“Further, Loveman, I understand your generosity in the matter of that five thousand. Bradley had demanded money, and you knew it. When Mary Regan sent for you yesterday, told you of the demand, and convinced you she could not possibly meet it, you had an inspiration. It wouldn’t do to withdraw the demand; better to give her the money yourself, and thereby increase her confidence and gratitude—that’d make her more inclined to fall in with you when you wanted to use her in some other big game. And your five thousand which you’d given her with your right hand, after she’d had it for just a few minutes, would come right back to your left hand. A great idea, Loveman!—great stuff!”
“You’re smoking too much hop,” smiled Loveman—but it was a sickly smile.
“But there’s many a slip ’twixt the right hand and the left. You never suspected that there was a second blackmailer on the job; Mrs. Morton probably thought that Bradley and Hilton were working together, and told you little more than that money was demanded. And Hilton has walked right off with your five thousand, and you’ll not get it back. And your client in there, Mr. Morton, is on to Jack and Mary Regan, and the part you’ve played, and there’s about to be an explosion, and the rest of your beans’ll be spilled. Good-night, Peter, old boy, and may you have pleasant dreams!”
CHAPTER XIII
MR. MORTON TAKES A HAND
All thought of the sickly-smiling Loveman, and all his ironic jocularity, slipped from Clifford as he stepped back into the graver situation which existed in the drawing-room. The pair had seated themselves during his absence; Mary was regarding Mr. Morton with a composure that must have heavily taxed her nervous capital.
Clifford took a chair slightly apart. He felt that he had become merely an onlooker. The scene was to be played out between Mr. Morton and Mary. He judged that the easy manner of Mr. Morton was a ruthless fury, marvelously controlled. Watching them, he pulsed with suspense as to how Mary would bear herself during this scene, as to how it would come out.
Clifford had found them silent when he had reëntered, and this silence, pregnant with big drama, continued for a moment longer. Then Mr. Morton smiled.
“I don’t believe in beating about the bush, Mrs. Grayson. It’s awfully hard on the shrubbery. So I’ll come to the point. Of course you know why I’m here.”
“You said you came to renew your acquaintance with Miss Gilmore,” she managed to say.
“Oh, that, of course. But there’s another reason. You see”—with his pleasant smile—“I happen to know Mr. Grayson.”