"Oh," said Wharton Kendrick carelessly, "it doesn't take much money to get up a report."
"Well, it took thirty thousand dollars for this one."
"Pooh, Hampden, you've been dreaming. That crowd couldn't raise thirty thousand cents."
"Not alone, I grant you. But you will admit that it might be done with the assistance of a generous-hearted millionaire who has been convinced of the loftiness of their aims."
"What the devil are you driving at, Hampden? Talk plain United States." Wharton Kendrick sat bolt upright, and looked at me sternly, with the light of half-comprehension in his eyes.
"In plain language, then, Peter Bolton paid thirty thousand dollars into the treasury of the Council of Nine night before last, and the rifles have been bought with his money."
Kendrick jumped to his feet. His ruddy face went pale, and then turned ruddier than ever.
"Bolton!" he cried. "How do you know that?"
I gave Clark's account of the matter, recalled Bolton's dealings with the Council, and clenched the conclusion with the corroborative testimony of my interview with Bolton in his office. Wharton Kendrick settled back in his chair and received my tale in a brown study. Before I had done, he interrupted me.
"I see his game. This puts a different face on the matter. Come in here." And rising suddenly he seized me by the arm and marched me into the room from which he had come, with the authoritative air of a policeman haling a burglar to prison.