“I see,” said I; “she needn’t know who I am, or anything else; but if I tell her it’s all right, do you think she won’t want to know why there isn’t a jury, and so on?”
“Bless you,” said the man, “the girl isn’t over seventeen, and doesn’t know no more than a baby. As we live up-town miles away, she won’t know anything about you.”
“I’ll do it,” said I, suddenly, for, as I saw, it involved no sort of risk; “but I must have three hundred dollars.”
“And fifty,” added the wolf, “if you do it well.”
Then I knew it was serious.
With this the man buttoned about him a shaggy gray overcoat, and took his leave without a single word in addition.
A minute later he came back and said: “Stagers is in this business, and I was to remind you of Lou Wilson,—I forgot that,—the woman that died last year. That’s all.” Then he went away, leaving me in a cold sweat. I knew now I had no choice. I understood why I had been selected.
For the first time in my life, that night I couldn’t sleep. I thought to myself, at last, that I would get up early, pack a few clothes, and escape, leaving my books to pay as they might my arrears of rent. Looking out of the window, however, in the morning, I saw Stagers prowling about the opposite pavement; and as the only exit except the street door was an alleyway which opened along-side of the front of the house, I gave myself up for lost. About ten o’clock I took my case of instruments and started for File’s house, followed, as I too well understood, by Stagers.
I knew the house, which was in a small uptown street, by its closed windows and the craped bell, which I shuddered as I touched. However, it was too late to draw back, and I therefore inquired for Mrs. File. A haggard-looking young woman came down, and led me into a small parlor, for whose darkened light I was thankful enough.
“Did you write this note?”