more surprised, Trixie, than if you were to tell me that you are the Queen of Sheba’s grand-daughter! Not so much so, in fact. You see——”

But at that moment a taxi-cab came speeding round the corner, and from it presently emerged Carver and Davidge. The detective, phlegmatic, quiet as ever, nodded familiarly to Triffitt and lifted his hat to Trixie.

“Evening, Mr. Triffitt,” he said quietly.

“He’s in there!” exclaimed Triffitt, grabbing Davidge’s arm and pointing wildly to the brilliantly lighted entrance, wherein two or three uniformed servants lounged about to open doors and attend to elevators. “Walked in as if the whole place belonged to him! You know—Burchill!”

“Ah, just so!” responded Davidge unconcernedly. “Quite so—I wouldn’t name no names in the street if I were you, Mr. Triffitt. Ah!—to be sure, now. Well, of course, he would have to go in somewhere, wouldn’t he?—as well here as anywhere, perhaps. Yes. Now, if this young lady would join the other young lady in the cab, Mr. Carver’ll escort ’em home, and then he can come back here if he likes—we might have a bit of a job for him. And when the ladies retire, you and me can do our bit of business, d’ye see, Mr. Triffitt. What?”

Trixie, urged towards the cab, showed signs of uneasiness.

“Promise me you won’t get shot, or poisoned, or anything, Herbert!” she entreated. “If you do——”

“We aren’t going in for any shooting tonight, miss,” said Davidge gravely. “Some other night, perhaps. All quiet and serene tonight—just a little family gathering, as it were—all pleasant!”

“But that dreadful man!” exclaimed Trixie, pointing to the door of the flats. “Supposing——”

“Ah, but we won’t suppose,” answered Davidge. “He’s all right, he is. Mild as milk we shall find him—my word on it, miss. Now,” he continued, when he had gently but firmly assisted Trixie into the cab, said a word or two to Carver, taken Triffitt’s arm, and led him across the street, “now we’ll talk a bit, quietly. So he’s gone in there, has he, Mr. Triffitt? Just so. Alone, now?”

“Quite alone,” replied Triffitt. “What’s it all about—what does it mean? You seem remarkably cool about it!”

“I shouldn’t be much use in my trade if I didn’t keep cool, Mr. Triffitt,” answered Davidge. “You see, I know a bit—perhaps a good deal—of what’s going on—or what’s going to go on, presently. So will you. I’ll take you in there.”

“There? Where?” demanded Triffitt.

“Where he’s gone,” said Davidge. “Where—if I’m not mistaken—that chap’s going.”

He pointed to a man who had come quickly round the corner from the direction of the High Street, a middle-sized, apparently well-dressed man, who hurried up the broad steps and disappeared within the glass-panelled doors.

“That’s another of ’em,” observed Davidge. “And I’m a Dutchman if this taxi-cab doesn’t hold t’other two. You’ll recognize them, easy.”

Triffitt gaped with astonishment as he saw Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Selwood descend from the taxi-cab, pass up the steps, and disappear.

“Talk of mysteries!” he said. “This——”

Davidge pulled out an old-fashioned watch.

“Nine o’clock,” he remarked. “Come on—we’ll go in. Now, then, Mr. Triffitt,” he continued, pressing his companion’s arm, “let me give you a tip. You mayn’t know that I’m a Yorkshireman—I am! We’ve a good old proverb—it’s often cast up against us: ‘Hear all—say naught!’ You’ll see me act on it tonight—act on it yourself. And—a word in your ear!—you’re going to have the biggest surprise you ever had in your life—and so’s a certain somebody else that we shall see in five minutes! Come on!”

He took Triffitt’s arm firmly in his, led him up the stairs, in at the doors. The hall-porter came forward.

“Take me up,” said Davidge, “to Mrs. Engledew’s flat.”

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