“Another stab in the back, George Thorley?”
“Well, and what did you come here for, you accursed New York detective?”
“I came to persuade you to turn State’s evidence.”
“What about?”—there was a slight change in the voice, which told, against his will, that the adventurer felt relieved.
“I want you to give your written and sworn testimony as to who it was hired you, for the sum of two thousand dollars, to murder Mr. Moreland, at Blankville, on the 17th of October, 1857.”
“Who said I murdered him? Humph! you must think I’m decidedly simple to be coaxed or frightened into committing myself.”
“We’ll not waste words, Thorley. I know you, all your history, all your bad deeds—or enough of them to hang you. I have a warrant for your arrest in my pocket, which I brought from the States with me. I could have brought an escort from Acapulco, and arrested you at once, without giving you any chance for explanation. But I have my own reasons for desiring to keep this matter quiet—one of which is that I do not wish any premature report to alarm your accomplice, man or woman, whichever it is, until I can put my hand on the right person.”
“What makes you think that I did it?”
“No matter what makes me think so—I don’t think, I know. I have the instrument with which you committed the act, with your initials on the handle. I have the letter you wrote to your accomplice, claiming your reward. In short, I’ve proof enough to convict you twice over. The only hope you have of any mercy from me is in at once doing all that I ask of you—which is to give a full written statement, over your real name, of all the circumstances which led to the murder.”
“I’m not such a fool as to tie the rope around my own neck.”