The other nodded and continued: "Twenty thousand dollars is a heap o' money, John; many men would do murder over an' over again for it. Sometimes I can't believe that these ideas o' rewardin' an' punishin' are right. No matter how high the reward, nor how hard the punishment, some people will do wrong in the face o' one an' in spite o' the other.... Twenty thousand American, is it?"
"Yes; and we are to draw on the De Sanchez estate through the Mexican consul for expenses necessary to pursuing the investigation."
Mr. Follett expressed his wonder in a prolonged whistle.
"John, this is what you will have when you run down the murderer. Then you can retire. Then you can get that little cottage an' all them flowers you sometimes talk about: funny idea for an old sailor man." He changed the trend of his talk abruptly, and added, with a more serious note: "We must increase the reward for that woman. Everything centres an' circles about her, an' that's what discourages me. When you get clear o' the harbor on a cruise o' this kind, it's like tryin' to navigate without chart or compass, an' the stars all hid, to have a woman mixed in it to the extent that this one seems to be. Make it a hundred—two hundred—dollars; but find that woman."
"Abram, you are right," Mr. Converse rejoined, with unusual warmth. "I am no nearer to laying my finger upon her than I was the day of the murder. As you say, we must find the woman; everything hinges upon her. But look you, Abram, we, every one of us, missed a very fine point at the inquest that now is as plain as the nose on your face."
Mr. Follett unconsciously and thoughtfully fell to rubbing that member, while he attended to his friend's words.
"What was it Howard Lynden was afraid of betraying?" continued Mr. Converse, warming to his subject. "What was it Mr. Ferdinand Howe was afraid of betraying? What worried Doctor Westbrook?" He stared hard at Mr. Follett, and answered the questions himself. "It's just this: they have reason to suspect that the woman is mixed up some way in the matter; but how? They asserted under oath that no woman was present; did they one and all perjure themselves? I don't believe it."
The listener nodded gravely to signify that he was following the argument, but offered no interruption.
"No; I believe that every man Jack of them told all he knew of the affair. Doctor Westbrook would not lie; I don't think under the circumstances Howe would, and Lynden—well, he just couldn't. Any woman that you might name will not supply an adequate reason for them all to unite in an oath of falsehood."
"Yet," observed Mr. Follett, "it is the woman, and we must look for the one least likely to have been there."