“This is blackmail, Carpenter,” he said.
“Certainly it’s blackmail,” declared Carpenter.
Morton’s smile became grim as he placed his hand upon the knob of the door and slowly turned it.
“I’m glad you admitted that,” he said, in a firm voice. “Blackmail is your game. Carpenter — and the game is ended!”
With that, Gifford Morton opened the door. Two grinning men stepped forth, each holding a stubby revolver. Behind them followed a young man in a Tuxedo, carrying a notebook.
“Two detectives, Carpenter,” explained Morton, with a broad grin. “The other is my secretary, Gorman. You were oversure of yourself when you stole that letter. When I discovered that it was gone, I prepared for an affair like this one.”
A look of consternation spread over Herbert Carpenter’s face. He sat, unmoving, in the chair, covered by the weapons of the private detectives. It was Gifford Morton’s turn to be triumphant.
“They’ve tried to blackmail me before,” declared Morton. “I’ll give you credit, Carpenter — you’re the smoothest of the lot. But not smooth enough. You have all the notes, Gorman?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary.
“They will be useful,” said Morton, “particularly as the final portion of our conversation is peculiarly incriminating. Gorman is an unusually good stenographer. With three witnesses to verify our discussion, your chances are quite thin, Carpenter.”