"It was another mistake to throw away your knife after you killed him," pursued Gramont, reflectively. "You should have held on to that knife, Ben. There's no blood, remember, on Hammond's knife—a hard thing for you and your friends to explain plausibly. Yet your knife is heavy with blood, which tests will show to be human blood. Also, the knife has your name on it; quite a handsome knife, too. On the whole, you must admit that you bungled the murder from start to finish——"
Chacherre broke in with a frightful oath—a frantically obscene storm of curses. So furious were his words that Gramont very efficiently gagged him with cloths, gagged him hard and fast.
"You also bungled when you forgot all about burning that bundle, in your excitement over getting Hammond jailed for the murder," he observed, watching Chacherre writhe. "No, you can't get loose, Ben. You'll suffer a little between now and the time of your release, but I really can't spare much pity on you.
"I think that I'll send another wire to Dick Hearne on this blank which you so thoughtfully provided. I'll order him, in your name, not to burn that bundle after all; I fancy it may prove of some value to me. And I'll also tell your friend—I suppose he has some familiar cognomen, such as Slippery Dick—to meet Henry Gramont at Houma early in the morning. I'd like to gather Dick in with the other gentlemen. I'll mention that you were kind enough to supply a few names and incidents."
At this last Ben Chacherre writhed anew, for it was a shrewd blow. He and his friends belonged to that class of crook which never "peaches." If by any mischance one of this class is jailed and convicted, he invariably takes his medicine silently, knowing that the whole gang is behind him, and that when he emerges from prison he will be sure to find money and friends and occupation awaiting him.
To know that he would be placed, in the estimation of the gang, in the same class with stool-pigeons, must have bitten deeper into Ben Chacherre than any other lash. He stared at Gramont with a frightful hatred in his blazing eyes—a hatred which gradually passed into a look of helplessness and of impotent despair.
Gramont, meantime, was writing out the telegram to Dick Hearne. This finished, he got his hat and coat, and from the bureau drawer took an automatic pistol, which he pocketed. Then he smiled pleasantly at his prisoner.
"I'll be back a little later, Ben, and I'll probably bring a friend with me—a friend who will sit up with you to-night and take care of your health. Kind of me, eh? It's getting late in the afternoon, but I don't think that it will harm you to go without any dinner. I'll 'phone Mr. Fell that you said you'd be away for a few hours, eh?
"This evening, Ben, I think that I'll attend a meeting of my post of the American Legion. You don't belong to that organization by any chance? No, I'm quite sure you don't. Very few of your exclusive acquaintances do belong. Well, see you later! Work on those bonds all you like—you're quite safe. I'm curious to see what is in that bundle under the rear seat of your car; I have an idea that it may prove interesting. Good afternoon!"
Gramont closed the door, and left the house.