Mr. Charles Hunter was obdurate. He declared that enough injustice had already been done in turning public suspicion against the man without a shred to hang it on, and he was not going to be a party to keeping it up.
“It’ll take the man years to recover from it now,” he affirmed; “and an arrest would down him forever. Oh, yes, I know you bring in a motive in a petty fuss that occurred on Sunday—a thing that might happen anywhere and to any one. A man going to see his girl gets miffed because he has to harness a horse and is impertinent, and you conclude that that’s reason for his shooting his employer. It’s against all reason and common sense, and I won’t insult my intelligence by considering it.”
“Most murders are against reason and common sense,” said the detective; “at least, that’s my experience, and more than that, nine murders out of ten are for absolutely trivial causes. Before you get through with this case, you’ll see Oldbeg arrested, or I’ll miss my guess.”
“Well, I shan’t be responsible for it,” the other retorted.
Thwarted in this part of his search, Cranston turned his attention to tracing Wing’s mother, to which both Hunter and the Matthewsons appeared to attach considerable importance—more, in fact, than he could find in it. Confessedly, it was a cover or subterfuge and meant the unearthing of a secret that might ruin a woman’s good name for a mistake made forty years before. It seemed to him a strange twist of conscience, which revolted at the arrest of a man for a crime of which circumstances tended to show him guilty, while it gave willing assent to bringing to light that which might have been lived down years before and redeemed by a clean life during more years than any of these men had lived.
As soon, however, as he took up the matter, the spirit of the quest possessed him, and this grew strong as the facts unearthed began to point in a certain direction, while wonder and a low greed found seeds in the case as it unfolded. At last, with the truth before him, he was at the point where paths separated, with insistent necessity for him to take one or the other. Should he go to the woman and demand his price for silence; or should he give the sons the facts and make them the purchasers? Whichever he decided on, he would deal honestly as a man should, and he would not pit one against the other. Hence, the importance of the decision, for once made it barred him from negotiations with any one else. Preferably, he would keep the matter a secret from the sons, save that he had a shrewd suspicion that they were in a better position to pay the price than was the mother. On the other hand, the mother might prove the more defiant, especially if she credited his unwillingness to go to others. It was at best a delicate question, but fortunately it would “keep” and be as valuable a month hence as now. He could, therefore, wait and let development lead him in his decision.
Then came the thought of Trafford. Trafford had, of course, followed up this clue and, equally of course, had unearthed the facts. He, therefore, was in the market, with the danger that he might not prove as “honourable” as Cranston purposed being, and, therefore, might damage the price that the latter had expected to obtain. Indeed, it was an awkward predicament for a man who had a valuable secret to sell and natural purchasers at hand, yet wished at the same time to shape his course to the demands of fair dealing and honour. Still, before he moved, it was necessary that he should ascertain, if possible, whether Trafford had approached either of the persons interested and if so, what he had done.
It was the day on which Trafford returned from his fruitless visit to the logging drives. Charles Matthewson, uneasy and anxious, found his office more conducive to nervousness than work, and finally, throwing down his pen, had reached for his hat for a turn out of doors, when the door opened and his mother entered.
“Why, mother,” he said, rising to meet her, and striving to stifle the apprehension her presence brought, “this is an unusual honour. It’s a pleasure I would not deny myself, yet I would have spared you the trouble if you had sent for me.”
“I came to talk with you, Charles,” she said, as she took the proffered chair by the window; “and it was better and easier to talk here than at home.”