Charles grew paler than Henry had ever seen him. There was a gasp in his voice, as if he found breathing difficult, and he almost clutched at his brother as he said:
“That means that you are afraid, as I am, that the papers had some connection with his death, and you are trying to persuade yourself to the contrary. A month ago, you’d have jumped at the chance of somebody else having them, no matter who that somebody else might be: yet to-day you try to make me think that you believe it has increased the danger. You know better. I don’t care whose hands they’re in, we’re safer than we were when Wing had them. Now it’s only a question of money.”
“Then why don’t we hear from them?”
“It would be so safe, with matters as they are, for any one to offer to sell Wing’s papers,” sneered Charles.
“Suppose whoever’s got them makes copies of them?” Henry suggested.
“And you tell me not to think of these things!” Charles cried.
Henry Matthewson at once called Cranston off from the Bangor matter and then sent for Frank Hunter. The latter came in the early evening, uneasy, restless, and irritable. The mood was confirmed when he discovered what had been done.
“It’s that, or let him go to Millbank and keep excitement alive there,” he said. “Trafford strikes me as entirely capable of doing enough of that.”
“As matters stand,” demanded Henry, regardless of the caution he had given his brother, “do you know who were most likely to profit by Wing’s death?”
“We were,” answered Frank coldly. “Do you think I’ve ever failed to recognise that fact? I don’t do business that way.”