“The coroner’s enquiry will be public, while mine may remain private.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I simply want your assurance that your visit to Millbank had nothing to do, directly or remotely, with Theodore Wing.”
“I can’t see what value such an assurance can have. If I went there to hire somebody to shoot him, I should, of course, not hesitate to give you the assurance—and probably you wouldn’t fail to find out the truth of the matter inside a week.”
“That’s my business,” said Trafford. “If I’m content with your assurance, I don’t see why you should object to my being.”
“Because there’s no certainty you’ll remain content with it. It’s one of those things where you could come back to-morrow with ‘newly discovered testimony’ that would upset the whole agreement.”
“Oh, as for that,” said Trafford, “I propose to agree to nothing. As matters stand, the inquest ’ll go on within a day or two. I know you were in Millbank the night of the murder, and with no assurance from any one that your visit had nothing to do with the murder, I’m compelled, absolutely compelled, to ask the coroner to summons you. On the other hand, if I’m satisfied, there’s no reason for me to tell any one that I know you were there, and nothing to induce the coroner to summons you. At the same time, I don’t agree to anything as to the future. That must depend upon facts, and you know better than I do now whether there are any that would call for you.”
“Humph!” grunted Matthewson; “then it’s this: I assure you what you ask and I’m not to be summoned until you see fit to summon me, and if I don’t, you see fit to summon me at once.”
“That’s about it,” assented Trafford.
Matthewson sat for a few minutes thinking, and Trafford sat watching him. He was tall and slim, with a rather prepossessing face—well-dressed, in fact, a “swell,” as Jim Shepard had said. His face was far from a dull one. His mother had evidently given him something of her personality. Yet, a man less on his guard against impressions than the detective might find something in his face that he did not like,—a look of cunning lurking in the half-closed eyes, a want of feeling in the lines of the mouth. He was a man who would go far to accomplish his ends, but would not be willingly cruel, perhaps because he could not understand that to be cruel which was for his own interest. Yet, what of a fight that involved life and honour? Trafford at least knew that it is only then that the hidden forces come to the surface and the man himself stands complete. Suddenly Matthewson turned, and with a side glance at the waiting detective said: