"Do you recognise that?" Murgatroyd demanded. The prosecutor desired, if
possible, to add robbery to the motive in the case.
Challoner never winked an eyelash.
"Know it?" he replied glibly, "I should think I did! It was Hargraves's.
When I saw it last there was ten thousand dollars in it." And turning it
almost inside out, he asked in an offhand manner:--
"Where's the money gone?"
Murgatroyd's eyes searched the face of the man before him as if he would
read his very soul.
"You took it," he asserted coldly.
Challoner passed his hand across his face, striving to clear away his
muddled recollections.
"I took it? Decidedly not!" he exclaimed indignantly. But the man's
dipsomaniacal doubts and fears tinged the tone of his voice and lessened
the impressiveness of his denial, though he added: "Why, your witness,
Pemmican, can tell you that--he saw the whole thing."
Mixley and McGrath had something to say now. In chorus they wanted
particularly to know whether Challoner was positive that Pemmican saw
"the whole thing." This joint interrogation seemed to have an irritating
effect on the prisoner; and when Murgatroyd silenced them by inquiring
of Challoner whether it was not a fact that he had tried to borrow money
all over town, the "Yes" he elicited was muttered angrily.
"But I didn't touch that," Challoner resumed, the beads of perspiration
standing out on his brow. "In any event, it is not one of the main facts
in my memory. If I did take the money, what in the world have I done
with it--tell me that? But look here, Murgatroyd, let's get down to
business and have this over with. I'm tired of the whole affair. I told
you that I waited for Hargraves for two nights. We had a game in Room
A--there was a compact--Hargraves won out! Hang him, he always won out!
We had a row then and there.... I pulled that gun and fired at him point
blank!"
"And then?"
"I killed him; and I would do it over again, I assure you. I don't
remember any more--but Pemmican was there--you've got his story--he
knows all about it."
"His story," observed Murgatroyd, laying a forefinger on the edge of the
desk, "amounts to just what you said last night--that drunk and sober,
you watched your chance, and when you got it, you made good--or bad,
whichever way you please."
"You've got it," returned Challoner, "now take me back."
There was a loud rap on the door. Mixley answered it, and left the room,
holding a conversation in somewhat strenuous tones on the other side. He
returned in an instant.
"It's Counsellor Thorne," he announced to the prosecutor. "He wants to
see you."
Murgatroyd shook his head impatiently. He and Thorne did not pull well
together.
"Tell him to wait," he said brusquely.
"He won't wait," persisted Mixley. "He insists...."
"You tell him that he's got to wait," returned Murgatroyd.
But Thorne did not wait. No sooner had Mixley left the room than Thorne
entered and strode up to the prosecutor's desk. Mixley followed him.
Resting one hand on the table Thorne waved the other toward Challoner.
"Murgatroyd," he cried fiercely, with an injured air, "what's this? You
call yourself a reputable member of the bar; you call yourself a reform
prosecutor of the pleas; this is a most unfair advantage."
Murgatroyd sighed wearily.
"What now, Thorne, what now?"
"Most unfair," repeated the other counsellor-at-law. "You've got my
client here--my client!"
Murgatroyd looked at Mixley and then at McGrath.
"Your client! Where is your client?"
"There he is," pointing, "James Lawrence Challoner!"