"He had already tried to kill him, the day we were married. He stabbed him twice, but not deep enough."
I looked at her in wonder. For this woman, not extraordinarily handsome, two men had fought and one had died—according to her story.
"I can prove everything I say," she went on rapidly. "I have letters from Mr. Fleming telling me what to do in case he was shot down; I have papers—canceled notes—that would put Schwartz in the penitentiary—that is," she said cunningly, "I did have them. Mr. Fleming took them away."
"Aren't you afraid for yourself?" I asked.
"Yes, I'm afraid—afraid he'll get me back yet. It would please him to see me crawl back on my knees."
"But—he can not force you to go back to him."
"Yes, he can," she shivered. From which I knew she had told me only a part of her story.
After all she had nothing more to tell. Fleming had been shot; Schwartz had been in the city about the Borough Bank; he had threatened Fleming before, but a political peace had been patched; Schwartz knew the White Cat. That was all.
Before she left she told me something I had not known.
"I know a lot about inside politics," she said, as she got up. "I have seen the state divided up with the roast at my table, and served around with the dessert, and I can tell you something you don't know about your White Cat. A back staircase leads to one of the up-stairs rooms, and shuts off with a locked door. It opens below, out a side entrance, not supposed to be used. Only a few know of it. Henry Butler was found dead at the foot of that staircase."