Bancroft rose and looked at his watch. “If there’s anything of particular interest or importance in this, Mr. Jenkins, I’ll be very glad to listen to it some other time; but I can’t stay any longer this morning. I ought to have been at my desk half an hour ago.”
Jenkins sat still and waved him back with insistent politeness. “One moment more, Mr. Bancroft, if you please. I’m coming to the point right away. This story is of some consequence to me, and I’d like to know if you can verify it. Have another drink.”
Bancroft swallowed the whiskey at a gulp and Jenkins noticed that his fingers trembled as he took the glass. He was thinking, “I’d better stay and find out exactly how much he knows.” Jenkins smiled under his hand as he smoothed his straggling moustache and watched Bancroft wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“This man Smith,” Jenkins continued, “John was his name, too—John Smith and John Mason Hardy were partners in a mining enterprise down in Mexico. One of them died down there—died, you know, in a quiet, private sort of way, and the one that came up to the States again was named Hardy, but it wasn’t the same Hardy that had gone down there. You might guess, if you wanted to, that Smith killed Hardy and took his name—”
He stopped and drew back suddenly, for Bancroft had sprung forward with a white, angry face and was shaking a trembling fist under his nose.
“Stop there, you liar!” he exclaimed in low, tense tones. “I didn’t do that. He died a natural death—of fever—and I took care of him and did my best to save his life.”
Jenkins recovered his self-possession first. “Oh; then you know all about it!” he said dryly, with a malicious smile.
Bancroft sank back in his chair drawing his hand across his eyes and wondering why his self-control had so suddenly gone to pieces. He had thought himself proof against any surprise, but this man’s sudden blow and persistent baiting had screwed his nerve tension to the snapping point. But he told himself that it probably did not matter anyway, as Jenkins evidently knew the whole story. With a desperate, defiant look he turned upon his tormentor.
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded sharply. “Why have you raked up this old story?”