“Mr. McCracken, can’t you help me? I have served you faithfully in a matter you know of.”
“And you have been paid.”
“But think how you have benefited. By the boy’s death you have fallen heir to his fortune, and——”
“Who told you he had a fortune?”
“You admitted it yourself in a conversation.”
“Well, it was very small—a few hundred dollars.”
“On that point I will not speak. Even admitting it to be only that, can’t you spare me a few dollars?”
“No, I can’t. Get out of my office!”
“Mr. McCracken,” said Puffer, changing his tone, “you have thrown me over because you think you don’t need me any more. Suppose now—only suppose—that a mistake had been made—that Bernard was not dead after all.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the merchant nervously. “You told me he was dead.”