“What d’you mean, young man?” she demanded. “What do we know about old Brunell?”
“You wrote him a letter––you knew where to find him.”
“I only wish we did!” she ejaculated. “We didn’t write him! You must be crazy!”
“‘Big money coming to you from old score left unpaid. What is my share for collecting for you?’” quoted Morrow, adding: “I have a friend who is very much interested in ciphers, and he wanted me to ask you about the one you use, Pennold. His name is Blaine. Ever hear of him?”
“Blaine!” Mame’s voice shrank to a mere whisper, and her sallow face whitened.
“Blaine! Henry Blaine? The guy they call the Master Mind?” Pennold’s shaking voice rose to a breaking cry, but again his wife silenced him.
“Suppose we did write such a letter––an’ we ain’t admittin’ we did, for a minute––what’s Blaine got on us?” demanded Mame, coolly. “It’s no crime, as I ever heard, to write a letter any way you want to. Who are you, young man? You’re no bank clerk!”
“He’s a ’tec, of course! Shut up your fool mouth, Mame. An’ as for you, d––n you, get out of this house, an’ get out quick, or I’ll call the police myself! We’ve been leadin’ straight, clean, respectable lives for years, Mame an’ me, an’ nobody’s got nothin’ on us! I ain’t goin’ to have no private ’tecs snoopin’ in an’ tryin’ to put me through the third degree. Beat it, now!”
He rose blusteringly and advanced toward Morrow with upraised fist, but the other, with the table between them, drew from his pocket a folded paper.