"Don't she suspect anything?"
"Not a syllable. Couldn't a man that gulled a man like you easily fool a girl? Call her up as she knelt there just now. Think that some day she may have children of her own. What kind of satisfaction would it give you to think you'd made that pretty head hang down in shame?"
The detective grunted something unintelligible.
"Miss Gastonguay approves of you so far, but she's mighty clever, and she is figuring this whole thing out. I guess from something she let slip she suspects her niece. Anyway, she thinks you have done your duty, but if you'll let everything slide and go home quietly, like a good boy, I'm instructed to give you a little sweetener, a check for—" and he murmured the rest of his sentence in his companion's ear.
The sum mentioned in one instant consoled H. Robinson for loss of sleep, loss of celebrity, loss of temper, and all other losses. He had been soaring above things mercenary during the last few hours, but now he felt himself speedily drawn back to them.
"All right," he said, "but one question,—did he suicide?"
"No, he did not."
"What was he going to be fool enough to come back here for? I guess he knew I was on his track."
"He wasn't coming,—he was going to be brought."
"Oh! that's why you were so plumb sure."