“You’ve put this matter plainly, sir,” he said, “in what I call an understandable, straightforward way. I’m a poor man—I’ve been a poor man all my life—and I’ve never seed a chance before of getting away from it. I see one now.”
“You want to do the best you can for yourself?”
“So ’elp me God, sir, I do!” the man agreed.
Laverick nodded.
“You have done a remarkably wise thing,” he said, “in coming to me and in telling me about this affair. The idea of connecting Mr. Morrison with the murder would, of course, be ridiculous, but, on the other hand, it would be very disagreeable to him to have his name mentioned in connection with it. You have behaved discreetly, and you have done Mr. Morrison a service in trying to find him out. You will do him a further service by adopting the second course I suggested with regard to the inquest. What do you consider that service is worth?”
“It depends, sir,” the man answered quietly, “at what price Mr. Morrison values his life!”
CHAPTER XVII
THE PRICE OF SILENCE
The man’s manner was expressive. Laverick repeated his phrase, frowning.
“His life!”
“Yes, sir!”