Part 2

He went down the gangplank, an olive-skinned steward carrying his bags. He pushed roughly through the crowd of people come to meet the voyagers, and closed his ears to the soft Spanish greetings. He failed altogether to see a motion-picture photographer cranking busily. He pressed free of the assembly of people, and turned impatiently to the steward behind him.

“Trouble you to come with me, sir,” said a quiet voice at his elbow.

Two unimpressive figures in civilian clothes stood, one on either side. The hand of each was in his coat-pocket, where a suggestive bulge warned against resistance.

“What the devil!” began Beckwith furiously, and stopped.

Wells was standing there, smiling sarcastically at him--Wells the commissioner of police.

“You’re under arrest for Hugh Conway’s murder, Beckwith,” he said caustically.

A dozen or more delighted men watched the scene, cameras and note-books busy. Beckwith saw the unmistakable signs of the reportorial trade. There was even a woman or two among them, “sob-sisters” beyond a doubt.

“We might as well make it a nice, dramatic moment, Beckwith,” Wells said dryly. “I got your letter, pinned to Conway’s breast. Kind of you to tell me where you were going, and that you couldn’t be extradited. I wouldn’t have got you but for that. I knew you’d look in the papers for news of your feat; as a matter of fact, you mentioned it in your letter, so I took the boys here into my confidence”--he nodded at the group of newspapermen--“and they agreed to help out. Their owners O. K.’d the scheme and the murder was kept absolutely secret from the public and the press.

“We gave you two weeks to get worried, and then announced Conway’s bequest to charities--it was really in his will--and printed a picture or so of him. You rose to the bait, all right. We couldn’t touch you in Nueva Bolivia, but as soon as you boarded the steamer, we had you. We let you come on to New York alone, though, to save trouble. We’re much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Beckwith suddenly understood. He had not won his revenge and freedom after all. He had not proven himself cleverer than Wells. He had lost, utterly and irreparably. He had been lured into the power of the law by nothing more than silence. But the thing that cut deepest into his hearts that made the cup of his humiliation run over, was a final remark of Wells. The reporters were listening intently.

“I guess that’s all, boys,” said Wells indulgently. “No more to be said. You’ll have a good story for the evening editions. Beckwith couldn’t resist playing to the gallery gods.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 21, 1920 issue of the Argosy—All Story Weekly magazine.]