“Sure!––but this is strictly business.”
Hannington pulled out his cheque book, wrote out the cheque for one thousand dollars payable to “cash” and handed it over to Ben Todd who was eyeing the scene in undisguised interest; his keen mind already fathoming the secret.
“There!” remarked Hannington. “Now, give me your information, my deah Langford.”
“If the man I name gets convicted, or if you fail to lay a charge against him, the money comes to me? Do I get the arrangement right?”
“You have it absolutely, my careful Scotsman. Fire away! Fire away!”
“You got that, Mr. Todd?” queried Jim.
“Absolutely!” mocked the editor.
“Well, gentleman,––the name of the man who painted Mr. Percival DeRue Hannington’s mare is––James Langford, your most humble and obedient servant, and very much at the service of both of you.”
Ben Todd grunted.
The Englishman sat bolt upright. His chin dropped and he gaped, his fingers running nervously up and down over the gilt metal buttons of his fancy waistcoat. He rose slowly from his chair and his face grew pale in his anger; then it became red and perspiry.