"Governor," he said quietly, "ever since the day I came to see you first, we've both played the game with the cards on the table. I'm going to play it that way now. I haven't any news. I only used that to get you here."
Gordon did not start, or in any way show surprise. On the contrary, he nodded, as if in self-confirmation.
"I thought the chance was about even," he said quietly, "and yet I thought if it was a lie, that for you, Tom, it was a pretty clumsy one. I should be sorry to think I'd overrated you."
Lynch forced a smile, but far back in his half-closed eyes there gleamed a little angry light, "On the face of it," he admitted, "it was clumsy, and so I felt it had a better chance of passing for truth. I apologize, of course. I have no excuse, excepting my anxiety to see you."
The governor leaned back a trifle farther in his chair. "Well," he said, "and what's the story?"
Lynch did not hesitate. "It's like this," he said. "Of course you'd like to see me out of the way, and the old woman, too. That's so, isn't it?"
Gordon smiled faintly. "For the sake of your argument, whatever it is," he said dryly, "I'm perfectly willing to assume that it's so."
Lynch nodded appreciatively. "Now," he said quickly, "I'm tired of the whole game; sorry I ever started it. I'm afraid of you, Governor, and that's the truth. Let's cry quits. Give me what I want, and I'll get out for good. And what's more, I'll get the old woman away for good, too. I'm on the level. I'll do anything you say; sign any papers you want me to sign. Let's fix it up, and stop the game right here."
The governor's expression was one of faint interest. "How much?" he asked casually.
Lynch's answer came with equal promptness. "Fifty thousand," he said.