"His life's been an open book, if that's what you mean," said the attorney, slowly.
"Few men's life are open books," returned Craig, with cynical shortness. "There's apt to be a page pasted down somewhere. That part of it is your business. If there's any such page in his case, you find it! I don't care how small a page it is, or how long ago it was pasted down. If it's there I want it!"
"His record was combed with a fine-tooth comb when he went on the bench," said Treadwell. "The Trust wanted a man that the opposition couldn't get anything on. That was before your time, of course. I went over the report myself. There wasn't anything there—nothing but the vaguest suspicion of an old love affair that was polished off twenty years ago."
Craig turned sharply. "A love affair! After his marriage?"
"Why yes, I think so. But there weren't any details. And the woman died abroad long ago."
"What was her name?"
Treadwell looked at him curiously. A faint flush had crept over his face. "See here, Craig," he said, "after all, there's a limit to decency. At the most it was nothing but a passing infatuation—an innocent one. There was not the faintest breath of scandal. And as I told you, the woman is dead."
Craig's eyes were boring into him. "Treadwell," he said in a hard voice, "you don't seem to understand. This is a big game, and there is no limit! None! And I intend to win it! What was her name?"
The other leaned to knock the ash from his segar. There was a tense pause before he replied. "I have forgotten."
"Where are the old reports?"