Marley walked slowly across the room until he reached the super’s desk. His face was drawn, and he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“It’s about Mrs. Coogan,” he said jerkily. “Five thousand would be enough, wouldn’t it?”
Carleton stared at the man as though he were mad, and Regan hitched his chair suddenly forward.
“Will you swear to give it to her if I get it for you?”—Marley’s hand, clenched, was on the desk, and he leaned his body far forward toward the super. There was no flutter of the eyelids now, and his eyes stared into Carleton’s without a flicker. “Swear it!” he cried fiercely.
Carleton drew back involuntarily.
“Marley,” he said soothingly, “you’re not yourself, you——”
“No, I’m not mad,” Marley broke in passionately. “I know what I’m talking about. I know she’d die in one of them charity places. It’s up to me. She treated me white—the only soul on God’s earth that ever did. And maybe, maybe too, it’ll help square accounts. You’ll play fair and swear she gets the money, won’t you?”
“I don’t understand,” said Carleton slowly; “but I’ll swear to give her anything you have to give.” Marley nodded quickly.
“That’s all I want,” he said. “There ain’t much to understand.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a newspaper clipping, a column long, which he laid on the desk. “I guess you’ll get it all there.” The heavy “set” of the heading leaped up at Carleton. “$5,000 REWARD.” Below, halfway down the column, was the reproduction of a photograph—Marley’s.
Regan was up from his chair, bending over the super’s shoulder.