"Mrs. Challoner, this is a business transaction; let us close it. You
can get those securities to-day, I suppose?"
"Yes," she replied in the next breath, the flush of joy still on her
face.
"Then do so, please." His voice was hoarse now. "And bring them to me
here wrapped up in brown paper. You understand that nobody must know
about this. You know what it would mean to me, to you, to Challoner ..."
"Yes, yes," she cried eagerly, and held out her hand. "It's an
agreement."
But Murgatroyd purposely ignored her hand and abruptly turned away,
saying:--
"This matter must be closed at once."
And with a confident "I'll be back in half an hour," Mrs. Challoner
passed out of the door, which Murgatroyd had softly and noiselessly
unlocked.
* * * * *
The man who presently was brought out of the barred ante-room and taken
before the prosecutor might have been anything from a floor-walker of a
big department store to a manager of a renowned rathskeller. It was
evident from the manner in which he bore himself while under the
constant surveillance of the minions of the law, that he was perfectly
at home in the presence of strangers, and that unusual situations did
not feaze him. In the matter of general adornment of the person,
however, Pemmican of the low brow was an exception to his class: no
diamond blazed from his shirt-front or fingers; moreover, he was dressed
in the most sombre of blacks, and under his soft felt hat of the same
colour the hair was brushed forward with scrupulous care. The long,
thin, smooth-shaven face, the little, deep-set eyes, the abnormally low
brow, which was accentuated by this odd arrangement of his hair, the
pasty complexion, all gave one the impression of dignified sleekness. In
other words, one could easily have pictured the man as performing in a
most impressive manner the last offices needed by man here below. To sum
up, the attitude of the man now waiting for the prosecutor to address
him--Pemmican of the low brow always knew his place--produced the effect
of distressed meekness.
"Pemmican," said Murgatroyd, all geniality and good-fellowship now, "how
are they treating you?" And then, with a chuckle: "You look peaked, my
man!"
It was second nature to Pemmican to swallow his indignation and simulate
cheerfulness, but he answered peevishly:--
"No wonder I'm all to the bad. But why am I kept locked up in this house
of detention?"
McGrath grinned and spoke for the prosecutor.
"Witnesses is wary game and scarce; it ain't always the open season, so
we got to keep 'em in cold storage, see?"
Pemmican ignored this remark, but turned to the prosecutor, and there
was a whine in the voice that said:--
"You made my bail so infernally large that my friends would not put it
up for me."
"I did it purposely," Murgatroyd declared, still smiling. "This is an
important case; you are the only witness; and I've got to keep you where
your friends cannot reach you--" here a faint flush spread over the
prosecutor's countenance--"cannot corrupt you, Pemmican."
Suddenly Murgatroyd rose from his revolving chair. He nodded a dismissal
to McGrath; and then going over to a table in the centre of the room, he
drew to him a sheet of foolscap from a pile lying there, and said:--
"Come over here, Pemmican!" There was an article of some kind in the
hand that rested on the table. "Just sketch me here--on this paper--a
little plan showing the position of the men in Room A that night."
"Sure," volunteered Pemmican, taking the proffered pencil; "now, here
was Colonel Hargraves, here was----"
He stopped abruptly. For he had seen that the article in Murgatroyd's
hand was a wallet marked "R. H."
"Go on!" said Murgatroyd.
"And here was--" Pemmican stopped again.
"What are you looking at?" Murgatroyd asked. "Oh, that?" he said
casually, and passed the wallet to Pemmican.
Pemmican started and backed away.
"I don't want it. It ain't mine. I don't know what it is--what is it,
anyhow?" he gulped. "No, counsellor," he added; "and besides, I wasn't
looking at it."
Murgatroyd patted the wallet.
"It was Colonel Hargraves's pocketbook," he said. "I thought you
recognised it."
"Never saw it before, counsellor," he repeated sulkily; "never saw it
before."
"You must have seen it," persisted Murgatroyd; "it's pretty well worn,
and he must have carried it a long time. He was one of your patrons. The
fact is, Pemmican," he went on, "this wallet was the occasion of my
sending for you just now. I am informed that when Hargraves last carried
it the wallet was full of bills; and when he was found in the street it
was quite empty. It is a mere detail, but I should like to know whether
Challoner robbed this man as well as killed him."
Pemmican slowly shook his head.
"Can't help you out," he answered, "for I never saw the wallet. I don't
know...."
Murgatroyd went off on another tack.
"Very well, then; but there's another thing that you may clear up.... By
the way, Pemmican, perhaps you don't know that Challoner has confessed?"
Pemmican's physiognomy lost its doleful appearance. And he cried
joyfully:--
"Confessed? Gee, that's good--great! Confessed? Well, say, counsellor,
it just had to come to that!"
"Yes," conceded Murgatroyd; "but there's another thing which bothers me,
though I don't know that it complicates matters exactly. It's a mere
detail again. Challoner says he shot his man in Room A in Cradlebaugh's;
you say the quarrel took place there, that Hargraves went out first, and
that Challoner followed him. Hargraves, as we know, was found dead in
the street above. That's right--isn't it?"
"Sure," returned Pemmican, positively. "I didn't see him fire the shot;
nobody saw that. It's a good thing, though, because between you and me,
Prosecutor, notwithstanding my testimony I thought that you'd have some
trouble in making out a case. Circumstances is something, but they ain't
everything, you know."