Cotterill laughed. “Getting under your skin, am I? Thought I would. You think I’d go into this without making sure I had winning cards? I’ve looked you up, Bob. I’ve had you looked up. I know you, inside out. And I’ll tell you flat, either you come across now, or everybody’ll know you as well as we do.”
“How well do you know me?” Hosmer inquired.
The attorney held up his left hand, the fingers outspread; and he ticked off his points upon these fingers. “This well,” he declared. “Item one: You sat in the Steel case. When the decision was announced, the market went off. Robertson Brothers had you on their books, short a thousand shares. You made a nice little pile. Legal enough, maybe, Judge; but not right ethical. Would you say so?”
“Go on,” said the Judge.
The fat little man touched another finger. “Item two: Remember the Daily trial, down home. Chet Thorne. Remember him? Witness for the other side. You was defending Daily. He needed it, too. He was guilty as the devil. Chet told the truth, first trial. But you got a disagreement, just the same. Second trial, Chet lied. You got Daily off. Well, we’ve got Chet. You can’t find him, but we know where he is. And we’ve got his affidavit to why he changed his story. Oh, it was slick! Nobody could get Chet for perjury. Change didn’t amount to enough for that. But it was enough for what you needed. You got away with it then; but Chet’s ready to tell how you got away with it, now.”
He stopped again, and the Judge inquired: “Is that all?”
Cotterill shook his head. “Not quite. Item three: The matter of the Turner trust, and how it happened the trustee was short, and how the thing was covered up. You were the trustee, Bob. One, Two, Three, and there you have it.” He struck the desk again, triumph inflaming him. “Furthermore,” he cried, voice suddenly shrill. “Furthermore, the story’s ready to spring. This afternoon, petition for your disbarment was filed down home. In a sealed envelop. And the whole story back of it’s in type, right now, down town at the Chronicle office. When I leave here, before midnight tonight, I’ll hit a telephone. If I say one word, the envelop goes into the fire and the type is pied. If I don’t say the word, the envelop’s opened in the morning, and the story’s on the street in the Chronicle before breakfast. There’s the load, Judge.” He shrugged, his hands outspread. “Look it over. Simple enough. Be good and you’ll be happy. Now what do you say?”
For a long moment, there was silence in the quiet room; and when the Judge spoke, it was in a gentle, but a decisive tone.
“Nor I’ve never permitted myself to be blackmailed, Cotterill,” he replied.
The lawyer stormed to his feet; he threw up his hands. “All right!” he cried. “Then it’s bust for you.”