“And the newspapers will be calling you the Great American Identifier,” put in Larcher.
“There'll be somebody else as the chief identifier,” said Bagley, glaring at Turl. “Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much.”
“Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley.” Turl enforced obedience by stepping in front of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, while an elevated train rumbled along overhead. “I don't think you really mean that. I don't think that, as an American, you would really subject a woman—such a woman—to such an ordeal, to gain so little. Would you now?”
“Why shouldn't I?” Despite his defiant look, Bagley had weakened a bit.
“I can't imagine your doing it. But if you did, my lawyer would have to make you tell how you had heard this wonderful tale.”
“Through the door. That's easy enough.”
“We could show that the tale couldn't possibly be heard through so thick a door, except by the most careful attention—at the keyhole. You would have to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole—at the keyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, attempting to answer that question—with the reporters eagerly awaiting your reply to publish it to the town.”
Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. At last he growled:
“If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that money have you got left?”
“If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before he disappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't it the case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to that amount from you?”