“Thank you!” The detective bowed in ironic acknowledgment of the compliment. “Your friendship would be considered a valuable asset by many, I have no doubt, but––”
“Look here!” The great political boss had shed his bulldozing manner, and a shade of unmistakable earnestness, not unmixed with anxiety, had crept into his tones. “I’m talking as man to man, and I know I can trust your word of honor, even if you pretend you won’t take mine. Is anyone listening? Have you got any of your infernal operatives spying about?”
Blaine leaned forward and replied with deep seriousness.
“I give you my word, Carlis, that no human ear is overhearing our conversation.” Then he smiled, and added, with a touch of mockery: “But what difference can that make? I thought you came here to issue instructions. At least, you so announced yourself on your arrival!”
“Because I’m going to make a proposition to you––on my own.” Even Carlis’ coarse face flushed darkly at the base self-revelation. “Pennington Lawton died of heart-disease.”
He paused, and after waiting a full minute, Blaine remarked, quietly, but with marked significance:
“Of course. That is self-evident, isn’t it?”
“Well, then––” Carlis stepped back with a satisfied grunt. “He didn’t have a soul on earth dependent on him but his daughter. His great fortune is swept away, and that daughter left penniless. But ain’t there lots of girls in this world worse off than she? Ain’t she got good friends that’s lookin’ out for her, and seein’ that she don’t want for a thing? Ain’t she goin’ to marry a young fellow that loves the ground she walks on––a rich young fellow, that’ll give her everything, all her life? What more could she want? She’s all right. But the big money––the money Lawton made by grinding down the masses––wouldn’t you like a slice of it yourself, Blaine? A nice, fat, juicy slice?”
“How?” An interested pucker appeared suddenly between the detective’s expressive brows, and Carlis laughed.