The same mail brought the “important news” and a note from Wilton, which
said:
_I must see you within twenty-four hours. The need is pressing. Please
wire appointment._
Many salient points in the career of Wilton lay before me. It's singular
how much it may cost to learn the history of one little man. For half
the sum that I was to pay for Wilton's record a commonplace intellect
should have been able to acquire every important fact in the history of
the world. Wilton, whose real name was Muggs, was wanted in Mexico for
grand larceny, and very grand larceny at that, for he had absconded
twelve years before with twenty thousand dollars belonging to the
business in which he had been engaged. They had got their clue from a
letter which he had carelessly left in his coat-pocket when he entered a
Turkish bath, but of that part of the matter I need say no more. It
was quite likely that he was wanted in other places, but this was want
enough for my purpose.
It was Saturday, and Betsey had gone to Pointview; I was to follow her
that evening for the week-end. No fog that day. The sun was shining in
clear air.
When Wilton came my program had been arranged. It began as soon as he
entered my room. The cat was purring when suddenly the dog jumped at
her. It was the dog in my voice as I said:
“Good morning, you busted philanthropist! Why didn't you tell me at
once that your name was Muggs. You might have saved me the expense of
employing a dozen detectives to learn what you could have told me in
five minutes. As a saint you're a failure. Why didn't you tell me that
they wanted you down in Mexico?”
The cat was gone--jumped out of the open window, perhaps. I never saw
her again. Muggs stood unmasked before me. He was a man now. His face
changed color. His right hand went up to his brow, and then, as if
wondering what it was there for, began deftly smoothing his hair, while
his lower lip came up to the tips of his cropped mustache. His eyelids
quivered slightly. The fingers in that telltale hand began to tremble
like a flag of distress.
In a second, before he had time to recover, I swung again, and very
vigorously.
“If you're going to save yourself you haven't a minute to lose. The
detectives want that reward, and they're after you. They telephoned
me not ten minutes ago. I'll do what I can for you, but I make one
condition.”
“Excuse me,” he said, as he pulled himself together. “I didn't know that
you had such a taste for history.”
“I love to study the history of philanthropists,” I said. “Yours
thrilled me. I couldn't stop till I got to this minute. You're just
beginning a new chapter, and I want you to give it a heading right now.
Shall it be 'Prison Life' or 'In the Way of Reform'?”
Again the man spoke.
“As God's my witness, I want to live honest,” said he.
“Then I'll try to help you.”
I have always thought with admiration of his calmness as he looked down
at me with a face that said, “I surrender,” and a tongue that said:
“May I use your bath-room for one minute?”
“Certainly,” was my answer.
He entered the bath-room and closed its door behind him.
I had begun to fear that he might have rashly decided to jump into
eternity from my bath-room when he reappeared with no mustache and a
gray beard on his chin. Then, as if by chance, he took my hat and
gray summer top-coat from the peg, where they had been hanging, said
“Good-by,” and walked hurriedly out of my door and down the corridor.
I had hesitated a little between my duty to Mexico and my duty to
Norris, but I felt, and rightly, as I believe, that my client should
come first, for I am rather human. But how about the reward? I thought.
Well, that was none of my funeral. Shorn of his pull, he was now in the
thorny path of the fugitive, and so I let him go.
I tried to work, but work was out of the question for me that morning.
I went for a walk, and on my return sat down with my paper. Among the
items in its cable news was the following:
_Whitfield Norris and his family are at the Grand Hotel in Rome. His
daughter, Miss Gwendolyn, whose beauty and wealth, as well as her
amiable disposition, have attracted many suitors, is said to be engaged
to the young Count Carola._
What I said to myself is not one of the things which should appear in a
book, and I wish only to suggest enough of it here to put me on record.
Soon after one o'clock I was called to the 'phone by my secretary, who
had followed Muggs when he left my room. At the time I gave my man his
orders I did not know, of course, how my interview would turn out, and
so, with a lawyer's prudence, I had decided to keep track of Muggs. When
he settled down or left the city my young man was to report, and so:
“Hello,” came his voice on the telephone.
“Hello! What news?” I asked.
“Our friend has just sailed on the _Caronia_ for England.”
“All right,” I said, and then: “Hold on! Find out if there is a fast
ship sailing to-night, and if so engage good quarters for two.”