Henry Carleton frowned. “Well,” he snapped, “isn’t it perfectly plain? Vaughan wants something, of course. He’s got us where he wants us now. Of course I knew, for a man who, as a rule, is so pliable, that when he turned stubborn about this, it was a plain case of hold-up. So that’s what we’ve got to do. Square him, in any way he wants. He’s your friend. Sound him; see what he’s after. Whatever it is, if I can give it to him, and I guess I can, of course I will. Go ahead and see him right away. We’ve got to fix him quickly, whatever else we do.”
Jack Carleton shook his head in vigorous dissent. “You’re miles wide of the mark. That isn’t Vaughan at all. He’s not that kind. Arthur’s a visionary, almost. He’d never have kept quiet as long as he has if I hadn’t practically gone on my knees to him. No, this is principle with him. You’re altogether mistaken. You can’t stop him that way in a thousand years.”
Henry Carleton sighed. “I don’t believe it,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t want to believe it, but you ought to know him better than I. And if it’s so—I want to be fair with him—more than fair—” at the familiar phrase Jack Carleton smiled a grim little smile—“but we’re in a bad box, Jack; a terribly bad box; and we’ve got to pull out of it somehow. Make him the squarest offer you can—anything in reason he wants—and if he doesn’t see fit to accept—”
Jack Carleton sprang to his feet. “No, no,” he cried, “that won’t do. I won’t see anything happen to Vaughan. I’ll go to him; tell him he’s mistaken; tell him he mustn’t speak; tell him—”
Henry Carleton cut him short. “No use, Jack,” he said curtly. “I’ve thought of all that. It wouldn’t do any good. In the first place, Vaughan has this crazy idea about duty, and about Satterlee’s blood crying out to him from the ground, and all that nonsense; you know how a nervous man can get worked up over a thing; and he’s bound to speak anyway. And in the second place, he wouldn’t believe you. You can hardly blame him, either. All the evidence together; the affair you had with that woman, your stopping at the cottage that evening,—no, no, it won’t do. You might as well save your breath.”
There was a pause. Jack at last nodded grudgingly. “Well, then,” he cried. “I’ll let it go the other way. Let him go to the district attorney, if he chooses. Let him tell his story, and let them arrest me, and get me into court. Let him tell it over again there, for everybody to hear, and you can tell your story, and Jeanne Satterlee hers. And then, by God, I’ll tell mine, and if there’s such a thing as justice—”
Again Henry Carleton broke in upon him. “Nonsense, Jack,” he said, “law isn’t justice. You know that as well as I do. You wouldn’t have a chance. It’s open and shut against you. And don’t go up in the air about Vaughan; I didn’t mean to be melodramatic. We won’t need to go to extremes. We can think up some way of keeping his mouth shut. You can buy him off, I still maintain. And if you can’t, we can still get at him somehow. It isn’t hard. I’ll be frank with you, Jack. I’ll lay my cards on the table. It would mean death for you, but the scandal would hurt me, at the same time. And above all, the Carleton name, Jack. Think of your father. Think—”
Jack sprang to his feet. “Stop!” he cried. “It isn’t for you to talk of my father, and the Carleton name. Those words don’t belong in your mouth, Henry. And as for Vaughan, he’s doing what he thinks is right. And anything you do to him, reacts on Rose—on your own daughter. And that’s impossible. No, Henry, I tell you again, you can’t work it out that way. Whatever else you please, but I won’t see harm come to Arthur Vaughan.”
Henry Carleton, unmoved, shrugged his shoulders. “As you please,” he answered evenly. “You have your choice, Jack; there’s only one other way.”
Jack looked him full in the face. “For the last time,” he said, “you tell me that this is true. You’ll go ahead, and do as you say?”