  "I came here again, thinking perhaps you might wish to explain your action." The words came from Mrs. Challoner, who, unattended, had found her way into the prosecutor's office. Murgatroyd quickly laid down his cigar. Doubtless he was annoyed, but in spite of himself he could not help admiring the pluck which she showed in coming directly to him; and as he came forward to meet her, he saw that it was with difficulty that she kept on her feet. For a moment they faced each other in silence, yet in the eyes of each there was a look of fearful misunderstanding. Again the woman spoke. "What have you to say to me?" Murgatroyd frowned, his bearing slipped off some of its deference when he retorted in a voice full of emotion:— "What have you to say to me?..." The prosecutor's perfect self-possession and earnestness unnerved her for an instant. "I—" she faltered and stopped before his scornful glance. "Yes, you, Mrs. Challoner. Do you recall our compact? Your silence was the essence of it. Why did you break it?" Miriam Challoner checked a wild desire to laugh hysterically. "But you broke it first!" Murgatroyd smiled. "How?" The woman looked steadily at him. "By this conviction!" "What was our compact?" he asked sternly. Miriam's courage was returning; it was with an indignant tone that she replied:— "That you should set my husband free!" Murgatroyd tapped the table with his hand. "And have I failed as yet?" "Yes," she answered fiercely. "You have convicted him." Murgatroyd drew his head slightly to one side; pursed up his lips; drew his brows together; and narrowed his eyes before he spoke:— "Did you assume for an instant, Mrs. Challoner, that I was such a bungler as to release your husband at the first trial—for all the world to know—to suspect? When I said to you that I would set your husband free, did I say—when?" Of the scene that followed Miriam Challoner never retained a very clear impression. She remembered that at first, as if in a trance, she kept repeating his last word, while by degrees its meaning stole in upon her; then of a sensation of being about to faint through mere excess of joy. Suddenly the thought of her temerity flashed through her brain—the enormity of the thing she had done; and she would have gone on her knees at his feet had he not caught her in time. Quickly recovering, she looked up at him. Somehow his face seemed to hold little resentment now—too little, in fact, to suit her surprising desire to humble herself in his sight. "After all, she's rather a fool of a woman," his expression had plainly said to her overwrought senses, "and I will spare her." And yet she craved so to hear words of pardon from his lips, that she broke out almost breathlessly:— "You will forgive me—you must.... I have done you an unutterable injury, I know." She stopped, and then with a sudden lapse to her old air of fear: "Oh, but what will happen now—what will happen to Laurie? I have failed you; you have the right to ..." Once more cold and indifferent, Murgatroyd looked out of the window, though he interrupted her last words by saying frigidly:— "When I make agreements, Mrs. Challoner, I keep them. You may be sure that I shall keep this one." Still awed in a measure by his masterful personality, but with joy in her heart, Miriam Challoner started to leave the office. With a gesture Murgatroyd checked her quickly. "Mrs. Challoner," he said with reproof still lingering in his voice, "there is no necessity henceforth for personal interviews. In the future if you have anything to say to me, kindly let it come through your counsel, Mr. Thorne. It is much better so—much safer. I prefer to deal with him only." Miriam bowed acquiescence. Directly on leaving him Miriam Challoner went to Thorne's office. It was in accordance with her promise to aid him in formulating the charges which he was preparing against the prosecutor on her behalf. These charges were for the legislature and the Grand Jury: on the one hand, impeachment; on the other, indictment. Now whether the accusation had been true or false mattered little to Thorne. On the whole, perhaps, he was inclined to disbelief; but Broderick, his colleague in the organisation, was by no means of that opinion. In any event, since it came from such an authoritative source—the lips of Mrs. Challoner—it was a charge that possessed merit, inasmuch as it would injure Murgatroyd—and Thorne was not slow to recognise that. In consequence, then, there was, unmistakably, a note of gratification in the words with which he greeted Mrs. Challoner that afternoon in his office. "Here it is—in the form of an affidavit—just what you told me, Mrs. Challoner. Please read it." Trembling slightly while searching her mind for some clever way in which she might express her change of plan, Miriam Challoner slowly read the document. Nothing was left out, nothing exaggerated, and without a word she returned it. "Will you sign here, please?" There was no time to arrange any idea she may have had for new tactics: it was Thorne's voice that was insisting; it was Thorne who was holding a pen for her and indicating the correct place for her signature. And with a violent effort, Mrs. Challoner braced herself for the first lie in her life. "It's not true. I cannot sign it." Thorne started back. Instantly he was spluttering his annoyance at what he considered merely a woman's whim. "Not true! Why only a short time ago you declared it was true." "So it was—but only in a way," she said laboriously. Her face burned and paled. "I tried to bribe him, but——" "Bribe him! How?..." "With the money—the money I had left," she replied cautiously. "What have you left?" he ventured. Curiously enough, Mrs. Challoner found herself taking a certain amount of satisfaction in telling her lawyer what now was unquestionably true. "My home—only." "But that's mortgaged, I understand?" There was more than idle curiosity in the speaker's eyes. "Yes. But there's an equity of about twenty or twenty-five thousand," she explained. "And you tried to bribe Murgatroyd with twenty thousand dollars?" There was no answer; and interpreting her silence as assent, he went on persistently:— "And he refused?" Miriam was very white now. "He did." "I should think so," returned Thorne. "Two hundred and fifty would be more like Murgatroyd's price—if he can be bought." "No, he cannot be bought," Miriam ventured with perhaps a trifle more confidence in her tone than Mr. Thorne liked; and then she added, in a changed voice: "I want you, please, to retract this story. I want to take it all back. I was unstrung, I——" "I will retract nothing," he cut in rudely. "Not a thing. Leave it as it is. If you begin to retract you'll get yourself in trouble. If Murgatroyd desires to make a move, let him...." And with a promise to that effect, a hurried acknowledgment with an inclination of the head that she accepted his words as ending her interview, she left the office, leaving him far from certain that Peter Broderick's appraisement of Murgatroyd's character was not a correct one. That night when the papers came out, people read them in anger and dismay; by the next morning they merely laughed; likewise the Court. "If he were bribed," said public comment, "it was a bribe that didn't work." And Murgatroyd, submitting to interview after interview, reiterated over and over again to the reporters:— "I point with pride, gentlemen, to the conviction of Lawrence Challoner. That's all I have to say." The fiasco had helped Murgatroyd infinitely more than it had hurt him, Thorne felt in his inmost soul. For once the masses refused to believe what on its face appeared to be true. One evening a few weeks later, while Murgatroyd was dressing to dine at his club, as was his custom nearly every night, his servant handed him a note which the bearer had said was to be delivered immediately. It was but seldom that a square white envelope came at this time, and with a pardonable look of surprise and curiosity on his face Murgatroyd opened it and read:
An hour more, and he was in Mrs. Bloodgood's drawing-room, waiting more nervously than he would have cared to acknowledge to himself for the daughter of the house to appear. It was the first time that she had ever sent for him to go to her, and he was conscious of some degree of anxiety as to her motive. Clever lawyer though he was, he dreaded her catechising, particularly so, because he knew that whether she acknowledged it to herself or not, that it was at her instigation that he had adopted the rÔle which, with or without her approval, he was now determined to play through to the end. The sound of a light step on the threshold of the room checked his disturbing speculations, and he looked up to see Shirley Bloodgood entering the room. As usual she did not permit him to open the conversation after the preliminary courtesies of greeting between them. "Something very urgent made me send for you, Mr. Murgatroyd," she began, but her lips trembled so that she stopped abruptly after adding: "I want to talk with you." An instinct told Murgatroyd that it would be a grievous mistake not to accept without a protesting word the note of aloofness, the desire to avoid any suggestion of former intimacy that was in her tone. Rightly he told himself that the slightest advances on his part would result in adding to her distress; that however much he would like to break down the barrier that had arisen between them, he must bide his time and trust to her emotional nature to accomplish that. And he was not mistaken, for presently an impulse to speak her mind at any cost took possession of her, and she burst forth:— "Billy, why did you take this money? Why?..." Carried away by the tender accents with which she pronounced his name, Murgatroyd essayed to speak, but she interrupted him. "Don't"—covering her ears with her hands—"don't tell me! I know you did it—because I—I—oh, why did you listen to me! I thought I knew what I was talking about," she went on, while he sought control of himself by looking away from her; "but I knew nothing of conditions; of men. I thought that a man—that you could accomplish anything you really wanted to do. But you were right. There are impossibilities. I understand now—now that it's too late. I have had my lesson. Only a few months ago you were honest, and now you are corrupt, and I alone am responsible!" By the time she had finished speaking Murgatroyd had become as imperturbable as he had been at the trial, and there was only a hint of tenderness in the reassuring words that he now uttered. "You must not blame yourself—" he was neither admitting nor denying the impeachment—"for anything I may have done." "But I do, I do," she cried bitterly. "And you must blame me. I always thought Adam was a coward to cast the blame on Eve. But now my sympathies are with him—the woman was to blame then—I am to blame now. I gave you of the apple, and you—Oh, there would have been no apple—nothing but Eden if I had only listened to you and you had closed your ears to me." "Eden," he said wistfully. "Yes, but hardly the Eden you cared for." Abruptly her mood changed. She lost all semblance of calm, and her voice rang with a scorn that, before she ceased, seemed to include him as well as herself. "What do I care for success or failure! I could cut my tongue out for telling you that my father was a failure. A failure! Why, I know that not only was he not a failure, but that he was really great! A man in the highest sense of the word—and that's all I want you to be. I don't care an iota that you should be a senator—I don't want you to be a senator. I have sent for you to-night to tell you so—to stop for good and all the thing I set in motion." She was silent for an instant; and then suddenly with a quick return to gentleness, and with appeal in her eyes, she murmured: "I want you to come back—come back." In turn he murmured words that sounded to her like "to you." Shirley shook her head as though that were a thing out of the question. "No, to your honest self," she said earnestly but kindly. "To the Billy Murgatroyd that was." For a moment they looked steadily into each other's eyes. From the time of Miriam's exposure of him in the court-room there had never been any admission, any concession on Murgatroyd's part. Nor was there any now; but unknown to himself, there was an air of appeal, not wholly free from anxiety even, for her face was again showing signs of hardness as he spoke:— "I can hardly do that. I cannot stop. And if I should—where is the inducement? You have no apple to offer me; you are beyond my reach." And as if to disprove his own words, an impulse of adoration, too powerful to be checked, seized him, and he caught her hand and pressed it. A brief moment only Shirley allowed it to rest in his, then slowly withdrew it; and her action told him plainer than words that there was to be nothing further between them—she was through with him—she must despise him. As an evangelist, as the good friend she had sent for him, but as lovers—no, that was all over. And yet, had she faltered once, had she but opened her arms to him, if only for the last time, Murgatroyd could not tell what he would have done. In all probability he would have suffered exile—sackcloth and ashes for his huge misdeed. And the girl! Shirley felt, knew that there could be no compromise. Murgatroyd must purge himself, even though it involved a lifetime of shame. And after he had yielded up his shameless gains, what then? Shirley did not know—she could not tell. But it was not given to Murgatroyd to know that he was the subject of her perplexities; nor could he read, as he should have, any hope in the words which she now spoke:— "And if I am out of your reach—it's your own fault. If you had been half the man I thought, you would never have listened to me. But you never cared for me, even though you said so," Shirley said, casting her eyes down, not daring to look him in the face. "What you did, you did for yourself and not for me. You were weak from the start. Any man who would surrender his honesty even for a woman is not a man. I see now that I ought not to have sent for you. I take back everything I have said." She paused, and then concluded with a little shake of the head:— "I wouldn't marry you now if you were the last man on earth!" Both rose to their feet. Habit, perhaps, rather than any regret for her words, induced her to dismiss him with a tender expression on her face. And Murgatroyd bowed low over the hand she offered him, pressed it and without a word of protest went out of the room. With his departure went out the last glimmer of hope that he would ever return to his better self. Nothing could stop him now. As for Shirley? The moment the door closed on him she sank with a moan into a chair. Thorne took an appeal from the verdict of conviction. He had been careful to take exception to each bit of questionable evidence. "I think," he assured Mrs. Challoner, "that I have found more than one hook to hang a hat on. It looks to me like a reversal." "I am sure it will be," she replied. Her assurance was the same assurance that had sustained her in the trial. There was still that mysterious something that Thorne could not understand. She seemed the incarnation of hope. "What do you think, chief?" asked McGrath of Murgatroyd, one day after the appeal had been argued. Murgatroyd shrugged his shoulders. "That verdict will stick," was his only comment. "By the way," said McGrath, "Pemmican keeps mum up there in jail; but he's getting restless as thunder. He wants to know how soon you're going to try him on this gambling charge." Murgatroyd smiled. "In due course," he returned, "but you can tell Pemmican unofficially that the quickest way for him to get on trial—or in fact the quickest way for him to get off without trial—to get out of jail, is to let me know the name of the man higher up. I'm looking for John Doe, and I expect to keep Pemmican under lock and key until I get him. You understand?" "He sure does kick," laughed McGrath. Shirley and Miriam and even Challoner watched the course of events with great interest. Miriam's mouth was sealed upon the question of the bribe, but Challoner absorbed what he had heard in the court-room, and hazy though it had been, he noted that Miriam's manner was still hopeful, in fact, certain. Shirley, too, felt, rather than knew, that Murgatroyd had removed from himself not the taint of bribery, but the violation of his compact. She felt the thing was cut and dried. One day the Clerk of the Court of Errors and Appeals placed in the hands of a special messenger a document some five pages long. It was a carbon copy. "Take that to the prosecutor of the pleas," he commanded, "and tell him it's advance. The original," he added, "will be on file to-morrow." Murgatroyd received and read it with inward satisfaction. As he was perusing it, Mixley rushed into his private room, and yelled in alarm:— "Chief! Chief! Look at this!" He, too, held in his hand a document composed of several sheets of yellow paper, scribbled over with a soft, black, lead-pencil. "It's from the warden—" he whispered. Murgatroyd laid down his carbon copy and took Mixley's yellow sheets. He read the first page and rose to his feet. "When did all this happen, Mixley?" he asked in a tense voice, with difficulty restraining his excitement. "About an hour ago." "Who was the keeper that took this down?" "Jennings." Murgatroyd tapped the yellow sheets impatiently, and asked:— "How did he kill himself?" "Cyanide! Smuggled in somehow, nobody knows." Murgatroyd read the yellow sheets again. "Great CÆsar!" he exclaimed. Mixley, still lingering, now asked:— "Any news from the Court of Errors and Appeals?" Murgatroyd nodded. "Here's their opinion—just handed down." "Reversal?" Murgatroyd shook his head. "No. Affirmed. By the way, Mixley," he added, "take this carbon copy over to Thorne, will you? He'll want to see it." "Shall I tell him?" faltered Mixley. "Tell him nothing," Murgatroyd replied. "Officially I know nothing of this other thing. I'll investigate it first, then I can talk to him." That very day, Thorne, disappointed as he was, sent a copy of the opinion up to Mrs. Challoner, without comment. Later over the phone he told her:— "There is no hope." But Miriam Challoner was not downcast. She had doubted once; but now she held to her faith in Murgatroyd; she knew that Murgatroyd would keep his word. Shirley, though, shook her head. She felt that Challoner was doomed. But when Thorne told her, she begged him not to tell Challoner until it was absolutely necessary. And also on that same day Murgatroyd jumped into a cab and rode off on a tour of private inspection. Entering a large building he asked:— "I want to see Jennings, if you please." The next day he sent for Thorne. "Before making things public, Thorne," he said, "I wanted you to read that." Thorne read with bulging eyes the yellow sheets that were thrust before him. Over and over again he read them; then he leaned over and touched Murgatroyd on the arm, saying:— "Don't make it public." "Why not?" "There are political reasons—many of them," pleaded Thorne. "But it's bound to leak out——" "Never mind. I don't want it made public." Thorne seemed terribly uneasy. But again Murgatroyd persisted:— "What of Mrs. Challoner?" "I'll take care of Mrs. Challoner," responded Thorne. "Just leave the whole thing to me. I'll see that everything is done." "I'll go with you before the Court at any time you please," said Murgatroyd. And that very day they did go before the Court. The Court opened its eyes and heard what they had to say. "Well, well!" exclaimed the Court. A little while afterward Broderick and Thorne sat closeted. Every crisis found them with their heads together. "Broderick," said the lawyer, "this is going to hurt Cradlebaugh's more than ever. The Challoner case has jumped from the frying pan into the fire." His grip tightened on Broderick. "This thing has got to be hushed up." "If it's got to be, it can be," declared the politician. "But there's the Court order?" Broderick grinned as he said:— "There's men has got to file it—men that know how to file papers so blamed far in the pigeon-holes that even a newspaper man can't crawl in after 'em. They'll do just as I say." "Somebody's bound to find it out." "Not if I stretch out this hand," answered Broderick. "That there hand has covered a multitude of sins." He squinted at Thorne. "But there's just one person I'm afraid of in this thing." Thorne's nod seemed to say: "Murgatroyd." Broderick shook his head. "No, not a bit of it. You take my word for it, Murgatroyd will never open his mouth again on the subject of the Challoner case. He took that cash—he can't fool me!" Thorne sighed:— "You think we're safe with him?" Broderick dismissed the subject of the prosecutor with a wave of the hand. "Mrs. Challoner is the fly in the ointment." Thorne, in turn, quite as vigorously dissented:— "You're wrong there. I'll handle Mrs. Challoner. If she ever asks questions, I'll answer her with the right kind of answers. Don't worry, Broderick," and looking at his watch, added: "You'd better be about it and do your little part." "I'll do mine as soon as you do yours." "What's mine now?" Broderick held out his hand, and said:— "A little cheque, counsellor." And again on that very day the doors of the big building that Murgatroyd had visited opened wide. From them there stepped forth a man—no, four men—four men laden heavily. With these four men was a fifth, but he was unseen. Between them, in the full light of day, the four men carried a long, oak box, carried it quietly but swiftly, and swung it suddenly into a battered-looking hearse. "That's the end of him!" they said among themselves. |
|
