“And you gave it back to her!” Blaine exclaimed, with well-simulated incredulity. “You actually had the letter in your hands, and relinquished it? In heaven’s name, why?”
“Miss Brunell had shown it to me in confidence. It was her property, and she trusted me. Since I was unable to aid her in solving it, I returned it to her. The chances are that it is, as she said, a matter of private business between her father and another man, and it is probably entirely dissociated from this investigation.”
“You’re not paid, Morrow, to form opinions of your own, or decide the ethics, social or moral, of a case you’re put on; you’re paid to obey instructions, collect data and obtain whatever evidence there may be. Remember that. Confidence or no confidence, girl or no girl, you go back and get that letter! I don’t care what means you use, short of actual murder; that cipher’s got to be in my hands before midnight. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” Morrow rose slowly, and faced his chief. “I’m sorry, but I cannot do it.”
“You can’t? That’s the first time I ever heard that word from your lips, Guy.” Henry Blaine shook his head sadly, affecting not to notice his operative’s rising emotion.
“I mean that I won’t, sir. I’m sorry to appear insubordinate, but I’ve got to refuse––I simply must. I’ve never shirked a duty before, as I think you will admit, Mr. Blaine. I have always carried out the missions you entrusted to me to the best of my ability, no matter what the odds against me, and in this case I have gone ahead conscientiously up to the present moment, but I won’t proceed with it any further.”
“What are you afraid of––Jimmy Brunell?” asked the detective, significantly.
The insult brought a deep flush to Morrow’s cheek, but he controlled himself.