McKnight winked at me furtively.
“I am convinced of one thing,” Hotchkiss went on, clearing his throat, “the papers are not in that room. Either he carries them with him, or he has sold them.”
A sound on the street made both my visitors listen sharply. Whatever it was it passed on, however. I was growing curious and the restraint was telling on McKnight. He has no talent for secrecy. In the interval we discussed the strange occurrence at Cresson, which lost nothing by Hotchkiss’ dry narration.
“And so,” he concluded, “the woman in the Baltimore hospital is the wife of Henry Sullivan and the daughter of the man he murdered. No wonder he collapsed when he heard of the wreck.”
“Joy, probably,” McKnight put in. “Is that clock right, Lawrence? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. By the way, Mrs. Conway dropped in the office yesterday, while you were away.”
“What!” I sprang from my chair.
“Sure thing. Said she had heard great things of us, and wanted us to handle her case against the railroad.”
“I would like to know what she is driving at,” I reflected. “Is she trying to reach me through you?”
Richey’s flippancy is often a cloak for deeper feeling. He dropped it now. “Yes,” he said, “she’s after the notes, of course. And I’ll tell you I felt like a poltroon—whatever that may be—when I turned her down. She stood by the door with her face white, and told me contemptuously that I could save you from a murder charge and wouldn’t do it. She made me feel like a cur. I was just as guilty as if I could have obliged her. She hinted that there were reasons and she laid my attitude to beastly motives.”
“Nonsense,” I said, as easily as I could. Hotchkiss had gone to the window. “She was excited. There are no ‘reasons,’ whatever she means.”