“You are mistaken. This time, Mr. Conover, it is I who am surprised at your lack of perception. The ‘card’ I spoke of is the Denzlow correspondence.”
“The Denzlow—? I burned that a year ago—burned it in this very room. In this fireplace. You were here and saw me. And Denzlow died last May. I’m afraid your ‘card’ won’t help that poor, lonely four-flush hand of yours after all. I’m sorry, but——”
“You burned a package of letters wrapped in a sheet indorsed ‘Denzlow,’” interposed Anice, “but they happened to be a sheaf of insurance circulars. With Mr. Denzlow’s permission (and on my promise not to make use of them while he was alive) I bought those letters at the time you thought you bought them back from him. He got extra money, and the letters were supposed to be transmitted to you through me. I kept the originals. If you doubt it, here are certified copies. You will see the notary’s signature was dated last June. Does that convince you?”
“Where’s the letters themselves?”
“With my brother. He is one of the subeditors of the Ballston Herald. He is holding them subject to my orders. When he receives word from me he will either turn them over to the Federal authorities (for it is a United States Government matter, as you know, with a term of imprisonment involved, and not a mere State offence that can be settled with a few thousand dollars), or else he will publish the whole correspondence in his paper, and leave the Government to act as it sees fit. Does the card improve my hand?”
Conover made no immediate answer. When he spoke there was no emotion in his dry, business-like tones.
“Yes, it does,” he admitted, “and I’m glad to see I was wrong about the condition of those brains of yours. You’ve got me. I could bluff anybody else, but I guess you know my game too well. A bluff’s a blamed good anchor in a financial storm. But after the ship’s wrecked I never heard that the cap’n got any special good out of the anchor. So we’ll play straight, if you like. How much do you want?”
“How much?” she repeated, doubtful of his meaning.
“How much will you take for those Denzlow letters? Come now, let’s cut out the measly diplomacy and get to the point. The man who gets ahead in my line of work is the man who knows when to pay hush-money and when not to. This is the time to pay. How much? Make me a cash offer.”
“You don’t understand,” protested Anice, again with a pretty, imperious gesture restraining Clive. “I am not one of the blackmailers you spend so much of your time silencing. I——”