CHAPTER XV

In Matthewson’s Chambers

Charles Matthewson read with impatience the name on the card just brought him--Isaac Trafford. It was a breach of the understanding between them, that this man should trouble him further. He was on the point of refusing to see him, when he recalled Trafford’s possession of the papers taken from Theodore Wing’s desk after his murder. This he had not known at the time of their previous interview. It was possible that here was the opening of negotiations for their sale. He ordered him admitted. Still he could not avoid resenting the intrusion.

“I understood you were not to trouble me further.”

“Until I became satisfied that your visit to Millbank had something to do with Wing’s murder,” the detective answered.

“Then I may take this visit as evidence that you are satisfied that it had to do with the murder!”

Trafford nodded.

“Why don’t you arrest me then?”

“Because I am satisfied you did not murder him, but can tell me who did,” Trafford answered.

“A sort of accessory after the fact?” Matthewson demanded.

“No,” said Trafford. “I’m inclined to think you never suspected that you knew anything about it or that you could tell me. At the same time, I’m almost certain you saw the murderer and talked with him that night.”

Matthewson started at this statement of the matter. He had not the nerve of either his mother or brother, and his power of concealing his emotions was greatly less than that of either. However, he quickly recovered himself.

“I refuse to be put in the position of laying accusations. I’ve no objection to aid in convicting a criminal, but I don’t purpose holding one end of a drag-net, for the mere sake of catching some one who may or may not be guilty.”

Trafford did not deem it best to answer this directly, but instead went on, as if nothing had been said of objection:

“You saw Charles Hunter and his brother Frank--but were they all?”

Matthewson drummed on his desk and looked out of the window. What was there, he asked himself, that was drawing him into this tragedy, of which he really knew nothing? Did this man know also what Cranston had discovered? Was there, after all, to grow out of this murder, of which he knew nothing, a scandal that was to overwhelm his family, and finally destroy the great influence they exercised in the State?

While he asked these questions of himself Trafford waited, the model of patience. If he had anything to disturb his mind, he did not show it. Evidently, Matthewson could take his time and be sure that the other would be there to receive his answer, when he was ready to give it. Finally Matthewson turned to the detective and said:

“I was in Millbank on my own private business. I saw the men whom that business concerned and no others. The men whom I saw are one and all as incapable of committing this murder as I am. I must decline to subject any of them to the annoyance I am now subjected to.”

“I don’t know whether you are incapable of committing murder or not. I shouldn’t want to affirm it of any one--not even myself. I am convinced that you saw and talked with Wing’s murderer that night. I must know the name of every man you saw while in Millbank, and if I can’t find it out in one way, I will in another.”

“It pleases you to threaten,” Matthewson said, not wholly unconscious of an uneasy feeling.

“Not to threaten, but simply to show you that I am in earnest,” Trafford assured him. “Still, I may appeal to you on another ground. I have named two men whom you saw. If I am to suppose they were the only ones, then I must regard one or the other as the real murderer, and this because you persist in concealing from me the name of the man who may be guilty. Have you a right to do this?”

“As much right,” retorted Matthewson hotly, “as you have to throw suspicion on these gentlemen, simply because of the coincidence of my meeting them during a hasty visit to Millbank on the night that Wing was murdered. It would be just as reasonable to suspect me of the murder.”

“It is possible that I do,” said Trafford.

“Come,” exclaimed Matthewson, “this is going a trifle far. It’s not five minutes since you said you were satisfied I did not murder him.”

“But that was before you refused to tell me whom you met.”

Just at that moment a loud voice was heard in the outer room, demanding to see Mr. Matthewson. He rose and turned the key in the door, notwithstanding a movement on Trafford’s part to stop him. As he turned to his desk, Trafford asked:

“Do you recognise the voice?”

“No,” said the other, shortly and indignantly; “but I propose to finish this matter here and now, so that there will be no need to reopen it.”

“That’s Cranston, the detective whom you, your brother, and Charles Hunter have hired,” said Trafford. “I advise you to see him, and let me be in a cupboard or behind a screen while he is here.”

“Superb!” said Matthewson, with a vicious sneer. “You’ll know all he’s found out--steal his thunder! Excellent!”

“Mr. Matthewson,” Trafford said, with a touch of dignity in his voice that his companion could but note, “I would be justified in resenting such a remark, and you are not justified in making it. Cranston has discovered nothing that I haven’t known for weeks; but he’s been in Bangor, and I know what he could find out there. You sent him there and made a cruel mistake when you did it. I would have stopped it, if I could. He’s here now to tell you and, if I mistake not, to demand a price for his silence. If I’m wrong, no harm can come from my hearing. If I’m right, you’re the man who wants me to hear; it’ll be the best protection you can have in the future.”

At the mention of Bangor, Matthewson turned pale and then flushed. That it was made with the purpose of informing him that the detective knew the secret of his mother’s early life, he could not doubt. There was but one thing that he ought to do, and that was to pitch the man out of his room. He would have done it, but for the man on the other side of the door, to whose presence he was recalled by the turning of the door-knob. In which of these men did he place the greater trust? He had only to ask the question to let it answer itself. But this new menace? He would know it at its worst. That was beyond question.

“Pass through this door, into the next room,” he said. “There you will find the door of a closet, which has a second door opening into this alcove. After he has entered and looked into that alcove, as he may, come out of the closet and--listen.”

Cranston, on entering, did exactly what Matthewson had predicted; he examined the alcove before taking the chair to which Matthewson pointed him.

“There’s no one in there,” Matthewson said.

“I can’t take any chances,” said the other insolently. “What I’ve got to say wants to be between us two--you’ll want it to be when you hear it.”

Matthewson flushed and an angry retort leaped to his lips. This, however, he suppressed and made necessity to ask the cause of the visit.

“I’ve come to report,” said Cranston. Then, as the other waited, he added:

“I’ve been at work in Bangor.” Then, after another pause: “I’ve learned things in Bangor that you ought to know.”

“It relates to the murder?”

“No, not directly. It relates to Theodore Wing’s mother.” He said it defiantly; as if he was throwing down the gage of battle.

It required a mighty effort on Matthewson’s part to control himself, and yet he knew that to fail meant that this terrible thing, which as yet remained unspoken, would be uttered in words and that he must hear it.

“I have become satisfied,” he said slowly and with an effort to control himself and appear dispassionate, “that the identity of Wing’s mother has no bearing on the murder or on the discovery of the murderer. You will, therefore, drop that part of the investigation and confine yourself to the other features. In this all who were concerned in employing you are agreed.”

“How long since?” the man demanded insolently.

“That is of no consequence,” Matthewson said. “You are now informed of the fact, so that your new instructions date from this moment.”

“It’s too late for you to accomplish anything by that dodge,” he said. “I’ve found out who Wing’s mother is. The story’s worth money. I’ll give you the first chance to buy. Do you want it?”

Matthewson trembled, as he realised the full significance of this demand. More than his mother possibly could, he knew how such a story would be received; how impossible it would be, once set afloat, to stop it or overcome it. Still, he put on a bold front.

“Whatever you may have learned, it was while you were under our pay. The information belongs to us and you can’t afford to make it a matter of barter.”

“What I’ve found out,” Cranston returned defiantly, “is worth so much that I can afford to take some risks. If you want it, you can have it for a price. If not, the highest bidder gets it, and in a State where ex-Governor Matthewson’s got as many enemies as he’s got in Maine, there won’t be any trouble about finding buyers.”

“There’s no need to drag in my father’s name,” Matthewson replied.

“How do you know there ain’t?” the other demanded. “Maybe you’ll be surprised at the names that are dragged in before we’re through.”

It was Matthewson’s impulse to throw the man out of doors, without regard to consequences; but before him came a face that had watched him lovingly and tenderly from his earliest memory--a face that he had seen only a few days before pleading to him, as he had never dreamed a woman’s face could plead. His hands clutched nervously; but for the sake of that face and that love, he held himself in restraint.

“Well, to end this matter,” he said, “what do you want for this precious information?”

“Hadn’t you better know first what it is?” demanded the other. “Oh,” he said, as he saw on Matthewson’s face what he regarded as a protest; “it won’t spoil the goods to show ’em. I’d just as lief tell you before as after. It’s silence I’m selling; not facts.”

“I don’t need you to repeat your talk; and what’s more, it won’t be safe for you to,” Matthewson said. “I know perfectly well what it would be; but I warn you not to dare speak it.”

The man in the alcove almost betrayed himself as he heard this astounding acknowledgment. After all, had he mistaken what he had seen, and was this the real secret he had been trying to unravel? Cranston was speaking again:

“Threatened men live long. You’ll get just as much for as little money, if you keep a civil tongue. I’ve got silence to sell; but I’m just blamed fool enough, if you get me mad, to refuse to sell at any price.”

“Then your proposition is that if I pay you your price, you’ll keep silence regarding your discovery as to Theodore Wing’s mother; and that if I do not, you’ll sell your information to any one who will pay you for it, regardless of the injury it may do me or any one connected with me?”

“That’s about it, in plain English.”

“It’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s it.”

“And you think that this information, if made public, would do me and those connected with me harm.”

“I don’t know what you call harm, if it wouldn’t. ’Twould be the end of the Matthewson family, socially and politically. They’d have to find another boss for Maine after this thing got out.”

“It’s just as well,” said the lawyer, “to keep within bounds in your remarks; they’re as likely to accomplish your purpose.”

But Cranston was smarting under his previous failure. He had tried to deal squarely with Mrs. Matthewson and had met refusal and insult. There was the possibility that, had he adopted a higher tone, he would have succeeded. He was resolved not to fail from the same cause this time.

“I’m answering questions,” he said, “and I’ll answer ’em in my own way. If you don’t like it, you don’t need to.”

It required a terrible effort on Matthewson’s part to prevent his openly resenting this insolence, and he was conscious of a distinctive loss of self-respect that he did not at once pitch the fellow out of the room.

“Let’s get through with this thing and be done with it,” he said. “How much will your silence cost me?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” answered Cranston.

Mr. Matthewson was startled at the figure.

“Why, man, you’re crazy!” he exclaimed.

“I know it,” said Cranston. “I ought to have a hundred, but I ain’t going to be hard. I’ve set my price at twenty-five.”

“And you’ll take five,” retorted Matthewson.

“I wouldn’t take twenty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents,” answered Cranston. “I’ve fixed my price, and it’s that or nothing.”

“I guess that’s right,” sneered Matthewson. “And how do you want this easy money?”

“In good, crisp bank-notes that one can feel; and before I leave this room.”

“Of course you’ll give a receipt when it’s paid over, setting out the terms of the bargain?”

“Of course, I won’t!” retorted Cranston. “You’ll have to trust to my honour; that’ll be your protection.”

“Then the bargain is, if I give you twenty-five thousand dollars, you’ll keep this story quiet. If I don’t, you’ll use it to my injury----”

“To your ruin,” interrupted Cranston. “I’ll drive you and your family out of the State; I’ll destroy every shred of your influence, and I’ll do it with this story!”

“There are no other terms; no other means by which I can stop you?”

“You bet there isn’t; and if this gabble goes on much longer, I’ll double my price.”

“Then we’ll stop it right here. I buy safety for twenty-five thousand dollars, and here’s five dollars to bind the bargain. I’m to send out and get the rest and pay to you before you leave. Are those the terms?”

“Those are the terms, if you get the money quick enough.”

“Then you can get out of this office, you skulking, blackmailing scoundrel, or I’ll throw you out of the window. Go, and don’t be slow about it, for my fingers are itching to get hold of you. I’m through with you!”

For an instant, Cranston was dumbfounded by the sudden revulsion of position. He had believed the money practically in his grasp, and instead he encountered this dismissal of contempt and abuse. But his surprise was only for an instant. Then a flood of senseless anger, verging on madness, seized him. He had but one impulse and that was to punish the man who had led him on, only to throw him down. There was a flash of a pistol in his hand as he said:

“But I’m not through with you, by God!”

“You don’t need that to send you to State’s prison,” said a voice behind him, as a hand, seemingly of steel, grasped his and wrenched away the pistol. He turned and saw Trafford standing behind him.

“By God, this is a dirty, contemptible trick, Trafford,” he gasped.

“I guess that’s so, too,” Trafford answered, coolly, as he drew the charges from the revolver, before handing it back to Cranston; “but unfortunately there are some situations in life that can’t be reached by anything else, and this seems to be one of ’em.”

“Now will you go?” demanded Matthewson, “while I’ve a notion to let you?”

“I’ll go,” the man muttered; “but you aren’t through with me yet!”

“When you feel a particular desire for free quarters at Thomaston, just meddle with my affairs again,” retorted Matthewson. “Until you do feel that way, you’d better let them alone.”